The Daffodil Fields Part 10

"Father, good-night," he said, "I'm going to rest.

Good-night, I cannot talk. Mother, good-night."

He kissed her brow and went; they heard him strike a light,

And go with slow depressed step up the stairs, Up to the door of her deserted bower; They heard him up above them, moving chairs; The memory of his paleness made them cower.

They did not know their son; they had no power To help, they only saw the new-won bride Defy their child, and faith and custom put aside.

After a time men learned where Mary was: Over the hills, not many miles away, Renting a cottage and a patch of gra.s.s Where Michael came to see her. Every day Taught her what fevers can inhabit clay, Shaking this body that so soon must die.

The time made Lion old: the winter dwindled by.

Till the long misery had to end or kill: And "I must go to see her," Lion cried; "I am her standby, and she needs me still; If not to love she needs me to decide.

Dear, I will set you free. Oh, my bright bride, Lost in such piteous ways, come back." He rode Over the wintry hills to Mary's new abode.

And as he topped the pa.s.s between the hills, Towards him, up the swerving road, there came Michael, the happy cause of all his ills; Walking as though repentance were the shame, Sucking a gra.s.s, unb.u.t.toned, still the same, Humming a tune; his careless beauty wild Drawing the women's eyes; he wandered with a child.

Who heard, wide-eyed, the sc.r.a.ps of tales which fell Between the fragments of the tune; they seemed A cherub bringing up a soul from h.e.l.l.

Meeting unlike the meeting long since dreamed.

Lion dismounted; the great valley gleamed With waters far below; his teeth were set His heart thumped at his throat; he stopped; the two men met.

The child well knew that fatal issues joined; He stood round-eyed to watch them, even as Fate Stood with his pennypiece of causes coined Ready to throw for issue; the bright hate Throbbed, that the heavy reckoning need not wait.

Lion stepped forward, watching Michael's eyes.

"We are old friends," he said. "Now, Michael, you be wise,

"And let the harm already done suffice; Go, before Mary's name is wholly gone.

Spare her the misery of desertion twice, There's only ruin in the road you're on-- Ruin for both, whatever promise shone In sentimental shrinkings from the fact.

So, Michael, play the man, and do the generous act.

"And go; if not for my sake, go for hers.

You only want her with your sentiment.

You are water roughed by every wind that stirs, One little gust will alter your intent All ways, to every wind, and nothing meant, Is your life's habit. Man, one takes a wife, Not for a three months' fancy, but the whole of life.

"We have been friends, and so I speak you fair.

How will you bear her ill, or cross, or tired?

Sentiment sighing will not help you there.

You call a half life's volume not desired.

I know your love for her. I saw it mired, Mired, past going, by your first sharp taste Of life and work; it stopped; you let her whole life waste,

"Rather than have the trouble of such love, You will again; but if you do it now, It will mean death, not sorrow. But enough.

You know too well you cannot keep a vow.

There are gray hairs already on her brow.

You brought them there. Death is the next step. Go, Before you take the step." "No," Michael answered, "No.

"As for my past, I was a dog, a cur, And I have paid blood-money, and still pay.

But all my being is ablaze with her; There is no talk of giving up to-day.

I will not give her up. You used to say Bodies are earth. I heard you say it. Liar!

You never loved her, you. She turns the earth to fire."

"Michael," said Lion, "you have said such things Of other women; less than six miles hence You and another woman felt love's wings Rosy and fair, and so took leave of sense.

She's dead, that other woman, dead, with pence Pressed on her big brown eyes, under the ground; She that was merry once, feeling the world go round.

"Her child (and yours) is with her sister now, Out there, behind us, living as they can; Pinched by the poverty that you allow.

All a long autumn many rumours ran About Sue Jones that was: you were the man.

The lad is like you. Think about his mother, Before you turn the earth to fire with another."

"That is enough," said Michael, "you shall know Soon, to your marrow, what my answer is; Know to your lying heart; now kindly go.

The neighbours smell that something is amiss.

We two will keep a dignity in this, Such as we can. No quarrelling with me here.

Mary might see; now go; but recollect, my dear,

"That if you twit me with your wife, you lie; And that your further insult waits a day When G.o.d permits that Mary is not by; I keep the record of it, and shall pay.

And as for Mary; listen: we betray No one. We keep our troth-plight as we meant.

Now go, the neighbours gather." Lion bowed and went.

Home to his memories for a month of pain, Each moment like a devil with a tongue, Urging him, "Set her free," or "Try again,"

Or "Kill that man and stamp him into dung."

"See her," he cried. He took his horse and swung Out on the road to her; the rain was falling; Her dropping house-eaves splashed him when he knocked there, calling.

Drowned yellow jasmine dripped; his horse's flanks Steamed, and dark runnels on his yellow hair Streaked the groomed surface into blotchy ranks.

The noise of water dropping filled the air.

He knocked again; but there was no one there; No one within, the door was locked, no smoke Came from the chimney stacks, no clock ticked, no one spoke.

Only the water dripped and dribble-dripped, And gurgled through the rain-pipe to the b.u.t.t; Drops, trickling down the windows paused or slipped; A wet twig scraked as though the gla.s.s were cut.

The blinds were all drawn down, the windows shut.

No one was there. Across the road a shawl Showed at a door a s.p.a.ce; a woman gave a call.

"They're gone away," she cried. "They're gone away.

Been gone a matter of a week." Where to?

The woman thought to Wales, but could not say, Nor if she planned returning; no one knew.

She looked at Lion sharply; then she drew The half-door to its place and pa.s.sed within, Saying she hoped the rain would stop and spring begin.

Lion rode home. A month went by, and now Winter was gone; the myriad shoots of green Bent to the wind, like hair, upon the plough, And up from withered leaves came celandine.

And sunlight came, though still the air was keen, So that the first March market was most fair, And Lion rode to market, having business there.

And in the afternoon, when all was done, While Lion waited idly near the inn, Watching the pigeons sidling in the sun, As Jim the ostler put his gelding in, He heard a noise of rioting begin Outside the yard, with catcalls; there were shouts Of "Occleve. Lion Occleve," from a pack of louts,

Who hung about the courtyard-arch, and cried, "Yah, Occleve, of The Roughs, the married man, Occleve, who had the bed and not the bride."

At first without the arch; but some began To sidle in, still calling; children ran To watch the baiting; they were farmer's leavings Who shouted thus, men cast for drunkenness and thievings.

Lion knew most of them of old; he paid No heed to them, but turned his back and talked To Jim, of through-pin in his master's jade, And how no horse-wounds should be stuped or caulked.

The rabble in the archway, not yet baulked, Came crowding nearer, and the boys began, "Who was it took your mistress, master married man?"

"Who was it, master, took your wife away?"

"I wouldn't let another man take mine."

"She had two husbands on her wedding day."

"See at a blush: he blushed as red as wine."

"She'd ought a had a cart-whip laid on fine."

The farmers in the courtyard watched the baiting, Grinning, the barmaids grinned above the window grating.