Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 11

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At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, And by his side, his daughter, young Christine.

Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, Bowing before them both. The brigantine Bounces impatient at the long delay, Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from sh.o.r.e.

A heavy galliot unloads on the walls Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon b.a.l.l.s Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away.

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Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, Her hands wrung pale in effort at control.

Max moved aside and let her be alone, For grief exacts each penny of its toll.

The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea.

A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, Then, shrunk a c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l, it came again Upon the other side. Now on the lee It took the "Horn of Fortune". Straining sight Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane.

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Then up above the eager brigantine, Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay.

They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw She glided imperceptibly away, Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade.

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Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze.

Before the iron gateway, clasped between Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, Asked, "Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck?

My father told me of your courtesy.

Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me To show such hospitality as maiden may, Without disdaining rules must not be broke.

Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today."

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She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate.

Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones Are budded with much peering at the rows, And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside.

Max started at the beauty, at the glare Of tints. At either end was set a wide Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere!

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From side to side, midway each path, there ran A longer one which cut the s.p.a.ce in two.

And, like a tunnel some magician Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came The plump and heavy apples crowding stood And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food.

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Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one Old cherry tossed its branches near the door.

Bordered along the wall, in beds between, Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, The pride of all the garden, there were more Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen.

They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare.

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"Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait." With girlish zest To please her guest she flew. A moment more She came again, with her old nurse behind.

Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, She talked as someone with a n.o.ble store Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past.

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The little apple leaves above their heads Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues.

Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed.

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Of every pattern and in every shade.

Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked.

Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked.

Sprinkled and striped, ta.s.selled, or keenest edged.

Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short.

They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame.

The shade within the arbour made a port To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became.

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Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, This child matured to woman unaware, The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked Found utterance. Max thought her very fair.

Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a st.i.tch At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed.

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Two years was long! She loved her father well, But fears she had not. He had always been Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more.

Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet!

Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all.

Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, The "Horn of Fortune" would be at the wall.

When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door.

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The next day, and the next, Max went to ask The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: Another tulip blown, or the great task Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled.

Such things were Christine's world, and his was she Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles.

Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency.

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Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself The guardian of this girl; no more, no less.

As one in charge of guineas on a shelf Loose in a china teapot, may confess His need, but may not borrow till his friend Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said No word of love or marriage; but the days He clipped off on his almanac. The end Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays.