The Blood Of Rachel Part 16

But winter was forgotten in the plains, For rivulets imprisoned long in cataracts Were leaping over waterfalls And shouting like a red bird, In an April cedar tree.

Milner drew a long deep breath of spring And walked into the parlor.

"Alfred!"

"Geraldine!"

"Last night I dreamed of Cornell days, And saw the redbuds blooming in the hills Behind the cliffs of Ithaca!"

"The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.

All night I heard the roaring of the falls!"

"The call of flickers sounded through the canyons Of Old b.u.t.termilk, and p.e.c.k.e.rwoods were beating Reveilles before the sun was up!"

"Two blue birds built a mansion In a dead oak trunk And called the world to witness!"

"Alfred!"

"Geraldine!"

"The train for California leaves at nine!"

Some hours out from Great Salt Lake, The sand dunes stretching southward O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali Were shimmering in the sunshine Like copper kettles on a field of bronze.

"Dear Alfred, can you still recall Those afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?

The little city, Ithaca, Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.

The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.

A hundred waterfalls were visible From where we used to sit.

We often thought the lime-washed houses Far to west, resembled whited decks Upon a sea of emerald; And wondered if our own good ship Would one day cast its anchor in the harbor.

Over to the right the Cornell towers, Like mediaeval castles beetling o'er the precipice, Were keeping silent watch above it all.

The memory of those blessed days alone Has kept my heart alive."

"But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden Has at last come in Nor ever will put out to sea again.

Happy as those moments were, Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."

The desert now a hundred miles behind Was fading like a crescent sea beach In the setting sun.

Slowly like a giant serpent The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras And started down the western slope at dawn.

The valley of the Sacramento Never bloomed so beautiful before.

The blue Pacific through the haze Was like a canvas sea.

Peace permeated all the earth.

The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.

The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.

"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas-- Emerald in the morning, changing into opal, Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.

Behold the Golden Gate!

The seas beyond are all like that!"

Morning in the Sacramento!

Petals, dew and fragrance--indescribable!

Plumage, song and sunshine, And over all a California sky!

"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!

Back yonder in New York, The world is built of brick and mortar, And men forget the handiwork of G.o.d.

How can a poet hope to win a name Where men are mad for gold?"

"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot To tell the story of my fame.

The ecstacy of these three days Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.

I am Ralph Nixon, author of the _Topaz Mystery_."

"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"

A heavy tide of blood swept over All the tracery of the bitter past, And in a moment more She lay unconscious on a bed of th.o.r.n.y cactus.

The _City Argentina_ blew a long loud blast And anch.o.r.ed in the bay.

The woman opened wondering eyes And looked at Milner.

"Why do you call me Geraldine?

My Christian name's Amnemon.

We never met before.

I am Major Erskine's wife.

We live in Pasadena.

I do not know your name or face, Nor how I came to be with you.

I never saw this place before, But those are California hills And yonder is the great Pacific.

The mystery of who you are, And where I am, I can not solve.

I only know I wish to see my home and child; Little Alfred never has been left alone, And may be calling for his mother now.

You seem to be a gentleman.

Please show me to the nearest train That goes to Pasadena."

Half in fright and half in rage Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.

The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.

A clevage in the brain! But whose?

This was insanity, but whether his Or hers he was unable to decide.

The memory of the Cornell days came back-- The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms, The gorges and the waterfalls, And finally the wild, weird light That played in iridescent eyes That last day on the hills-- The story of the tainted blood and what it meant For future generations.

Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park And then he heard a scream As though a ball had pierced its heart.

The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet, Then spreading broad its wings again, Shot upward to the heights.

The train for Pasadena speeded onward Toward its destination.

A poet sat within his room That opened on the Golden Gate And as the sun dropped into the wave, He wrote a Requiem to Hope, That filled the earth with fame.

A ROMANCE OF THE c.u.mBERLAND

Early in the day they pa.s.sed the pinnacle, And now the shadow of each human form Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars Fallen toward the east.

For days the fairest maiden of the caravan Had fevered--whether from malaria and fatigue, Or more because of one whom they had left behind, Beyond the wooded mountains, Neither sire nor matron could agree.

But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down And prepared the camp for coming night, Declared unless they rested here for days to come, Her bones must bleach beside the trail That led into the Dark and b.l.o.o.d.y Ground.

And so they waited for the fever to abate, But when they thought her strong enough, A score of hardy pioneers trudged down The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs And a flatboat in the turgid waters Of the c.u.mberland, for heavy rains had fallen And all the mountain streams were swollen In these early days of June.

But the air was sweet with the odor Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy With its starry cl.u.s.ters fringed The milky way of elder bloom That filled each sheltered cove Like constellations on a summer night.

But now the rains had ceased, the air Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty.

Lying on her pallet on the flatboat, The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere, And drank refreshing whiffs of air That drove the fever from her blood And wakened dreams of conquest In the wilderness toward which Her life was drifting rapidly.

But how could she find heart for conquest?

Why seek this new land anyway, where only And forever to card the wool and spin the flax Would be the woman's portion?

Would ever in the forest or beyond it In the rolling bluegra.s.s, Return the vision that was hers, When only a few brief months ago She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay?

Oh, how that day was filled with meaning For her now! For as the birds disported With the whirlpools of the air, A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear, How that storm and stress of life to those that love Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea.