CONTENTS

The Stone
The Wife
The Machine
The Lodestar
The Shop
Flannan Isle
The Brothers
The Blind Rower
The Flute

Thanks are due to the editors of THE ENGLISH REVIEW, THE POETRY REVIEW and THE SPECTATOR for leave to reprint some of these tales.

FIRES

THE STONE

"And will you cut a stone for him,

To set above his head?

And will you cut a stone for him--

A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock

Had struck her lover dead--

Had struck him in the quarry dead,

Where, careless of the warning call,

He loitered, while the shot was fired--

A lively stripling, brave and tall,

And sure of all his heart desired...

A flash, a shock,

A rumbling fall...

And, broken 'neath the broken rock,

A lifeless heap, with face of clay,

And still as any stone he lay,

With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her:

And I could hear my own heart beat

With dread of what my lips might say

But, some poor fool had sped before;

And, flinging wide her father's door,

Had blurted out the news to her,

Had struck her lover dead for her,

Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,

Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,

And dropped it at her feet:

Then hurried on his witless way,

Scarce knowing she had heard.

And when I came, she stood, alone

A woman, turned to stone:

And, though no word at all she said,

I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead,

She did not sigh nor moan,

His mother wept:

She could not weep.

Her lover slept:

She could not sleep.

Three days, three nights,

She did not stir:

Three days, three nights,

Were one to her,

Who never closed her eyes

From sunset to sunrise,

From dawn to evenfall:

Her tearless, staring eyes,

That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work,

I found her at my door.

"And will you cut a stone for him?"

She said: and spoke no more:

But followed me, as I went in,

And sank upon a chair;

And fixed her grey eyes on my face,

With still, unseeing stare.

And, as she waited patiently,

I could not bear to feel

Those still, grey eyes that followed me,

Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,

Those eyes that sucked the breath from me

And curdled the warm blood in me,

Those eyes that cut me to the bone,

And pierced my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose, and sought a stone;

And cut it, smooth and square:

And, as I worked, she sat and watched,

Beside me, in her chair.

Night after night, by candlelight,

I cut her lover's name:

Night after night, so still and white,

And like a ghost she came;

And sat beside me, in her chair;

And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke;

And hardly stirred:

She never spoke

A single word:

And not a sound or murmur broke

The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands,

With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,

My wincing, overwearied hands,

She watched, with bloodless lips apart,

And silent, indrawn breath:

And every stroke my chisel cut,

Death cut still deeper in her heart:

The two of us were chiselling,

Together, I and death.

And when at length the job was done,

And I had laid the mallet by,

As if, at last, her peace were won,

She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,

Passed slowly through the open door:

And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone,

To cut her name upon the stone.

THE WIFE

That night, she dreamt that he had died,

As they were sleeping, side by side:

And she awakened in affright,

To think of him, so cold and white:

And, when she turned her eyes to him,

The tears of dream had made them dim;

And, for a while, she could not see

That he was sleeping quietly.

But, as she saw him lying there,

The moonlight on his curly hair,

With happy face and even breath,

Although she thought no more of death;

And it was very good to rest

Her trembling hand on his calm breast,

And feel the warm and breathing life;

And know that she was still his wife;

Yet, in his bosom's easy stir,

She felt a something trouble her;

And wept again, she knew not why;

And thought it would be good to die--

To sink into the deep, sweet rest,

Her hand upon his quiet breast.

She slept: and when she woke again,

A bird was at the window-pane,

A wild-eyed bird, with wings of white

That fluttered in the cold moonlight,

As though for very fear of night;

And flapped the pane, as if afraid:

Yet, not a sound the white wings made.

Her eyes met those beseeching eyes;

And then she felt she needs must rise,

To let the poor, wild creature in

To find the rest it sought to win.

She rose; and set the casement wide;

And caught the murmur of the tide;

And saw, afar, the mounded graves

About the church beside the waves:

The huddled headstones gleaming white

And ghostly in the cold moonlight.

The bird flew straightway to the bed;

And hovered o'er the husband's head,

And circled thrice above his head,

Three times above his dreaming head:

And, as she watched it, flying round

She wondered that it made no sound;

And, while she wondered, it was gone:

And cold and white, the moonlight shone

Upon her husband, sleeping there;

And turned to silver his gold hair;

And paled like death his ruddy face.

Then, creeping back into her place,

She lay beside him in the bed:

But, if she closed her eyes, with dread

She saw that wild bird's eyes that burned

Through her shut eyelids, though she turned

Her blessings over in her heart,

That peace might come: and with a start,

If she but drowsed, or dreamt of rest,

She felt that wild beak in her breast.

So, wearying for the time to rise,

She watched, till dawn was in the skies.

Her husband woke: but not a word

She told him of the strange, white bird:

But, as at breakfast-time, she took

The pan of porridge from the crook;

And all was ready to begin;

A neighbour gossip hurried in;

And told the news, that Phoebe Wright

Had died in childbirth in the night.

The husband neither spoke, nor stirred,

But sat as one who, having heard,

May never hearken to a word

From any living lips again;

And, heedless of the tongues of men,

Hears, in a silence, dread and deep,

The dead folk talking in their sleep.

His porridge stood till it was cold:

And as he sat, his face grew old;

And all his yellow hair turned white,

As it had looked to her last night,

When it was drenched with cold moonlight.

And she knew all: yet never said

A word to him about the dead;

Or pestered him to take his meat:

But, sitting silent in her seat,

She left him quiet with his heart

To thoughts in which she had no part;

Until he rose to go about

His daily work; and staggered out.

And all that day, her eyes were dim

That she had borne no child to him.

Days passed: and then, one evening late,

As she came by the churchyard-gate,

She saw him, near the new-made grave:

And, with a lifted head and brave,

She hurried home, lest he should know

That she had looked upon his woe.

And when they sat beside the fire,

Although it seemed he could not tire

Of gazing on the glowing coal,

And though a fire was in her soul;

She sat beside him with a smile,

Lest he should look on her, the while,

And wonder what could make her sad

When all the world but him was glad.

But, not a word to her he said:

And silently they went to bed.

She never closed her eyes that night:

And she was stirring, ere the light;

And while her husband lay at rest,

She left his side, and quickly dressed;

And stole downstairs, as though in fear

That he should chance to wake, and hear.

And still the stars were burning bright,

As she passed out into the night;

And all the dewy air was sweet

With flowers that grew about her feet,

Where he, for her, when they were wed,

Had digged and sown a wallflower-bed:

And on the rich, deep, mellow scent

A gust of memories came and went,

As, dreaming of those old glad hours,

She stooped to pluck a bunch of flowers,

To lay upon the flowerless grave

That held his heart beside the wave.

Though, like a troop of ghosts in white,

The headstones watched in cold starlight,

As, by the dead girl's grave she knelt,

No fear in her full heart she felt:

But hurried home, when she had laid

Her offering on the turf, afraid

That he should wake, and find her gone:

And still the stars in heaven shone,

When into bed again she crept,

And lay beside him, while he slept

And when day came, upon his hair,

The warm light fell: and young and fair,

He looked again to her kind eyes

That watched him till 'twas time to rise.

And, every day, as he went by

The churchyard-gate with downcast eye,

He saw fresh blooms upon the grave

That held his heart beside the wave:

And, wondering, he was glad to find

That any living soul was kind

To that dead girl who died the death

Of shame for his sake: and the breath

Of those fresh flowers to him was sweet,

As he trudged home with laggard feet,

Still wondering who could be her friend.

He never knew, until the end,

When, in the churchyard by the wave,

He stood beside another grave:

And, as the priest's last words were said,

He turned, and lifting up his head,

He saw the bunch of flowers was dead

Upon the dead girl's grave; and felt

The truth shoot through his heart, and melt

The frost of icy bitterness,

And flood his heart with warm distress:

And, kneeling by his dead wife's grave,

To her, at last, her hour he gave.

