Part 4

I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking, I look back at it amid the rain For the very last time; for my sand is sinking, And I shall traverse old love’s domain Never again.

_March_ 1913.

PLACES

NOBODY says: Ah, that is the place Where chanced, in the hollow of years ago, What none of the Three Towns cared to know— The birth of a little girl of grace— The sweetest the house saw, first or last; Yet it was so On that day long past.

Nobody thinks: There, there she lay In a room by the Hoe, like the bud of a flower, And listened, just after the bedtime hour, To the stammering chimes that used to play The quaint Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth tune In Saint Andrew’s tower Night, morn, and noon.

Nobody calls to mind that here Upon Boterel Hill, where the carters skid, With cheeks whose airy flush outbid Fresh fruit in bloom, and free of fear, She cantered down, as if she must fall (Though she never did), To the charm of all.

Nay: one there is to whom these things, That nobody else’s mind calls back, Have a savour that scenes in being lack, And a presence more than the actual brings; To whom to-day is beneaped and stale, And its urgent clack But a vapid tale.

PLYMOUTH, _March_ 1913.

THE PHANTOM HORSEWOMAN

I

QUEER are the ways of a man I know: He comes and stands In a careworn craze, And looks at the sands And the seaward haze, With moveless hands And face and gaze, Then turns to go . . . And what does he see when he gazes so?

II

They say he sees as an instant thing More clear than to-day, A sweet soft scene That once was in play By that briny green; Yes, notes alway Warm, real, and keen, What his back years bring— A phantom of his own figuring.

III

Of this vision of his they might say more: Not only there Does he see this sight, But everywhere In his brain—day, night, As if on the air It were drawn rose bright— Yea, far from that shore Does he carry this vision of heretofore:

IV

A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, He withers daily, Time touches her not, But she still rides gaily In his rapt thought On that shagged and shaly Atlantic spot, And as when first eyed Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES

THE WISTFUL LADY

“LOVE, while you were away there came to me— From whence I cannot tell— A plaintive lady pale and passionless, Who bent her eyes upon me critically, And weighed me with a wearing wistfulness, As if she knew me well.”

“I saw no lady of that wistful sort As I came riding home. Perhaps she was some dame the Fates constrain By memories sadder than she can support, Or by unhappy vacancy of brain, To leave her roof and roam?”

“Ah, but she knew me. And before this time I have seen her, lending ear To my light outdoor words, and pondering each, Her frail white finger swayed in pantomime, As if she fain would close with me in speech, And yet would not come near.

“And once I saw her beckoning with her hand As I came into sight At an upper window. And I at last went out; But when I reached where she had seemed to stand, And wandered up and down and searched about, I found she had vanished quite.”

Then thought I how my dead Love used to say, With a small smile, when she Was waning wan, that she would hover round And show herself after her passing day To any newer Love I might have found, But show her not to me.

THE WOMAN IN THE RYE

“WHY do you stand in the dripping rye, Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee, When there are firesides near?” said I. “I told him I wished him dead,” said she.

“Yea, cried it in my haste to one Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still; And die he did. And I hate the sun, And stand here lonely, aching, chill;

“Stand waiting, waiting under skies That blow reproach, the while I see The rooks sheer off to where he lies Wrapt in a peace withheld from me.”

THE CHEVAL-GLASS

WHY do you harbour that great cheval-glass Filling up your narrow room? You never preen or plume, Or look in a week at your full-length figure— Picture of bachelor gloom!

“Well, when I dwelt in ancient England, Renting the valley farm, Thoughtless of all heart-harm, I used to gaze at the parson’s daughter, A creature of nameless charm.

“Thither there came a lover and won her, Carried her off from my view. O it was then I knew Misery of a cast undreamt of— More than, indeed, my due!

“Then far rumours of her ill-usage Came, like a chilling breath When a man languisheth; Followed by news that her mind lost balance, And, in a space, of her death.

“Soon sank her father; and next was the auction— Everything to be sold: Mid things new and old Stood this glass in her former chamber, Long in her use, I was told.

“Well, I awaited the sale and bought it . . . There by my bed it stands, And as the dawn expands Often I see her pale-faced form there Brushing her hair’s bright bands.

“There, too, at pallid midnight moments Quick she will come to my call, Smile from the frame withal Ponderingly, as she used to regard me Passing her father’s wall.

“So that it was for its revelations I brought it oversea, And drag it about with me . . . Anon I shall break it and bury its fragments Where my grave is to be.”

THE RE-ENACTMENT

BETWEEN the folding sea-downs, In the gloom Of a wailful wintry nightfall, When the boom Of the ocean, like a hammering in a hollow tomb,

Throbbed up the copse-clothed valley From the shore To the chamber where I darkled, Sunk and sore With gray ponderings why my Loved one had not come before

To salute me in the dwelling That of late I had hired to waste a while in— Vague of date, Quaint, and remote—wherein I now expectant sate;

On the solitude, unsignalled, Broke a man Who, in air as if at home there, Seemed to scan Every fire-flecked nook of the apartment span by span.

