Wessex Poems and Other Verses Part 7

The rooms within had the piteous s.h.i.+ne That home-things wear when there's aught amiss; From the stairway floated the rise and fall Of an infant's call, Whose birth had brought her to this.

Her life was the price she would pay for that whine - For a child by the man she did not love.

"But let that rest for ever," I said, And bent my tread To the chamber up above.

She took my hand in her thin white own, And smiled her thanks--though nigh too weak - And made them a sign to leave us there Then faltered, ere She could bring herself to speak.

"'Twas to see you before I go--he'll condone Such a natural thing now my time's not much-- When Death is so near it hustles hence All pa.s.sioned sense Between woman and man as such!

"My husband is absent. As heretofore The City detains him. But, in truth, He has not been kind . . . I will speak no blame, But--the child is lame; O, I pray she may reach his ruth!

"Forgive past days--I can say no more - Maybe if we'd wedded you'd now repine! . . .

But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell!

--Truth shall I tell?

Would the child were yours and mine!

"As a wife I was true. But, such my unease That, could I insert a deed back in Time, I'd make her yours, to secure your care; And the scandal bear, And the penalty for the crime!"

- When I had left, and the swinging trees Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, Another was I. Her words were enough: Came smooth, came rough, I felt I could live my day.

Next night she died; and her obsequies In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, Had her husband's heed. His tendance spent, I often went And pondered by her mound.

All that year and the next year whiled, And I still went thitherward in the gloam; But the Town forgot her and her nook, And her husband took Another Love to his home.

And the rumour flew that the lame lone child Whom she wished for its safety child of mine, Was treated ill when offspring came Of the new-made dame, And marked a more vigorous line.

A smarter grief within me wrought Than even at loss of her so dear; Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, Her child ill-used, I helpless to interfere!

One eve as I stood at my spot of thought In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong, Her husband neared; and to shun his view By her hallowed mew I went from the tombs among

To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced - That haggard mark of Imperial Rome, Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime Of our Christian time: It was void, and I inward clomb.

Scarce night the sun's gold touch displaced From the vast Rotund and the neighbouring dead When her husband followed; bowed; half-pa.s.sed, With lip upcast; Then, halting, sullenly said:

"It is noised that you visit my first wife's tomb.

Now, I gave her an honoured name to bear While living, when dead. So I've claim to ask By what right you task My patience by vigiling there?

"There's decency even in death, I a.s.sume; Preserve it, sir, and keep away; For the mother of my first-born you Show mind undue!

--Sir, I've nothing more to say."

A desperate stroke discerned I then - G.o.d pardon--or pardon not--the lie; She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine Of slights) 'twere mine, So I said: "But the father I.

"That you thought it yours is the way of men; But I won her troth long ere your day: You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me?

'Twas in fealty.

--Sir, I've nothing more to say,

"Save that, if you'll hand me my little maid, I'll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil.

Think it more than a friendly act none can; I'm a lonely man, While you've a large pot to boil.

"If not, and you'll put it to ball or blade - To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen - I'll meet you here . . . But think of it, And in season fit Let me hear from you again."

- Well, I went away, hoping; but nought I heard Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted me A little voice that one day came To my window-frame And babbled innocently:

"My father who's not my own, sends word I'm to stay here, sir, where I belong!"

Next a writing came: "Since the child was the fruit Of your lawless suit, Pray take her, to right a wrong."

And I did. And I gave the child my love, And the child loved me, and estranged us none.

But compunctions loomed; for I'd harmed the dead By what I'd said For the good of the living one.

- Yet though, G.o.d wot, I am sinner enough, And unworthy the woman who drew me so, Perhaps this wrong for her darling's good She forgives, or would, If only she could know!

THE DANCE AT THE PHOENIX

To Jenny came a gentle youth From inland leazes lone, His love was fresh as apple-blooth By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone.

And duly he entreated her To be his tender minister, And call him aye her own.

Fair Jenny's life had hardly been A life of modesty; At Casterbridge experience keen Of many loves had she From scarcely sixteen years above; Among them sundry troopers of The King's-Own Cavalry.

But each with charger, sword, and gun, Had bluffed the Biscay wave; And Jenny prized her gentle one For all the love he gave.

She vowed to be, if they were wed, His honest wife in heart and head From bride-ale hour to grave.

Wedded they were. Her husband's trust In Jenny knew no bound, And Jenny kept her pure and just, Till even malice found No sin or sign of ill to be In one who walked so decently The duteous helpmate's round.

Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, And roamed, and were as not: Alone was Jenny left again As ere her mind had sought A solace in domestic joys, And ere the vanished pair of boys Were sent to sun her cot.

She numbered near on sixty years, And pa.s.sed as elderly, When, in the street, with flush of fears, One day discovered she, From s.h.i.+ne of swords and thump of drum.

Her early loves from war had come, The King's-Own Cavalry.

She turned aside, and bowed her head Anigh Saint Peter's door; "Alas for chastened thoughts!" she said; "I'm faded now, and h.o.a.r, And yet those notes--they thrill me through, And those gay forms move me anew As in the years of yore!" . . .

'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn Was lit with tapers tall, For thirty of the trooper men Had vowed to give a ball As "Theirs" had done ('twas handed down) When lying in the selfsame town Ere Buonaparte's fall.

That night the throbbing "Soldier's Joy,"

The measured tread and sway Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy,"

Reached Jenny as she lay Beside her spouse; till springtide blood Seemed scouring through her like a flood That whisked the years away.

She rose, and rayed, and decked her head Where the bleached hairs ran thin; Upon her cap two bows of red She fixed with hasty pin; Unheard descending to the street, She trod the flags with tune-led feet, And stood before the Inn.

Save for the dancers', not a sound Disturbed the icy air; No watchman on his midnight round Or traveller was there; But over All-Saints', high and bright, Pulsed to the music Sirius white, The Wain by Bullstake Square.

She knocked, but found her further stride Checked by a sergeant tall: "Gay Granny, whence come you?" he cried; "This is a private ball."

- "No one has more right here than me!

Ere you were born, man," answered she, "I knew the regiment all!"

"Take not the lady's visit ill!"

Upspoke the steward free; "We lack sufficient partners still, So, prithee let her be!"