That night, she dreamt he, too, had died,

And they were sleeping, side by side.

THE MACHINE

Since Thursday he'd been working overtime,

With only three short hours for food and sleep,

When no sleep came, because of the dull beat

Of his fagged brain; and he could scarcely eat.

And now, on Saturday, when he was free,

And all his fellows hurried home to tea,

He was so dazed that he could hardly keep

His hands from going through the pantomime

Of keeping-even sheets in his machine--

The sleek machine that, day and night,

Fed with paper, virgin white,

Through those glaring, flaring hours

In the incandescent light,

Printed children's picture-books--

Red and yellow, blue and green,

With sunny fields and running brooks,

Ships at sea, and golden sands,

Queer white towns in Eastern lands,

Tossing palms on coral strands--

Until at times the clank and whirr and click,

And shimmer of white paper turned him sick;

And though at first the colours made him glad,

They soon were dancing in his brain like mad;

And kept on flaring through his burning head:

Now, in a flash, the workshop, flaming red;

Now blazing green; now staring blue;

And then the yellow glow too well he knew:

Until the sleek machine, with roar and glare,

Began to take him in a dazzling snare;

When, fascinated, with a senseless stare,

It drew him slowly towards it, till his hair

Was caught betwixt the rollers; but his hand,

Almost before his brain could understand,

Had clutched the lever; and the wheels were stopped

Just in the nick of time; though now he dropped,

Half-senseless on the littered workshop floor:

And he'd lain dazed a minute there or more,

When his machine-girl helped him to a seat.

But soon again he was upon his feet,

And tending that unsatisfied machine;

And printing pictures, red and blue and green,

Until again the green and blue and red

Went jigging in a riot through his head;

And, wildest of the raging rout,

The blinding, screeching, racking yellow--

A crazy devil of a fellow--

O'er all the others seemed to shout.

For hands must not be idle when the year

Is getting through, and Christmas drawing near,

With piles on piles of picture-books to print

For people who spend money without stint:

And, while they're paying down their liberal gold,

Guess little what is bought, and what is sold.

But he, at last, was free till Monday, free

To sleep, to eat, to dream, to sulk, to walk,

To laugh, to sing, to whistle, or to talk ...

If only, through his brain, unceasingly,

The wheels would not keep whirring, while the smell--

The oily smell of thick and sticky glaze

Clung to his nostrils, till 'twas hard to tell

If he were really out in the fresh air;

And still before his eyes, the blind, white glare,

And then the colours dancing in his head,

A maddening maze of yellow, blue and red.

So, on he wandered in a kind of daze,

Too racked with sleeplessness to think of bed

Save as a hell, where you must toss and toss,

With colours shooting in insane criss-cross

Before wide, prickling, gritty, sleepless eyes.

But, as he walked along the darkening street,

Too tired to rest, and far too spent to eat,

The swish and patter of the passing feet,

The living, human murmur, and keen cries,

The deep, cool shadows of the coming night,

About quick-kindling jets of clustered light;

And the fresh breathing of the rain-washed air,

Brought something of sweet healing to his mind;

And, though he trailed along as if half-blind,

Yet often on the pavement he would stop

To gaze at goods displayed within a shop;

And wonder, in a dull and lifeless way,

What they had cost, and who'd the price to pay.

But those two kinds of shop which, as a boy,

Had been to him a never-failing joy,

The bookshop and the fruitshop, he passed by,

As if their colours seared his wincing eye;

For still he feared the yellow, blue and red

Would start that devils' dancing in his head.

And soon, through throngs of people, almost gay

To be let loose from work, he pushed his way;

And ripples of their careless laughter stole

Like waves of cooling waters through his soul,

While sometimes he would lift his aching eyes,

And see a child's face, flushed with proud surprise,

As, gripping both its parents' hands quite tight,

It found itself in fairylands of light,

Walking with grown-up people through the night:

Then, turning, with a shudder he would see

Poor painted faces, leering frightfully,

And so drop back from heaven again to hell.

