The Daffodil Fields Part 8

"Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,"

He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded.

Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.

Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.

Another door was at his left; he stayed.

Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked, To one who slumbered breathing deep; it made An image of Time's going and man's trade.

He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep, Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.

He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.

The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray, Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.

The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.

The east room had been closed in Michael's day, Being the best; but now he guessed it hers; The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.

Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried, Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feet Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride.

"He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the nearest door for his retreat, Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close, But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose,

Running two steps at once, while Michael stood, Not breathing, only knowing that the room Was someone's bedroom smelling of old wood, Hung with engravings of the day of doom.

The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?

A gentle question, tapping at a door, And Michael s.h.i.+fted feet, and creakings took the floor.

The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked; Within an eastern room the footsteps pa.s.sed.

Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked, Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.

What could the thing be that he sought. At last His voice said, "Here it is." The wormed floor Creaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.

The footsteps came as though the walker read, Or added rows of figures by the way; There was much hesitation in the tread; Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay; Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway, He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always one For order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son."

The action seemed to break the walker's mood; The footsteps pa.s.sed downstairs, along the hall, Out at the door and off towards the wood.

"Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all."

Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.

Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to try The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.

It was the eastmost of the rooms which look Over the fields of daffodils; the bound Scanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook, Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.

Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound, Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind; The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.

A woman walked along the hall below, Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died, Listening intently still, he heard them go, Then swiftly turned the k.n.o.b and went inside.

The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide; The curtains streamed out like a waterfall; The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.

No one was there; no one; the room was hers.

A book of praise lay open on the bed; The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders, Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.

Here she found peace of soul like daily bread, Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed; He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.

He took the love-gift handkerchief again; He laid it on her table, near the gla.s.s, So opened that the broidered name was plain; "Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pa.s.s.

It stands and speaks for me as bold as bra.s.s.

My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this, That she is still my darling: all she was she is.

"So she will know at least that she was wrong, That underneath the blindness I was true.

Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong; Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.

But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew; And now, the evil done, I know my need;

Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed.

"And now, goodbye." He closed the door behind him, Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair, Meaning to go where she would never find him; He would go down through darkness to despair.

Out at the door he stept; the autumn air Came fresh upon his face; none saw him go.

"Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so."

Soon he was on the high road, out of sight Of valley and farm; soon he could see no more The oast-house pointing finger take the light As tumbling pigeons glittered over; nor Could he behold the wind-vane gilded o'er, Swinging above the church; the road swung round.

"Now, the last look," he cried: he saw that holy ground.

"Goodbye," he cried; he could behold it all, Spread out as in a picture; but so clear That the gold apple stood out from the wall; Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer.

Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near, As in a vision, lay that holy ground.

"Mary is there," he moaned, "and I am outward bound.

"I never saw this place so beautiful, Never like this. I never saw it glow.

Spirit is on this place; it fills it full.

So let the die be cast; I will not go.

But I will see her face to face and know From her own lips what thoughts she has of me; And if disaster come: right; let disaster be."

Back, by another way, he turned. The sun Fired the yew-tops in the Roman woods.

Lights in the valley twinkled one by one, The starlings whirled in dropping mult.i.tudes.

Dusk fingered into one earth's many moods, Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook; A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook.

He had to cross the brook, to cross a field, Where daffodils were thick when years were young.

Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed.

Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung; Then while the pa.s.sion trembled on his tongue, Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to see A figure standing mute; a woman--it was she.

She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there.

She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemed Planned from all time by powers in the air To change their human fates; he even deemed That in another life this thing had gleamed, This meeting by the bridge. He said, "It's you."

"Yes, I," she said, "who else? You must have known; you knew

"That I should come here to the brook to see, After your message." "You were out," he said.

"Gone, and I did not know where you could be.

Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?"

"Old Mrs. Gale is dying, and I stayed Longer than usual, while I read the Word.

You could have hardly gone." She paused, her bosom stirred.

"Mary, I sinned," he said. "Not that, dear, no,"

She said; "but, oh, you were unkind, unkind, Never to write a word and leave me so, But out of sight with you is out of mind."

"Mary, I sinned," he said, "and I was blind.

Oh, my beloved, are you Lion's wife?"

"Belov'd sounds strange," she answered, "in my present life.

"But it is sweet to hear it, all the same.

It is a language little heard by me Alone, in that man's keeping, with my shame.

I never thought such miseries could be.

I was so happy in you, Michael. He Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you.

Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you."

"That is untrue," he said. "I am in h.e.l.l.

You are my heart's beloved, Mary, you.