Rockhaven

by Charles Clark Munn

  CHAPTER XLV

  THE OLD HOME

  There was nothing that could depress Winn just now any more than tovisit his boyhood home. It had been twelve years since he left thehillside farm, and to return to it, even for a few days and on theerrand that called him, was melancholy in the extreme. Then his trip toRockhaven had not helped his feelings. He had gone there expecting tofind Mona, and believing that a few words of explanation would setmatters right. He had even planned what to say and how to say it, and inthe fulness of his faith in himself and her, believed that she wouldeasily overlook what he now knew was a cruel neglect on his part. Justwhy he had let his own discouragement rule him so long and in such away, he could not now understand. And the more he thought of it and sawhis own conduct as it was, the worse it seemed. Perhaps she had neverreceived the letter! Perhaps also she had written, and it had failed toreach him. And when he recalled the parting, and that all her happinessand life, almost, seemed to rest on his promise to return, he almostcursed his own stupidity.

  Verily, a pearl of great price had been cast at his feet, and he hadbeen too witless to pick it up.

  And now she was here in the city, and had been for months. And other menmight be looking into her winsome eyes, and whispering of love!

  And with these self-reproaches and jealous surmises for company, Winnsped onward toward his boyhood home.

  It was dark ere a slow-moving stage landed him at the village tavern anda cheerless supper.

  And the next day's visit to the spot!

  The only redeeming feature seemed to be that it was warm and the sunshone--one of those first spring days that come the last of March, andwith it the early-arriving bluebirds. They were there when Winn reachedthe now deserted farmhouse, where a snow-drift still lingered againstits northern side and patches of the same winter pall draped each stonewall. The brook which crossed the meadow in front was a brimmingtorrent; the barn shed across the road was filled with a confusion ofworn-out vehicles, broken and rusted farming tools half buried in snow,a drift of which remained in the empty barn, the door of which hadfallen to earth: the fences had great gaps in them; gates were missing;and ruin and desolation were visible on all sides.

  The house that had once been "Home, Sweet Home," to Winn was the mostlugubrious blotch of all. It had grown brown and moss-covered with timeand the elements, missing window-panes were replaced with rags, busheschoked the dooryard, and, as he peered into what had once been the "bestroom," snow lay on the floor and strips of paper hung from the walls.

  How small the house seemed to what it once had! The old well-sweep hadbeen used to patch the garden fence, the woodshed roof had fallen in,and a silence that seemed to crawl out of that old ruin brooded over it.

  This was his boyhood home, and on it lay the burden of three years'taxes and a mortgage!

  And as Winn looked into windows and then entered, crossing floorsgingerly, lest they give way and pitch him into the cellar, he felt thatit would be a mercy to the world to set the old rookery on fire andremove it from human sight.

  The solitary note of joy about it was a bluebird piping away in thenear-by orchard, and for that bird's presence there, Winn felt grateful.

  Then he wandered over the orchard, searching for the tree that hadborne seek-no-further apples, and another where he had once met a colonyof angry hang-legs while climbing to rob a bird's nest. He failed toreach the nest, but those vicious wasps reached him easily enough, andas Winn recalled the incident he smiled--the first time that day.

  For two hours he roamed about the farm, now hunting for the tree wherehe had shot his first squirrel, and then the thicket in which he hadonce kept a box-trap set for rabbits. He followed the brook up to thegorge, sauntered through the chestnut grove and back to where a group ofsugar maples and a sap house stood, thankful that the familiar rocks yetremained and that the trees had not been cut away, and for thebluebirds, chirping a welcome.

  Then he left the scenes of his boyhood days, so happy in memory, and ashe drove away, turned for a last look at the old brown house, feelingmuch as one does after visiting an ancient graveyard where ancestors lieburied.

  He had a week's leave of absence from his duties, now ahead of him, andhe went cousining. He also hunted up a few old schoolmates, puttinghimself in touch with their rustic lives and talking over school days.

  Then he returned to the city, feeling that luck had dealt unfairly byhim and that he was more out of place than ever.

  And now began a period in Winn's life which he never afterward recalledwithout a chill of dread. To no one did he confide his feelings, for noone, he felt, could understand them. It was not exactly a love-lorn fitof despondency, and yet it was, for Mona was ever present in histhoughts. He avoided Jack Nickerson, hating to listen to his inevitablesneering, and kept away from Ethel Sherman. He hunted for news items, asduty called him, visiting the stock exchange, the theatre, the courtrooms, and the morgue. And while he looked for news, recording simpledrunks and their penalties, suicides and their names and history, andthe advent of theatrical stars with equal indifference, he scanned thecrowded streets and all public places, ever on the watch for one fairface. Often he would stand on a corner for an hour, watching the passingthrong, and then at a theatre entrance until all had departed. Andthough he was one of that busy throng of pushing people, a spectator ofcareless, laughing humanity crowding into and out of playhouses, he wasnot of them. Instead was he a disappointed, discouraged man, whoseambitions had come to naught and whose hopes were in shadow. He wasmoody and silent at home and aimless at his work, and as the days wentby with never one glimpse of the face he now longed to see more than allelse in the world, he grew utterly hopeless.

  How many times had he lived over those summer days on Rockhaven, howoften fancied himself in the cave listening to the artless words andsimple music of that child of nature, and how he cursed his ownstupidity and lack of appreciation, need not be specified.

  With him, as with us all, the blessings that had been his seemed tobrighten and grow dearer as they took flight.

  And of Mona or her whereabouts, not one word or hint had reached him.