And then, somehow, though how he scarce could tell,

He found that he was walking through the throng,

Quite happy, with a young girl at his side--

A young girl apple-cheeked and eager-eyed;

And her frank, friendly chatter seemed a song

To him, who ne'er till now had heard life sing.

And youth within him kindled quick and strong,

As he drank in that careless chattering.

And now she told to him how she had come

From some far Northern Isle to earn her bread;

And in a stuffy office all day long,

In shiny ledgers, with a splitting head,

She added dazzling figures till they danced,

And tied themselves in wriggling knots, and pranced,

And scrambled helter-skelter o'er the page:

And, though it seemed already quite an age

Since she had left her home, from end to end

Of this big town she had not any friend:

At times she almost dreaded she'd go dumb,

With not a soul to speak to; for, at home

In her own Island, she knew everyone...

No strangers there! save when the tinkers came,

With pots and pans aglinting in the sun--

You saw the tin far off, like glancing flame,

As all about the Island they would roam....

Then, of themselves at home, there were six brothers,

Five sisters, with herself, besides the others--

Two homeless babes, whom, having lost their mothers,

Her mother'd taken in among her own...

And she in all her life had hardly known

Her mother with no baby at her breast...

She'd always sing to hush them all to sleep;

And sang, too, for the dancing, sang to keep

The feet in time and tune; and still sang best,

Clean best of all the singers of the Isle.

And as she talked of home, he saw her smile,

With happy, far-off gaze; and then as though

In wonder how she'd come to chatter so

To this pale, grave-eyed boy, she paused, half shy;

And then she laughed, with laughter clear and true;

And looked into his eyes; and he laughed too,

And they were happy, hardly knowing why.

And now he told her of his life, and how

He too had been nigh friendless, until now.

And soon he talked to her about his work;

But, when he spoke of it, as with a jerk,

The light dropped from his eyes. He seemed to slip

Once more in the machine's relentless grip;

And hear again the clank and whirr and click;

And see the dancing colours and the glare;

Until his dizzy brain again turned sick:

And seeing him look round with vacant air,

Fierce pity cut her to the very quick;

And as her eyes with keen distress were filled,

She touched his hand; and soon her kind touch stilled

The agony: and so, to bring him ease,

She told more of that Isle in Northern seas,

Where she was born, and of the folks at home:

And how, all night, you heard the wash of foam...

Sometimes, on stormy nights, against the pane

The sousing spray would rattle just like rain;

And oft the high-tides scoured the threshold clean...

And, as she talked, he saw the sea-light glint

In her dark eyes: and then the sleek machine

Lost hold on him at last; and ceased to print:

And in his eyes there sprang a kindred light,

As, hand in hand, they wandered through the night.

THE LODESTAR

From hag to hag, o'er miles of quaking moss,

Benighted, in an unknown countryside,

Among gaunt hills, the stars my only guide;

Bewildered by peat-waters, black and deep,

Wherein the mocking stars swam; spent for sleep;

O'er-wearied by long trudging; at a loss

Which way to turn for shelter from the night;

I struggled on, until, my head grown light

From utter weariness, I almost sank

To rest among the tussocks, soft and dank,

Drowsing, half-dazed, and murmuring: it were best

To stray no further: but, to lie at rest,

Beneath the cold, white stars, for evermore:

When, suddenly, I came across

A runnel oozing from the moss;

And knew that, if I followed where it led,

'Twould bring me to a valley, in the end,

Where there'd be houses, and, perhaps, a bed.

And so, the little runnel was my friend;

And as I walked beside its path, at first

It kept a friendly silence; then it burst

Into a friendly singing, as it rambled,

Among big boulders, down a craggy steep,

'Mid bracken, nigh breast-deep,

Through which I scrambled,

Half-blind and numb for sleep,

Until it seemed that I could strive no more:

When, startled by a startled sheep,

Looking down, I saw a track--

A stony trackway, dimly white,

Disappearing in the night,

Across a waste of heather, burnt and black.

