In ceaseless bright procession past the shallows,Talking its quick inconsequence. The friends,Warmed by the gallop on the unfenced fallows,Felt it a kindlier thing to make amends."A jolly burst," said Michael; "here it ends.Your way lies straight beyond the water. There.Watch for the lights, and keep those two stars as they bear."Something august was quick in all that sky,Wheeling in multitudinous march with fire;The falling of the wind brought it more nigh,They felt the earth take solace and respire;The horses shifted foothold in the mire,Splashing and making eddies. Lion spoke:"Do you remember riding past the haunted oak"That Christmas Eve, when all the bells were ringing,So that we picked out seven churches' bells,Ringing the night, and people carol-singing?It hummed and died away and rose in swellsLike a sea breaking. We have been through hellsSince then, we two, and now this being hereBrings all that Christmas back, and makes it strangely near.""Yes," Michael answered, "they were happy times,Riding beyond there; but a man needs change;I know what they connote, those Christmas chimes,Fudge in the heart, and pudding in the grange.It stifles me all that; I need the range,Like this before us, open to the sky;There every wing is clipped, but here a man can fly.""Ah," said his friend, "man only flies in youth,A few short years at most, until he findsThat even quiet is a form of truth,And all the rest a coloured rag that blinds.Life offers nothing but contented minds.Some day you'll know it, Michael. I am grievedThat Mary's heart will pay until I am believed."There was a silence while the water drippedFrom the raised muzzles champing on the steel.Flogging the crannied banks the water lipped.Night up above them turned her starry wheel;And each man feared to let the other feelHow much he felt; they fenced; they put up bars.The moon made heaven pale among the withering stars."Michael," said Lion, "why should we two part?Ride on with me; or shall we both return,Make preparation, and to-morrow start,And travel home together? You would learnHow much the people long to see you; turn.We will ride back and say good-bye, and thenSail, and see home again, and see the Shropshire men,"And see the old Shropshire mountain and the fair,Full of drunk Welshmen bringing mountain ewes;And partridge shooting would be starting there."Michael hung down his head and seemed to choose.The horses churned fresh footing in the ooze.Then Michael asked if Tom were still alive,Old Tom, who fought the Welshman under Upton Drive,For nineteen rounds, on grass, with the bare hands?"Shaky," said Lion, "living still, but weak;Almost past speaking, but he understands.""And old Shon Shones we teased so with the leek?""Dead." "When?" "December." Michael did not speak,But muttered "Old Jones dead." A minute passed."What came to little Sue, his girl?" he said at last."Got into trouble with a man and died;Her sister keeps the child." His hearer stirred."Dead, too? She was a pretty girl," he sighed,"A graceful pretty creature, like a bird.What is the child?" "A boy. Her sister heardToo late to help; poor Susan died; the manNone knew who he could be, but many rumours ran.""Ah," Michael said. The horses tossed their heads;A little wind arising struck in chill;"Time," he began, "that we were in our beds."A distant heifer challenged from the hill,Scraped at the earth with 's forefoot and was still."Come with me," Lion pleaded. Michael grinned;He turned his splashing horse, and prophesied a wind."So long," he said, and "Kind of you to call.Straight on, and watch the stars"; his horse's feetTrampled the firmer foothold, ending all.He flung behind no message to his sweet,No other word to Lion; the dull beatOf his horse's trample drummed upon the trail;Lion could watch him drooping in the moonlight pale,Drooping and lessening; half expectant stillThat he would turn and greet him; but no soundCame, save the lonely water's whip-poor-willAnd the going horse hoofs dying on the ground."Michael," he cried, "Michael!" A lonely moundBeyond the water gave him back the cry."That's at an end," he said, "and I have failed her--I."Soon the far hoof-beats died, save for a stirHalf heard, then lost, then still, then heard again.A quickening rhythm showed he plied the spur.Then a vast breathing silence took the plain.The moon was like a soul within the brainOf the great sleeping world; silent she rodeThe water talked, talked, talked; it trembled as it flowed.A moment Lion thought to ride in chase.He turned, then turned again, knowing his friend.He forded through with death upon his face,And rode the plain that seemed never to end.Clumps of pale cattle nosed the thing unkenned,Riding the night; out of the night they rose,Snuffing with outstretched heads, stamping with surly lows,Till he was threading through a crowd, a seaOf curious shorthorns backing as he came,Barring his path, but shifting warily;He slapped the hairy flanks of the more tame.Unreal the ghostly cattle lumbered lame.His horse kept at an even pace; the cowsBroke right and left like waves before advancing bows.Lonely the pampas seemed amid that herd.The thought of Mary's sorrow pricked him sore;He brought no comfort for her, not a word;He would not ease her pain, but bring her more.The long miles dropped behind; lights rose before,Lights and the seaport and the briny air;And so he sailed for home to comfort Mary there.* * * * *When Mary knew the worst she only sighed,Looked hard at Lion's face, and sat quite still,White to the lips, but stern and stony-eyed,Beaten by life in all things but the will.Though the blow struck her hard it did not kill.She rallied on herself, a new life bloomedOut of the ashy heart where Michael lay entombed.And more than this: for Lion touched a senseThat he, the honest humdrum man, was moreThan he by whom the glory and the offenceCame to her life three bitter years before.This was a treason in her being's core;It smouldered there; meanwhile as two good friendsThey met at autumn dusks and winter daylight-ends.And once, after long twilight talk, he brokeHis strong restraint upon his passion for her,And burningly, most like a man he spoke,Until her pity almost overbore her.It could not be, she said; her pity tore her;But still it could not be, though this was pain.Then on a frosty night they met and spoke again.And then he wooed again, clutching her hands,Calling the maid his mind, his heart, his soul,Saying that God had linked their lives in bandsWhen the worm Life first started from the goal;That they were linked together, past control,Linked from all time, could she but pity; shePitied him from the soul, but said it could not be."Mary," he asked, "you cannot love me? No?""No," she replied; "would God I could, my dear.""God bless you, then," he answered, "I must go,Go over sea to get away from here,I cannot think of work when you are near;My whole life falls to pieces; it must end.This meeting now must be 'good-bye,' beloved friend."White-lipped she listened, then with failing breath,She asked for yet a little time; her faceWas even as that of one condemned to death.She asked for yet another three months' grace,Asked it, as Lion inly knew, in caseMichael should still return; and "Yes" said he,"I'll wait three months for you, beloved; let it be."Slowly the three months dragged: no Michael came.March brought the daffodils and set them shaking.April was quick in Nature like green flame;May came with dog-rose buds, and corncrakes craking,Then dwindled like her blossom; June was breaking."Mary," said Lion, "can you answer now?"White like a ghost she stood, he long remembered how.Wild-eyed and white, and trembling like a leaf,She gave her answer, "Yes"; she gave her lips,Cold as a corpse's to the kiss of grief,Shuddering at him as if his touch were whips.Then her best nature, struggling to eclipseThis shrinking self, made speech; she jested there;They searched each other's eyes, and both souls saw despair.So the first passed, and after that beganA happier time: she could not choose but praiseThat recognition of her in the manStriving to salve her pride in myriad ways;He was a gentle lover: gentle daysPassed like a music after tragic scenes;Her heart gave thanks for that; but still the might-have-beensHaunted her inner spirit day and night,And often in his kiss the memory cameOf Michael's face above her, passionate, white,His lips at her lips murmuring her name,Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame,And struggle with her weakness. She had vowedTo give herself to Lion; she was true and proud.He should not have a woman sick with ghosts,But one firm-minded to be his; so timePassed one by one the summer's marking posts,The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime.Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime.Men fired the bells till all the valley filledWith bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build.Lion and she were married; home they went,Home to The Roughs as man and wife; the newsWas printed in the paper. Mary sentA copy out to Michael. Now we loseSight of her for a time, and the great dewsFall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fillsOver the barren fields where March brings daffodils.VIThe rider lingered at the fence a moment,Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low,Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment,Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow.Michael's last news had come so long ago,He wondered who had written now; the handThrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand.He opened it with one eye on the hut,Lest she within were watching him, but sheWas combing out her hair, the door was shut,The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see.Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which heHad had embroidered with his name for her;It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender.Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue,Where he should read; he stood there in the sun,Reading of Mary's wedding till he knewWhat he had cast away, what he had done.He was rejected, Lion was the one.Lion, the godly and the upright, he.The black lines in the paper showed how it could be.He pocketed the love gift and took horse,And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings.Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course,Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings.Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings;An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud;Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood.And with the bitterness, the outcast feltA passion for those old kind Shropshire places,The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt;High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases,The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces,By Wrekin and by Zine and country town.The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down.He could remember Mary now; her cryingNight after night alone through weary years,Had touched him now and set the cords replying;He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears,The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears,The arm stretched out for one not there, the slowLoss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go."Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the fordHe caught a fresh horse and rode on. The nightFound him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board,Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight;Drawing his gun, he shot away the light,And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse,And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse.At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry,And all day long he steamed between great banksWhich smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry.Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks,Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanksWere filled with English ships, and one he foundNeeding another stoker, being homeward bound.And all the time the trouble in his headRan like a whirlwind moving him; he knewSince she was lost that he was better dead.He had no project outlined, what to do,Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew.She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul,Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal.Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind;Passion takes colour from the nature's core;His misery was as his nature, blind.Life was still turmoil when he went ashore.To see his old love married lay before;To see another have her, drink the gall,Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all.* * * * *Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the placeWhither, from over sea, his heart had turnedOften at evening-ends in times of grace.But little outward change his eye discerned;A red rose at her bedroom window burned,Just as before. Even as of old the waspsPoised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps,And the white fantails sidled on the roofJust as before; their pink feet, even as of old,Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof.Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould;The apples on the withered boughs were gold.Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he,"Will go and not return, since she is not for me."I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thingTo spoil her marriage, and besides, she caresFor that half-priest she married with the ring.Small joy for me in seeing how she wears,Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.That beauty and those ways: she had such ways,There in the daffodils in those old April days."So with an impulse of good will he turned,Leaving that place of daffodils; the roadWas paven sharp with memories which burned;He trod them strongly under as he strode.At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed;Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled softFold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft.That was a bitter place to pass, for thereMary and he had often, often stayedTo watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.There was a stile beside the forge; he laidHis elbows on it, leaning, looking downThe river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,And distant spires arose and distant smoke;The whiteness on the blue went stilly by;Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oakWhere the White Woman walked; the black firs showedAround the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode.A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,So well remembered from of old; he sighed."I will go down and look upon her face,See her again, whatever may betide.Hell is my future; I shall soon have died,But I will take to hell one memory more;She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;"Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.I do not mean to speak; but only see.Even the devil gets a peep at heaven;One peep at her shall come to hell with me;One peep at her, no matter what may be."He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.* * * * *A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyondRinged in The Roughs upon the side he neared.Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond;Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.The drooping fir trees let their darkness trailBlack like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail.The garden with its autumn flowers was there;Few that his wayward memory linked with her.Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender,And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised;The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.He could not see her there. Windows were wide,Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed;Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.But still no Mary's presence blessed his look;The house was still as if deserted, hushed.Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hintOf times long past, of reapers in the corn,Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,When first the berry reddens on the thorn.Memories of her that fragrance brought. ForlornThat vigil of the watching outcast grew;He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.The windows of the kitchen opened wide.Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke;Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke;Pourri was being made; the listener heardThings lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.While an old woman made remarks to oneWho was not the beloved: Michael learnedThat Roger's wife at Upton had a son,And that the red geraniums should be turned;A hen was missing, and a rick was burned;Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke;The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door;A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well,Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before,Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.He saw the dining-room; he could not tellIf Mary were within: inly he knewThat she was coming now, that she would be in blue,Blue with a silver locket at the throat,And that she would be there, within there, near,With the little blushes that he knew by rote,And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear,The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,Speaking to her belov'd within the room.The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,Watching intently from below the boughs,While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.Dinner began within with much to say.Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.Nor could her lover see her from the yew;She was not there at table; she was ill,Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew.Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still."If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion willTake food to her." He watched; the dinner ended.The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended."Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure,He waited till the Occleves went to field,Then followed, round the house, another lure,Using the well-known privet as his shield.He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.He knew of old which bedroom would be hers;He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,Its vacant window-eyes; its open door,With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.Nothing had changed; the house was as before,The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide:"I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside.None could have seen him coming; all was still;He listened in the doorway for a sign.Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrillMoved, till the frames clacked on the picture line."Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,"He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded.Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.Another door was at his left; he stayed.Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked,To one who slumbered breathing deep; it madeAn image of Time's going and man's trade.He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray,Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.The east room had been closed in Michael's day,Being the best; but now he guessed it hers;The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried,Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feetStruck on the flagstones with a hasty stride."He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet."He snatched the nearest door for his retreat,Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close,But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose,Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,Not breathing, only knowing that the roomWas someone's bedroom smelling of old wood,Hung with engravings of the day of doom.The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?A gentle question, tapping at a door,And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor.The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked;Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked,Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.What could the thing be that he sought. At lastHis voice said, "Here it is." The wormed floorCreaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.The footsteps came as though the walker read,Or added rows of figures by the way;There was much hesitation in the tread;Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay;Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway,He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always oneFor order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son."The action seemed to break the walker's mood;The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall,Out at the door and off towards the wood."Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all."Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to tryThe door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.It was the eastmost of the rooms which lookOver the fields of daffodils; the boundScanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook,Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound,Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind;The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.A woman walked along the hall below,Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died,Listening intently still, he heard them go,Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide;The curtains streamed out like a waterfall;The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.No one was there; no one; the room was hers.A book of praise lay open on the bed;The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed;He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.He took the love-gift handkerchief again;He laid it on her table, near the glass,So opened that the broidered name was plain;"Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pass.It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this,That she is still my darling: all she was she is."So she will know at least that she was wrong,That underneath the blindness I was true.Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong;Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew;And now, the evil done, I know my need;Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed."And now, goodbye." He closed the door behind him,Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair,Meaning to go where she would never find him;He would go down through darkness to despair.Out at the door he stept; the autumn airCame fresh upon his face; none saw him go."Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so."
In ceaseless bright procession past the shallows,Talking its quick inconsequence. The friends,Warmed by the gallop on the unfenced fallows,Felt it a kindlier thing to make amends."A jolly burst," said Michael; "here it ends.Your way lies straight beyond the water. There.Watch for the lights, and keep those two stars as they bear."
In ceaseless bright procession past the shallows,
Talking its quick inconsequence. The friends,
Warmed by the gallop on the unfenced fallows,
Felt it a kindlier thing to make amends.
"A jolly burst," said Michael; "here it ends.
Your way lies straight beyond the water. There.
Watch for the lights, and keep those two stars as they bear."
Something august was quick in all that sky,Wheeling in multitudinous march with fire;The falling of the wind brought it more nigh,They felt the earth take solace and respire;The horses shifted foothold in the mire,Splashing and making eddies. Lion spoke:"Do you remember riding past the haunted oak
Something august was quick in all that sky,
Wheeling in multitudinous march with fire;
The falling of the wind brought it more nigh,
They felt the earth take solace and respire;
The horses shifted foothold in the mire,
Splashing and making eddies. Lion spoke:
"Do you remember riding past the haunted oak
"That Christmas Eve, when all the bells were ringing,So that we picked out seven churches' bells,Ringing the night, and people carol-singing?It hummed and died away and rose in swellsLike a sea breaking. We have been through hellsSince then, we two, and now this being hereBrings all that Christmas back, and makes it strangely near."
"That Christmas Eve, when all the bells were ringing,
So that we picked out seven churches' bells,
Ringing the night, and people carol-singing?
It hummed and died away and rose in swells
Like a sea breaking. We have been through hells
Since then, we two, and now this being here
Brings all that Christmas back, and makes it strangely near."
"Yes," Michael answered, "they were happy times,Riding beyond there; but a man needs change;I know what they connote, those Christmas chimes,Fudge in the heart, and pudding in the grange.It stifles me all that; I need the range,Like this before us, open to the sky;There every wing is clipped, but here a man can fly."
"Yes," Michael answered, "they were happy times,
Riding beyond there; but a man needs change;
I know what they connote, those Christmas chimes,
Fudge in the heart, and pudding in the grange.
It stifles me all that; I need the range,
Like this before us, open to the sky;
There every wing is clipped, but here a man can fly."
