Chapter III: Introduction (3)

And now Loren had been two years at Yale and was coming home for the summer. Loren had learned a vast deal at college; among other scraps of intelligence he had discovered that his family were a little outlandish, and that Melton was altogether too slow a place for a rational being like himself to exist in except, at the best, for a few summer weeks. His latest letter, received only yesterday, was a characteristic one, and David had unintentionally resented its tone of breezy self-assurance: "... I suppose I shall show up at fair Melton," it had read, "about 2:35 on Saturday, unless, that is, I happen to get a few days' invite to New York. Of course David will be down to meet me and bring my trunk up." The words were innocent enough, but they had insinuated their way into his mind and rankled there like an evil thing. "Yes, _of course_ I will be down," he said to himself somewhat bitterly; "of course I will, that's to be expected. And bring up his trunk for him; yes, that's just what I like--the chance to fetch Loren's trunk, and I like his way of taking it all for granted, too."

The mental transition to the matter of Janet's invitation was a natural one. He began to wish that she hadn't been in such a hurry about giving it. What could she want of Loren? He wasn't anything to her. Why did she have to be all the time hankering after new friends? "New friends!" With a slight internal start David realized that only three years ago Loren had never been away from home. "New friends!" Why, Janet had known them both ever since the old days of skip-rope and hide and seek! What more natural than that she should want to see her old play-fellow again? Why should _he_ complain? Hadn't she said once, "I love you, David," and wasn't that enough to make him trust her?

A little way down the road he heard the step of some one approaching and in a moment the shape of a man grew visible through the darkness. He turned, opened the gate, and stepped to the porch. In his hand he carried a suit-case. This he set down heavily and approached the door. David sprang to his feet. "Why Loren, is that you? We weren't expecting you to-night."

"Well, how are you, old boy?" cried the new-comer. "It's bully good to see you again. No, I didn't expect to get up to-night, but there wasn't much doing at college and I didn't get my invite, so I thought I might as well come on home. Where are the folks?"

"Out at meeting just now, but they'll be back in a little while. Sit down, you must be tired."

Loren took a chair and sunk into it with a sigh of comfort. "You're right I am. I tell you it's hard work to walk a mile and a half with a suit-case. And all the time you were just sitting comfortably out here on the veranda listening to the katydids." He drew out his pipe and lit it. "Well, how are all the folks? Same as usual?"

"I guess so. Father's failing a little, and mother worries a good deal, but keeps pretty well."

"That's good. They must be mighty glad to have one of us at home to look after things. Lord, but I've often imagined you outdoors driving around in the open air and enjoying life when I've been plugging up for some beastly exam. But, apropos of the health bulletin, etc., is Janet Manning here still, or has she gone off to college?"

"No, she's teaching school at the Corners. I saw her a minute to-night, and she invited us up to supper there on Sunday."

"Good! That's something like. Shall be much charmed to see the little schoolma'am again. She's a slick little girl--at least she used to be. In my opinion she's wasting her time up here in the woods. Why, that girl's got ability, and I call it a shame for her to bury herself in the country just for her mother's account. But say, isn't that a wagon coming?"

The two went down to the gate and stood there waiting for the buggy to draw up. When Mr. and Mrs. Waring were out, David took the horse to the barn and unharnessed in the dark. Then he reentered the house, and without saying anything more than "Good-night," went up to his room.

II

It was late in the afternoon of an August day. From the high gable windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air in a long, straight shaft and rested on the lower part of the haymow, gilding every dry wisp with a temporary and fatuous splendor. Elsewhere in the barn it was already half dark. On one side the hay rose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished dimly in the dusky shadows. Opposite were the cow-stables, five of them in a row, each occupant munching her cud contentedly and now and then giving vent to a soft, self-satisfied low. From one of the stalls could be heard the rhythmical squirt of milk against the milking-pail, for David was engaged upon his evening work. On a rickety chair near the hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap and stroking it nervously. She was speaking in a voice that betrayed considerable agitation.

"Well, I'm just going to leave it with you to decide, for I'm not ready to do it myself. But it does seem to me that it's the chance of a lifetime. It's just a question of whether I shall always stay on here teaching district school, or see a little of the world and have a chance to go on studying."

She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, broken only by the sound of the milking. David pressed his head against the flank of the cow and choked back something in his throat. Then he managed to speak.

"Of course, Janet," he said, with an attempt at composure. "I can see how it must attract you--this opportunity of going off to college, and I don't mean to put anything in your way. Such questions a person has to decide for one's self, and I don't see how I can give you any help."

"Yes, there you are again. You just won't say yes or no; but I am sure all the time that you don't really want me to go. You'd like to keep me here at home, just an ignorant, stupid country girl. Why don't you want me to make something of myself, David? I know I've got ability, and you know it as well as I do, but it isn't of any use to me here. Wouldn't you feel proud of me if I went off and did something worth while?"

David could not answer at once. He sat with his eyes shut, his knees pressed rigidly against the pail, and against his head he felt the warm, throbbing pulse of the animal in front of him. Upon his mind a picture was forcing itself with cruel insistence. It was the Janet of a year hence, well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her new college interests to talk of; and side by side with this he saw himself--what would _he_ be? Just the same as ever, only a little more awkward and out of date, and when he talked it would be of--yes, his cows, and the new pig, and the price of potatoes! It was Loren who would be suited to her then; it was they who would sit under the trees together and the farmer could go about his chores. The impossibility of her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang of conviction, and he felt helpless before it.

