“I’m sick and weary of life without you. ‘Conscious existence is a failure,’ and the man who found that out and said it was wise. I wish I was a bird or beast—or nothing. All the world is mating but you and me. Nature hates me because I survive from year to year, not being fit to. The dumb things do her greater credit than ever I can. The—”
“Now, I’ll go—on my solemn word, I’ll go—if you grumble any more! Essterday you was so different, and said you’d fallen in love with Miss Spring, and pretended to speak to her and make me jealous. You didn’t do that, but you made me laugh. An’ you promised a purty verse for me. Did ’e make it up after all? I lay not.”
“Yes, I did. I wasted two or three hours over it last night.”
“Might ’e get ten shillings for it, like t’ other?”
“It’s not worth the paper it’s on, unless you like it. Your praise is better than money to me. Nobody wants any thoughts of mine. Why should they?”
“Not when they ’m all sour an’ poor, same as now; but essterday you spoke like to a picture-book. Theer’s many might have took gude from what you said then.”
He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and flung it into her lap.
“I call it ’Spring Rain,’” he said. “Yesterday the world was grey, and I was happy; to-day the world is all gold, and I’m finding life harder and heavier than usual. Read it out slowly to me. It was meant to be read to the song of the river, and never a prettier voice read a rhyme than yours.”
Chris smoothed the paper and recited her lover’s lyrics. They had some shadow of music in them and echoed Clem’s love of beautiful things; but they lacked inspiration or much skill.
“’Neath unnumbered crystal arrows—
Crystal arrows from the quiver
Of a cloud—the waters shiver
In the woodland’s dim domain;
And the whispering of the rain
Tinkles sweet on silver Teign—
Tinkles on the river.
”Through unnumbered sweet recesses—
Sweet recesses soft in lining
Of green moss with ivy twining—
Daffodils, a sparkling train,
Twinkle through the whispering rain,
Twinkle bright by silver Teign,
With a starry shining.
“’Mid unnumbered little leaf-buds—
Little leaf-buds surely bringing
Spring once more—song birds are winging;
And their mellow notes again
Throb across the whispering rain,
Till the banks of silver Teign
Echo with their singing.”