"Ah," said his friend, "man only flies in youth,A few short years at most, until he findsThat even quiet is a form of truth,And all the rest a coloured rag that blinds.Life offers nothing but contented minds.Some day you'll know it, Michael. I am grievedThat Mary's heart will pay until I am believed."
"Ah," said his friend, "man only flies in youth,
A few short years at most, until he finds
That even quiet is a form of truth,
And all the rest a coloured rag that blinds.
Life offers nothing but contented minds.
Some day you'll know it, Michael. I am grieved
That Mary's heart will pay until I am believed."
There was a silence while the water drippedFrom the raised muzzles champing on the steel.Flogging the crannied banks the water lipped.Night up above them turned her starry wheel;And each man feared to let the other feelHow much he felt; they fenced; they put up bars.The moon made heaven pale among the withering stars.
There was a silence while the water dripped
From the raised muzzles champing on the steel.
Flogging the crannied banks the water lipped.
Night up above them turned her starry wheel;
And each man feared to let the other feel
How much he felt; they fenced; they put up bars.
The moon made heaven pale among the withering stars.
"Michael," said Lion, "why should we two part?Ride on with me; or shall we both return,Make preparation, and to-morrow start,And travel home together? You would learnHow much the people long to see you; turn.We will ride back and say good-bye, and thenSail, and see home again, and see the Shropshire men,
"Michael," said Lion, "why should we two part?
Ride on with me; or shall we both return,
Make preparation, and to-morrow start,
And travel home together? You would learn
How much the people long to see you; turn.
We will ride back and say good-bye, and then
Sail, and see home again, and see the Shropshire men,
"And see the old Shropshire mountain and the fair,Full of drunk Welshmen bringing mountain ewes;And partridge shooting would be starting there."Michael hung down his head and seemed to choose.The horses churned fresh footing in the ooze.Then Michael asked if Tom were still alive,Old Tom, who fought the Welshman under Upton Drive,
"And see the old Shropshire mountain and the fair,
Full of drunk Welshmen bringing mountain ewes;
And partridge shooting would be starting there."
Michael hung down his head and seemed to choose.
The horses churned fresh footing in the ooze.
Then Michael asked if Tom were still alive,
Old Tom, who fought the Welshman under Upton Drive,
For nineteen rounds, on grass, with the bare hands?"Shaky," said Lion, "living still, but weak;Almost past speaking, but he understands.""And old Shon Shones we teased so with the leek?""Dead." "When?" "December." Michael did not speak,But muttered "Old Jones dead." A minute passed."What came to little Sue, his girl?" he said at last.
For nineteen rounds, on grass, with the bare hands?
"Shaky," said Lion, "living still, but weak;
Almost past speaking, but he understands."
"And old Shon Shones we teased so with the leek?"
"Dead." "When?" "December." Michael did not speak,
But muttered "Old Jones dead." A minute passed.
"What came to little Sue, his girl?" he said at last.
"Got into trouble with a man and died;Her sister keeps the child." His hearer stirred."Dead, too? She was a pretty girl," he sighed,"A graceful pretty creature, like a bird.What is the child?" "A boy. Her sister heardToo late to help; poor Susan died; the manNone knew who he could be, but many rumours ran."
"Got into trouble with a man and died;
Her sister keeps the child." His hearer stirred.
"Dead, too? She was a pretty girl," he sighed,
"A graceful pretty creature, like a bird.
What is the child?" "A boy. Her sister heard
Too late to help; poor Susan died; the man
None knew who he could be, but many rumours ran."
"Ah," Michael said. The horses tossed their heads;A little wind arising struck in chill;"Time," he began, "that we were in our beds."A distant heifer challenged from the hill,Scraped at the earth with 's forefoot and was still."Come with me," Lion pleaded. Michael grinned;He turned his splashing horse, and prophesied a wind.
"Ah," Michael said. The horses tossed their heads;
A little wind arising struck in chill;
"Time," he began, "that we were in our beds."
A distant heifer challenged from the hill,
Scraped at the earth with 's forefoot and was still.
"Come with me," Lion pleaded. Michael grinned;
He turned his splashing horse, and prophesied a wind.
"So long," he said, and "Kind of you to call.Straight on, and watch the stars"; his horse's feetTrampled the firmer foothold, ending all.He flung behind no message to his sweet,No other word to Lion; the dull beatOf his horse's trample drummed upon the trail;Lion could watch him drooping in the moonlight pale,
"So long," he said, and "Kind of you to call.
Straight on, and watch the stars"; his horse's feet
Trampled the firmer foothold, ending all.
He flung behind no message to his sweet,
No other word to Lion; the dull beat
Of his horse's trample drummed upon the trail;
Lion could watch him drooping in the moonlight pale,
Drooping and lessening; half expectant stillThat he would turn and greet him; but no soundCame, save the lonely water's whip-poor-willAnd the going horse hoofs dying on the ground."Michael," he cried, "Michael!" A lonely moundBeyond the water gave him back the cry."That's at an end," he said, "and I have failed her--I."
Drooping and lessening; half expectant still
That he would turn and greet him; but no sound
Came, save the lonely water's whip-poor-will
And the going horse hoofs dying on the ground.
"Michael," he cried, "Michael!" A lonely mound
Beyond the water gave him back the cry.
"That's at an end," he said, "and I have failed her--I."
Soon the far hoof-beats died, save for a stirHalf heard, then lost, then still, then heard again.A quickening rhythm showed he plied the spur.Then a vast breathing silence took the plain.The moon was like a soul within the brainOf the great sleeping world; silent she rodeThe water talked, talked, talked; it trembled as it flowed.
Soon the far hoof-beats died, save for a stir
Half heard, then lost, then still, then heard again.
A quickening rhythm showed he plied the spur.
Then a vast breathing silence took the plain.
The moon was like a soul within the brain
Of the great sleeping world; silent she rode
The water talked, talked, talked; it trembled as it flowed.
A moment Lion thought to ride in chase.He turned, then turned again, knowing his friend.He forded through with death upon his face,And rode the plain that seemed never to end.Clumps of pale cattle nosed the thing unkenned,Riding the night; out of the night they rose,Snuffing with outstretched heads, stamping with surly lows,
A moment Lion thought to ride in chase.
He turned, then turned again, knowing his friend.
He forded through with death upon his face,
And rode the plain that seemed never to end.
Clumps of pale cattle nosed the thing unkenned,
Riding the night; out of the night they rose,
Snuffing with outstretched heads, stamping with surly lows,
Till he was threading through a crowd, a seaOf curious shorthorns backing as he came,Barring his path, but shifting warily;He slapped the hairy flanks of the more tame.Unreal the ghostly cattle lumbered lame.His horse kept at an even pace; the cowsBroke right and left like waves before advancing bows.
Till he was threading through a crowd, a sea
Of curious shorthorns backing as he came,
Barring his path, but shifting warily;
He slapped the hairy flanks of the more tame.
Unreal the ghostly cattle lumbered lame.
His horse kept at an even pace; the cows
Broke right and left like waves before advancing bows.
Lonely the pampas seemed amid that herd.The thought of Mary's sorrow pricked him sore;He brought no comfort for her, not a word;He would not ease her pain, but bring her more.The long miles dropped behind; lights rose before,Lights and the seaport and the briny air;And so he sailed for home to comfort Mary there.
Lonely the pampas seemed amid that herd.
The thought of Mary's sorrow pricked him sore;
He brought no comfort for her, not a word;
He would not ease her pain, but bring her more.
The long miles dropped behind; lights rose before,
Lights and the seaport and the briny air;
And so he sailed for home to comfort Mary there.
* * * * *
When Mary knew the worst she only sighed,Looked hard at Lion's face, and sat quite still,White to the lips, but stern and stony-eyed,Beaten by life in all things but the will.Though the blow struck her hard it did not kill.She rallied on herself, a new life bloomedOut of the ashy heart where Michael lay entombed.
When Mary knew the worst she only sighed,
Looked hard at Lion's face, and sat quite still,
White to the lips, but stern and stony-eyed,
Beaten by life in all things but the will.
Though the blow struck her hard it did not kill.
She rallied on herself, a new life bloomed
Out of the ashy heart where Michael lay entombed.
And more than this: for Lion touched a senseThat he, the honest humdrum man, was moreThan he by whom the glory and the offenceCame to her life three bitter years before.This was a treason in her being's core;It smouldered there; meanwhile as two good friendsThey met at autumn dusks and winter daylight-ends.
And more than this: for Lion touched a sense
That he, the honest humdrum man, was more
Than he by whom the glory and the offence
Came to her life three bitter years before.
This was a treason in her being's core;
It smouldered there; meanwhile as two good friends
They met at autumn dusks and winter daylight-ends.
And once, after long twilight talk, he brokeHis strong restraint upon his passion for her,And burningly, most like a man he spoke,Until her pity almost overbore her.It could not be, she said; her pity tore her;But still it could not be, though this was pain.Then on a frosty night they met and spoke again.
And once, after long twilight talk, he broke
His strong restraint upon his passion for her,
And burningly, most like a man he spoke,
Until her pity almost overbore her.
It could not be, she said; her pity tore her;
But still it could not be, though this was pain.
Then on a frosty night they met and spoke again.
And then he wooed again, clutching her hands,Calling the maid his mind, his heart, his soul,Saying that God had linked their lives in bandsWhen the worm Life first started from the goal;That they were linked together, past control,Linked from all time, could she but pity; shePitied him from the soul, but said it could not be.
And then he wooed again, clutching her hands,
Calling the maid his mind, his heart, his soul,
Saying that God had linked their lives in bands
When the worm Life first started from the goal;
That they were linked together, past control,
Linked from all time, could she but pity; she
Pitied him from the soul, but said it could not be.
"Mary," he asked, "you cannot love me? No?""No," she replied; "would God I could, my dear.""God bless you, then," he answered, "I must go,Go over sea to get away from here,I cannot think of work when you are near;My whole life falls to pieces; it must end.This meeting now must be 'good-bye,' beloved friend."
"Mary," he asked, "you cannot love me? No?"
"No," she replied; "would God I could, my dear."
"God bless you, then," he answered, "I must go,
Go over sea to get away from here,
I cannot think of work when you are near;
My whole life falls to pieces; it must end.
This meeting now must be 'good-bye,' beloved friend."
White-lipped she listened, then with failing breath,She asked for yet a little time; her faceWas even as that of one condemned to death.She asked for yet another three months' grace,Asked it, as Lion inly knew, in caseMichael should still return; and "Yes" said he,"I'll wait three months for you, beloved; let it be."
White-lipped she listened, then with failing breath,
She asked for yet a little time; her face
Was even as that of one condemned to death.
She asked for yet another three months' grace,
Asked it, as Lion inly knew, in case
Michael should still return; and "Yes" said he,
"I'll wait three months for you, beloved; let it be."