"Why don't you say something, David?" asked the girl, rapping her foot on the floor and unconsciously pulling the kitten's fur. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

David saw that he must speak, and he determined to dissimulate no longer. "No, Janet, but can't you see how it must look to me? How can you expect me to be happy over it? Do you suppose, dear, that you could feel toward me, after a year at college, just as you do now? Don't you see how it would separate us and you'd have all your new friends and studies to take up your time and I'd just be plodding along here in the woods like a clod of turf? How could you ever keep on loving me? Don't you see, Janet, how it sort o' breaks my heart to say yes?"

The jets of milk shot into the pail with an angry rapidity. The bar of sunlight lay almost horizontally now across the upper emptiness of the barn, transforming the thick-hung cobwebs into golden draperies and accentuating the twilight gloom below. Janet threw the kitten out of her lap and, jumping from the chair, walked nervously to the window and looked out absently upon the meadow below.

"Well, I supposed it would come to that," she said, with some indignation in her voice. "It's nice to feel that you can't trust me out of your sight. Don't you think that if you really loved me as you say you'd be as glad as I was that I could get a better education? But of course, if you're afraid to trust me, why, I suppose I can give it up."

The strain of decision had been a hard one for Janet, and she was now on the verge of giving way under it. Her shoulders shook, and she put her face in her hands. David heard her sobbing softly.

"Janet," he said, "if you think that this is going to be a valuable thing for you, I'm not going to say a word against it. You know that every wish I've got is for your good, and that's God's truth. If you think it's best to go, I'm going to try to think so too, and I'll do everything I can to make you happy."

Janet had left the window and came toward him, a joyful smile breaking through her tears. "You are a dear, good boy, and I love you," she said, and allowed him to kiss her. He held her long in his big arms and his own eyes filled with burning tears.

He could not banish the thought that this might be the last time.

III

The gray desolation of a March afternoon brooded out over the wide meadows, out over the dim woods beyond, and still on to the half-visible hills in the distance, where it merged itself imperceptibly into a low, lead-colored sky. Though the rain was not falling, everything dripped with the damp. In front of the Waring farmhouse the road, wallowing with fat mud, stretched off in a dirty streak under the glistening limbs of the maples. The door of the house opened and David came out. His mother followed him anxiously.

"David, I hope it isn't bad news," she asked, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Can't you tell me about it?"

"Not now, mother. It's nothing very unexpected; I'll tell you later, but I'd rather wait a little while." He pushed open the gate and stepped out into the road, his heavy boots sinking in to half their height.

The mother watched him with strained attention as he set off towards the barn. There was a sort of savage aimlessness in his gait. His shoulders were bent forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked neither to the one side nor the other of the road. At the barnyard gate he seemed to hesitate a second, then turned in, and the small, gray-haired woman on the step sighed and went back into the house.

David strode deliberately through the yard and out of the gate on the other side--the one that opened on the sloping meadow behind the barn. Not a living thing was in sight. A chill, white fog had slowly settled over the land, obliterating outline and color, toning everything down to a monotonous sameness of appearance--a flat, unrelieved vacancy. David walked on mechanically, unmindful of any destination or definite purpose; a dumb bitterness wrung his heart, and, in comparison with that, all that was external and objective seemed unaccountable. Involuntarily he thrust his hand into his coat and drew out a letter. He had read it twice already.

* * * * *

"My dear David,--I hardly know how I am to tell you what I know I must tell you--and if not now, certainly before many more weeks pass. Let me admit then first of all that you were right in your anticipation of what college life would do for me. It _has_ changed my ways of looking at things more than I can tell you, and things that once seemed very beautiful to me are so no longer. This was inevitable and we need not regret it, for I know that the aggregate enjoyment of life has been increased, at least potentially. You may know that your brother Loren spent part of his Christmas vacation here, and he has just been here again for a flying visit. Need I tell you the result, David? I think you foresaw it long ago, and I cannot of course feel sad that things have come about in this way, though I realize that for a time, at least, it may be hard for you to understand it. But there are many interests we have in common, he and I; I know that you will see sometime that we were made for each other and that you will be happy with us in our great happiness.

"I doubt whether this news will much surprise you, for I know, from the tenor of your latest letters, you have noticed a change and have been suspicious of the truth...."

* * * * *

Ah, yes, he had noticed it and had had suspicions; but to have it come to this, and so suddenly--it was more than he could bear. His throat ached and his hands were wet with perspiration. He looked up into the sky and saw nothing there to help him--nothing but a roofless expanse of drizzling gray fog. Not a bird chirped in the distance. The brook down below him ran on silently without an audible ripple. Everything was silent and motionless. If only a cow would low or a hen would cackle back in the barnyard, life would be a bit more tolerable. It was as if all the world had become soulless and dead.

How he had loved her! ... No other thought could find entrance in his mind ... and now, it was all over. She belonged to some one else and had left him without a thought, almost, of the pain it was going to bring him. "Hard to understand!" She was wrong: he had understood it from the first, and far better than she. Had he not told her so that afternoon when they sat together in the barn? But understanding it made it no more easy to bear. He wondered whether he could bear it. He seemed so cruelly alone with his sorrow. The silence seemed shouting at him.