And so, I took it, mumbling o'er and o'er,

In witlessness of weariness,

And featherheaded foolishness:

A track must lead, at sometime, to a door.

And, trudging to this senseless tune,

That kept on drumming in my head,

I followed where the pathway led;

But, all too soon,

It left the ling, and nigh was lost

Among the bent that glimmered grey

About my sore-bewildered way:

But when, at length, it crossed

A brawling burn, I saw, afar,

A cottage window light--

A star, but no cold, heavenly star--

A warm red star of welcome in the night.

Far off, it burned upon the black hillside,

Sole star of earth in all that waste so wide:

A little human lantern in the night,

Yet, more to me than all the bright

Unfriendly stars of heaven, so cold and white.

And, as it dimly shone,

Though towards it I could only go

With stumbling step and slow,

It quickened in my heart a kindred glow;

And seemed to draw me on

That last rough mile or so,

Now seen, now hidden, when the track

Dipped down into a slack,

And all the earth again was black:

And from the unseen fern,

Grey ghost of all bewildered things,

An owl brushed by me on unrustling wings,

And gave me quite a turn,

And sent a shiver through my hair.

Then, again, more fair

Flashed the friendly light,

Beckoning through the night,

A golden, glowing square,

Growing big and clearer,

As I drew slowly nearer,

With eager, stumbling feet;

And snuffed the homely reek of peat:

And saw, above me, lone and high,

A cottage, dark against the sky--

A candle shining on the window-sill.

With thankful heart, I climbed the hill;

And stood, at last, before

The dark and unknown door,

Wondering if food and shelter lay behind,

And what the welcome I should find,

Whether kindly, or unkind:

But I had scarcely knocked, to learn my fate,

When the latch lifted, and the door swung wide

On creaking hinges; and I saw, inside,

A frail old woman, very worn and white,

Her body all atremble in the light,

Who gazed with strange, still eyes into the night,

As though she did not see me, but looked straight

Beyond me, to some unforgotten past:

And I was startled when she said at last,

With strange, still voice: "You're welcome, though you're late."

And then, an old man, nodding in a chair,

Beside the fire, awoke with sleepy stare;

And rose in haste; and led her to a seat,

Beside the cosy hearth of glowing peat;

And muttered to me, as he took her hand:

"It's queer, it's queer, that she, to-night, should stand,

Who has not stood alone for fifteen year.

Though I heard nothing, she was quick to hear.

I must have dozed; but she has been awake,

And listening for your footstep since daybreak:

For she was certain you would come to-day;

Aye, she was sure, for all that I could say:

Talk as I might, she would not go to bed,

Till you should come. Your supper has been spread

This long while: you'll be ready for your meat."

With that he beckoned me to take a seat

Before the table, lifting from the crook

The singing kettle; while, with far-off look,

As though she neither saw nor heard,

His wife sat gazing at the glowing peat.

So, wondering sorely, I sat down to eat;

And yet she neither spoke, nor stirred;

But in her high-backed chair sat bolt-upright,

With still grey eyes; and tumbled hair, as white

As fairy-cotton, straggling o'er her brow,

And hung in wisps about her wasted cheek.

But, when I'd finished, and drew near the fire,

She suddenly turned round to speak,

Her old eyes kindling with a tense desire.

Her words came tremblingly: "You'll tell me now

What news you bring of him, my son?" Amazed,

I met that searching and love-famished look:

And then the old man, seeing I was dazed,

Made shift to swing aside the kettle crook;

And muttered in my ear:

"John Netherton, his name:" and as I gazed

Into the peat that broke in clear blue flame,

Remembrance flashed upon me with the name;

And I slipped back in memory twenty year--

Back to the fo'c'sle of a villainous boat;

And once again in that hot hell I lay,

Watching the smoky lantern duck and sway,

As though in steamy stench it kept afloat...

