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diff --git a/41466.txt b/41466.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8b3a981..0000000 --- a/41466.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3082 +0,0 @@ - THE DAFFODIL FIELDS - - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost -no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: The Daffodil Fields -Author: John Masefield -Release Date: November 23, 2012 [EBook #41466] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAFFODIL FIELDS *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - -[Illustration: Cover] - - - - - THE DAFFODIL FIELDS - - - BY - JOHN MASEFIELD - - AUTHOR OF "THE EVERLASTING MERCY," "THE WIDOW IN - THE BYE STREET," "THE STORY OF A - ROUND-HOUSE," ETC. - - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1915 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1918, - BY JOHN MASEFIELD. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1913. - Reprinted July, December, 1913; August, 1915. - - - - Norwood Press - J. S. Cushing Co. -- Berwick & Smith Co. - Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - - THE DAFFODIL FIELDS - - - I - -Between the barren pasture and the wood -There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass, -Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood, -And human fate brought tragic things to pass. -A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass, -It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime, -Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time. - -Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook, -But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring, -Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook -Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing, -On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing -Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires, -Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires. - -Another water joins it; then it turns, -Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west, -Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns, -And many a blackbird's, many a thrush's nest; -The cattle tread it there; then, with a zest -It sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatter -Through Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water. - -Under the road it runs, and now it slips -Past the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn, -To the moss'd stumps of elm trees which it lips, -And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin. -Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin, -Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fills -With the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils. - -There are three fields where daffodils are found; -The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves; -Their nodding beauty shakes along the ground -Up to a fir-clump shutting out the eaves -Of an old farm where always the wind grieves -High in the fir boughs, moaning; people call -This farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid's Hall. - -There, when the first green shoots of tender corn -Show on the plough; when the first drift of white -Stars the black branches of the spiky thorn, -And afternoons are warm and evenings light, -The shivering daffodils do take delight, -Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green, -And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine. - -And there the pickers come, picking for town -Those dancing daffodils; all day they pick; -Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown, -Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick. -At noon they break their meats under the rick. -The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in air -As though man's passionate mind had never suffered there. - -And sometimes as they rest an old man comes, -Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side, -And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums, -And thinks all gone to wreck since master died; -And sighs over a passionate harvest-tide -Which Death's red sickle reaped under those hills, -There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils. - -When this most tragic fate had time and place, -And human hearts and minds to show it by, -Ryemeadows' Farmhouse was in evil case: -Its master, Nicholas Gray, was like to die. -He lay in bed, watching the windy sky, -Where all the rooks were homing on slow wings, -Cawing, or blackly circling in enormous rings. - -With a sick brain he watched them; then he took -Paper and pen, and wrote in straggling hand -(Like spider's legs, so much his fingers shook) -Word to the friends who held the adjoining land, -Bidding them come; no more he could command -His fingers twitching to the feebling blood; -He watched his last day's sun dip down behind the wood, - -While all his life's thoughts surged about his brain: -Memories and pictures clear, and faces known-- -Long dead, perhaps; he was a child again, -Treading a threshold in the dark alone. -Then back the present surged, making him moan. -He asked if Keir had come yet. "No," they said. -"Nor Occleve?" "No." He moaned: "Come soon or I'll be dead." - -The names like live things wandered in his mind: -"Charles Occleve of The Roughs," and "Rowland Keir-- -Keir of the Foxholes"; but his brain was blind, -A blind old alley in the storm of the year, -Baffling the traveller life with "No way here," -For all his lantern raised; life would not tread -Within that brain again, along those pathways red. - -Soon all was dimmed but in the heaven one star. -"I'll hold to that," he said; then footsteps stirred. -Down in the court a voice said, "Here they are," -And one, "He's almost gone." The sick man heard. -"Oh God, be quick," he moaned. "Only one word. -Keir! Occleve! Let them come. Why don't they come? -Why stop to tell them that?--the devil strike you dumb. - -"I'm neither doll nor dead; come in, come in. -Curse you, you women, quick," the sick man flamed. -"I shall be dead before I can begin. -A sick man's womaned-mad, and nursed and damed." -Death had him by the throat; his wrath was tamed. -"Come in," he fumed; "stop muttering at the door." -The friends came in; a creaking ran across the floor. - -"Now, Nick, how goes it, man?" said Occleve. "Oh," -The dying man replied, "I am dying; past; -Mercy of God, I die, I'm going to go. -But I have much to tell you if I last. -Come near me, Occleve, Keir. I am sinking fast, -And all my kin are coming; there, look there. -All the old, long dead Grays are moving in the air. - -"It is my Michael that I called you for: -My son, abroad, at school still, over sea. -See if that hag is listening at the door. -No? Shut the door; don't lock it, let it be. -No faith is kept to dying men like me. -I am dipped deep and dying, bankrupt, done; -I leave not even a farthing to my lovely son. - -"Neighbours, these many years our children played, -Down in the fields together, down the brook; -Your Mary, Keir, the girl, the bonny maid, -And Occleve's Lion, always at his book; -Them and my Michael: dear, what joy they took -Picking the daffodils; such friends they've been-- -My boy and Occleve's boy and Mary Keir for queen. - -"I had made plans; but I am done with, I. -Give me the wine. I have to ask you this: -I can leave Michael nothing, and I die. -By all our friendship used to be and is, -Help him, old friends. Don't let my Michael miss -The schooling I've begun. Give him his chance. -He does not know I am ill; I kept him there in France. - -"Saving expense; each penny counts. Oh, friends, -Help him another year; help him to take -His full diploma when the training ends, -So that my ruin won't be his. Oh, make -This sacrifice for our old friendship's sake, -And God will pay you; for I see God's hand -Pass in most marvellous ways on souls: I understand - -"How just rewards are given for man's deeds -And judgment strikes the soul. The wine there, wine. -Life is the daily thing man never heeds. -It is ablaze with sign and countersign. -Michael will not forget: that son of mine -Is a rare son, my friends; he will go far. -I shall behold his course from where the blessed are." - -"Why, Nick," said Occleve, "come, man. Gather hold. -Rouse up. You've given way. If times are bad, -Times must be bettering, master; so be bold; -Lift up your spirit, Nicholas, and be glad. -Michael's as much to me as my dear lad. -I'll see he takes his school." "And I," said Keir. -"Set you no keep by that, but be at rest, my dear. - -"We'll see your Michael started on the road." -"But there," said Occleve, "Nick's not going to die. -Out of the ruts, good nag, now; zook the load. -Pull up, man. Death! Death and the fiend defy. -We'll bring the farm round for you, Keir and I. -Put heart at rest and get your health." "Ah, no," -The sick man faintly answered, "I have got to go." - -Still troubled in his mind, the sick man tossed. -"Old friends," he said, "I once had hoped to see -Mary and Michael wed, but fates are crossed, -And Michael starts with nothing left by me. -Still, if he loves her, will you let it be? -So in the grave, maybe, when I am gone, -I'll know my hope fulfilled, and see the plan go on." - -"I judge by hearts, not money," answered Keir. -"If Michael suits in that and suits my maid, -I promise you, let Occleve witness here -He shall be free for me to drive his trade. -Free, ay, and welcome, too. Be not afraid, -I'll stand by Michael as I hope some friend -Will stand beside my girl in case my own life end." - -"And I," said Occleve; but the sick man seemed -Still ill at ease. "My friends," he said, "my friends, -Michael may come to all that I have dreamed, -But he's a wild yarn full of broken ends. -So far his life in France has made amends. -God grant he steady so; but girls and drink -Once brought him near to hell, aye, to the very brink. - -"There is a running vein of wildness in him: -Wildness and looseness both, which vices make -That woman's task a hard one who would win him: -His life depends upon the course you take. -He is a fiery-mettled colt to break, -And one to curb, one to be curbed, remember." -The dying voice died down, the fire left the ember. - -But once again it flamed. "Ah me," he cried; -"Our secret sins take body in our sons, -To haunt our age with what we put aside. -I was a devil for the women once. -He is as I was. Beauty like the sun's; -Within, all water; minded like the moon. -Go now. I sinned. I die. I shall be punished soon." - -The two friends tiptoed to the room below. -There, till the woman came to them, they told -Of brave adventures in the long ago, -Ere Nick and they had thought of growing old; -Snipe-shooting in the marshlands in the cold, -Old soldiering days as yeomen, days at fairs, -Days that had sent Nick tired to those self-same chairs. - -They vowed to pay the schooling for his son. -They talked of Michael, testing men's report, -How the young student was a lively one, -Handsome and passionate both, and fond of sport, -Eager for fun, quick-witted in retort. -The girls' hearts quick to see him cocking by, -Young April on a blood horse, with a roving eye. - -And, as they talked about the lad, Keir asked -If Occleve's son had not, at one time, been -Heartsick for Mary, though with passion masked. -"Ay," Occleve said: "Time was. At seventeen. -It took him hard, it ran his ribs all lean, -All of a summer; but it passed, it died. -Her fancying Michael better touched my Lion's pride." - -Mice flickered from the wainscot to the press, -Nibbling at crumbs, rattling to shelter, squeaking. -Each ticking in the clock's womb made life less; -Oil slowly dropped from where the lamp was leaking. -At times the old nurse set the staircase creaking, -Harked to the sleeper's breath, made sure, returned, -Answered the questioning eyes, then wept. The great stars burned. - -"Listen," said Occleve, "listen, Rowland. Hark." -"It's Mary, come with Lion," answered Keir: -"They said they'd come together after dark." -He went to door and called "Come in, my dear." -The burning wood log blazed with sudden cheer, -So that a glowing lighted all the room. -His daughter Mary entered from the outer gloom. - -The wind had brought the blood into her cheek, -Heightening her beauty, but her great grey eyes -Were troubled with a fear she could not speak. -Firm, scarlet lips she had, not made for lies. -Gentle she seemed, pure-natured, thoughtful, wise, -And when she asked what turn the sickness took, -Her voice's passing pureness on a low note shook. - -Young Lion Occleve entered at her side, -A well-built, clever man, unduly grave, -One whose repute already travelled wide -For skill in breeding beasts. His features gave -Promise of brilliant mind, far-seeing, brave, -One who would travel far. His manly grace -Grew wistful when his eyes were turned on Mary's face. - -"Tell me," said Mary, "what did doctor say? -How ill is he? What chance of life has he? -The cowman said he couldn't last the day, -And only yesterday he joked with me." -"We must be meek," the nurse said; "such things be." -"There's little hope," said Keir; "he's dying, sinking." -"Dying without his son," the young girl's heart was thinking. - -"Does Michael know?" she asked. "Has he been called?" -A slow confusion reddened on the faces, -As when one light neglect leaves friends appalled. -"No time to think," said nurse, "in such like cases." -Old Occleve stooped and fumbled with his laces. -"Let be," he said; "there's always time for sorrow. -He could not come in time; he shall be called to-morrow." - -"There is a chance," she cried, "there always is. -Poor Mr. Gray might rally, might live on. -Oh, I must telegraph to tell him this. -Would it were day still and the message gone." -She rose, her breath came fast, her grey eyes shone. -She said, "Come, Lion; see me through the wood. -Michael must know." Keir sighed. "Girl, it will do no good. - -"Our friend is on the brink and almost passed." -"All the more need," she said, "for word to go; -Michael could well arrive before the last. -He'd see his father's face at least. I know -The office may be closed; but even so, -Father, I must. Come, Lion." Out they went, -Into the roaring woodland where the saplings bent. - -Like breakers of the sea the leafless branches -Swished, bowing down, rolling like water, roaring -Like the sea's welcome when the clipper launches -And full affronted tideways call to warring. -Daffodils glimmered underfoot, the flooring -Of the earthy woodland smelt like torn-up moss; -Stones in the path showed white, and rabbits ran across. - -They climbed the rise and struck into the ride, -Talking of death, while Lion, sick at heart, -Thought of the woman walking at his side, -And as he talked his spirit stood apart, -Old passion for her made his being smart, -Rankling within. Her thought for Michael ran -Like glory and like poison through his inner man. - -"This will break Michael's heart," he said at length. -"Poor Michael," she replied; "they wasted hours. -He loved his father so. God give him strength. -This is a cruel thing this life of ours." -The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers, -White wood anemones that the wind blew down. -The valley opened wide beyond the starry town. - -"Ten," clanged out of the belfry. Lion stayed -One hand upon a many-carven bole. -"Mary," he said. "Dear, my beloved maid, -I love you, dear one, from my very soul." -Her beauty in the dusk destroyed control. -"Mary, my dear, I've loved you all these years." -"Oh, Lion, no," she murmured, choking back her tears. - -"I love you," he repeated. "Five years since -This thing began between us: every day -Oh sweet, the thought of you has made me wince; -The thought of you, my sweet, the look, the way. -It's only you, whether I work or pray, -You and the hope of you, sweet you, dear you. -I never spoke before; now it has broken through. - -"Oh, my beloved, can you care for me?" -She shook her head. "Oh, hush, oh, Lion dear, -Don't speak of love, for it can never be -Between us two, never, however near. -Come on, my friend, we must not linger here." -White to the lips she spoke; he saw her face -White in the darkness by him in the windy place. - -"Mary, in time you could, perhaps," he pleaded. -"No," she replied, "no, Lion; never, no." -Over the stars the boughs burst and receded. -The nobleness of Love comes in Love's woe. -"God bless you then, beloved, let us go. -Come on," he said, "and if I gave you pain, -Forget it, dear; be sure I never will again." - -They stepped together down the ride, their feet -Slipped on loose stones. Little was said; his fate, -Staked on a kingly cast, had met defeat. -Nothing remained but to endure and wait. -She was still wonderful, and life still great. -Great in that bitter instant side by side, -Hallowed by thoughts of death there in the blinded ride. - -He heard her breathing by him, saw her face -Dim, looking straight ahead; her feet by his -Kept time beside him, giving life a grace; -Night made the moment full of mysteries. -"You are beautiful," he thought; "and life is this: -Walking a windy night while men are dying, -To cry for one to come, and none to heed our crying." - -"Mary," he said, "are you in love with him, -With Michael? Tell me. We are friends, we three." -They paused to face each other in the dim. -"Tell me," he urged. "Yes, Lion," answered she; -"I love him, but he does not care for me. -I trust your generous mind, dear; now you know, -You, who have been my brother, how our fortunes go. - -"Now come; the message waits." The heavens cleared, -Cleared, and were starry as they trod the ride. -Chequered by tossing boughs the moon appeared; -A whistling reached them from the Hall House side; -Climbing, the whistler came. A brown owl cried. -The whistler paused to answer, sending far -That haunting, hunting note. The echoes laughed Aha! - -Something about the calling made them start. -Again the owl note laughed; the ringing cry -Made the blood quicken within Mary's heart. -Like a dead leaf a brown owl floated by. -"Michael?" said Lion. "Hush." An owl's reply -Came down the wind; they waited; then the man, -Content, resumed his walk, a merry song began. - -"Michael," they cried together. "Michael, you?" -"Who calls?" the singer answered. "Where away? -Is that you, Mary?" Then with glad halloo -The singer ran to meet them on the way. -It was their Michael; in the moonlight grey, -They made warm welcome; under tossing boughs, -They met and told the fate darkening Ryemeadows' House. - -As they returned at speed their comrade spoke -Strangely and lightly of his coming home, -Saying that leaving France had been a joke, -But that events now proved him wise to come. -Down the steep 'scarpment to the house they clomb, -And Michael faltered in his pace; they heard -How dumb rebellion in the much-wronged cattle stirred. - -And as they came, high, from the sick man's room, -Old Gray burst out a-singing of the light -Streaming upon him from the outer gloom, -As his eyes dying gave him mental sight. -"Triumphing swords," he carolled, "in the bright; -Oh fire, Oh beauty fire," and fell back dead. -Occleve took Michael up to kneel beside the bed. - -So the night passed; the noisy wind went down; -The half-burnt moon her starry trackway rode. -Then the first fire was lighted in the town, -And the first carter stacked his early load. -Upon the farm's drawn blinds the morning glowed; -And down the valley, with little clucks and trills, -The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils. - - - II - -They buried Gray; his gear was sold; his farm -Passed to another tenant. Thus men go; -The dropped sword passes to another arm, -And different waters in the river flow. -His two old faithful friends let Michael know -His father's ruin and their promise. Keir -Brought him to stay at Foxholes till a path was clear. - -There, when the sale was over, all three met -To talk about the future, and to find -Upon what project Michael's heart was set. -Gentle the two old men were, thoughtful, kind. -They urged the youth to speak his inmost mind, -For they would compass what he chose; they told -How he might end his training; they would find the gold. - -"Thanks, but I cannot," Michael said. He smiled. -"Cannot. They've kicked me out. I've been expelled; -Kicked out for good and all for being wild. -They stopped our evening leave, and I rebelled. -I am a gentle soul until compelled, -And then I put my ears back. The old fool -Said that my longer presence might inflame the school. - -"And I am glad, for I have had my fill -Of farming by the book with those old fools, -Exhausted talkatives whose blood is still, -Who strive to bind a living man with rules. -This fettered kind of life, these laws, these schools, -These codes, these checks, what are they but the clogs -Made by collected sheep to mortify the dogs? - -"And I have had enough of them; and now -I make an end of them. I want to go -Somewhere where man has never used a plough, -Nor ever read a book; where clean winds blow, -And passionate blood is not its owner's foe, -And land is for the asking for it. There -Man can create a life and have the open air. - -"The River Plate's the country. There, I know, -A man like me can thrive. There, on the range, -The cattle pass like tides; they ebb and flow, -And life is changeless in unending change, -And one can ride all day, and all day strange, -Strange, never trodden, fenceless, waiting there, -To feed unending cattle for the men who dare. - -"There I should have a chance; this land's too old." -Old Occleve grunted at the young man's mood; -Keir, who was losing money, thought him bold, -And thought the scheme for emigration good. -He said that, if he wished to go, he should. -South to the pampas, there to learn the trade. -Old Occleve thought it mad, but no objection made. - -So it was settled that the lad should start, -A place was found for him, a berth was taken; -And Michael's beauty plucked at Mary's heart, -And now the fabric of their lives was shaken: -For now the hour's nearness made love waken -In Michael's heart for Mary. Now Time's guile -Granted her passionate prayer, nor let her see his smile. - -Granted his greatest gifts; a night time came -When the two walking down the water learned -That life till then had only been a name; -Love had unsealed their spirits: they discerned. -Mutely, at moth time there, their spirits yearned. -"I shall be gone three years, dear soul," he said. -"Dear, will you wait for me?" "I will," replied the maid. - -So troth was pledged between them. Keir received -Michael as Mary's suitor, feeling sure -That the lad's fortunes would be soon retrieved, -Having a woman's promise as a lure. -The three years' wait would teach them to endure. -He bade them love and prosper and be glad. -And fast the day drew near that was to take the lad. - -Cowslips had come along the bubbling brook, -Cowslips and oxlips rare, and in the wood -The many-blossomed stalks of bluebells shook; -The outward beauty fed their mental mood. -Thought of the parting stabbed her as he wooed, -Walking the brook with her, and day by day, -The precious fortnight's grace dropped, wasted, slipped away. - -Till only one clear day remained to her: -One whole clear, precious day, before he sailed. -Some forty hours, no more, to minister -To months of bleakness before which she quailed. -Mist rose along the brook; the corncrake railed; -Dim red the sunset burned. He bade her come -Into the wood with him; they went, the night came dumb. - -Still as high June, the very water's noise -Seemed but a breathing of the earth; the flowers -Stood in the dim like souls without a voice. -The wood's conspiracy of occult powers -Drew all about them, and for hours on hours -No murmur shook the oaks, the stars did house -Their lights like lamps upon those never-moving boughs. - -Under their feet the woodland sloped away -Down to the valley, where the farmhouse lights -Were sparks in the expanse the moon made grey. -June's very breast was bare this night of nights. -Moths blundered up against them, greys and whites -Moved on the darkness where the moths were out, -Nosing for sticky sweet with trembling uncurled snout. - -But all this beauty was but music played, -While the high pageant of their hearts prepared. -A spirit thrilled between them, man to maid, -Mind flowed in mind, the inner heart was bared, -They needed not to tell how much each cared; -All the soul's strength was at the other's soul. -Flesh was away awhile, a glory made them whole. - -Nothing was said by them; they understood, -They searched each other's eyes without a sound, -Alone with moonlight in the heart of the wood, -Knowing the stars and all the soul of the ground. -"Mary," he murmured. "Come." His arms went round, -A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed; -The rose at Mary's bosom dropped its petals, crushed. - -No word profaned the peace of that glad giving, -But the warm dimness of the night stood still, -Drawing all beauty to the point of living, -There in the beech-tree's shadow on the hill. -Spirit to spirit murmured; mingling will -Made them one being; Time's decaying thought -Fell from them like a rag; it was the soul they sought. - -The moonlight found an opening in the boughs; -It entered in, it filled that sacred place -With consecration on the throbbing brows; -It came with benediction and with grace. -A whispering came from face to yearning face: -"Beloved, will you wait for me?" "My own." -"I shall be gone three years, you will be left alone; - -"You'll trust and wait for me?" "Yes, yes," she sighed; -She would wait any term of years, all time-- -So faithful to first love these souls abide, -Carrying a man's soul with them as they climb. -Life was all flower to them; the church bells' chime -Rang out the burning hour ere they had sealed -Love's charter there below the June sky's starry field. - -Sweetly the church bells' music reached the wood, -Chiming an old slow tune of some old hymn, -Calling them back to life from where they stood -Under the moonlit beech-tree grey and dim. -"Mary," he murmured; pressing close to him, -Her kiss came on the gift he gave her there, -A silken scarf that bore her name worked in his hair. - -But still the two affixed their hands and seals -To a life compact witnessed by the sky, -Where the great planets drove their glittering wheels, -Bringing conflicting fate, making men die. -They loved, and she would wait, and he would try. -"Oh, beauty of my love," "My lovely man." -So beauty made them noble for their little span. - -Time cannot pause, however dear the wooer; -The moon declined, the sunrise came, the hours, -Left to the lovers, dwindled swiftly fewer, -Even as the seeds from dandelion-flowers -Blow, one by one, until the bare stalk cowers, -And the June grass grows over; even so -Daffodil-picker Time took from their lives the glow, - -Stole their last walk along the three green fields, -Their latest hour together; he took, he stole -The white contentment that a true love yields; -He took the triumph out of Mary's soul. -Now she must lie awake and blow the coal -Of sorrow of heart. The parting hour came; -They kissed their last good-bye, murmuring the other's name. - -Then the flag waved, the engine snorted, then -Slowly the couplings tautened, and the train -Moved, bearing off from her her man of men; -She looked towards its going blind with pain. -Her father turned and drove her home again. -It was a different home. Awhile she tried -To cook the dinner there, but flung her down and cried. - -Then in the dusk she wandered down the brook, -Treading again the trackway trod of old, -When she could hold her loved one in a look. -The night was all unlike those nights of gold. -Michael was gone, and all the April old, -Withered and hidden. Life was full of ills; -She flung her down and cried i' the withered daffodils - - - III - -The steaming river loitered like old blood -On which the tugboat bearing Michael beat, -Past whitened horse bones sticking in the mud. -The reed stems looked like metal in the heat. -Then the banks fell away, and there were neat, -Red herds of sullen cattle drifting slow. -A fish leaped, making rings, making the dead blood flow. - -Wormed hard-wood piles were driv'n in the river bank, -The steamer threshed alongside with sick screws -Churning the mud below her till it stank; -Big gassy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze. -There Michael went ashore; as glad to lose -One not a native there, the Gauchos flung -His broken gear ashore, one waved, a bell was rung. - -The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved, -Making a bloodier bubbling; rattling rope -Fell to the hatch, the engine's tune resolved -Into its steadier beat of rise and slope; -The steamer went her way; and Michael's hope -Died as she lessened; he was there alone. -The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan. - -He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim; -That was another life, lived long before. -His mind was in new worlds which altered him. -The startling present left no room for more. -The sullen river lipped, the sky, the shore -Were vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely. -Sky and low hills of grass and moaning cattle only. - -But for a hut bestrewn with skulls of beeves, -Round which the flies danced, where an Indian girl -Bleared at him from her eyes' ophthalmic eaves, -Grinning a welcome; with a throaty skirl, -She offered him herself; but he, the churl, -Stared till she thought him fool; she turned, she sat, -Scratched in her short, black hair, chewed a cigar-end, spat. - -Up, on the rise, the cattle bunched; the bulls -Drew to the front with menace, pawing bold, -Snatching the grass-roots out with sudden pulls, -The distant cattle raised their heads; the wold -Grew dusty at the top; a waggon rolled, -Drawn by a bickering team of mules whose eyes -Were yellow like their teeth and bared and full of vice. - -Down to the jetty came the jingling team, -An Irish cowboy driving, while a Greek -Beside him urged the mules with blow and scream. -They cheered the Indian girl and stopped to speak. -Then lifting her aloft they kissed her cheek, -Calling to Michael to be quick aboard, -Or they (they said) would fall from virtue, by the Lord. - -So Michael climbed aboard, and all day long -He drove the cattle range, rise after rise, -Dotted with limber shorthorns grazing strong, -Cropping sweet-tasted pasture, switching flies; -Dull trouble brooded in their smoky eyes. -Some horsemen watched them. As the sun went down, -The waggon reached the estancia builded like a town. - -With wide corrales where the horses squealed, -Biting and lashing out; some half-wild hounds -Gnawed at the cowbones littered on the field, -Or made the stallions stretch their picket bounds. -Some hides were drying; horsemen came from rounds, -Unsaddled stiff, and turned their mounts to feed, -And then brewed bitter drink and sucked it through a reed. - -The Irishman removed his pipe and spoke: -"You take a fool's advice," he said. "Return. -Go back where you belong before you're broke; -You'll spoil more clothes at this job than you'll earn; -It's living death, and when you die you'll burn: -Body and soul it takes you. Quit it. No? -Don't say I never told you, then. Amigos. Ho. - -"Here comes a Gringo; make him pay his shot. -Pay up your footing, Michael; rum's the word, -It suits my genius, and I need a lot." -So the great cauldron full was mixed and stirred. -And all night long the startled cattle heard -Shouting and shooting, and the moon beheld -Mobs of dim, struggling men, who fired guns and yelled - -That they were Abel Brown just come to town, -Michael among them. By a bonfire some -Betted on red and black for money down, -Snatching their clinking winnings, eager, dumb. -Some danced unclad, rubbing their heads with rum. -The grey dawn, bringing beauty to the skies, -Saw Michael stretched among them, far too drunk to rise. - -His footing paid, he joined the living-shed, -Lined with rude bunks and set with trestles: there -He, like the other ranchers, slept and fed, -Save when the staff encamped in open air, -Rounding the herd for branding. Rude and bare -That barrack was; men littered it about -With saddles, blankets blue, old headstalls, many a clout - -Torn off to wipe a knife or clean a gun, -Tin dishes, sailors' hookpots, all the mess -Made where the outdoor work is never done -And every cleaning makes the sleeping less. -Men came from work too tired to undress, -And slept all standing like the trooper's horse; -Then with the sun they rose to ride the burning course, - -Whacking the shipment cattle into pen, -Where, in the dust, among the stink of burning, -The half-mad heifers bolted from the men, -And tossing horns arose and hoofs were churning, -A lover there had little time for yearning; -But all day long, cursing the flies and heat, -Michael was handling steers on horseback till his feet - -Gave on dismounting. All day long he rode, -Then, when the darkness came, his mates and he -Entered dog-tired to the rude abode -And ate their meat and sucked their bitter tea, -And rolled themselves in rugs and slept. The sea -Could not make men more drowsy; like the dead, -They lay under the lamp while the mosquitoes fed. - -There was no time to think of Mary, none; -For when the work relaxed, the time for thought -Was broken up by men demanding fun: -Cards, or a well-kept ring while someone fought, -Or songs and dancing; or a case was bought -Of white Brazilian rum, and songs and cheers -And shots and oaths rang loud upon the twitching ears - -Of the hobbled horses hopping to their feed. -So violent images displaced the rose -In Michael's spirit; soon he took the lead; -None was more apt than he for games or blows. -Even as the battle-seeking bantam crows, -So crowed the cockerel of his mind to feel -Life's bonds removed and blood quick in him toe to heel. - -But sometimes when her letters came to him, -Full of wise tenderness and maiden mind, -He felt that he had let his clearness dim; -The riot with the cowboys seemed unkind -To that far faithful heart; he could not find -Peace in the thought of her; he found no spur -To instant upright action in his love for her. - -She faded to the memory of a kiss, -There in the rough life among foreign faces; -Love cannot live where leisure never is; -He could not write to her from savage places, -Where drunken mates were betting on the aces, -And rum went round and smutty songs were lifted. -He would not raise her banner against that; he drifted, - -Ceasing, in time, to write, ceasing to think, -But happy in the wild life to the bone; -The riding in vast space, the songs, the drink, -Some careless heart beside him like his own, -The racing and the fights, the ease unknown -In older, soberer lands; his young blood thrilled. -The pampas seemed his own, his cup of joy was filled. - -And one day, riding far after strayed horses, -He rode beyond the ranges to a land -Broken and made most green by watercourses, -Which served as strayline to the neighbouring brand. -A house stood near the brook; he stayed his hand, -Seeing a woman there, whose great eyes burned, -So that he could not choose but follow when she turned. - -After that day he often rode to see -That woman at the peach farm near the brook, -And passionate love between them came to be -Ere many days. Their fill of love they took; -And even as the blank leaves of a book -The days went over Mary, day by day, -Blank as the last, was turned, endured, passed, turned away. - -Spring came again greening the hawthorn buds; -The shaking flowers, new-blossomed, seemed the same, -And April put her riot in young bloods; -The jays flapped in the larch clump like blue flame. -She did not care; his letter never came. -Silent she went, nursing the grief that kills, -And Lion watched her pass among the daffodils. - - - IV - -Time passed, but still no letter came; she ceased, -Almost, to hope, but never to expect. -The June moon came which had beheld love's feast, -Then waned, like it; the meadow-grass was flecked -With moon-daisies, which died; little she recked -Of change in outward things, she did not change; -Her heart still knew one star, one hope, it did not range, - -Like to the watery hearts of tidal men, -Swayed by all moons of beauty; she was firm, -When most convinced of misery firmest then. -She held a light not subject to the worm. -The pageant of the summer ran its term, -The last stack came to staddle from the wain; -The snow fell, the snow thawed, the year began again. - -With the wet glistening gold of celandines, -And snowdrops pushing from the withered grass, -Before the bud upon the hawthorn greens, -Or blackbirds go to building; but, alas! -No spring within her bosom came to pass. -"You're going like a ghost," her father said; -"Now put him out of mind, and be my prudent maid." - -It was an April morning brisk with wind, -She wandered out along the brook sick-hearted, -Picking the daffodils where the water dinned, -While overhead the first-come swallow darted. -There, at the place where all the passion started, -Where love first knocked about her maiden heart, -Young Lion Occleve hailed her, calling her apart - -To see his tulips at The Roughs, and take -A spray of flowering currant; so she went. -It is a bitter moment, when hearts ache, -To see the loved unhappy; his intent -Was but to try to comfort her; he meant -To show her that he knew her heart's despair, -And that his own heart bled to see her wretched there. - -So, as they talked, he asked her, had she heard -From Michael lately? No, she had not; she -Had been a great while now, without a word. -"No news is always good news," answered he. -"You know," he said, "how much you mean to me; -You've always been the queen. Oh, if I could -Do anything to help, my dear, you know I would." - -"Nothing," she said, much touched. "But you believe-- -You still believe in him?" "Why, yes," he said. -Lie though it was he did not dare deceive -The all too cruel faith within the maid. -"That ranching is a wild and lonely trade, -Far from all posts; it may be hard to send; -All puzzling things like this prove simple in the end. - -"We should have heard if he were ill or dead. -Keep a good heart. Now come"; he led the way -Beyond the barton to the calving-shed, -Where, on a strawy litter topped with hay, -A double-pedigree prize bull-calf lay. -"Near three weeks old," he said, "the Wrekin's pet; -Come up, now, son, come up; you haven't seen him yet. - -"We have done well," he added, "with the stock, -But this one, if he lives, will make a name." -The bull-calf gambolled with his tail acock, -Then shyly nosed towards them, scared but tame; -His troublous eyes were sulky with blue flame. -Softly he tip-toed, shying at a touch; -He nosed, his breath came sweet, his pale tongue curled to clutch. - -They rubbed his head, and Mary went her way, -Counting the dreary time, the dreary beat -Of dreary minutes dragging through the day; -Time crawled across her life with leaden feet; -There still remained a year before her sweet -Would come to claim her; surely he would come; -Meanwhile there was the year, her weakening father, home. - -Home with its deadly round, with all its setting, -Things, rooms, and fields and flowers to sting, to burn -With memories of the love time past forgetting -Ere absence made her very being yearn. -"My love, be quick," she moaned, "return, return; -Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul, -It's bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll, - -Putting a sadness where the beauty was, -Taking a lustre from the hair; the days -Saw each a sadder image in the glass. -And when December came, fouling the ways, -And ashless beech-logs made a Christmas blaze, -Some talk of Michael came; a rumour ran, -Someone had called him "wild" to some returning mail, - -Who, travelling through that cattle-range, had heard -Nothing more sure than this; but this he told -At second-hand upon a cowboy's word. -It struck on Mary's heart and turned her cold. -That winter was an age which made her old. -"But soon," she thought, "soon the third year will end; -March, April, May, and June, then I shall see my friend. - -"He promised he would come; he will not fail. -Oh, Michael, my beloved man, come soon; -Stay not to make a home for me, but sail. -Love and the hour will put the world in tune. -You in my life for always is the boon -I ask from life--we two, together, lovers." -So leaden time went by who eats things and discovers. - -Then, in the winds of March, her father rode, -Hunting the Welland country on Black Ned; -The tenor cry gave tongue past Clencher's Lode, -And on he galloped, giving the nag his head; -Then, at the brook, he fell, was picked up dead. -Hounds were whipped off; men muttered with one breath, -"We knew that hard-mouthed brute would some day be his death." - -They bore his body on a hurdle home; -Then came the burial, then the sadder day -When the peaked lawyer entered like a gnome, -With word to quit and lists of debts to pay. -There was a sale; the Foxholes passed away -To strangers, who discussed the points of cows, -Where love had put such glory on the lovers' brows. - -Kind Lion Occleve helped the maid's affairs. -Her sorrow brought him much beside her; he -Caused her to settle, having stilled her cares, -In the long cottage under Spital Gree. -He had no hope that she would love him; she -Still waited for her lover, but her eyes -Thanked Lion to the soul; he made the look suffice. - -By this the yearling bull-calf had so grown -That all men talked of him; mighty he grew, -Huge-shouldered, scaled above a hundred stone, -With deep chest many-wrinkled with great thew, -Plain-loined and playful-eyed; the Occleves knew -That he surpassed his pasture; breeders came -From far to see this bull; he brought the Occleves fame. - -Till a meat-breeding rancher on the plains -Where Michael wasted, sent to buy the beast, -Meaning to cross his cows with heavier strains -Until his yield of meat and bone increased. -He paid a mighty price; the yearling ceased -To be the wonder of the countryside. -He sailed in Lion's charge, south, to the Plate's red tide. - -There Lion landed with the bull, and there -The great beast raised his head and bellowed loud, -Challenging that expanse and that new air; -Trembling, but full of wrath and thunder-browed, -Far from the daffodil fields and friends, but proud, -His wild eye kindled at the great expanse. -Two scraps of Shropshire life they stood there; their advance - -Was slow along the well-grassed cattle land, -But at the last an end was made; the brute -Ate his last bread crust from his master's hand, -And snuffed the foreign herd and stamped his foot; -Steers on the swelling ranges gave salute. -The great bull bellowed back and Lion turned; -His task was now to find where Michael lived; he learned - -The farm's direction, and with heavy mind, -Thinking of Mary and her sorrow, rode, -Leaving the offspring of his fields behind. -A last time in his ears the great bull lowed. -Then, shaking up his horse, the young man glowed -To see the unfenced pampas opening out -Grass that makes old earth sing and all the valleys shout. - -At sunset on the second day he came -To that white cabin in the peach-tree plot -Where Michael lived; they met, the Shropshire name -Rang trebly dear in that outlandish spot. -Old memories swam up dear, old joys forgot, -Old friends were real again; but Mary's woe -Came into Lion's mind, and Michael vexed him so, - -Talking with careless freshness, side by side -With that dark Spanish beauty who had won, -As though no heart-broke woman, heavy-eyed, -Mourned for him over sea, as though the sun -Shone but to light his steps to love and fun, -While she, that golden and beloved soul, -Worth ten of him, lay wasting like an unlit coal. - -So supper passed; the meat in Lion's gorge -Stuck at the last, he could not bide that face. -The idle laughter on it plied the forge -Where hate was smithying tools; the jokes, the place, -Wrought him to wrath; he could not stay for grace. -The tin mug full of red wine