  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover THE DAFFODIL FIELDS BY AUTHOR OF "THE EVERLASTING MERCY," "THE WIDOW IN New York All rights reserved COPYRIGHT, 1918, Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1913. Norwood Press 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. 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. |
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