A stranger’s and no lover’s Eyes were these, Eyes of a man who measures What he sees But vaguely, as if wrapt in filmy phantasies.

Yea, his bearing was so absent As he stood, It bespoke a chord so plaintive In his mood, That soon I judged he would not wrong my quietude.

“Ah—the supper is just ready,” Then he said, “And the years’-long binned Madeira Flashes red!” (There was no wine, no food, no supper-table spread.)

“You will forgive my coming, Lady fair? I see you as at that time Rising there, The self-same curious querying in your eyes and air.

“Yet no. How so? You wear not The same gown, Your locks show woful difference, Are not brown: What, is it not as when I hither came from town?

“And the place . . . But you seem other— Can it be? What’s this that Time is doing Unto me? _You_ dwell here, unknown woman? . . . Whereabouts, then, is she?

“And the house—things are much shifted.— Put them where They stood on this night’s fellow; Shift her chair: Here was the couch: and the piano should be there.”

I indulged him, verily nerve-strained Being alone, And I moved the things as bidden, One by one, And feigned to push the old piano where he had shown.

“Aha—now I can see her! Stand aside: Don’t thrust her from the table Where, meek-eyed, She makes attempt with matron-manners to preside.

“She serves me: now she rises, Goes to play . . . But you obstruct her, fill her With dismay, And embarrassed, scared, she vanishes away!”

And, as ’twere useless longer To persist, He sighed, and sought the entry Ere I wist, And retreated, disappearing soundless in the mist.

That here some mighty passion Once had burned, Which still the walls enghosted, I discerned, And that by its strong spell mine might be overturned.

I sat depressed; till, later, My Love came; But something in the chamber Dimmed our flame,— An emanation, making our due words fall tame,

As if the intenser drama Shown me there Of what the walls had witnessed Filled the air, And left no room for later passion anywhere.

So came it that our fervours Did quite fail Of future consummation— Being made quail By the weird witchery of the parlour’s hidden tale,

Which I, as years passed, faintly Learnt to trace,— One of sad love, born full-winged In that place Where the predestined sorrowers first stood face to face.

And as that month of winter Circles round, And the evening of the date-day Grows embrowned, I am conscious of those presences, and sit spellbound.

There, often—lone, forsaken— Queries breed Within me; whether a phantom Had my heed On that strange night, or was it some wrecked heart indeed?

HER SECRET

THAT love’s dull smart distressed my heart He shrewdly learnt to see, But that I was in love with a dead man Never suspected he.

He searched for the trace of a pictured face, He watched each missive come, And a note that seemed like a love-line Made him look frozen and glum.

He dogged my feet to the city street, He followed me to the sea, But not to the neighbouring churchyard Did he dream of following me.

“SHE CHARGED ME”

SHE charged me with having said this and that To another woman long years before, In the very parlour where we sat,—

Sat on a night when the endless pour Of rain on the roof and the road below Bent the spring of the spirit more and more . . .

—So charged she me; and the Cupid’s bow Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face, And her white forefinger lifted slow.

Had she done it gently, or shown a trace That not too curiously would she view A folly passed ere her reign had place,

A kiss might have ended it. But I knew From the fall of each word, and the pause between, That the curtain would drop upon us two Ere long, in our play of slave and queen.

THE NEWCOMER’S WIFE

HE paused on the sill of a door ajar That screened a lively liquor-bar, For the name had reached him through the door Of her he had married the week before.

“We called her the Hack of the Parade; But she was discreet in the games she played; If slightly worn, she’s pretty yet, And gossips, after all, forget.

“And he knows nothing of her past; I am glad the girl’s in luck at last; Such ones, though stale to native eyes, Newcomers snatch at as a prize.”

“Yes, being a stranger he sees her blent Of all that’s fresh and innocent, Nor dreams how many a love-campaign She had enjoyed before his reign!”

That night there was the splash of a fall Over the slimy harbour-wall: They searched, and at the deepest place Found him with crabs upon his face.

A CONVERSATION AT DAWN

HE lay awake, with a harassed air, And she, in her cloud of loose lank hair, Seemed trouble-tried As the dawn drew in on their faces there.

The chamber looked far over the sea From a white hotel on a white-stoned quay, And stepping a stride He parted the window-drapery.

Above the level horizon spread The sunrise, firing them foot to head From its smouldering lair, And painting their pillows with dyes of red.

“What strange disquiets have stirred you, dear, This dragging night, with starts in fear Of me, as it were, Or of something evil hovering near?”

