The Daffodil Fields Part 7

He could remember Mary now; her crying Night after night alone through weary years, Had touched him now and set the cords replying; He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears, The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears, The arm stretched out for one not there, the slow Loss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go.

"Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the ford He caught a fresh horse and rode on. The night Found him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board, Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight; Drawing his gun, he shot away the light, And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse, And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse.

At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry, And all day long he steamed between great banks Which smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry.

Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks, Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanks Were filled with English ships, and one he found Needing another stoker, being homeward bound.

And all the time the trouble in his head Ran like a whirlwind moving him; he knew Since she was lost that he was better dead.

He had no project outlined, what to do, Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew.

She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul, Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal.

Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind; Pa.s.sion takes colour from the nature's core; His misery was as his nature, blind.

Life was still turmoil when he went ash.o.r.e.

To see his old love married lay before; To see another have her, drink the gall, Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all.

Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the place Whither, from over sea, his heart had turned Often at evening-ends in times of grace.

But little outward change his eye discerned; A red rose at her bedroom window burned, Just as before. Even as of old the wasps Poised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps,

And the white fantails sidled on the roof Just as before; their pink feet, even as of old, Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof.

Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould; The apples on the withered boughs were gold.

Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he, "Will go and not return, since she is not for me.

"I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thing To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares For that half-priest she married with the ring.

Small joy for me in seeing how she wears, Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.

That beauty and those ways: she had such ways, There in the daffodils in those old April days."

So with an impulse of good will he turned, Leaving that place of daffodils; the road Was paven sharp with memories which burned; He trod them strongly under as he strode.

At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed; Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled soft Fold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft.

That was a bitter place to pa.s.s, for there Mary and he had often, often stayed To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.

It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.

There was a stile beside the forge; he laid His elbows on it, leaning, looking down The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.

Infinite, too, because it reached the sky, And distant spires arose and distant smoke; The whiteness on the blue went stilly by; Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.

Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oak Where the White Woman walked; the black firs showed Around the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode.

A long, long time he gazed at that fair place, So well remembered from of old; he sighed.

"I will go down and look upon her face, See her again, whatever may betide.

h.e.l.l is my future; I shall soon have died, But I will take to h.e.l.l one memory more; She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;

"Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.

I do not mean to speak; but only see.

Even the devil gets a peep at heaven; One peep at her shall come to h.e.l.l with me; One peep at her, no matter what may be."

He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.

Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.

A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared.

Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond; Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.

He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.

The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail Black like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail.

The garden with its autumn flowers was there; Few that his wayward memory linked with her.

Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare, But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.

Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender, And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised; The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.

He could not see her there. Windows were wide, Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.

Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed; Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.

But still no Mary's presence blessed his look; The house was still as if deserted, hushed.

Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.

Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hint Of times long past, of reapers in the corn, Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint, When first the berry reddens on the thorn.

Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn That vigil of the watching outcast grew; He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.

The windows of the kitchen opened wide.

Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke; Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.

A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.

Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke; Pourri was being made; the listener heard Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.

While an old woman made remarks to one Who was not the beloved: Michael learned That Roger's wife at Upton had a son, And that the red geraniums should be turned; A hen was missing, and a rick was burned; Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke; The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.

Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door; A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well, Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before, Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.

He saw the dining-room; he could not tell If Mary were within: inly he knew That she was coming now, that she would be in blue,

Blue with a silver locket at the throat, And that she would be there, within there, near, With the little blushes that he knew by rote, And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear, The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear, Speaking to her belov'd within the room.

The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,

Watching intently from below the boughs, While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay, Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.

His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.

Dinner began within with much to say.

Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.

Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.

Nor could her lover see her from the yew; She was not there at table; she was ill, Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew.

Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still.

"If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion will Take food to her." He watched; the dinner ended.

The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.

"Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure, He waited till the Occleves went to field, Then followed, round the house, another lure, Using the well-known privet as his shield.

He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.

He knew of old which bedroom would be hers; He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.

The house stared at him with its red-brick blank, Its vacant window-eyes; its open door, With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank, Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.

Nothing had changed; the house was as before, The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide: "I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside.

None could have seen him coming; all was still; He listened in the doorway for a sign.

Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line.