Suddenly, without knowing why, he looked back to the barn. A little figure, wrapped in a plaid shawl, was coming towards him: it was his mother. A sharp thrill of tenderness ran through him. "Poor little mother," he said softly, "you are longing to help me," and, somewhat ashamed of the way in which he had left her recently, he turned and walked back to meet her.

"Come with me to the barn," she said, and together they returned, silently, each timid of the other. Entering the building they sat down on the hay, side by side. "Read that, mother," he said, and handed her the letter. She glanced it through, and then, taking his hand in hers, faltered gently, "My poor boy! I can guess what it must mean to you."

He put his head down in her lap and sobbed like a child, while she stroked his hair and face and spoke shy words of sympathy.

"David," she said, "it was for your father and me that you gave up college. Perhaps you think we don't appreciate it, because we never say much. I know what it has cost you and how nobly you have stuck to your duty, and you know that in God's sight whatever may come of it you have done the kindest thing."

"Oh, but mother, that doesn't make it any easier to lose Janet. She was so much to me, and we were going to be so happy together."

"Hush, little boy, you mustn't take it so hard. Perhaps some day you'll see that it was for the best."

The afternoon light was fading and the rain was beginning to fall softly outside. In the dimming light the two continued sitting there together, hardly speaking a word, for what comfort could words bring? And slowly a vague peacefulness began to fall upon his heart under the gentle touch of his mother, and rising, he kissed her silently and went out to his work.

_Literary Monthly_, 1902.

THE ENDITING OF LETTERS

STUART P. SHERMAN '03

"Now for enditing of Letters: alas, what need wee much adoe about a
little matter?"

In a letter to Miss Sara Hennel, George Eliot writes that "there are but two kinds of _regular_ correspondence possible--one of simple affection, which gives a picture of all the details, painful and pleasurable, that a loving heart pines after ..., and one purely moral and intellectual, carried on for the sake of ghostly edification in which each party has to put salt on the tails of all sorts of ideas on all sorts of subjects." These two classes embrace, perhaps, the great bulk of letters, but George Eliot says there is a third class to which her correspondence with Miss Hennel belongs--one of _impulse_. Strictly speaking, all of the letters which really belong as such to literature come under this last head. The result of a perfect fusion of the two other styles, they exhibit a sparkle, a pungency, and lightness of touch, which take the curse from mere gossip, supple the joints of intellectual disquisition, and mark unmistakably the epistolary artist. The letter-writer, no less than the poet, is born, not made, and his art, though for the most part unconscious, is no less an art. The expression of every sentiment, the choice of every word, however random it may seem, is determined for the born enditer of epistles by a sense of fitness so exquisite that its niceties of distinction escape analysis and only its more general principles can be enunciated.

The most vital of these principles is pretty generally observed. Thackeray perceives it when at the close of a delightful letter to Mrs. Brookfield he exclaims, "Why, this is almost as good as talk!" He was right: it was written talk. If read aloud with pauses for the correspondent's reply, the perfect letter would make perfect conversation. It should call up the voice, gesture, and bearing of the writer. Though it may be more studied than oral speech, it must appear no less impromptu. This, indeed, is its essential charm, that it contains the mind's first fruits with the bloom on, that it exhale carelessly the mixed fragrance of the spirit like a handful of wild flowers not sorted for the parlor table but, as gathered among the fields, haphazard, with here a violet, there a spice of mint, a strawberry blossom from the hillside, and a sprig of bittersweet. This is the opportunity for the clergyman to show that he is not all theologian, but part naturalist; the farmer that he is not all ploughman, but part philosopher. This is the place for little buds of sentiment, short flights of poetry, wise sermons all in three lines, odd conceits, small jests rubbing noses with deacon-browed moralities; in short, for every fine extravagance in which the mind at play delights. Sickness and sorrow, too, and death, if spoken of reverently and bravely, must not be denied a place. So we shall have a letter now all grave, now all gay, but generally, if it be a good letter, part grave, part gay, just as the mingled threads are clipped from the webs of life.

That such a letter cannot be written with white gloves goes without saying. The first requisite is freedom from stiffness. The realm of good letters is a republic in which no man need lift his hat to another. It is hail-fellow well met, or not met at all. So when the humble address their superiors, or when children write to austere grandfathers, they suffer from an awkwardness of mental attitude which is the paralysis of all spontaneity. Before the indispensable ease can exist, certain relations of equality must be established. But there are some whose fountains of speech, in letters as in conversation, lie forever above the line of perpetual snow. They never thaw out. Bound by a sort of viscosity of spirits, that peculiar stamp of the Anglo-Saxon temperament, they are incapable of getting their thoughts and emotions under way; with the best will in the world, genuine warmth of feeling, minds stocked with information on all subjects, they are never fluent. The man with no ear must not hope to be a musician, nor the man with no fluency a letter-writer. Yet this is not all. You will find some at perfect ease in conversation who, touching pen to paper, exhibit the affected primness commonly ascribed to the maiden aunt. They have not learned that this is a place where words must speak for themselves without comment of inflection, gesture of the hand, or interpreting smile. Here to be unaffected one must take thought. As on the stage a natural hue must be obtained by unnatural means, so in the writing of letters one must a trifle overdo in order to do but ordinarily. A word which rings on the lips with frank cordiality will stare coldly from the written page and must be heightened to avoid offense. This is a license requiring the exercise of moderation and the utmost tact. Not all expressions suitable for conversation need reinforcement in black and white. In speaking one frequently raps out a phrase whose literalness one's eyes warn the listener to question. These must be toned down or glossed. An example of the toned down variety, which illustrates as well men's fondness for assailing their friends with opprobrious epithet, is offered by Darwin when he writes, "I cannot conclude without telling you that of all blackguards you are the greatest and best." If Darwin had been talking face to face with Fox, he would doubtless have called him a blooming blackguard outright.

A writer in a journal of psychology points out the strong psychic link existing between a certain short expletive of condemnation and a refractory collar-button. These words seem to come at times charged with the very marrow of the mind, and, if the letters of a man who occasionally indulges in them be wholly purged of them, the letters lose one of their most distinctive characteristics. The point to be made is, that the personal word is all-important, that till the fact is related to the writer, it is dead. If we want news, we can consult the dailies; but in letters facts are little, ideas about facts everything. That is to say, all events, especially the more trifling, should be shown through the colored glass of the writer's personality. What concerns you is not what happened, but what relations the happening bears to you and your correspondent.

When once the personal vein is struck, nothing is so easy as to find a theme for a letter. The materials are only too plentiful if the eyes and heart are open to receive them. Stevenson wrote that he scarcely pulled a weed in his garden without pondering some fit phrase to report the fact to his friend Colvin, and we may be sure that the weed was not allowed to wither, but when it was transplanted, flourished again and reached its destination in a veritable Pot of Basil. No great events are necessary; the plainest incident, the morning's shopping, is as good as a Pan-American exposition for ideas to crystallize about, since exactly in proportion as an event is embedded in opinion, comment, and feeling, must its value as an epistolary item be rated. While the born letter-writer is driving a nail or polishing a shoe, a thought apropos of his occupation or of stars, perhaps, drops complete and perfect like ripe fruit in an orchard. It matters little; seen through the eyes of a friend, all homely things are invested with an extrinsic interest and a new glory not their own.

... By the very nature of the composition a mean man cannot possibly write a good letter. When we cast about for a perfect exemplar of the epistolary style, we must of necessity look among the high-souled men--Cowper, Lamb, FitzGerald, Hearn--for where else shall we find one to stand the test of self-revelation? Happily, one of the blithest, manliest, completest spirits of our times was a matchless writer of letters--Stevenson. Aching for absolute honesty of style and making clearness almost synonomous with good morals, he has given us in the Vailima collection and in the two larger volumes of his correspondence an almost unexampled self-revelation. The man Stevenson is _in_ them, "his essence and his sting." The grip of his hand and the look of his eye lose none of their force in the transparent medium through which they are constrained to pass. Knowing that a man who constantly gives his best finds his best constantly growing better, he never hoarded his ideas for publication, but poured his intellectual riches into a note to a friend as freely as if each line were coining him gold. It results that the lover of Stevenson would almost prefer to give up all the romances rather than the letters. For they feel that in this correspondence, besides finding the qualities which distinguish the other works, they have met face to face and known personally the romancer, the essayist, the poet, and above all the man who, ridden by an incubus of disease, spoke always of the joy of living, the man who knew hours of bitterness but none of flinching, the man who grappled with his destiny undaunted, and, when death hunted him down in a South Sea island, fell gallantly and gazing unabashed into "the bright eyes of danger."

Stevenson approached close to the beau ideal of epistolary art. When we and our friends have achieved it, distance will be annihilated and there will be no such thing as separation. We shall draw from our little box a small white packet, and, though Nostradamus may offer us every secret of magician or alchemist in exchange for it, we shall refuse offhand. How shall he lure us with a shadow, a ghostly visitant, savoring of the pit and summoned only by the most marrow-freezing incantations? Here in our hand is a mysterious, more potent charm, bringing us the warm, human personality of the man. We are not spiritualists, yet here sealed in the white packet is an incorporal presence. Given but a mastery of the twenty-six signs and their combinations, and lo, the heart of our friend served up in Boston bond! Then, as for enditing of letters, we shall rise up and call them blessed who have made "much ado about a little matter."

_Literary Monthly, 1901._

GREYLOCK

MAX EASTMAN '05

This whole, far-reaching host of ancient hills
That all thy kingdom's rugged boundary fills,
Yields thee unrivalled thy supremacy.
'Tis not by chance that they thus kneel to thee;
Those scars, that but increase thy grandeur, tell
Of battles thou hast fought--and hast fought well,
For, conquered at thy feet, two giants lie
Who once did dare their sovereign to defy.
When earth with sea, and earth with earth, and sea
With sea, all mingled, fought for mastery,
Then didst thou meet thy foes, and by thy might
Didst win, and since hath kept, thy regal right.

_Literary Monthly_, 1901.

TO SIDNEY LANIER

MAX EASTMAN '05

Thy name is not the highest in thy art,
Though music sweet thou singest in thy songs
That unto thee alone of all belongs,
Uplifting Love in every burdened heart;

Thou hast not left us perfect poetry;
But thou hast left by far a greater thing,
A poem such as man did never sing--
Thine own brave life, a lifelong victory.

_Literary Monthly_, 1902.

THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUDS

SHEPARD ASHMAN MORGAN '06

All day long a reeking mist had been rolling across the valley, at times all but obscuring the Peak where it rose between its pair of flanking hills. Sifting clouds had surged and seethed in the Cleft, as those who dwelt in its vicinity called the interval between the two hills and the loftier and more distant Peak, and rose now and then barely enough to reveal the greater mountain, but never yet had quite cleared the summit. The mist had slimed the whole world with a coating of wet, and when the wind chanced to set the bare limbs of the trees to swaying, the drops would spatter on the ground and scarcely be absorbed, so waterlogged was the earth.

Mrs. Trent rolled up her knitting in a napkin, picked a few stray bits of yarn from her black dress, and stepped to the window. She looked out across the valley toward the Cleft to see if perchance the clouds would open enough to permit her a view of the Peak. Not once, but many times that day had she arisen from her work to search for a glimpse of the mountain, but every time she had failed.

"No, it's hidden, still hidden," she murmured half aloud. "It is hard to be shut up here with my thoughts,--with such thoughts. I wish the clouds would lift and let me see the Peak. Then I am sure that things would not seem so dark. If I could only get one glimpse, I would feel almost, yes, almost as though Doctor McMurray had been here and had told me he was sorry."

She stood looking out the window for a time, but the clouds only gathered more heavily in the Cleft and the Peak remained shrouded in the mist. At last she turned wearily back toward her chair, and was about to resume her knitting when her ear caught the sound of wheels pausing before the house. She hastened across the room toward the door and threw it open with a gesture of fear, as though she had been anticipating the coming of unwelcome visitors and now had reason to suppose that they had arrived. The tremor of suspense, however, quickly passed, for she saw outside no less a person than Doctor McMurray himself.

"Doctor," she called, "put your horse in the barn and come in. It does my heart good to see you."

Presently the door opened and the old minister's face appeared, that face which had looked in at every house in the valley whenever trouble brooded there, and always had brought with it good cheer and hope for now close upon half-a-century.

"A wet day, Mrs. Trent, a wet day. But seems to me there are signs of clearing. It is always much pleasanter to look for fair weather than for foul, don't you think so?"

Mrs. Trent nodded.

"Doctor McMurray," she said, "I was almost afraid to go to the door when I heard you drive up; I thought the lawyers might be coming already."

"The lawyers?" he echoed, "What, can they be troubling you again?"

"Yes, I got a letter from the district attorney's office yesterday saying that he would send a couple of men out to-day."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Trent, for I know it will be hard for you to go over the thing again. I had hoped that when your husband's trial was over they would let you alone. Now that poor Jacob has paid the biggest price a man can pay, it seems that common decency ought to keep them from worrying you about the matter any more."

"Well," she said, clasping her hands and looking absently out the window, "I presume they want to make quite sure. Mrs. Withey's case is coming up again the first of the week, you know, and there must be no mistake."

"But I can't see how there can be any mistake," exclaimed the doctor. "At Jacob's trial everything was so clear, his guilt was so fixed, that there seemed no chance for a mistake. Mrs. Trent, it looked to me, prejudiced in favor of your husband as I was, that there could be no doubt that Jacob gave old Mr. Withey the arsenic and that Mrs. Withey was his equally guilty accomplice. I think this second trial must only be a repetition of the first, and that Mrs. Withey must be found the murderess of Andrew Withey, just as Jacob Trent was proven murderer."

Mrs. Trent leaned forward in her chair. Her hands were clenched and every muscle in her frail body was drawn tense. The look in her eyes startled the good doctor, and, thinking that he had recalled too harshly the ugliness of her husband's crime, hastened to make amends.

"Mrs. Trent," he said, "I am sorry that I spoke so. It was cruel of me."

"No, no," the woman answered thickly, "I am used to that, it doesn't shock me to hear so much about Jacob now. But tell me, doctor, tell me, are you sure she will not get off? Will they treat her as they did Jacob?"

"What, Mrs. Trent, you surely wouldn't wish trouble to any fellow creature if it could be avoided, would you?"

"Doctor McMurray," replied Mrs. Trent in a very low voice which seemed to come from her inmost soul, "Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed me of my husband, of Jacob, and then led him to a murderer's grave. That is so. Do you know, now that so many weeks have gone by since they took Jacob away, sometimes I feel that he is true to me somewhere, and that she, that woman, was the one who led him on to do wrong. You ask me if I would see any fellow creature suffer. I answer no; but I say too that that woman has no claim to be fellow creature to any human being. She robbed me of my husband."

For a time the two sat in silence. The rain continued to drip, drip from the eaves, and the Cleft was still clogged with mist. Then the old doctor broke the silence.

"I am afraid we do wrong, Mrs. Trent, in brooding over these troubles of ours. Heaven knows you have provocation. There seems to be no doubt but that your husband gave arsenic to old Mr. Withey, and it seems the more grievous when we think that the natural ailments of the old man must soon have hurried him across the Great River in any case. It is also true that he did it for the love of a woman whose youth and beauty he conceived to have won him heart and soul. But, Mrs. Trent, it is also a fact that we are here to live above these things, hard as they may seem, and to forgive those who do us ill."