spilled and fell. -He kicked his stool aside with "Michael, this is hell. - -"Come out into the night and talk to me." -The young man lit a cigarette and followed; -The stars seemed trembling at a brink to see; -A little ghostly white-owl stooped and holloed. -Beside the stake-fence Lion stopped and swallowed, -While all the wrath within him made him grey. -Michael stood still and smoked, and flicked his ash away. - -"Well, Lion," Michael said, "men make mistakes, -And then regret them; and an early flame -Is frequently the worst mistake man makes. -I did not seek this passion, but it came. -Love happens so in life. Well? Who's to blame? -You'll say I've broken Mary's heart; the heart -Is not the whole of life, but an inferior part, - -"Useful for some few years and then a curse. -Nerves should be stronger. You have come to say -The three-year term is up; so much the worse. -I cannot meet the bill; I cannot pay. -I would not if I could. Men change. To-day -I know that that first choice, however sweet, -Was wrong and a mistake; it would have meant defeat, - -"Ruin and misery to us both. Let be. -You say I should have told her this? Perhaps. -You try to make a loving woman see -That the warm link which holds you to her snaps. -Neglect is deadlier than the thunder-claps. -Yet she is bright and I am water. Well, -I did not make myself; this life is often hell. - -"Judge if you must, but understand it first. -We are old friends, and townsmen, Shropshire born, -Under the Wrekin. You believe the worst. -You have no knowledge how the heart is torn, -Trying for duty up against the thorn. -Now say I've broken Mary's heart: begin. -Break hers, or hers and mine, which were the greater sin?" - -"Michael," said Lion, "I have heard you. Now -Listen to me. Three years ago you made -With a most noble soul a certain vow. -Now you reject it, saying that you played. -She did not think so, Michael, she has stayed, -Eating her heart out for a line, a word, -News that you were not dead; news that she never heard. - -"Not once, after the first. She has held firm -To what you counted pastime; she has wept -Life, day by weary day throughout the term, -While her heart sickened, and the clock-hand crept. -While you, you with your woman here, have kept -Holiday, feasting; you are fat; you smile. -You have had love and laughter all the ghastly while. - -"I shall be back in England six weeks hence, -Standing with your poor Mary face to face; -Far from a pleasant moment, but intense. -I shall be asked to tell her of this place. -And she will eye me hard and hope for grace, -Some little crumb of comfort while I tell; -And every word will burn like a red spark from hell, - -"That you have done with her, that you are living -Here with another woman; that you care -Nought for the pain you've given and are giving; -That all your lover's vows were empty air. -This I must tell: thus I shall burn her bare, -Burn out all hope, all comfort, every crumb, -End it, and watch her whiten, hopeless, tearless, dumb. - -"Or do I judge you wrongly?" He was still. -The cigarette-end glowed and dimmed with ash; -A preying night bird whimpered on the hill. -Michael said "Ah!" and fingered with his sash, -Then stilled. The night was still; there came no flash -Of sudden passion bursting. All was still; -A lonely water gurgled like a whip-poor-will. - -"Now I must go," said Lion; "where's the horse?" -"There," said his friend; "I'll set you on your way." -They caught and rode, both silent, while remorse -Worked in each heart, though neither would betray -What he was feeling, and the moon came grey, -Then burned into an opal white and great, -Silvering the downs of grass where these two travelled late, - -Thinking of English fields which that moon saw, -Fields full of quiet beauty lying hushed -At midnight in the moment full of awe, -When the red fox comes creeping, dewy-brushed. -But neither spoke; they rode; the horses rushed, -Scattering the great clods skywards with such thrills -As colts in April feel there in the daffodils. - - - V - -The river brimming full was silvered over -By moonlight at the ford; the river bank -Smelt of bruised clote buds and of yellow clover. -Nosing the gleaming dark the horses drank, -Drooping and dripping as the reins fell lank; -The men drooped too; the stars in heaven drooped; -Rank after hurrying rank the silver water trooped - -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 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." - -"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 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 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, - -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 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. - -"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 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 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, - -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. - -* * * * * - -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 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 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 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." - -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. - -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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. - -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 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 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 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 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. - -* * * * * - -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 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 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 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 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 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; - -"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 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. - -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 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 heard -Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred. - -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 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, - -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 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. - -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 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 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. - -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 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 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 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 try -The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply. - -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. - -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 air -Came fresh upon his face; none saw him go. -"Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so." - -Soon he was on the high road, out of sight -Of valley and farm; soon he could see no more -The oast-house pointing finger take the light -As tumbling pigeons glittered over; nor -Could he behold the wind-vane gilded o'er, -Swinging above the church; the road swung round. -"Now, the last look," he cried: he saw that holy ground. - -"Goodbye," he cried; he could behold it all, -Spread out as in a picture; but so clear -That the gold apple stood out from the wall; -Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer. -Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near, -As in a vision, lay that holy ground. -"Mary is there," he moaned, "and I am outward bound. - -"I never saw this place so beautiful, -Never like this. I never saw it glow. -Spirit is on this place; it fills it full. -So let the die be cast; I will not go. -But I will see her face to face and know -From her own lips what thoughts she has of me; -And if disaster come: right; let disaster be." - -Back, by another way, he turned. The sun -Fired the yew-tops in the Roman woods. -Lights in the valley twinkled one by one, -The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes. -Dusk fingered into one earth's many moods, -Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook; -A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook. - -He had to cross the brook, to cross a field, -Where daffodils were thick when years were young. -Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed. -Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung; -Then while the passion trembled on his tongue, -Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to see -A figure standing mute; a woman--it was she. - -She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there. -She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemed -Planned from all time by powers in the air -To change their human fates; he even deemed -That in another life this thing had gleamed, -This meeting by the bridge. He said, "It's you." -"Yes, I," she said, "who else? You must have known; you knew - -"That I should come here to the brook to see, -After your message." "You were out," he said. -"Gone, and I did not know where you could be. -Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?" -"Old Mrs. Gale is dying, and I stayed -Longer than usual, while I read the Word. -You could have hardly gone." She paused, her bosom stirred. - -"Mary, I sinned," he said. "Not that, dear, no," -She said; "but, oh, you were unkind, unkind, -Never to write a word and leave me so, -But out of sight with you is out of mind." -"Mary, I sinned," he said, "and I was blind. -Oh, my beloved, are you Lion's wife?" -"Belov'd sounds strange," she answered, "in my present life. - -"But it is sweet to hear it, all the same. -It is a language little heard by me -Alone, in that man's keeping, with my shame. -I never thought such miseries could be. -I was so happy in you, Michael. He -Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you. -Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you." - -"That is untrue," he said. "I am in hell. -You are my heart's beloved, Mary, you. -By God, I know your beauty now too well. -We are each other's, flesh and soul, we two." -"That was sweet knowledge once," she said; "we knew -That truth of old. Now, in a strange man's bed, -I read it in my soul, and find it written red." - -"Is he a brute?" he asked. "No," she replied. -"I did not understand what it would mean. -And now that you are back, would I had died; -Died, and the misery of it not have been. -Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean. -I was a proud one once, and now I'm tame; -Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame." - -She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heard -Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul, -Love running hot on many