Slowly the three months dragged: no Michael came.March brought the daffodils and set them shaking.April was quick in Nature like green flame;May came with dog-rose buds, and corncrakes craking,Then dwindled like her blossom; June was breaking."Mary," said Lion, "can you answer now?"White like a ghost she stood, he long remembered how.
Slowly the three months dragged: no Michael came.
March brought the daffodils and set them shaking.
April was quick in Nature like green flame;
May came with dog-rose buds, and corncrakes craking,
Then dwindled like her blossom; June was breaking.
"Mary," said Lion, "can you answer now?"
White like a ghost she stood, he long remembered how.
Wild-eyed and white, and trembling like a leaf,She gave her answer, "Yes"; she gave her lips,Cold as a corpse's to the kiss of grief,Shuddering at him as if his touch were whips.Then her best nature, struggling to eclipseThis shrinking self, made speech; she jested there;They searched each other's eyes, and both souls saw despair.
Wild-eyed and white, and trembling like a leaf,
She gave her answer, "Yes"; she gave her lips,
Cold as a corpse's to the kiss of grief,
Shuddering at him as if his touch were whips.
Then her best nature, struggling to eclipse
This shrinking self, made speech; she jested there;
They searched each other's eyes, and both souls saw despair.
So the first passed, and after that beganA happier time: she could not choose but praiseThat recognition of her in the manStriving to salve her pride in myriad ways;He was a gentle lover: gentle daysPassed like a music after tragic scenes;Her heart gave thanks for that; but still the might-have-beens
So the first passed, and after that began
A happier time: she could not choose but praise
That recognition of her in the man
Striving to salve her pride in myriad ways;
He was a gentle lover: gentle days
Passed like a music after tragic scenes;
Her heart gave thanks for that; but still the might-have-beens
Haunted her inner spirit day and night,And often in his kiss the memory cameOf Michael's face above her, passionate, white,His lips at her lips murmuring her name,Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame,And struggle with her weakness. She had vowedTo give herself to Lion; she was true and proud.
Haunted her inner spirit day and night,
And often in his kiss the memory came
Of Michael's face above her, passionate, white,
His lips at her lips murmuring her name,
Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame,
And struggle with her weakness. She had vowed
To give herself to Lion; she was true and proud.
He should not have a woman sick with ghosts,But one firm-minded to be his; so timePassed one by one the summer's marking posts,The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime.Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime.Men fired the bells till all the valley filledWith bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build.
He should not have a woman sick with ghosts,
But one firm-minded to be his; so time
Passed one by one the summer's marking posts,
The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime.
Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime.
Men fired the bells till all the valley filled
With bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build.
Lion and she were married; home they went,Home to The Roughs as man and wife; the newsWas printed in the paper. Mary sentA copy out to Michael. Now we loseSight of her for a time, and the great dewsFall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fillsOver the barren fields where March brings daffodils.
Lion and she were married; home they went,
Home to The Roughs as man and wife; the news
Was printed in the paper. Mary sent
A copy out to Michael. Now we lose
Sight of her for a time, and the great dews
Fall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fills
Over the barren fields where March brings daffodils.
VI
The rider lingered at the fence a moment,Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low,Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment,Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow.Michael's last news had come so long ago,He wondered who had written now; the handThrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand.
The rider lingered at the fence a moment,
Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low,
Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment,
Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow.
Michael's last news had come so long ago,
He wondered who had written now; the hand
Thrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand.
He opened it with one eye on the hut,Lest she within were watching him, but sheWas combing out her hair, the door was shut,The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see.Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which heHad had embroidered with his name for her;It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender.
He opened it with one eye on the hut,
Lest she within were watching him, but she
Was combing out her hair, the door was shut,
The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see.
Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which he
Had had embroidered with his name for her;
It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender.
Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue,Where he should read; he stood there in the sun,Reading of Mary's wedding till he knewWhat he had cast away, what he had done.He was rejected, Lion was the one.Lion, the godly and the upright, he.The black lines in the paper showed how it could be.
Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue,
Where he should read; he stood there in the sun,
Reading of Mary's wedding till he knew
What he had cast away, what he had done.
He was rejected, Lion was the one.
Lion, the godly and the upright, he.
The black lines in the paper showed how it could be.
He pocketed the love gift and took horse,And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings.Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course,Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings.Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings;An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud;Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood.
He pocketed the love gift and took horse,
And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings.
Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course,
Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings.
Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings;
An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud;
Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood.
And with the bitterness, the outcast feltA passion for those old kind Shropshire places,The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt;High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases,The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces,By Wrekin and by Zine and country town.The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down.
And with the bitterness, the outcast felt
A passion for those old kind Shropshire places,
The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt;
High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases,
The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces,
By Wrekin and by Zine and country town.
The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down.
He could remember Mary now; her cryingNight after night alone through weary years,Had touched him now and set the cords replying;He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears,The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears,The arm stretched out for one not there, the slowLoss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go.
He could remember Mary now; her crying
Night after night alone through weary years,
Had touched him now and set the cords replying;
He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears,
The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears,
The arm stretched out for one not there, the slow
Loss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go.
"Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the fordHe caught a fresh horse and rode on. The nightFound him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board,Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight;Drawing his gun, he shot away the light,And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse,And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse.
"Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the ford
He caught a fresh horse and rode on. The night
Found him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board,
Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight;
Drawing his gun, he shot away the light,
And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse,
And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse.
At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry,And all day long he steamed between great banksWhich smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry.Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks,Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanksWere filled with English ships, and one he foundNeeding another stoker, being homeward bound.
At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry,
And all day long he steamed between great banks
Which smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry.
Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks,
Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanks
Were filled with English ships, and one he found
Needing another stoker, being homeward bound.
And all the time the trouble in his headRan like a whirlwind moving him; he knewSince she was lost that he was better dead.He had no project outlined, what to do,Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew.She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul,Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal.
And all the time the trouble in his head
Ran like a whirlwind moving him; he knew
Since she was lost that he was better dead.
He had no project outlined, what to do,
Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew.
She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul,
Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal.
Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind;Passion takes colour from the nature's core;His misery was as his nature, blind.Life was still turmoil when he went ashore.To see his old love married lay before;To see another have her, drink the gall,Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all.
Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind;
Passion takes colour from the nature's core;
His misery was as his nature, blind.
Life was still turmoil when he went ashore.
To see his old love married lay before;
To see another have her, drink the gall,
Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all.
* * * * *
Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the placeWhither, from over sea, his heart had turnedOften at evening-ends in times of grace.But little outward change his eye discerned;A red rose at her bedroom window burned,Just as before. Even as of old the waspsPoised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps,
Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the place
Whither, from over sea, his heart had turned
Often at evening-ends in times of grace.
But little outward change his eye discerned;
A red rose at her bedroom window burned,
Just as before. Even as of old the wasps
Poised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps,
And the white fantails sidled on the roofJust as before; their pink feet, even as of old,Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof.Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould;The apples on the withered boughs were gold.Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he,"Will go and not return, since she is not for me.
And the white fantails sidled on the roof
Just as before; their pink feet, even as of old,
Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof.
Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould;
The apples on the withered boughs were gold.
Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he,
"Will go and not return, since she is not for me.
"I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thingTo spoil her marriage, and besides, she caresFor that half-priest she married with the ring.Small joy for me in seeing how she wears,Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.That beauty and those ways: she had such ways,There in the daffodils in those old April days."
"I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thing
To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares
For that half-priest she married with the ring.
Small joy for me in seeing how she wears,
Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.
That beauty and those ways: she had such ways,
There in the daffodils in those old April days."
So with an impulse of good will he turned,Leaving that place of daffodils; the roadWas paven sharp with memories which burned;He trod them strongly under as he strode.At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed;Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled softFold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft.
So with an impulse of good will he turned,
Leaving that place of daffodils; the road
Was paven sharp with memories which burned;
He trod them strongly under as he strode.
At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed;
Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled soft
Fold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft.
That was a bitter place to pass, for thereMary and he had often, often stayedTo watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.There was a stile beside the forge; he laidHis elbows on it, leaning, looking downThe river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.
That was a bitter place to pass, for there
Mary and he had often, often stayed
To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.
It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.
There was a stile beside the forge; he laid
His elbows on it, leaning, looking down
The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.
Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,And distant spires arose and distant smoke;The whiteness on the blue went stilly by;Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oakWhere the White Woman walked; the black firs showedAround the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode.
Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,
And distant spires arose and distant smoke;
The whiteness on the blue went stilly by;
Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.
Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oak
Where the White Woman walked; the black firs showed
Around the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode.
A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,So well remembered from of old; he sighed."I will go down and look upon her face,See her again, whatever may betide.Hell is my future; I shall soon have died,But I will take to hell one memory more;She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;
A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,
So well remembered from of old; he sighed.
"I will go down and look upon her face,
See her again, whatever may betide.
Hell is my future; I shall soon have died,
But I will take to hell one memory more;
She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;
"Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.I do not mean to speak; but only see.Even the devil gets a peep at heaven;One peep at her shall come to hell with me;One peep at her, no matter what may be."He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.
"Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.
I do not mean to speak; but only see.
Even the devil gets a peep at heaven;
One peep at her shall come to hell with me;
One peep at her, no matter what may be."
He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.
Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.
* * * * *
A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyondRinged in The Roughs upon the side he neared.Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond;Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.The drooping fir trees let their darkness trailBlack like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail.
A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond
Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared.
Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond;
Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.
He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.
The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail
Black like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail.
The garden with its autumn flowers was there;Few that his wayward memory linked with her.Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender,And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised;The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.
The garden with its autumn flowers was there;
Few that his wayward memory linked with her.
Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,
But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.
Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender,
And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised;
The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.
He could not see her there. Windows were wide,Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed;Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.But still no Mary's presence blessed his look;The house was still as if deserted, hushed.Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.
He could not see her there. Windows were wide,
Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.
Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed;
Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.
But still no Mary's presence blessed his look;
The house was still as if deserted, hushed.
Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.
Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hintOf times long past, of reapers in the corn,Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,When first the berry reddens on the thorn.Memories of her that fragrance brought. ForlornThat vigil of the watching outcast grew;He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.
Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hint
Of times long past, of reapers in the corn,
Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,
When first the berry reddens on the thorn.
Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn
That vigil of the watching outcast grew;
He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.
The windows of the kitchen opened wide.Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke;Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke;Pourri was being made; the listener heardThings lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.
The windows of the kitchen opened wide.
Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke;
Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.
A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.
Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke;
Pourri was being made; the listener heard
Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.
While an old woman made remarks to oneWho was not the beloved: Michael learnedThat Roger's wife at Upton had a son,And that the red geraniums should be turned;A hen was missing, and a rick was burned;Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke;The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.
While an old woman made remarks to one
Who was not the beloved: Michael learned
That Roger's wife at Upton had a son,
And that the red geraniums should be turned;
A hen was missing, and a rick was burned;
Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke;
The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.
Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door;A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well,Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before,Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.He saw the dining-room; he could not tellIf Mary were within: inly he knewThat she was coming now, that she would be in blue,
Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door;
A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well,
Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before,
Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.