“My husband, can I have fear of you? What should one fear from a man whom few, Or none, had matched In that late long spell of delays undue!”

He watched her eyes in the heaving sun: “Then what has kept, O reticent one, Those lids unlatched— Anything promised I’ve not yet done?”

“O it’s not a broken promise of yours (For what quite lightly your lip assures The due time brings) That has troubled my sleep, and no waking cures!” . . .

“I have shaped my will; ’tis at hand,” said he; “I subscribe it to-day, that no risk there be In the hap of things Of my leaving you menaced by poverty.”

“That a boon provision I’m safe to get, Signed, sealed by my lord as it were a debt, I cannot doubt, Or ever this peering sun be set.”

“But you flung my arms away from your side, And faced the wall. No month-old bride Ere the tour be out In an air so loth can be justified?

“Ah—had you a male friend once loved well, Upon whose suit disaster fell And frustrance swift? Honest you are, and may care to tell.”

She lay impassive, and nothing broke The stillness other than, stroke by stroke, The lazy lift Of the tide below them; till she spoke:

“I once had a friend—a Love, if you will— Whose wife forsook him, and sank until She was made a thrall In a prison-cell for a deed of ill . . .

“He remained alone; and we met—to love, But barring legitimate joy thereof Stood a doorless wall, Though we prized each other all else above.

“And this was why, though I’d touched my prime, I put off suitors from time to time— Yourself with the rest— Till friends, who approved you, called it crime,

“And when misgivings weighed on me In my lover’s absence, hurriedly, And much distrest, I took you . . . Ah, that such could be! . . .

“Now, saw you when crossing from yonder shore At yesternoon, that the packet bore On a white-wreathed bier A coffined body towards the fore?

“Well, while you stood at the other end, The loungers talked, and I could but lend A listening ear, For they named the dead. ’Twas the wife of my friend.

“He was there, but did not note me, veiled, Yet I saw that a joy, as of one unjailed, Now shone in his gaze; He knew not his hope of me just had failed!

“They had brought her home: she was born in this isle; And he will return to his domicile, And pass his days Alone, and not as he dreamt erstwhile!”

“—So you’ve lost a sprucer spouse than I!” She held her peace, as if fain deny She would indeed For his pleasure’s sake, but could lip no lie.

“One far less formal and plain and slow!” She let the laconic assertion go As if of need She held the conviction that it was so.

“Regard me as his he always should, He had said, and wed me he vowed he would In his prime or sere Most verily do, if ever he could.

“And this fulfilment is now his aim, For a letter, addressed in my maiden name, Has dogged me here, Reminding me faithfully of his claim.

“And it started a hope like a lightning-streak That I might go to him—say for a week— And afford you right To put me away, and your vows unspeak.

“To be sure you have said, as of dim intent, That marriage is a plain event Of black and white, Without any ghost of sentiment,

“And my heart has quailed.—But deny it true That you will never this lock undo! No God intends To thwart the yearning He’s father to!”

The husband hemmed, then blandly bowed In the light of the angry morning cloud. “So my idyll ends, And a drama opens!” he mused aloud;

And his features froze. “You may take it as true That I will never this lock undo For so depraved A passion as that which kindles you.”

Said she: “I am sorry you see it so; I had hoped you might have let me go, And thus been saved The pain of learning there’s more to know.”

“More? What may that be? Gad, I think You have told me enough to make me blink! Yet if more remain Then own it to me. I will not shrink!”

“Well, it is this. As we could not see That a legal marriage could ever be, To end our pain We united ourselves informally;

“And vowed at a chancel-altar nigh, With book and ring, a lifelong tie; A contract vain To the world, but real to Him on High.”

“And you became as his wife?”—“I did.”— He stood as stiff as a caryatid, And said, “Indeed! . . . No matter. You’re mine, whatever you ye hid!”

“But is it right! When I only gave My hand to you in a sweat to save, Through desperate need (As I thought), my fame, for I was not brave!”

“To save your fame? Your meaning is dim, For nobody knew of your altar-whim?” “I mean—I feared There might be fruit of my tie with him;

“And to cloak it by marriage I’m not the first, Though, maybe, morally most accurst Through your unpeered And strict uprightness. That’s the worst!

“While yesterday his worn contours Convinced me that love like his endures, And that my troth-plight Had been his, in fact, and not truly yours.”

“So, my lady, you raise the veil by degrees . . . I own this last is enough to freeze The warmest wight! Now hear the other side, if you please:

“I did say once, though without intent, That marriage is a plain event Of black and white, Whatever may be its sentiment.

“I’ll act accordingly, none the less That you soiled the contract in time of stress, Thereto induced By the feared results of your wantonness.