The fiery fangs of fever at my throat;

And my poor broken arm, ill-set,

A bar of white-hot iron at my side:

And, as I lay, with staring eyes pricked wide,

Throughout eternities of agony,

I saw a big, black shadow stoop o'er me;

And felt a cool hand touch my brow, and wet

My cracking lips: and sank in healing sleep:

And when I rose from that unfathomed deep,

I saw the youngest of that rascal crew

Beside my bunk; and heard his name; and knew

'Twas he who'd brought me ease: but, soon, ashore,

We parted; and I never saw him more;

Though, some while after, in another place,

I heard he'd perished in a drunken brawl...

And now the old man touched me, to recall

My wandering thoughts; and breathed again the name

And I looked up into the mother's face

That burned before me with grey eyes aflame.

And so I told her how I'd met her son;

And of the kindly things that he had done.

And as I spoke her quivering spirit drank

The news that it had thirsted for so long;

And for a flashing moment gay and strong

Life flamed in her old eyes, then slowly sank.

"And he was happy when you saw him last?"

She asked: and I was glad to answer, "Yes."

Then all sat dreaming without stir or sound,

As gradually she sank into the past,

With eyes that looked beyond all happiness,

Beyond all earthly trouble and distress,

Into some other world than ours. The thread

That long had held the straining life earthbound

Was loosed at last: her eyes grew dark: her head

Drooped slowly on her breast; and she was dead.

The old man at her side spoke not a word,

As we arose, and bore her to the bed;

And laid her on the clean, white quilt at rest

With calm hands folded on her quiet breast.

And, hour by hour, he hardly even stirred,

Crouching beside me in the ingle-seat;

And staring, staring at the still red glow:

But, only when the fire was burning low,

He rose to bring fresh peat;

And muttered with dull voice and slow:

"This fire has ne'er burned out through all these years--

Not since the hearthstone first was set--

And that is nigh two hundred year ago.

My father's father built this house; and I...

I thought my son..." and then he gave a sigh;

And as he stooped, his wizened cheek was wet

With slowly-trickling tears.

And now he hearkened, while an owl's keen cry

Sang through the silence, as it fluttered nigh

The cottage-window, dazzled by the light,

Then back, with fainter hootings, into night.

But, when the fresh peats broke into a blaze,

He watched it with a steady, dry-eyed gaze;

And spoke once more: "And he, dead, too!

You did not tell her; but I knew ... I knew!"

And now came all the tale of their distress:

Their only son, in wanton waywardness,

Had left them, nearly thirty year ago;

And they had never had a word from him

In all that time... the reckless blow

Of his unkindness struck his mother low...

Her hair, as ruddy as the fern

In late September by a moorland burn,

Had shrivelled rimy-white

In one short summer's night:

And they had looked, and looked for his return...

His mother set for him at every meal,

And kept his bed well-aired ... the knife and fork

I'd used were John's ... but, as all hope grew dim,

She sickened, dwindling feebler every day:

Though, when it seemed that she must pass away,

She grew more confident that, ere she passed,

A stranger would bring news to her, at last,

Of her lost son. "And when I woke in bed

Beside her, as the dawn was burning red,

She turned to me, with sleepless eyes, and said:

'The news will come, to-day.'"

He spoke no more: and silent in my seat,

With burning eyes upon the burning peat,

I pondered on this strangest of strange things

That had befallen in my vagrant life:

And how, at last, my idle wanderings

Had brought me to this old man and his wife.

And as I brooded o'er the blaze,

I thought with awe of that steadfast desire

Which, unto me unknown,

Had drawn me through long years, by such strange ways,

From that dark fo'c'sle to this cottage-fire.

And now, at last, quite spent, I dropped asleep:

And slumbered long and deep:

And when I waked, the peats were smouldering white

Upon the white hearthstone:

And over heath and bent dawn kindled bright

Beyond dark ridges in a rosy fleece:

While from the little window morning light

Fell on her face, made holy with the peace

That passeth understanding; and was shed

In tender beams upon the low-bowed head

Of that old man, forlorn beside the bed.