He saw the dining-room; he could not tell
If Mary were within: inly he knew
That she was coming now, that she would be in blue,
Blue with a silver locket at the throat,And that she would be there, within there, near,With the little blushes that he knew by rote,And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear,The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,Speaking to her belov'd within the room.The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,
Blue with a silver locket at the throat,
And that she would be there, within there, near,
With the little blushes that he knew by rote,
And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear,
The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,
Speaking to her belov'd within the room.
The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,
Watching intently from below the boughs,While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.Dinner began within with much to say.Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.
Watching intently from below the boughs,
While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,
Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.
His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.
Dinner began within with much to say.
Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.
Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.
Nor could her lover see her from the yew;She was not there at table; she was ill,Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew.Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still."If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion willTake food to her." He watched; the dinner ended.The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.
Nor could her lover see her from the yew;
She was not there at table; she was ill,
Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew.
Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still.
"If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion will
Take food to her." He watched; the dinner ended.
The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.
"Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure,He waited till the Occleves went to field,Then followed, round the house, another lure,Using the well-known privet as his shield.He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.He knew of old which bedroom would be hers;He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.
"Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure,
He waited till the Occleves went to field,
Then followed, round the house, another lure,
Using the well-known privet as his shield.
He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.
He knew of old which bedroom would be hers;
He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.
The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,Its vacant window-eyes; its open door,With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.Nothing had changed; the house was as before,The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide:"I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside.
The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,
Its vacant window-eyes; its open door,
With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,
Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.
Nothing had changed; the house was as before,
The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide:
"I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside.
None could have seen him coming; all was still;He listened in the doorway for a sign.Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrillMoved, till the frames clacked on the picture line."Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,"He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded.Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.
None could have seen him coming; all was still;
He listened in the doorway for a sign.
Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill
Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line.
"Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,"
He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded.
Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.
Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.Another door was at his left; he stayed.Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked,To one who slumbered breathing deep; it madeAn image of Time's going and man's trade.He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.
Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.
Another door was at his left; he stayed.
Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked,
To one who slumbered breathing deep; it made
An image of Time's going and man's trade.
He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,
Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.
He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray,Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.The east room had been closed in Michael's day,Being the best; but now he guessed it hers;The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.
He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.
The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray,
Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.
The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.
The east room had been closed in Michael's day,
Being the best; but now he guessed it hers;
The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.
Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried,Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feetStruck on the flagstones with a hasty stride."He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet."He snatched the nearest door for his retreat,Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close,But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose,
Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried,
Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feet
Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride.
"He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet."
He snatched the nearest door for his retreat,
Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close,
But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose,
Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,Not breathing, only knowing that the roomWas someone's bedroom smelling of old wood,Hung with engravings of the day of doom.The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?A gentle question, tapping at a door,And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor.
Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,
Not breathing, only knowing that the room
Was someone's bedroom smelling of old wood,
Hung with engravings of the day of doom.
The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?
A gentle question, tapping at a door,
And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor.
The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked;Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked,Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.What could the thing be that he sought. At lastHis voice said, "Here it is." The wormed floorCreaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.
The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked;
Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.
Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked,
Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.
What could the thing be that he sought. At last
His voice said, "Here it is." The wormed floor
Creaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.
The footsteps came as though the walker read,Or added rows of figures by the way;There was much hesitation in the tread;Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay;Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway,He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always oneFor order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son."
The footsteps came as though the walker read,
Or added rows of figures by the way;
There was much hesitation in the tread;
Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay;
Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway,
He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always one
For order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son."
The action seemed to break the walker's mood;The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall,Out at the door and off towards the wood."Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all."Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to tryThe door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.
The action seemed to break the walker's mood;
The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall,
Out at the door and off towards the wood.
"Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all."
Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.
Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to try
The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.
It was the eastmost of the rooms which lookOver the fields of daffodils; the boundScanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook,Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound,Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind;The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.
It was the eastmost of the rooms which look
Over the fields of daffodils; the bound
Scanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook,
Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.
Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound,
Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind;
The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.
A woman walked along the hall below,Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died,Listening intently still, he heard them go,Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide;The curtains streamed out like a waterfall;The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.
A woman walked along the hall below,
Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died,
Listening intently still, he heard them go,
Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.
The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide;
The curtains streamed out like a waterfall;
The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.
No one was there; no one; the room was hers.A book of praise lay open on the bed;The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed;He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.
No one was there; no one; the room was hers.
A book of praise lay open on the bed;
The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,
Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.
Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,
Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed;
He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.
He took the love-gift handkerchief again;He laid it on her table, near the glass,So opened that the broidered name was plain;"Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pass.It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this,That she is still my darling: all she was she is.
He took the love-gift handkerchief again;
He laid it on her table, near the glass,
So opened that the broidered name was plain;
"Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pass.
It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.
My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this,
That she is still my darling: all she was she is.
"So she will know at least that she was wrong,That underneath the blindness I was true.Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong;Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew;And now, the evil done, I know my need;
"So she will know at least that she was wrong,
That underneath the blindness I was true.
Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong;
Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.
But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew;
And now, the evil done, I know my need;
Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed."And now, goodbye." He closed the door behind him,Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair,Meaning to go where she would never find him;He would go down through darkness to despair.Out at the door he stept; the autumn airCame fresh upon his face; none saw him go."Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so."
Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed.
"And now, goodbye." He closed the door behind him,
Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair,
Meaning to go where she would never find him;
He would go down through darkness to despair.
Out at the door he stept; the autumn air
Came fresh upon his face; none saw him go.
"Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so."