a murmured word, -Love's passionate giving into new control. -Their present misery did but blow the coal, -Did but entangle deeper their two wills, -While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils. - - - VII - -Upon a light gust came a waft of bells, -Ringing the chimes for nine; a broken sweet, -Like waters bubbling out of hidden wells, -Dully upon those lovers' ears it beat, -Their time was at an end. Her tottering feet -Trod the dim field for home; he sought an inn. -"Oh, I have sinned," she cried, "but not a secret sin." - -Inside The Roughs they waited for her coming; -Eyeing the ticking clock the household sat. -"Nine," the clock struck; the clock-weights ran down drumming; -Old Mother Occleve stretched her sewing flat. -"It's nine," she said. Old Occleve stroked the cat. -"Ah, cat," he said, "hast had good go at mouse?" -Lion sat listening tense to all within the house - -"Mary is late to-night," the gammer said. -"The times have changed," her merry husband roared. -"Young married couples now like lonely trade, -Don't think of bed at all, they think of board. -No multiplying left in people. Lord! -When I was Lion's age I'd had my five. -There was some go in folk when us two took to wive." - -Lion arose and stalked and bit his lip. -"Or was it six?" the old man muttered, "six. -Us had so many I've alost the tip. -Us were two right good souls at getting chicks. -Two births of twins, then Johnny's birth, then Dick's" ... -"Now give a young man time," the mother cried. -Mary came swiftly in and flung the room door wide. - -Lion was by the window when she came, -Old Occleve and his wife were by the fire; -Big shadows leapt the ceiling from the flame. -She fronted the three figures and came nigher. -"Lion," she whispered, "I return my hire." -She dropped her marriage-ring upon the table. -Then, in a louder voice, "I bore what I was able, - -"And Time and marriage might have worn me down, -Perhaps, to be a good wife and a blest, -With little children clinging to my gown, -And little blind mouths fumbling for my breast, -And this place would have been a place of rest -For you and me; we could have come to know -The depth; but that is over; I have got to go. - -"He has come back, and I have got to go. -Our marriage ends." She stood there white and breathed. -Old Occleve got upon his feet with "So." -Blazing with wrath upon the hearth he seethed. -A log fell from the bars; blue spirals wreathed -Across the still old woman's startled face; -The cat arose and yawned. Lion was still a space. - -Old Occleve turned to Lion. Lion moved -Nearer to Mary, picking up the ring. -His was grim physic from the soul beloved; -His face was white and twitching with the sting. -"You are my wife, you cannot do this thing," -He said at last. "I can respect your pride. -This thing affects your soul; my judgment must decide. - -"You are unsettled, shaken from the shock." -"Not so," she said. She stretched a hand to him, -White, large and noble, steady as a rock, -Cunning with many powers, curving, slim. -The smoke, drawn by the door-draught, made it dim. -"Right," Lion answered. "You are steady. Then -There is but one world, Mary; this, the world of men. - -"And there's another world, without its bounds, -Peopled by streaked and spotted souls who prize -The flashiness that comes from marshy grounds -Above plain daylight. In their blinkered eyes -Nothing is bright but sentimental lies, -Such as are offered you, dear, here and now; -Lies which betray the strongest, God alone knows how. - -"You, in your beauty and your whiteness, turn -Your strong, white mind, your faith, your fearless truth, -All for these rotten fires that so burn. -A sentimental clutch at perished youth. -I am too sick for wisdom, sick with ruth, -And this comes suddenly; the unripe man -Misses the hour, oh God. But you, what is your plan? - -"What do you mean to do, how act, how live? -What warrant have you for your life? What trust? -You are for going sailing in a sieve. -This brightness is too mortal not to rust. -So our beginning marriage ends in dust. -I have not failed you, Mary. Let me know -What you intend to do, and whither you will go." - -"Go from this place; it chokes me," she replied. -"This place has branded me; I must regain -My truth that I have soiled, my faith, my pride, -It is all poison and it leaves a stain. -I cannot stay nor be your wife again. -Never. You did your best, though; you were kind. -I have grown old to-night and left all that behind. - -"Goodbye." She turned. Old Occleve faced his son. -Wrath at the woman's impudence was blent, -Upon his face, with wrath that such an one -Should stand unthrashed until her words were spent. -He stayed for Lion's wrath; but Mary went -Unchecked; he did not stir. Her footsteps ground -The gravel to the gate; the gate-hinge made a sound - -Like to a cry of pain after a shot. -Swinging, it clicked, it clicked again, it swung -Until the iron latch bar hit the slot. -Mary had gone, and Lion held his tongue. -Old Mother Occleve sobbed; her white head hung -Over her sewing while the tears ran down -Her worn, blood-threaded cheeks and splashed upon her gown. - -"Yes, it is true," said Lion, "she must go. -Michael is back. Michael was always first, -I did but take his place. You did not know. -Now it has happened, and you know the worst. -So passion makes the passionate soul accurst -And crucifies his darling. Michael comes -And the savage truth appears and rips my life to thrums." - -Upon Old Occleve's face the fury changed -First to contempt, and then to terror lest -Lion, beneath the shock, should be deranged. -But Lion's eyes were steady, though distressed. -"Father, good-night," he said, "I'm going to rest. -Good-night, I cannot talk. Mother, good-night." -He kissed her brow and went; they heard him strike a light, - -And go with slow depressed step up the stairs, -Up to the door of her deserted bower; -They heard him up above them, moving chairs; -The memory of his paleness made them cower. -They did not know their son; they had no power -To help, they only saw the new-won bride -Defy their child, and faith and custom put aside. - -* * * * * - -After a time men learned where Mary was: -Over the hills, not many miles away, -Renting a cottage and a patch of grass -Where Michael came to see her. Every day -Taught her what fevers can inhabit clay, -Shaking this body that so soon must die. -The time made Lion old: the winter dwindled by. - -Till the long misery had to end or kill: -And "I must go to see her," Lion cried; -"I am her standby, and she needs me still; -If not to love she needs me to decide. -Dear, I will set you free. Oh, my bright bride, -Lost in such piteous ways, come back." He rode -Over the wintry hills to Mary's new abode. - -And as he topped the pass between the hills, -Towards him, up the swerving road, there came -Michael, the happy cause of all his ills; -Walking as though repentance were the shame, -Sucking a grass, unbuttoned, still the same, -Humming a tune; his careless beauty wild -Drawing the women's eyes; he wandered with a child. - -Who heard, wide-eyed, the scraps of tales which fell -Between the fragments of the tune; they seemed -A cherub bringing up a soul from hell. -Meeting unlike the meeting long since dreamed. -Lion dismounted; the great valley gleamed -With waters far below; his teeth were set -His heart thumped at his throat; he stopped; the two men met. - -The child well knew that fatal issues joined; -He stood round-eyed to watch them, even as Fate -Stood with his pennypiece of causes coined -Ready to throw for issue; the bright hate -Throbbed, that the heavy reckoning need not wait. -Lion stepped forward, watching Michael's eyes. -"We are old friends," he said. "Now, Michael, you be wise, - -"And let the harm already done suffice; -Go, before Mary's name is wholly gone. -Spare her the misery of desertion twice, -There's only ruin in the road you're on-- -Ruin for both, whatever promise shone -In sentimental shrinkings from the fact. -So, Michael, play the man, and do the generous act. - -"And go; if not for my sake, go for hers. -You only want her with your sentiment. -You are water roughed by every wind that stirs, -One little gust will alter your intent -All ways, to every wind, and nothing meant, -Is your life's habit. Man, one takes a wife, -Not for a three months' fancy, but the whole of life. - -"We have been friends, and so I speak you fair. -How will you bear her ill, or cross, or tired? -Sentiment sighing will not help you there. -You call a half life's volume not desired. -I know your love for her. I saw it mired, -Mired, past going, by your first sharp taste -Of life and work; it stopped; you let her whole life waste, - -"Rather than have the trouble of such love, -You will again; but if you do it now, -It will mean death, not sorrow. But enough. -You know too well you cannot keep a vow. -There are gray hairs already on her brow. -You brought them there. Death is the next step. Go, -Before you take the step." "No," Michael answered, "No. - -"As for my past, I was a dog, a cur, -And I have paid blood-money, and still pay. -But all my being is ablaze with her; -There is no talk of giving up to-day. -I will not give her up. You used to say -Bodies are earth. I heard you say it. Liar! -You never loved her, you. She turns the earth to fire." - -"Michael," said Lion, "you have said such things -Of other women; less than six miles hence -You and another woman felt love's wings -Rosy and fair, and so took leave of sense. -She's dead, that other woman, dead, with pence -Pressed on her big brown eyes, under the ground; -She that was merry once, feeling the world go round. - -"Her child (and yours) is with her sister now, -Out there, behind us, living as they can; -Pinched by the poverty that you allow. -All a long autumn many rumours ran -About Sue Jones that was: you were the man. -The lad is like you. Think about his mother, -Before you turn the earth to fire with another." - -"That is enough," said Michael, "you shall know -Soon, to your marrow, what my answer is; -Know to your lying heart; now kindly go. -The neighbours smell that something is amiss. -We two will keep a dignity in this, -Such as we can. No quarrelling with me here. -Mary might see; now go; but recollect, my dear, - -"That if you twit me with your wife, you lie; -And that your further insult waits a day -When God permits that Mary is not by; -I keep the record of it, and shall pay. -And as for Mary; listen: we betray -No one. We keep our troth-plight as we meant. -Now go, the neighbours gather." Lion bowed and went. - -Home to his memories for a month of pain, -Each moment like a devil with a tongue, -Urging him, "Set her free," or "Try again," -Or "Kill that man and stamp him into dung." -"See her," he cried. He took his horse and swung -Out on the road to her; the rain was falling; -Her dropping house-eaves splashed him when he knocked there, calling. - -Drowned yellow jasmine dripped; his horse's flanks -Steamed, and dark runnels on his yellow hair -Streaked the groomed surface into blotchy ranks. -The noise of water dropping filled the air. -He knocked again; but there was no one there; -No one within, the door was locked, no smoke -Came from the chimney stacks, no clock ticked, no one spoke. - -Only the water dripped and dribble-dripped, -And gurgled through the rain-pipe to the butt; -Drops, trickling down the windows paused or slipped; -A wet twig scraked as though the glass were cut. -The blinds were all drawn down, the windows shut. -No one was there. Across the road a shawl -Showed at a door a space; a woman gave a call. - -"They're gone away," she cried. "They're gone away. -Been gone a matter of a week." Where to? -The woman thought to Wales, but could not say, -Nor if she planned returning; no one knew. -She looked at Lion sharply; then she drew -The half-door to its place and passed within, -Saying she hoped the rain would stop and spring begin. - -Lion rode home. A month went by, and now -Winter was gone; the myriad shoots of green -Bent to the wind, like hair, upon the plough, -And up from withered leaves came celandine. -And sunlight came, though still the air was keen, -So that the first March market was most fair, -And Lion rode to market, having business there. - -And in the afternoon, when all was done, -While Lion waited idly near the inn, -Watching the pigeons sidling in the sun, -As Jim the ostler put his gelding in, -He heard a noise of rioting begin -Outside the yard, with catcalls; there were shouts -Of "Occleve. Lion Occleve," from a pack of louts, - -Who hung about the courtyard-arch, and cried, -"Yah, Occleve, of The Roughs, the married man, -Occleve, who had the bed and not the bride." -At first without the arch; but some began -To sidle in, still calling; children ran -To watch the baiting; they were farmer's leavings -Who shouted thus, men cast for drunkenness and thievings. - -Lion knew most of them of old; he paid -No heed to them, but turned his back and talked -To Jim, of through-pin in his master's jade, -And how no horse-wounds should be stuped or caulked. -The rabble in the archway, not yet baulked, -Came crowding nearer, and the boys began, -"Who was it took your mistress, master married man?" - -"Who was it, master, took your wife away?" -"I wouldn't let another man take mine." -"She had two husbands on her wedding day." -"See at a blush: he blushed as red as wine." -"She'd ought a had a cart-whip laid on fine." -The farmers in the courtyard watched the baiting, -Grinning, the barmaids grinned above the window grating. - -Then through the mob of brawlers Michael stepped -Straight to where Lion stood. "I come," he said, -"To give you back some words which I have kept -Safe in my heart till I could see them paid. -You lied about Sue Jones; she died a maid -As far as I'm concerned, and there's your lie, -Full in your throat, and there, and there, and in your eye. - -"And there's for stealing Mary" ... as he struck, -He slipped upon a piece of peel and dropped -Souse in a puddle of the courtyard muck; -Loud laughter followed when he rose up sopped. -Friends rushed to intervene, the fight was stopped. -The two were hurried out by different ways. -Men said, "'Tis stopped for now, but not for many days." - -* * * * * - -April appeared, the green earth's impulse came, -Pushing the singing sap until each bud -Trembled with delicate life as soft as flame, -Filled by the mighty heart-beat as with blood; -Death was at ebb, and Life in brimming flood. -But little joy in life could Lion see, -Striving to gird his will to set his loved one free, - -While in his heart a hope still struggled dim -That the mad hour would pass, the darkness break, -The fever die, and she return to him, -The routed nightmare let the sleeper wake. -"Then we could go abroad," he cried, "and make -A new life, soul to soul; oh, love! return." -"Too late," his heart replied. At last he rode to learn. - -Bowed, but alive with hope, he topped the pass, -And saw, below, her cottage by the way, -White, in a garden green with springing grass, -And smoke against the blue sky going gray. -"God make us all the happier for to-day," -He muttered humbly; then, below, he spied, -Mary and Michael entering, walking side by side. - -Arm within arm, like lovers, like dear lovers -Matched by the happy stars and newly wed, -Over whose lives a rosy presence hovers. -Lion dismounted, seeing hope was dead. -A child was by the road, he stroked his head, -And "Little one," he said, "who lives below -There, in the cottage there, where those two people go?" - -"They do," the child said, pointing: "Mrs. Gray -Lives in the cottage there, and he does, too. -They've been back near a week since being away." -It was but seal to what he inly knew. -He thanked the child and rode. The Spring was blue, -Bluer than ever, and the birds were glad; -Such rapture in the hedges all the blackbirds had. - -He was not dancing to that pipe of the Spring. -He reached The Roughs, and there, within her room, -Bowed for a time above her wedding ring, -Which had so chained him to unhappy doom; -All his dead marriage haunted in the gloom -Of that deserted chamber; all her things -Lay still as she had left them when her love took wings. - -He kept a bitter vigil through the night, -Knowing his loss, his ten years' passion wasted, -His life all blasted, even at its height, -His cup of life's fulfilment hardly tasted. -Gray on the budding woods the morning hasted, -And looking out he saw the dawn come chill -Over the shaking acre pale with daffodil. - -Birds were beginning in the meadows; soon -The blackbirds and the thrushes with their singing -Piped down the withered husk that was the moon, -And up the sky the ruddy sun came winging. -Cows plodded past, yokes clanked, the men were bringing -Milk from the barton. Someone shouted "Hup, -Dog, drive them dangy red ones down away on up." - -Some heavy hours went by before he rose. -He went out of the house into the grass, -Down which the wind flowed much as water flows; -The daffodils bowed down to let it pass. -At the brook's edge a boggy bit there was, -Right at the field's north corner, near the bridge, -Fenced by a ridge of earth; he sat upon the ridge, - -Watching the water running to the sea, -Watching the bridge, the stile, the path beyond, -Where the white violet's sweetness brought the bee. -He paid the price of being overfond. -The water babbled always from the pond -Over the pretty shallows, chattering, tinkling, -With trembles from the sunlight in its clearness wrinkling. - -So gazing, like one stunned, it reached his mind, -That the hedge-brambles overhung the brook -More than was right, making the selvage blind; -The dragging brambles too much flotsam took. -Dully he thought to mend. He fetched a hook, -And standing in the shallow stream he slashed, -For hours, it seemed; the thorns, the twigs, the dead leaves splashed, - -Splashed and were bobbed away across the shallows; -Pale grasses with the sap gone from them fell, -Sank, or were carried down beyond the sallows. -The bruised ground-ivy gave out earthy smell. -"I must be dead," he thought, "and this is hell." -Fiercely he slashed, till, glancing at the stile, -He saw that Michael stood there, watching, with a smile, - -His old contemptuous smile of careless ease, -As though the world with all its myriad pain -Sufficed, but only just sufficed, to please. -Michael was there, the robber come again. -A tumult ran like flame in Lion's brain; -Then, looking down, he saw the flowers shake: -Gold, trembling daffodils; he turned, he plucked a stake - -Out of the hedge that he had come to mend, -And flung his hook to Michael, crying, "Take; -We two will settle our accounts, my friend, -Once and for ever. May the Lord God make -You see your sins in time." He whirled his stake -And struck at Michael's head; again he struck; -While Michael dodged and laughed, "Why, man, I bring you luck. - -"Don't kill a bringer of good news. You fool, -Stop it and listen. I have come to say: -Lion, for God's sake, listen and be cool. -You silly hothead, put that stake away. -Listen, I tell you." But he could not stay -The anger flaming in that passionate soul. -Blows rained upon him thick; they stung; he lost control. - -Till, "If you want to fight," he cried, "let be. -Let me get off the bridge and we will fight. -That firm bit by the quag will do for me. -So. Be on guard, and God defend the right. -You foaming madman, with your hell's delight, -Smashing a man with stakes before he speaks: -On guard. I'll make you humbler for the next few weeks." - -The ground was level there; the daffodils -Glimmered and danced beneath their cautious feet, -Quartering for openings for the blow that kills. -Beyond the bubbling brook a thrush was sweet. -Quickly the footsteps slid; with feint and cheat, -The weapons poised and darted and withdrew. -"Now stop it," Michael said, "I want to talk to you." - -"We do not stop till one of us is dead,", -Said Lion, rushing in. A short blow fell -Dizzily, through all guard, on Michael's head. -His hedging-hook slashed blindly but too well: -It struck in Lion's side. Then, for a spell, -Both, sorely stricken, staggered, while their eyes -Dimmed under mists of blood; they fell, they tried to rise,-- - -Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay, -Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky, -Touched with a redness from the end of day. -There was all April in the blackbird's cry. -And lying there they felt they had to die, -Die and go under mould and feel no more -April's green fire of life go running in earth's core. - -"There was no need to hit me," Michael said; -"You quiet thinking fellows lose control. -This fighting business is a foolish trade. -And now we join the grave-worm and the mole. -I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul; -You always were hot-headed. Well, let be: -You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me. - -"I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit, -And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad. -It would be different if you'd stopped a bit. -You are too blind when you are angry, lad. -Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad, -Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his look -Grew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook. - -And as he watched it, Lion raised his head; -Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil. -"Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead. -You're nearer to the water. Could you fill -Your hat and give me drink? Or would it spill? -Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try-- -I may as well die trying, since I have to die." - -Slowly he forced his body's failing life -Down to the water; there he stooped and filled; -And as his back turned Lion drew his knife, -And hid it close, while all his being thrilled -To see, as Michael came, the water spilled, -Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright. -"Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night." - -He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank. -Lion lay still a moment, gathering power, -Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank. -Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower, -He raised himself above the bloodied flower -And struck with all his force in Michael's side. -"You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried. - -"No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meant -To tell you; but I cannot now; I die. -That hit me to the heart and I am spent. -Mary and I have parted; she and I -Agreed she must return, lad. That is why -I came to see you. She is coming here, -Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear, - -"You come to tread a bloody path of flowers. -All the gold flowers are covered up with blood, -And the bright bugles blow along the towers; -The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood." -His spilled life trickled down upon the mud -Between weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried, -"This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died. - -Lion lay still while the cold tides of death -Came brimming up his channels. With one hand -He groped to know if Michael still drew breath. -His little hour was running out its sand. -Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand -Above. He cried aloud, "He was my brother. -I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other. - -"Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me. -We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds, -Help my unhappy spirit to the sea. -The golden bowl is scattered into sherds." -And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words -To that poor body on the dabbled flowers: -"Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours-- - -"Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me, -Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here. -Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See, -It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear. -Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear; -And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead. -My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head. - -"We had such fun together, such sweet fun, -My love and I, my merry love and I. -Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun. -Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye." -Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die. -Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear. -Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear. - -"Better than he; not better, dear, as well. -If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last. -We have made bloody doorways from our hell, -Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past, -We are but pitiful poor souls; and fast -The darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet; -I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet - -"Though they go wandering side by side through Time. -Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow: -"Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime." -"Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough, -Caught fast for death; but never mind that now; -Go home and tell my people. I am dying, -Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying, - -And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field. -"They have been killed," she called, in a great crying. -"Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed. -The blood is scattered on the flowers drying." -It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying; -They hooted as the Occleves ran to bring -That sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting. - -They laid the bodies on the bed together. -And "You were beautiful," she said, "and you -Were my own darling in the April weather. -You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew. -Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true. -Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring; -My love is dead, and I must deck his burying." - -They left her with her dead; they could not choose -But grant the spirit burning in her face -Rights that their pity urged them to refuse. -They did her sorrow and the dead a grace. -All night they heard her passing footsteps trace -Down to the garden from the room of death. -They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath, - -To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers, -Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread, -But at the dawn her singing gathered powers -Like to the dying swan who lifts his head -On Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red, -Singing the glory in his tumbling mind, -Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind. - -So triumphing her song of love began, -Ringing across the meadows like old woe -Sweetened by poets to the help of man -Unconquered in eternal overthrow; -Like a great trumpet from the long ago -Her singing towered; all the valley heard. -Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred. - -And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door, -And burst it, fearing; there the singer lay -Drooped at her lover's bedside on the floor, -Singing her passionate last of life away. -White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn spray -Over her loosened hair. Pale flowers of spring -Filled the white room of death; they covered everything. - -Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers. -She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast. -"Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours. -You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best. -Beloved, my beloved, let me rest -By you forever, little Michael mine. -Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine - -"Broken and spilt; and now the homing birds -Draw to a covert, Michael; I to you. -Bury us two together," came her words. -The dropping petals fell about the two. -Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drew -Her gentle head aside; they found it pressed -Against the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast, - -The one that bore her name in Michael's hair, -Given so long before. They let her lie, -While the dim moon died out upon the air, -And happy sunlight coloured all the sky. -The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by; -Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byre -The yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire. - -In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled, -But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring, -Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled, -On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing; -Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing; -It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayed -In a great space of reeds where merry otters played. - -Slowly it loitered past the shivering reeds -Into a mightier water; thence its course -Becomes a pasture where the salmon feeds, -Wherein no bubble tells its humble source; -But the great waves go rolling, and the horse -Snorts at the bursting waves and will not drink, -And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink, - -Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line, -Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates, -Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine, -And all the ocean opens. Then the mates -Cry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits, -But sing triumphant and the topsail fills -To this old tale of woe among the daffodils. - - - - - Printed In the United States of America. - - - - - - - The following pages contain advertisements of - Macmillan poems by the same author. - - - - JOHN MASEFIELD'S - - The Everlasting Mercy, and The Widow in Bye Street - - _Decorated boards, $1.25. Postpaid, $1.38_ - - -"The Everlasting Mercy" was awarded the Edward de Polignac prize of $500 -by the Royal Society of Literature for the best imaginative work of the -year. - - -"John Masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow too, in -poetry and in the playwriting craft."--JOHN GALSWORTHY. - -"--recreates a wholly new drama of existence."--WILLIAM STANLEY -BRAITHWAITE, _N. Y. Times_. - -"Mr. Masefield comes like a flash of light across contemporary English -poetry, and he trails glory where his imagination reveals the substances -of life. The improbable has been accomplished by Mr. Masefield; he has -made poetry out of the very material that has refused to yield it for -almost a score of years. It has only yielded it with a passion of -Keats, and shaped it with the imagination of Coleridge."--_Boston -Evening Transcript_. - -"Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human -heart."--_Chicago Record-Herald_. - -"They are truly great pieces."--Kentucky Post. - -"A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature."--_The -Independent_. - -"If Mr. Masefield has occasionally appeared to touch a reminiscent chord -with George Meredith, it is merely an example of his good taste and the -sameness of big themes."--GEORGE MIDDLETON in _La Foliette's Magazine_. - - - - JOHN MASEFIELD'S - - The Story of a Round-House, and other Poems - -"John Masefield has produced the finest literature of the year."--J. W. -BARRIE. - -"John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the -day."--_The Continent_. - -"Ah! the story of that rounding the Horn! Never in prose has the sea -been so tremendously described."--_Chicago Evening Post_. - -"Masefield's new book attracts the widest attention from those who in -any degree are interested in the quality of present-day -literature."--_Boston Transcript_. - -"A remarkable poem of the sea."--_San Francisco Chronicle_. - -"Vivid and thrillingly realistic."--_Current Literature_. - -"A genuine sailor and a genuine poet are a rare combination; they have -produced a rare poem of the sea, which has made Mr. Masefield's position -in literature secure beyond the reach of caviling."--_Everybody's -Magazine_. - -"Masefield has prisoned in verse the spirit of life at sea."--_N. Y. -Sun_. - -"There is strength about everything Masefield writes that compels the -feeling that he has an inward eye on which he draws to shape new films -of old pictures. In these pictures is freshness combined with power, -which form the keynotes of his poetry."--_N. Y. Globe_. - - - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - - Publishers -- 64-66 Fifth Avenue -- New York - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAFFODIL FIELDS *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41466 - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the -General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and -distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) electronic works to protect the -Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and trademark. 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