A Williams Anthology Part 19

Again Henderson turned on his heel and again he asked her for the next dance. She had it with the sailor, but promised him the one after.

It was warm inside, so after their waltz Fred and the girl went out on a little balcony which hung low over the brook. The moon was high in the heavens, and shone softly through the whispering leaves. From up the valley a gentle breeze brought the heavy scent of the roses.

"It is so hot inside," the girl said, her voice so low that it seemed part of the night, "and out here it is so cool and--and wonderful."

Again she came close. "For to-night you are my cavalier, and I am your lady. Oh, if to-night could but be every night. You are so big and kind and--different."

"And you," he said, with the romance of it mounting to his head, "you are more than different. If to-night only _was_ every night. For to-night you are my lady."

A shadow darkened the doorway behind them and a long arm shot out for Henderson's neck. Surprised, he turned blindly. It was Don Carlos.

Quick as a flash Fred hit him full between the eyes, and with the other arm tried to loosen the hold on his throat. There was no sound; the girl stood breathless. Again he struck and the hand at his throat tore away. There was a flash of steel in the hand of the Spaniard--but the blow never fell. The girl stood between them, her arms spread apart, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

"Carlos," she said slowly, "if you ever strike a blow like that, be eternally cursed by me. You fool! Know you not that I was playing with you? How I hate you! Go!" She stamped her foot. "Go, I say."

He turned with bent head, and without a word pa.s.sed into the building.

As he disappeared, the girl sank back, her face white, almost greyish, against the red of her dress.

"Hold me, _senor_," she said weakly. "I am not well. Could--would you take me home--to my father?"

Without a word Henderson picked her up bodily and stepped off the little low balcony into the gra.s.s. Not until they reached the arbor did she speak.

"Thank you. I think I can walk now."

He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts. Then they proceeded together slowly. Silently they followed the path which a few hours before they had so gaily trod, and silently they ascended the hill.

The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house.

She came in laughing.

"Is it not early, my angel?" he asked. "It is but little past midnight." She smiled.

"Yes, _padre_, it is early--but I--I thought I would return."

Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed--he telling me the story of the evening--we could hear the girl in the next room, sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break. It made Henderson uneasy.

"I'd like to do something," he said. "The scoundrel! He ought to be whipped."

I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. Fred was tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing, sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear. The sobbing ceased. The whistle sounded again. We heard a quiet step and the noise of an opening window.

"_O Carlos mio_," she breathed in the mother tongue, "I knew you would come."

"Adela _mia_," he called softly, "my angel, I hoped you would be here and--and you are."

"You have been so long," she sighed.

"Henderson," I said, "if you have any decency, go to sleep."

We rolled over and closed our eyes, while unknown to us the breeze wafted up the heavy night odor of the roses and the yellow moon slowly moved toward the western heavens.

_Literary Monthly_, 1906.

THE AWAKENING

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08

When March has tuned his willow pipes, The robins in the rain Take up the song with plaintive notes And sing the sweet refrain.

Then April, sleepy child of Spring, Awakes, to music yields, Goes dancing 'cross the fields.

The modest buds, once red and brown, Burst forth in plumes of green, And interlace the barren boughs With wreaths of vernal sheen.

The old sun-dial beside the walk Takes heart for sunny day; But half-awake marks sleepy hours By light through spring-time haze.

When March has tuned his willow pipes, The children pa.s.sing by Kneel down and pluck the early flowers, And smile, they know not why.

_Literary Monthly_, 1906.

THE BROOK RELEASED

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08

I'm coming, I'm coming, The miller has lifted The gates that have bound me; At last I am free, And where the grey sands O'er my courses have drifted My swift happy waters Shall hurrying be.

Like hearts that unburdened From grief come to weeping, And smile 'mid their tears At old sorrows past; So my sunny waters, The white rapids leaping, From dark fearsome valleys Come singing at last.

I'm coming, I'm coming, The children shall love me; The beeches, the willows, The golden elm trees That close by the village Are drooping above me, Shall float on my billows Their last withered leaves.

The grey flocks shall meet me, The meadow larks greet me, And oft the shy new moon, In veiled halo lace, Through bare tangled branches, In sad brooding shallows, Shall trail her cloud tresses, Shall bathe her pale face.

I'm coming, I'm coming, O hearken, sad-hearted, My sweet singing voices Shall teach you by day; And in the night's darkness The stars gently mirrored, All borne on my current, Shall mark you the way.

Dark mountains may tower, Dark valleys may lower, But follow, sad-hearted, Come smiling, light-hearted, Come fare to the river; His Hand in the forest Has marked the true way.

_Literary Monthly_, 1907.

THE GARDENER

SONNET

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08

She told me of her garden, all the flowers, Of hallowed lilies and the glories bright, Frail tinted cups filled with the morning's light; The primrose drooping for the evening hours.