Mrs. Trent rose from her chair and stepped toward the window which looked out toward the Peak. Her hands, which she had folded behind her back, worked convulsively.

"The Peak," she said at last. "The Peak is covered with clouds; I cannot see. Forgive--forgive her? All is cloudy, I cannot see."

Doctor McMurray, being no common man, said not a word. He softly rose and took his stand beside Mrs. Trent at the window. For some time the two stood looking out over the valley, watching the heavy, leaden clouds as they banked themselves up against the opposite hillside. The rain continued to trickle from the eaves, the only sound audible above the breathing of the man and woman. At last Doctor McMurray broke the silence.

"It seems to me the clouds aren't lying quite so low on the hills as they were. I wouldn't be surprised if it was going to clear up."

Mrs. Trent looked at the old man for a moment, and saw his meaning.

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully, "perhaps."

Doctor McMurray moved away from the window and began to draw on his overcoat.

"Why, you're not going, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with a note of distress in her voice, as her eye took in his action.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs. Trent, but I must look in at old Mr. Gebhart's on the way down. The poor man has stomach trouble, I believe--they say it's just the same thing that Mr. Withey had--and I think he'll be looking for me."

"Doctor, you're so kind," Mrs. Trent interjected. "You're always keeping an eye out for the unfortunate. But look here. I've got some medicine out here in the pantry, some Epsom salts, which they used to come and get for old Mr. Withey. They used to tell me it did him a lot of good. I wish you could wait till I get a little for Mr. Gebhart."

Mrs. Trent hastened from the room, and Doctor McMurray heard her moving pans and bottles on the shelves as though she were in search of the medicine. Suddenly the sound ceased; he waited a minute or two, pacing uneasily up and down the room, with the thought of the sick old man heavy upon his mind. At last he called:

"Mrs. Trent, can't I help you? Don't trouble if you can't find it easily."

No answer reached his ears for a moment. Then Mrs. Trent emerged from the pantry walking unsteadily, as though she carried a terrific weight. Doctor McMurray was at her side in an instant, and led her to a chair.

"Tell me," he urged, "what is it? What is the trouble?"

Mrs. Trent covered her face with her hands, and her slender figure bent silently before the strength of her emotion.

"Look," she moaned at last; "go and look for yourself. There are two of them, two."

Doctor McMurray obeyed. He went into the pantry, and there on a shelf stood two wide-mouthed bottles, very much alike save that one had never been opened. He looked at them in silent wonderment, not knowing for the instant what message they conveyed. He picked them up and read the labels; then he had an inkling of what they meant, for one was marked "Arsenic," the other "Epsom Salts." He went back to Mrs. Trent.

"You think there has been a mistake?" he said softly.

Mrs. Trent raised her head from her hands. Her voice was strained and unnatural as she answered:

"I know there has been a mistake, and I know that I made it."

"Tell me why."

"It is very simple. They sent up from Mr. Withey's that last night for some Epsom salts in a great hurry. I knew there must be some great need, so I rushed to the pantry. Jacob wasn't at home. I reached to the top shelf and pulled down a bottle, one of those bottles. In my hurry I didn't look at the label, but poured the little white crystals out in a paper, and they took them away. Then I put the bottle back in its place and went on with my work. In the morning I heard Mr. Withey was dead."

"But the arsenic--the arsenic," interposed the doctor. "How did it get there?"

"Heaven knows; you remember Jacob used to get it once in a while to keep his horses in condition. I presume he got a fresh bottle of it about the same time I got some more Epsom salts, and they were both put up there on the top shelf together. It is all too plain. I got the bottles mixed and opened the wrong one."

"And so Jacob was innocent?"

"Yes, and I could have saved him if I had known in time. Oh, Jacob, Jacob," she moaned, compressing a world of remorse into the words. "And it was my mistake--my mistake!"

"Then Mrs. Withey is innocent, too," said Doctor McMurray. "Don't you make it out so?"

Mrs. Trent looked up sharply. It seemed as though she had for the moment forgotten her lesser trouble in the new consciousness of the greater. The mention of the other woman's name brought back all the profound sense of wrong which she knew she had suffered at her hands.

"Mrs. Withey--innocent!" she gasped.

"Yes, she is innocent, and you have the power of saving her life."

"Doctor McMurray, that woman robbed me of my husband--both of his love and of his memory." Mrs. Trent was in deadly earnest.

"But--she is innocent, and you can save her from a wretch's death," the old man repeated.

"Save her--her, who stands in my mind for all that I ought to hate?"

"Mrs. Trent," Doctor McMurray said in a low voice, "you ought to hate no-one, not even if he uses you as Mrs. Withey has used you. If we keep on hating the clouds will never lift."

Mrs. Trent rose heavily from her chair and labored from her window that she might look out across the valley toward the Peak. Her voice was hoarse as she answered:

"Oh, I'm afraid the clouds will never lift. The hatred of that woman is like a fog which closes in upon my soul, and shuts off every beam of sunshine. I can't see through it, and the heaviness of it chokes me. The clouds will never lift."

