CHAPTER X
SOME BITS OF POETRY
Aunt Katharine's maid of all work did not outstay her leave of absence,and at evening of the third day Esther came home to her grandfather's.She insisted that she had had a good time, and strongly resented beingregarded as a martyr who had sacrificed herself to a painful cause.
"Why, Aunt Katharine made it delightful for me," she said, "and I likedher better and better all the time I stayed."
"I hope she didn't win you over to all her notions, especially thatprejudice against getting married," said Stella, with a laugh.
"She certainly didn't argue me out of the belief that life might beworth living if one happened to stay single," returned Esther, andthough she said it lightly, the look in her eyes was sober.
But they did not talk long of Aunt Katharine. There was something oflivelier interest to be discussed now. It had been the plan from thefirst that sometime during the summer they should visit Boston withStella. The summer was wearing away, and it was time for the plan tomature. Moreover, a letter had come from a cousin, who had a cottage forthe season at Nahant, inviting them all to spend a week with her there.
Kate was in raptures, and Stella was mapping out a fortnight's touringwhich should include a circuit of pleasures, Boston and the seashore,with Concord and Cambridge, and perhaps Old Plymouth, thrown in. It wasall delightful to think of. For the next few days their minds were fullof it, and in the midst came that pleasant trip which had been plannedwith Mr. Philip Hadley.
He was punctual to his engagement, and appeared early on the appointedafternoon. But he was not on horseback now. He was in a stylish topbuggy, behind a pair of high-stepping bays. Ruel Saxon had planned totake the two girls with him in the family carriage--Kate had other plansfor the afternoon--but Mr. Hadley's buggy changed all that.
"If one of the young ladies will ride with me I shall be delighted," hesaid, glancing with a smile at Esther, who happened to be the only oneof them in the room at the moment.
She returned the smile, then turning to her grandfather, settled thearrangement in just the right way. "Grandfather," she said, "we must letStella go with Mr. Hadley. That will be nice for them both, and then youand I will go together. I don't want to be selfish, but I shan't be heremuch longer, you know, and must make the most of my chances for ridingwith you."
The old gentleman looked gratified, and Mr. Hadley smiled again. As forStella, there was no doubt of her satisfaction with the arrangement whenshe came in a minute later. She was looking exceedingly stylish in apale green dress, with hat and parasol to match, and quite the figure tosit with Mr. Hadley behind those handsome bays.
It was a perfect afternoon, and a light rain the night before had laidthe dust in the country roads. It was the least frequented of them all,a track which was hardly more than a cart-path which led by the oldBridgewood place, and they tied their horses to a rail fence and climbedon foot to the top of the sharp knoll on which the house once had stood.There was no trace of it now. The walls on which their eccentric ownerhad once hung his verses in the wind had long ago dropped away, and thevery stones of its foundation had been removed out of their place.
Even the tree which had been part of his "battery"--if indeed it survivedthe experience--could not be distinguished now in the thick grove ofmaple and chestnut and birch which covered the place. Only the view fromthe hilltop remained unchanged, and this, as Stella declared, sittingbreathless at the end of the climb, justified the owner's choice of adwelling-spot, and must have inspired his muse.
From there to the old burying-ground was by a winding way, for RuelSaxon was in historic mood, and guided his party past the lake hauntedby the memory of conjuring Jane, who had been drowned there as a witchlong, long ago; past the meadow where a little party of the earlysettlers, busy with making hay one summer afternoon, had fallen victimsto the tomahawks of the Indians; and past the rock where Whitefield,shut out from the churches, had preached one Sabbath day to a crowd ofspell-bound and weeping people.
Sometimes he drew Dobbin to the side of the road, and giving the buggyspace beside him, paused while he set out the event which the scenecalled up with vivid description and trenchant comment. He was no meanchaperon in guiding others over the track of the past, and thisafternoon he was at his best.
The old burying-ground lay on the edge of a pine wood, on the outskirtsof the village. It was more than half a century since the sod had beendisturbed, and grass and daisies possessed the paths which once layplain between mounds which years had smoothed to almost the commonlevel. There had been no encroachment of a growing town upon its bordersto break its quiet with the noise and hurry of a strenuous life. It lay,an utter quietness, in the beauty of the summer afternoon, a spot inwhich it was impossible not to feel that a great peace must haveinfolded those whose bodies had mouldered to dust in its tranquilkeeping.
