The Death of the Hired Man

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 harbor 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.
 When I came up from Rowe's I found him
 here,
 Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
 A miserable sight, and frightening, too—
 You needn't smile—I didn't recognize him
 I wasn't looking for him—and he's
 changed.
 Wait till you see.'
 'Where did you say he'd
 been?'
 'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,
 And gave him tea and tried to make him
 smoke.
 I tried to make him talk about his travels.
 Nothing would do: he just kept nodding
 off.'
 'What did he say? Did he say anything?'
 'But little.'
 'Anything? Mary, confess
 He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for
 me.'
 'Warren!'
 'But did he? I just want to know.'
 'Of course he did. What would you have
 him say?
 Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old
 man
 Some humble way to save his self-respect.
 He added, if you really care to know,
 He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.
 That sounds like something you have heard
 before?
 Warren, I wish you could have heard the
 way
 He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
 Two or three times—he made me feel so
 queer—
 To see if he was talking in his sleep.
 He ran on Harold Wilson—you remember
 The boy you had in haying four years since.
 He's finished school, and teaching in his
 college.
 Silas declares you'll have to get him back.
 He says they two will make a team for
 Between them they will lay this farm as
 smooth!
 The way he mixed that in with other
 things.
 He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though
 daft
 On education—you know how they fought
 All through July under the blazing sun,
 Silas up on the cart to build the load,
 Harold along beside to pitch it on.'
 'Yes, I took care to keep well out of
 earshot.'
 'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
 You wouldn't think they would. How some
 things linger!
 Harold's young college boy's assurance
 piqued him.
 After so many years he still keeps finding
 Good arguments he sees he might have
 used.
 I sympathize. I know just how it feels
 To think of the right thing to say too late.
 Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.
 He asked me what I thought of Harold's
 saying
 He studied Latin like the violin
 Because he liked it—that an argument!
 He said he couldn't make the boy believe
 He could find water with a hazel prong—
 Which showed how much good school had
 ever done him.
 He wanted to go over that. But most of all
 He thinks if he could have another chance
 To teach him how to build a load of hay—'
 'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
 He bundles every forkful in its place,
 And tags and numbers it for future
 reference,
 So he can find and easily dislodge it
 In the unloading. Silas does that well.
 He takes it out in bunches like big birds'
 nests.
 You never see him standing on the hay
 He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.'
 'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd
 be
 Some good perhaps to someone in the
 world.
 He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
 Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
 And nothing to look backward to with
 pride,
 And nothing to look forward to with hope,
 So now and never any different.'
 Part of a moon was falling down the west,
 Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
 Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it
 And spread her apron to it. She put out her
 hand
 Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
 Taut with the dew from garden bed to
 eaves,
 As if she played unheard some tenderness
 That wrought on him beside her in the
 night.
 'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to
 You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this
 time.'
 'Home,' he mocked gently.
 'Yes, what else but
 home?
 It all depends on what you mean by home.
 Of course he's nothing to us, any more
 Than was the hound that came a stranger
 to us
 Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.'
 'Home is the place where, when you have
 to go there,
 They have to take you in.'
 'I should have called
 it
 Something you somehow haven't to
 deserve.'
 Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
 Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
 And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
 'Silas has better claim on us you think
 Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
 As the road winds would bring him to his
 door.
 Silas has walked that far no doubt today.
 Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,
 A somebody—director in the bank.'
 'He never told us that.'
 'We know it though.'
 'I think his brother ought to help, of course.
 I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of
 right
 To take him in, and might be willing to—
 He may be better than appearances.
 But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
 If he'd had any pride in claiming kin
 Or anything he looked for from his brother,
 He'd keep so still about him all this time?'
 'I wonder what's between them.'
 'I can tell you.
 Silas is what he is—we wouldn't mind him
 But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
 He never did a thing so very bad.
 He don't know why he isn't quite as good
 As anyone. Worthless though he is,
 He won't be made ashamed to please his
 brother.'
 'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.'
 'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
 And rolled his old head on that sharp-
 edged chair-back.
 He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
 You must go in and see what you can do.
 I made the bed up for him there tonight.
 You'll be surprised at him—how much he's
 broken.
 His working days are done; I'm sure of it.'
 'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.'
 'I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.
 But, Warren, please remember how it is:
 He's come to help you ditch the meadow.
 He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him.
 He may not speak of it, and then he may.
 I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
 Will hit or miss the moon.'
 It hit the moon.
 Then there were three there, making a dim
 row,
 The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
 Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to
 her,
 Slipped to her side, caught up her hand
 and waited.
 'Warren,' she questioned.
 'Dead,' was all he
 answered.