Toward the Gulf Part 22

'O, Emily,' I heard him say.

"And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', His face so white, he looked so queer.

'O Andy'--and his voice went broken.

'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.'

"'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, 'What brings you here?--I would be told.'

Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, It teched her hand ... and it war cold.

"'We got back from the Christmas doin's And went to bed, and she was sayin', (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin'

To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.'

"'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, And then I thought I heerd her moan.

It war the wind, I guess, for Emily War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.'

"I left him then to call my woman To tell her that her mother died.

When we come back his voice was steady, The big tears in his eyes was dried.

"He just sot there and quiet like Talked 'bout the fis.h.i.+n' times they had, And said for her to die on Christmas Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad.

"He grew so cam he almost skeered us.

Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.'

Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman That ever walked this Vale of Care.'

"Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, I never heerd her once complain.'

Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas When she can go and have no pain.'

"Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.'

Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.'

He hid his face then in his m.u.f.fler And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'"

WIDOW LA RUE

I

What will happen, Widow La Rue?

For last night at three o'clock You woke and saw by your window again Amid the shadowy locust grove The phantom of the old soldier: A shadow of blue, like mercury light-- What will happen, Widow La Rue?

What may not happen In this place of summer loneliness?

For neither the sunlight of July, Nor the blue of the lake, Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, Nor the song of larks and thrushes, Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, Nor scents of hay new mown, Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest Of the bluff by the lake Can take away the loneliness Of this July by the lake!

Last night you saw the old soldier By your window, Widow La Rue!

Or was it your husband you saw, As he lay by the gate so long ago?

With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue, And specks of blood on his face, Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; And something like blubber or pinkish wax, Hiding the gash in his throat---- The serum and blood blown up by the breath From emptied lungs.

II

So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend For the afternoon and the night, Where the phantom will not come, Where the phantom may be forgotten.

And scarcely has she turned the road, Round the water-mill by the creek, When the telephone rings and daughter Flora Springs up from a drowsy chair And the ennui of a book, And runs to answer the call.

And her heart gives a bound, And her heart stops still, As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses Quick as poison through all her frame.

And something like bees swarming in her breast Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, Rapture, pa.s.sion, for what is the voice But the voice of her lover?

And just because she is here alone In this desolate summer-house by the lake; And just because this man is forbidden To cross her way, for a taint in his blood Of drink, from a father who died of drink; And just because he is in her thought By night and day, The voice of him heats her through like fire.

She sways from dizziness, The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ...

He is in the village, is walking out, He will be at the door in an hour.

III

The sun is half a hand above the lake In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness.

On the dizzy crest of the bluff the b.a.l.l.s of clover Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow Where hay-c.o.c.ks stand new-piled by the harvesters Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end.

A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet.

Over the olive green of the darkening forest A thin moon slits the sky and down the road Two lovers walk.

It is night when they reappear From the forest, walking the hay-field over.

And the sky is so full of stars it seems Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, And in the silence of the scented hay-field Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water A hundred feet below.

And at last they sit by a c.o.c.k of hay, As warm as the nest of a bird, Hand clasped in hand and silent, Large-eyed and silent.

O, daughter Flora!

Delicious weakness is on you now, With your lover's face above you.

You can scarcely lift your hand, Or turn your head Pillowed upon the fragrant hay.

You dare not open your moistened eyes For fear of this sky of stars, For fear of your lover's eyes.

The trance of nature has taken you Rocked on creation's tide.

And the kins.h.i.+p you feel for this man, Confessed this night--so often confessed And wondered at-- Has coiled its final sorcery about you.

You do not know what it is, Nor care what it is, Nor care what fate is to come,-- The night has you.

You only move white, fainting hands Against his strength, then let them fall.

Your lips are parted over set teeth; A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body Maddens your lover, And in a swift and terrible moment The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ...

Then your lover sits up with a sigh.

But you lie there so still with closed eyes.

So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars.

A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, But you do not move.

And the sun comes up at last Finding you asleep in his arms, There by the hay c.o.c.k.

And he kisses your tears away, And redeems his word of last night, For down to the village you go And take your vows before the Pastor there, And then return to the summer house. ...

All is well.

IV

Widow La Rue has returned And is rocking on the porch-- What is about to happen?