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 passion 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. Cale 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 hell.
You are my heart’s beloved, Mary, you.
By God, I know your beauty now too well.
We are each other’s, flesh and soul, we two.”
“That was sweet knowledge once,” she said; “we knew
That truth of old. Now, in a strange man’s bed,
I read it in my soul, and find it written red.”
“Is he a brute?” he asked. “No,” she replied.
“I did not understand what it would mean.
And now that you are back, would I had died;
Died, and the misery of it not have been.
Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean.
I was a proud one once, and now I’m tame;
Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame.”
She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heard
Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul,
Love running hot on many a murmured word,
Love’s passionate giving into new control.
Their present misery did but blow the coal,
Did but entangle deeper their two wills,
While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils.
THE END OF THE TROUBLE.
Lion lay still while the cold tides of death
Came brimming up his channels. With one hand
He groped to know if Michael still drew breath.
His little hour was running out its sand.
Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand
Above. He cried aloud, “He was my brother.
I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other.