Yet perhaps Esther was the only one of the little company who felt thepensive influence of the place, and she had never stood before in an oldNew England burying-ground. Even she did not keep it long, for RuelSaxon was full of a bustling eagerness to find the graves they had cometo seek, and the quaintness of the mortuary devices and inscriptions onthe low gray stones soon claimed her whole attention.
"Your great-great-grandfather made up a good many of these epitaphs,"observed the old gentleman to Mr. Hadley. "He was a wonderful hand forthat. Folks were always going to him when their relations died--thosethat wanted anything except verses of scripture under the names. Here'shis own grave now!" he exclaimed, pausing in his rapid searching, andnot a little pleased with himself that he had so quickly found a spotwhich he had not seen in many years:--
"'Sacred to the memory of JABEZ BRIDGEWOOD. Born Aug. 1, 1735--died Nov. 12, 1810.'
"That's his stone, and no mistake."
Mr. Hadley was bending over it now. Below the inscription which the oldman had read were four lines which the creeping moss had almostobliterated. He took a knife from his pocket and scraped a few words.
"Ah," he said, lifting his head, "there is evidently one he didn'twrite:--
"'Oh Friends, seek not his merits to disclose, Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.'"
"No," said Ruel Saxon, who did not recognize the slightly changedfamiliar lines, "he didn't write that. But he picked it out, and leftword in writing to have it put on his stone. I remember hearing mygrandfather talk about it. Some folks thought 'twas queer he didn'twrite his own epitaph. It always tickled him so when he got a chance todo it for other folks."
"Poor man," said Mr. Hadley, with a smile, "it was probably his onlychance of publication. Think what that must have meant to him! But I'mglad he recognized a superior poet. It's a mark of greatness."
They separated a little now, moving about among the headstones, andreading, as they could, the old inscriptions. Some of them wereprovocative of an amusement which must have its way even in thishallowed spot.
There was one which ran:--
"Here lies, cut down like unripe fruit, Ye son of Mr. Jonas Boot, And Mrs. Jemima Boot his wife named Jonathan."
"I rather hope my ancestor didn't write that," said Mr. Hadley. Then,noting the date of the said Jonathan's death, 1748, he added, with ashake of his head, "But he might; it's possible, if his poetic geniusblossomed early."
There was another close by which Stella was reading now. It wasinscribed to a girl of sixteen:--
"Too good for earth, God in His love, Took her to dwell with saints above."
"Poor little thing!" she said, under her breath. "I wonder if she likedliving with the saints half as well as with her own girl friends. It'sto be hoped that she found some there."
There was dignity in one over which Esther was bending now:--
"Let not ye dead forgotten lye, Lest men forget that they must die;"
and a touch o
f real tenderness was in the one which stood beside itunder the name of a little child:--
"She faltered by the wayside, And the angels took her home."
But this, which came next, was not so felicitous:--
"God took him to His Heavenly home, No more this weary world to roam."
This, to a babe of six months, certainly indicated a paucity of rhymeson the part of the composer, and Mr. Hadley pointed in triumph to a yearmarked on the little gray slab which plainly antedated his ancestor.
But the stone which by the consent of all was pronounced the most uniquewas inscribed to Keziah, a "beloved wife who put on immortality" at theage of thirty-five. Below the name and date was carved an emblemsuggestive of a chrysalis, with the words, "Keziah as she was;" andunder this appeared the head of a cherub, with the wings of a butterflysprouting from its swollen cheeks, and the words, "Keziah as she is."
Stella hovered around this for some time in convulsed admiration. "I'mso glad there were artists as well as poets in those days," she said;and then she added, with a levity she could not repress, "it reminds onefor all the world of the advertisements, 'Before and after taking.'"
There was another erected to the memory of a wife which called forthalmost as much admiration. The virtues of the deceased were set forthwith unusual fulness, and the record of her long services to society,the church, and her family, ended with the words, "She lived with herhusband sixty years, and died in the hope of a better life."
