North of Boston

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage To meet him in the doorway with the news And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.” She pushed him outward with her through the door And shut it after her. “Be kind,” she said. She took the market things from Warren’s arms And set them on the porch, then drew him down To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

“When was I ever anything but kind to him? But I’ll not have the fellow back,” he said. “I told him so last haying, didn’t I? ‘If he left then,’ I said, ‘that ended it.’ What good is he? Who else will harbour him At his age for the little he can do? What help he is there’s no depending on. Off he goes always when I need him most. ‘He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, Enough at least to buy tobacco with, So he won’t have to beg and be beholden.’ ‘All right,’ I say, ‘I can’t afford to pay Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.’ ‘Someone else can.’ ‘Then someone else will have to.’ I shouldn’t mind his bettering himself If that was what it was. You can be certain, When he begins like that, there’s someone at him Trying to coax him off with pocket-money⁠— In haying time, when any help is scarce. In winter he comes back to us. I’m done.”

“Sh! not so loud: he’ll hear you,” Mary said.

“I want him to: he’ll have to soon or late.”

“He’s worn out. He’s asleep beside the stove.

The mountain held the town as in a shadow I saw so much before I slept there once: I noticed that I missed stars in the west, Where its black body cut into the sky. Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall Behind which I was sheltered from a wind. And yet between the town and it I found, When I walked forth at dawn to see new things, Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields. The river at the time was fallen away, And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones; But the signs showed what it had done in spring; Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark. I crossed the river and swung round the mountain. And there I met a man who moved so slow With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart, It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“This? Lunenburg.”

Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn, Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain, But only felt at night its shadowy presence. “Where is your village? Very far from here?”

Lancaster bore him⁠—such a little town, Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead And sends the children down there with their mother To run wild in the summer⁠—a little wild. Sometimes he joins them for a day or two And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near. They meet him in the general store at night, Pre-occupied with formidable mail, Rifling a printed letter as he talks. They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so: Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat, If not at heart, at least on principle. Lately when coming up to Lancaster His train being late he missed another train And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired To think of sitting such an ordeal out, He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless⁠—” Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps And cars that shook and rattle⁠—and one hotel. “You say ‘unless.’ ”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man. Separate beds of course you understand.”

The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: “What is it you see From up there always⁠—for I want to know.” She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: “What is it you see,” Mounting until she cowered under him. “I will find out now⁠—you must tell me, dear.” She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see, Blind creature; and a while he didn’t see. But at last he murmured, “Oh,” and again, “Oh.”

“What is it⁠—what?” she said.

“Just that I see.”

“You don’t,” she challenged. “Tell me what it is.”

“The wonder is I didn’t see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it⁠—that’s the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child’s mound⁠—”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” she cried.

A lantern light from deeper in the barn Shone on a man and woman in the door And threw their lurching shadows on a house Near by, all dark in every glossy window. A horse’s hoof pawed once the hollow floor, And the back of the gig they stood beside Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel, The woman spoke out sharply, “Whoa, stand still!” “I saw it just as plain as a white plate,” She said, “as the light on the dashboard ran Along the bushes at the roadside⁠—a man’s face. You must have seen it too.”

“I didn’t see it.

Are you sure⁠—”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“⁠—it was a face?”

“Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in, I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled. Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference. I always have felt strange when we came home To the dark house after so long an absence, And the key rattled loudly into place Seemed to warn someone to be getting out At one door as we entered at another. What if I’m right, and someone all the time⁠— Don’t hold my arm!”

“I say it’s someone passing.”

“You speak as if this were a travelled road. You forget where we are. What is beyond That he’d be going to or coming from At such an hour of night, and on foot too. What was he standing still for in the bushes?”

“It’s not so very late⁠—it’s only dark. There’s more in it than you’re inclined to say. Did he look like⁠—?”

“He looked like anyone. I’ll never rest to-night unless I know. Give me the lantern.”