The old minister came up beside her, and stood looking for a time out toward the Peak. The mist which all day had hung so low around the foot of the hills had risen appreciably, and now the Cleft itself was beginning to clear, revealing the dark base of the Peak itself. A single ray of sunshine shot out of the west and struck straight into the Cleft.

"Look, look, Mrs. Trent," exclaimed Doctor McMurray. "The Peak is beginning to show. Don't you think the weather will clear? Ah, it must clear, it must before they come, before the lawyers come. Tell me, do you not think it will?"

Mrs. Trent's face was very pale. Her eyes gleamed very large and feverishly bright from beneath her lashes, as they searched the opposite side of the valley. For some moments she kept silent, and for the second time that afternoon there was no sound in the room save the labored breathing of the man and woman. At last there became audible the slowly increasing creak of a carriage, and the splashing of a horse's hoofs through the sea of mud in the roadway. Doctor McMurray heard, and he knew that Mrs. Trent heard also.

"Mrs. Trent," he said softly, "Mrs. Trent, are the clouds lifting? Can you see the Peak?"

Still the woman kept silent. The sounds of the wheels grew momentarily louder, the voices of men talking broke in upon them, and then the carriage stopped before the door.

"Mrs. Trent," pleaded the doctor for the last time, "tell me, can you see the Peak?"

He heard the men climb out of the carriage and come up to the door, then a loud knock.

Mrs. Trent at last broke her silence.

"Doctor McMurray," she said, speaking quite softly, "Doctor McMurray, do you see? The Peak is clear. All the clouds have lifted!"

_Literary Monthly_, 1905.

THE FROST KING

CHARLES HENRY BRADY '06

When the weary sun, his day's course run,
Sinks into the western sea,
And the mountains loom in the growing gloom
With far-off mystery,
When the shadows creep o'er plain and steep
With stealthy tread and still,
And the fettered stream to its icy dream
Is left by the sleeping mill,
From the frozen north I then lead forth
My swiftly flying bands,
In close array on the track of day,
As she flees to other lands.

From the wintry zone where the forests groan
'Neath burdens of dazzling white,
And the tempest's roar as it strikes the shore
Turns daylight into night,
My armies throng and we march along
In the light of the peeping stars,
Which smile with glee at our chivalry
And the shock of our mimic wars.
For when earth and deep in a shroud of sleep
Lie peaceful and still below,
Supreme I reign in my airy domain,
The monarch of ice and snow.

_Literary Monthly_, 1095.

UNTIL HE COMETH

GEORGE BURWELL DUTTON '07

THE CHARACTERS

AHASUERUS, the Wandering Jew.

ANSELM, a holy monk.

A band of travellers,--merchants, peasants, soldiers, who stop at the monastery over night.

Monks of the monastery.

The time is the twelfth century, a Christmas eve.

The place is the great hall of the monastery of St. Cuthbert. The room is a large one, with cold stone walls and a heavy-beamed ceiling, lighted by flaring torches. The rear wall is broken by a massive oaken door leading to the courtyard of the monastery, and two rudely glazed windows. On the right an open doorway leads to the chapel and to one side of the doorway is a shrine to the Virgin and Child, before which some candles burn with wavering flames. On the opposite side of the room is a huge fireplace with a blazing log fire. The wind is roaring outside, and even blows through the rude hall in great, gusty draughts, while a fine powder of snow sifts in through crevices of windows and door.

SCENE I. [The travellers, with some of the monks of the monastery, are seated before the fire. The Jew, bent, gaunt and gray-bearded, stands to one side, unrecognized, muttering to himself indistinctly. He has evidently just entered, for the melted snow still gleams from his clothing. The company disregard him, conversing among themselves.]

A SOLDIER. Now, by Our Lady, 'tis a raw cold night--
I mind me when on such a night I lay
Unsheltered in the trenches facing Mons
In Flanders.

A MERCHANT. Hem! Sir Longbeard tells a tale.
List, all!

THE SOLDIER. By Holy mass--

THE MERCHANT. Ho! Hear the oaths!
They 're thick as--

THE SOLDIER. Hark ye! Hush thy meddling tongue!

A PEASANT. A quarrel! Mark them!

A MONK. Shame! On such a night
When angels fill the air, and voices sweet,
Mysterious, sing their golden songs of peace--
On this glad night to quarrel?

THE SOLDIER. Why, to-night--

THE MONK. On such a night was Christ, our Saviour, born,
While all the earth was wrapped in sacred peace.
This is the holy eve, and on the morrow,
With solemn chant we shall observe the birth
Of that sweet Christ-child whom we worship all.

THE SOLDIER. Then I'll not quarrel--my hand upon it. There.

THE MERCHANT. Nor I. And here's my hand, good soldier. There.

[The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans in the great chimney.]

THE MERCHANT [crossing himself]. Hark to the wind. Meseemeth that it wails
Like some lost soul.

THE SOLDIER. Some say it is the soul
Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord
When he was on his way to Calvary,
And was condemned to wander ever more
Until the Christ a second time should come.

[The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices are lowered.]

THE MONK. The Jew! Oft have men seen him bent and worn,
When darkness fills the earth, still wandering,
Still living out his curse.

THE PEASANT. List! Hear ye not?

THE SOLDIER. Again that mournful wailing of the wind.

THE PEASANT. How came he by the curse?

THE MONK. Know, when our Lord,
Full weary, bore his cross to Calvary,
He paused a moment, resting, but this Jew,
Ahasuerus--cursed be the name--
Reviled the Saviour, and commanded him
To move away. Whereon our blessed Lord:
"Because thou grudgest me a moment's rest
Unresting shalt thou wander o'er the earth
Until I come."

THE SOLDIER. Ah, would I had been there--
The cursed Jew! An arrow through his heart
Had stopped his babbling!

THE PEASANT. And had I been there,
He would have felt the weight of my great fist
Ere he had spoken twice.

[The Jew mutters indistinctly to himself in his corner.]

THE MERCHANT [in a low voice]. Dost hear the man?
Old gray-beard murmurs.

THE SOLDIER. How! Is he a Jew?

THE MERCHANT. See how he cowers when we look at him.

THE MONK. He is no Jew. On this thrice-blessed night
No Jew would dare seek shelter in Christ's house.

THE PEASANT. Yet they are daring--and men tell strange tales
Of bloody rites which they perform apart.

THE SOLDIER. May God's high curse rest on their scattered race!

[The Jew flashes a quick glance upon them, and then looks down again. An unusually strong gust of wind sweeps through the hall, and strange moanings are heard in the chimney.]

THE PEASANT. Lost souls! Oh, Mother of Christ!

THE MERCHANT. They wail in pain.

THE MONK [making the sign of the cross]. 'Tis but the wind--or on this
night mayhap
We hear the noise of vast angelic hosts
That sob to see our Saviour come to earth,
A simple Babe, to suffer and to die--
So brother Anselm tells.

THE SOLDIER. And what knows he
Of angels' doings?

THE MONK [terrified.] Still! Thou impious man!
Hast thou not heard the fame of Anselm's name?
A very saint on earth, his eyes behold
Things hidden from mankind; his face doth glow
All radiant from his visions.

THE SOLDIER. Wretch that I am!
Ah, woe is me to speak thus of God's saint.

[The deep-toned monastery bell rings.]

THE MONK. Come, follow me. Below us in the crypt
The pious brethren this night have set forth
The sacred mystery of Jesus' birth;
Shalt see the very manger where he lay.
Make haste and come.

[The company arise and pass out, all save the Jew. The monk, last, stares at the gaunt figure a moment, opens his lips to speak, then shakes his head and departs.]

SCENE II. [AHASUERUS, alone. He looks around him, as if to see if any remain in the room, then slowly moves toward the fireplace and holds his trembling hands before the fire.]

AHASUERUS. Ah, God of Jacob! Hear the Christians talk.
"Dog Jew!" "Accursed Jew!" I hate you all!
Your Christ sits on his kingly throne this night--
But I am steadfast. How the very wind
Doth buffet me and chill my aged bones!
Ringed all about with enemies, I stand
Unharmed--for by Jehovah's dreadful curse
I live--nor can I die--until He come.
How chill the wind sweeps through my withered frame
While curses and revilings dog my steps--
My weary, ceaseless steps. Ah, God! To die!
Have I not expiated yet my sin?--
To bear life's heavy burden o'er the earth,
To wander from Armenia's distant hills,
Through desert places now, and now through vales
That flow with plenty; now through sordid towns,
Until at last I reach the western seas;
Then, ever homeless, to repeat my steps?
Death were a blessing, yea, a gentle sleep--
To feel delicious numbness seize my limbs,
Mine eyes grow heavy, and the weary flight
Of immemorial time forever stayed
In sleep, in dreamless sleep--would I might die!
I am so weary, weary of it all.

[He sinks down upon a bench, and is silent for a moment, in deep thought; a smile flits over his face, as at a pleasing memory, then the worn, hunted look returns.]

Faint shadows nicker 'round me, and at times
Vague dreams of joy experienced long ago
Beguile me for a moment, then I wake;
Dim musings of that time when, yet a child,
I prattled in the shade of Judah's hills
And trod her leafy valleys aimlessly--
But that was long, long centuries ago.
Sometimes I dream, that when God bade my soul
To leave its blest abode and come to earth
In this vile guise, all-terrified it prayed
This trial and affliction to be spared;
But all in vain.
And now the curse of God
Is on that soul. The darkness hideth not,
Oh, Lord, from thee; night shineth as the day.
What weariness unspeakable is mine!

[He throws himself down on the bench in utter dejection. Suddenly he lifts his head--footsteps approach.]

SCENE III. [Enter ANSELM. At first, not aware of another's presence, he kneels before the Virgin's shrine, and mutters a short prayer in Latin. Then he arises and advances slowly, absorbed in meditation.]

ANSELM. This is the eve--the sacred eve of Christ.
The wind is wild, and stormy is the night,
And yet methinks despite the elements
A holy peace pervades the solemn world--
As when amid the hush of earthly strife
The blessed Child was born.

[The Jew groans to himself, and the monk starts, then looks with half-seeing eyes.]

A stranger! Peace be unto you, my son,
And may God's holy calm be yours amid
The strife and turmoil of the outer world.

[AHASUERUS sits motionless. A bell sounds.]