Even Deacon Saxon chuckled over this, and then added, "I don't b'lievemy sister Katharine ever heard of that, or she'd have thrown it up to mebefore this."
It was queer what oddities of thought and expression had got themselvescut in some of these stones, and there were commonplaces which occurredover and over:--
"Friends nor physicians could not save This loving ----"
Was father, mother, husband, the needed title? Alas, all were easilysupplied, and then followed the inevitable "from the grave."
There was one with a harsh creditor accent, before which light-heartedreaders could hardly help shrinking a little:--
"Death is a debt to Nature due, I've paid it now, and so must you."
But there was another, carved more than once, which might well cause adeeper shudder. It ran:--
"Beneath this stone Death's prisoner lies, Ye stone shall move, ye prisoner rise, When Jesus, with Almighty word, Calls his dead Saints to meet their Lord."
"Dreadful theology, don't you think?" Mr. Hadley said, turning with alittle shiver to the girls, and their grandfather added his assent totheirs with emphasis. "Yes, Jesus hasn't got any dead saints. They or'to have remembered what He said Himself, that God is not the God of thedead, but of the living."
But by far the greater number of these ancient headstones were markedwith texts of scripture, and however mirth might be provoked bysentiment or phrase from other sources, the simple dignity of the bookof books always brought back seriousness and reminded on what word thehearts of men had leaned, through the long generations, to endure theold, old sorrow of death. The faith of the fathers, not their fashions,was the thought which one must bear away in the end from such a spot.
They had paused longest by the graves of Ruel Saxon's people, and againas they left the place he lingered for a moment by the low gray line ofstones. "They were God-fearing men and women, all of them," he said,with tender reverence in his voice; then, lifting his face, he added,with inexpressible pride and solemnity:--
"My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth, But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents passed into the skies."
That was the last word spoken before they let down the bars in the oldstone wall and made their way back to their horses. Possibly the youngman, who was so anxious to establish his family record, may have caught,at that moment, a new thought of ancestral honors.
It had been a full afternoon, and it was a late one when they reachedthe farmhouse. Mr. Hadley would have mounted to his buggy at once afterhelping Stella down, but the deacon interposed.
"Why, it's high time for supper," he said, "and you mustn't drive backto Hartridge without having a bite to eat, you or your horses either."
"Of course not," said Stella, cordially. "We count on your staying tosupper." And then she added archly, "I really think you ought, for thesake of your great-great-grandfather."
"Whom your great-great-grandmother could never get rid of?" he replied,laughing. "I'm not sure but on his account I ought to go, to convinceyou that his descendants at least can turn their backs on pleasure."
But he did not insist on doing it, and it is extremely doubtful whetherJabez Bridgewood ever enjoyed a meal under the old roof more than PhilipHadley enjoyed the one that followed. The fact was, both Stella and hermother had foreseen that the delays and digressions of the old gentlemanin showing his party around would consume the afternoon, and bring theyoung man back at about this time. They had conferred carefully as tothe setting of the table in the best old-fashioned china, with a prettymingling of Stella's hand-painted pieces; the menu had been settled to anicety in advance, and the delicate French salad, which Mr. Hadleypronounced the best he had ever tasted, had been compounded by Stellaherself before leaving the house.
Tom and Kate, who were just in from a tramp to a distant pasture, hadtheir places with the others. Tom had objected at first to sitting downwith "the nabob," as he called their guest, but Kate's persuasions andhis own curiosity finally overcame him.
The meal was a social one. The girls talked of their intended outing,and Mr. Hadley, who was much interested, made some capital suggestions.
Then a question or two drew him out in regard to his own summer, and hetalked quite charmingly of a yachting trip in July. There was a plan forthe White Mountains early in September. He had succeeded better thanusual in killing time this summer, he said; to which he addedgracefully, that he believed no other day of it had been as pleasant asthis which was just ending.
This brought them back to the excursion of the afternoon, and Esther inparticular grew quite eloquent over the delights of it.
"That's what it is to live in an old country," she said wistfully. "Youfeel as if you belonged to the past as well as the present when youstand in the places where the things you've read of really happened. Ithink it's beautiful to have historic associations."
