IX

The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles,Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce—Brought even the stiff doctor—beams of hope,Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered,And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse,Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home;How she and the dark man she had for helper,Bending above the sufferer, grew sad,Grew guilty as he came, hearing with himHis little mother’s whimpers, and the cry—Sudden, as if death were in the room—Of Dora when she saw him. And his father’sFeebleness—now he remembered that,And groaned.“But couldn’t the nurse—for she was there—Wouldn’t the nurse have known?”“I tell you, boy,I have no nurse. Something is stranger here—Giddup!—than God is ever going to tell me.Nurse? There was no such.”And the horses galloped,Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryardDarkened them, and Bruce’s mother stumbled,Her apron at her face, among the plum trees.“I am alone,” she cried, “except for him—”She pointed where her husband, on a stoneAs grey as he was, sat and held his forehead—“We are alone now, my boy. Too late,Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child,The dear child, is dead. They both are dead—Dora, and the other one that never,Never, never breathed.”She clutched at Bruce,Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed,Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead—Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,A limp superfluous bundle.“Oh, my boy!”—Perceptibly her white lips lived again—“Beautiful! One thing about her going,Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw—Or thought she saw—ten angels in the room.She counted them. But only three had wings.She counted the big wings. And said the nurseWas queen above all others.”“Nurse? What nurse?”The doctor in the doorway shook his head,Frowning, as if to free it from the cobwebSound of that false word. “There was no such—”But the small mother never would believe—He knew it—and Bruce never would believe.Who had this tall impostor woman been?And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said:“A teacher, too—her friend.” There was no such—The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers—Butcherers of girls—who with their knottedGrass roots and their needles—natural thorns—Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any lawCatch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the worldOf meddlers on the march? For they were somewhereStill, the doctor knew; and looked at BruceBent dumbly over Dora. In good timeThe boy would feel. He was so quiet now—An animal, playing dead.Then Daniel stood there—Daniel, with Darius at his heels:An old hound whom giant grief had gentled.Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughterWelcomed his hard hand; which neverthelessHovered and touched her—touched her, so that tearsFollowed, and streamed his face.“I brought him here,”Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one—By two—but they are gone. They do not matter.Both of them are gone. They said they knew—My lodgers—then they went. But that’s no matter.I told her father, and he came with me.Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies.Who is my enemy?”“I was,” said Bruce.“You were. And I was Dora’s. What I did—”“You did. But never tell it. As my friendIn sorrow, never say it. There are ears—”He went to where his mother, staring up,Saw none but that dear face.Then Daniel’s stillnessReigned in the room.Even the doctor, going,Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mindWas more with Mary and her living child,In the lost church, than here.A living child.He must go back to that small son; must listenTo the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?“Quiet. No more talking.” Was even thenThis mystery in his head, this hazy mirrorOf a much older birth? Who was it? When?What torment not to remember. Just like this,Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the imageOf a whole people, impotent to see nowThe one god it had.So three old friends,By death remade, stood looking down at Dora.

The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles,

Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce—

Brought even the stiff doctor—beams of hope,

Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered,

And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse,

Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home;

How she and the dark man she had for helper,

Bending above the sufferer, grew sad,

Grew guilty as he came, hearing with him

His little mother’s whimpers, and the cry—

Sudden, as if death were in the room—

Of Dora when she saw him. And his father’s

Feebleness—now he remembered that,

And groaned.

“But couldn’t the nurse—for she was there—

Wouldn’t the nurse have known?”

“I tell you, boy,

I have no nurse. Something is stranger here—

Giddup!—than God is ever going to tell me.

Nurse? There was no such.”

And the horses galloped,

Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryard

Darkened them, and Bruce’s mother stumbled,

Her apron at her face, among the plum trees.

“I am alone,” she cried, “except for him—”She pointed where her husband, on a stoneAs grey as he was, sat and held his forehead—“We are alone now, my boy. Too late,Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child,The dear child, is dead. They both are dead—Dora, and the other one that never,Never, never breathed.”She clutched at Bruce,Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed,Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead—Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,A limp superfluous bundle.“Oh, my boy!”—Perceptibly her white lips lived again—“Beautiful! One thing about her going,Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw—Or thought she saw—ten angels in the room.She counted them. But only three had wings.She counted the big wings. And said the nurseWas queen above all others.”“Nurse? What nurse?”The doctor in the doorway shook his head,Frowning, as if to free it from the cobwebSound of that false word. “There was no such—”

“I am alone,” she cried, “except for him—”

She pointed where her husband, on a stone

As grey as he was, sat and held his forehead—

“We are alone now, my boy. Too late,

Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child,

The dear child, is dead. They both are dead—

Dora, and the other one that never,

Never, never breathed.”

She clutched at Bruce,

Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed,

Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,

Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead—

Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,

A limp superfluous bundle.

“Oh, my boy!”—

Perceptibly her white lips lived again—

“Beautiful! One thing about her going,

Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw—

Or thought she saw—ten angels in the room.

She counted them. But only three had wings.

She counted the big wings. And said the nurse

Was queen above all others.”

“Nurse? What nurse?”

The doctor in the doorway shook his head,

Frowning, as if to free it from the cobweb

Sound of that false word. “There was no such—”

But the small mother never would believe—He knew it—and Bruce never would believe.Who had this tall impostor woman been?And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said:“A teacher, too—her friend.” There was no such—

But the small mother never would believe—

He knew it—and Bruce never would believe.

Who had this tall impostor woman been?

And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said:

“A teacher, too—her friend.” There was no such—

The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers—Butcherers of girls—who with their knottedGrass roots and their needles—natural thorns—Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any lawCatch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the worldOf meddlers on the march? For they were somewhereStill, the doctor knew; and looked at BruceBent dumbly over Dora. In good timeThe boy would feel. He was so quiet now—An animal, playing dead.Then Daniel stood there—Daniel, with Darius at his heels:An old hound whom giant grief had gentled.Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughterWelcomed his hard hand; which neverthelessHovered and touched her—touched her, so that tearsFollowed, and streamed his face.“I brought him here,”Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one—By two—but they are gone. They do not matter.Both of them are gone. They said they knew—My lodgers—then they went. But that’s no matter.I told her father, and he came with me.Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies.Who is my enemy?”“I was,” said Bruce.

The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers—

Butcherers of girls—who with their knotted

Grass roots and their needles—natural thorns—

Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.

Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any law

Catch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the world

Of meddlers on the march? For they were somewhere

Still, the doctor knew; and looked at Bruce

Bent dumbly over Dora. In good time

The boy would feel. He was so quiet now—

An animal, playing dead.

Then Daniel stood there—

Daniel, with Darius at his heels:

An old hound whom giant grief had gentled.

Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughter

Welcomed his hard hand; which nevertheless

Hovered and touched her—touched her, so that tears

Followed, and streamed his face.

“I brought him here,”

Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one—

By two—but they are gone. They do not matter.

Both of them are gone. They said they knew—

My lodgers—then they went. But that’s no matter.

I told her father, and he came with me.

Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies.

Who is my enemy?”

“I was,” said Bruce.

“You were. And I was Dora’s. What I did—”

“You did. But never tell it. As my friendIn sorrow, never say it. There are ears—”

“You did. But never tell it. As my friend

In sorrow, never say it. There are ears—”

He went to where his mother, staring up,Saw none but that dear face.Then Daniel’s stillnessReigned in the room.Even the doctor, going,Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mindWas more with Mary and her living child,In the lost church, than here.A living child.He must go back to that small son; must listenTo the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?“Quiet. No more talking.” Was even thenThis mystery in his head, this hazy mirrorOf a much older birth? Who was it? When?What torment not to remember. Just like this,Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the imageOf a whole people, impotent to see nowThe one god it had.So three old friends,By death remade, stood looking down at Dora.

He went to where his mother, staring up,

Saw none but that dear face.

Then Daniel’s stillness

Reigned in the room.

Even the doctor, going,

Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mind

Was more with Mary and her living child,

In the lost church, than here.

A living child.

He must go back to that small son; must listen

To the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?

“Quiet. No more talking.” Was even then

This mystery in his head, this hazy mirror

Of a much older birth? Who was it? When?

What torment not to remember. Just like this,

Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the image

Of a whole people, impotent to see now

The one god it had.

So three old friends,

By death remade, stood looking down at Dora.

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