The Daffodil Fields Part 6

"Dead." "When?" "December." Michael did not speak, But muttered "Old Jones dead." A minute pa.s.sed.

"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, Sc.r.a.ped 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d I could, my dear."

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed, 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 Pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sionate, 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 Pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dly 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 pa.s.sion 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.