There was an approving murmur over this sentiment, but Kate did not joinin it. There was no mistaking its implied suggestion of a point in whichNew England had the advantage over her native state. She might possiblyhave let it pass if Tom had not had the indiscretion at that moment topress her foot under the table. Up to this point her part in theconversation had been mostly questions, but now she advanced an opinionboldly.
"Well, I must say I never wanted to live in an old country on thataccount," she said. "I remember when mother used to read Child's Historyof England to us, I was always glad that our country began later, andthat we didn't have those cruel times, when people were beheaded fornothing, and princes' eyes put out by their wicked uncles, in ourhistory at all. Those things you've been hearing about thisafternoon--there wasn't anything very beautiful about some of them. Thatpoor old thing they drowned--I don't suppose she was any more a witchthan I am. And that rock where Whitefield preached--it was a mean bigotedthing to keep him out of the churches, and I should think good peoplewould be ashamed every time they looked at the rock."
There was silence for a minute when she ended. Then Mr. Hadley said,with a smile, "In other words, if you have historic associations at all,you want those of the very best sort." To which he added, lifting hiseyebrows a trifle, "I presume you wouldn't object to Bunker Hill andLexington!"
Kate took a swallow of water before speaking. Then she said withdignity: "I have never regarded Bunker Hill and Lexington as localaffairs. I think they belong to the whole country!"
Mr. Hadley made her a bow across the table.
"Capital!" he said. "Isurrender."
"If you knew how my cousin Kate stands up for everything connected withher own part of the country, you'd surrender in advance any attempt toimpress her with the beauties of ours," said Stella, laughing. "Talk ofloyalty to one's home!"
"Well, you certainly have a remarkably fine section of country out yourway," said Mr. Hadley, graciously. "My father was there buying grain onesummer, and I remember he came back perfectly enthusiastic overeverything except the ague, which he brought home with him, and had hardwork to get rid of. I suppose you'll admit that you do have some chillsand fever lying round in your low lands."
"Oh, people have to have something," said Kate, carelessly, "but agueisn't the worst thing that ever was. People very seldom die of it, andit's really the most interesting disease in the world. I could give youa list as long as my arm of the ingenious ways country people have ofcuring it; and some of them are perfectly fascinating, they're so queer.You ought to hear my father talk about ague."
There was an explosion of laughter at this. "Kate," cried Stella,"you're as bad as the old woman who was challenged to find a goodquality in his Satanic majesty, and immediately said there was nothinglike his perseverance. But really, if one must discuss chills and fever,don't you think they're a little, just a little plebeian?"
"Oh," said Kate, "anything's plebeian--if you've a mind to call itso--that keeps people moping and ailing. But there are lots of thingsmore 'ornary' than chills. It was when they were all coming down withthem, don't you know, that Mark Tapley found the first chance he everhad to be 'jolly' when 'twas really a credit to him!"
The laughter took a note of applause now from Mr. Hadley. "Miss Saxon,"he exclaimed, turning to Stella, "don't let's press her any further;she's positively making a classic of the ague. If she says much more, weshall all be wanting to go out there for the express purpose of gettingit."
"But ten chances to one you wouldn't get it, if you did," said Kate. "Asa matter of fact, we don't have much of it nowadays. It was part of thenewness of the country, and draining the land has carried most of itoff."
There was nothing to be said to this. She was in possession of the fieldat both ends, and they retreated from the subject with a last volley oflaughter.
After supper Tom told Kate confidentially that she had "done 'em up ingood style. Though I'll warrant," he added severely, "that you'd brag asmuch as anybody if you had some of the old places we have out your way."And then he observed that the nabob wasn't half bad. He didn't know as'twas strange that the girls had taken such a fancy to him.
As it happened, Esther was thinking of him at that very moment. She hadjust finished reading a letter from Morton Elwell,--a letter written, ashe happened to mention, before five one morning of a day that was to befull of work. How well she knew that it was one of many--days thatfollowed each other without break or pause save for the Sabbath's rest!And then she thought of Mr. Philip Hadley with his summer devices for"killing time." She wondered why life should be so easy for some, sostrenuous for others; and, for the first time, she thought of it with asort of resentment that Morton Elwell should work so hard and have nosummer pleasuring.
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