“But the thing is over, and no one knows, And it’s nought to the future what you disclose. That you’ll be loosed For such an episode, don’t suppose!

“No: I’ll not free you. And if it appear There was too good ground for your first fear From your amorous tricks, I’ll father the child. Yes, by God, my dear.

“Even should you fly to his arms, I’ll damn Opinion, and fetch you; treat as sham Your mutinous kicks, And whip you home. That’s the sort I am!”

She whitened. “Enough . . . Since you disapprove I’ll yield in silence, and never move Till my last pulse ticks A footstep from the domestic groove.”

“Then swear it,” he said, “and your king uncrown.” He drew her forth in her long white gown, And she knelt and swore. “Good. Now you may go and again lie down

“Since you’ve played these pranks and given no sign, You shall crave this man of yours; pine and pine With sighings sore, ’Till I’ve starved your love for him; nailed you mine.

“I’m a practical man, and want no tears; You’ve made a fool of me, it appears; That you don’t again Is a lesson I’ll teach you in future years.”

She answered not, but lay listlessly With her dark dry eyes on the coppery sea, That now and then Flung its lazy flounce at the neighbouring quay.

1910.

A KING’S SOLILOQUY ON THE NIGHT OF HIS FUNERAL

FROM the slow march and muffled drum And crowds distrest, And book and bell, at length I have come To my full rest.

A ten years’ rule beneath the sun Is wound up here, And what I have done, what left undone, Figures out clear.

Yet in the estimate of such It grieves me more That I by some was loved so much Than that I bore,

From others, judgment of that hue Which over-hope Breeds from a theoretic view Of regal scope.

For kingly opportunities Right many have sighed; How best to bear its devilries Those learn who have tried!

I have eaten the fat and drunk the sweet, Lived the life out From the first greeting glad drum-beat To the last shout.

What pleasure earth affords to kings I have enjoyed Through its long vivid pulse-stirrings Even till it cloyed.

What days of drudgery, nights of stress Can cark a throne, Even one maintained in peacefulness, I too have known.

And so, I think, could I step back To life again, I should prefer the average track Of average men,

Since, as with them, what kingship would It cannot do, Nor to first thoughts however good Hold itself true.

Something binds hard the royal hand, As all that be, And it is That has shaped, has planned My acts and me.

_May_ 1910.

THE CORONATION

AT Westminster, hid from the light of day, Many who once had shone as monarchs lay.

Edward the Pious, and two Edwards more, The second Richard, Henrys three or four;

That is to say, those who were called the Third, Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth (the much self-widowered),

And James the Scot, and near him Charles the Second, And, too, the second George could there be reckoned.

Of women, Mary and Queen Elizabeth, And Anne, all silent in a musing death;

And William’s Mary, and Mary, Queen of Scots, And consort-queens whose names oblivion blots;

And several more whose chronicle one sees Adorning ancient royal pedigrees.

—Now, as they drowsed on, freed from Life’s old thrall, And heedless, save of things exceptional,

Said one: “What means this throbbing thudding sound That reaches to us here from overground;

“A sound of chisels, augers, planes, and saws, Infringing all ecclesiastic laws?

“And these tons-weight of timber on us pressed, Unfelt here since we entered into rest?

“Surely, at least to us, being corpses royal, A meet repose is owing by the loyal?”

“—Perhaps a scaffold!” Mary Stuart sighed, “If such still be. It was that way I died.”

“—Ods! Far more like,” said he the many-wived, “That for a wedding ’tis this work’s contrived.

“Ha-ha! I never would bow down to Rimmon, But I had a rare time with those six women!”

“Not all at once?” gasped he who loved confession. “Nay, nay!” said Hal. “That would have been transgression.”

“—They build a catafalque here, black and tall, Perhaps,” mused Richard, “for some funeral?”

And Anne chimed in: “Ah, yes: it maybe so!” “Nay!” squeaked Eliza. “Little you seem to know—

“Clearly ’tis for some crowning here in state, As they crowned us at our long bygone date;

“Though we’d no such a power of carpentry, But let the ancient architecture be;

“If I were up there where the parsons sit, In one of my gold robes, I’d see to it!”

“But you are not,” Charles chuckled. “You are here, And never will know the sun again, my dear!”

“Yea,” whispered those whom no one had addressed; “With slow, sad march, amid a folk distressed, We were brought here, to take our dusty rest.

“And here, alas, in darkness laid below, We’ll wait and listen, and endure the show . . . Clamour dogs kingship; afterwards not so!”

1911.

AQUAE SULIS

THE chimes called midnight, just at interlune, And the daytime talk of the Roman investigations Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune The bubbling waters played near the excavations.

And a warm air came up from underground, And a flutter, as of a filmy shape unsepulchred, That collected itself, and waited, and looked around: Nothing was seen, but utterances could be heard: