Part 3

And when he paused, nigh spent, to wipe the sweat From off his dripping brow: and Robert turned To fling some idle jibe at him, the spark Of anger, smouldering in him, flared and burned-- Though all his body quivered, wringing-wet-- Till that black hole To him blazed red, As if the very coal Had kindled underfoot and overhead: Then, gripping tight his pick, He rushed upon his brother: But Robert, turning quick, Leapt up, and now they faced each other.

They faced each other: Dick with arm upraised, In act to strike, and murder in his eyes.... When, suddenly, with noise of thunder, The earth shook round them, rumbling o'er and under; And Dick saw Robert, lying at his feet: As, close behind, the gallery crashed in: And almost at his heel, earth gaped asunder. By black disaster dazed, His wrath died; and he dropped the pick; And staggered, dizzily and terror-sick. But, when the dust and din Had settled to a stillness, dread as death: And he once more could draw his breath; He gave a little joyful shout To find the lamps had not gone out.

And on his knees he fell Beside his brother, buried in black dust: And, full of tense misgiving, He lifted him, and thrust A knee beneath his head; and cleared The dust from mouth and nose: but could not tell Awhile if he were dead or living. Too fearful to know what he feared, He fumbled at the open shirt, And felt till he could feel the heart, Still beating with a feeble beat: And then he saw the closed lids part, And saw the nostrils quiver; And knew his brother lived, though sorely hurt.

Again he staggered to his feet, And fetched his water-can, and wet The ashy lips, and bathed the brow, Until his brother sat up with a shiver, And gazed before him with a senseless stare And dull eyes strangely set. Too well Dick knew that now They must not linger there, Cut off from all their mates, to be o'ertaken In less than no time by the deadly damp, So, picking up his lamp, He made his brother rise; Then took him by the arm, And shook him, till he'd shaken An inkling of the danger and alarm Into those dull, still eyes: Then dragged him, and half-carried him, in haste, To reach the airway, where 'twould still be sweet When all the gallery was foul with gas: But, soon as they had reached it, they were faced By a big fall of roof they could not pass; And found themselves cut off from all retreat, On every hand, by that black shining wall; With naught to do but sit and wait Till rescue came, if rescue came at all, And did not come too late.

And, in the fresher airway, light came back To Robert's eyes, although he never spoke: And not a sound the deathly quiet broke, As they sat staring at that wall of black-- As, in the glimmer of the dusky lamp, They sat and wondered, wondered if the damp-- The stealthy after-damp that creeping, creeping, Takes strong lads by the throat, and drops them sleeping, To wake no more for any woman's weeping-- Would steal upon them, ere the rescue came.... And if the rescuers would find them sitting, Would find them sitting cold.... Then, as they sat and wondered, like a flame One thought burned up both hearts: Still, neither breathed her name.

And now their thoughts dropped back into the pit, And through the league-long gallery went flitting With speed no fall could hold: They wondered how their mates had fared: If they'd been struck stone-dead, Or if they shared Like fate with them, or reached the shaft, Unhurt, and only scared, Before disaster overtook them: And then, although their courage ne'er forsook them, They wondered once again if they must sit Awaiting death ... but knowing well That even for a while to dwell On such like thoughts will drive a strong man daft: They shook themselves until their thoughts ran free Along the drift, and clambered in the cage; And in a trice were shooting up the shaft: But when their thoughts had come to the pithead, And found the fearful people gathered there, Beneath the noonday sun, Bright-eyed with terror, blinded by despair, Dick rose, and with his chalk wrote on the wall, This message for their folk: "We can't get any further, 12, noonday"-- And signed both names; and, when he'd done, Though neither of them spoke, They both seemed easier in a way, Now that they'd left a word, Though nothing but a scrawl.

And silent still they sat, And never stirred: And Dick's thoughts dwelt on this and that: How, far above their heads, upon the sea The sun was shining merrily, And in its golden glancing The windy waves were dancing: And how he'd slipt that morning on his way: And how on Friday, when he drew his pay, He'd buy a blanket for his whippet, Nell; He felt dead certain she would win the race, On Saturday ... though you could never tell, There were such odds against her ... but his face Lit up as though, even now, he saw her run, A little slip of lightning, in the sun: While Robert's thoughts were ever on the match His team was booked to play on Saturday; He placed the field, and settled who should play The centre-forward; for he had a doubt Will Burn was scarcely up to form, although...

Just then, the lamp went slowly out.

Still, neither stirred, Nor spoke a word; Though either's breath came quickly, with a catch.

And now again one thought Set both their hearts afire In one fierce flame Of quick desire: Though neither breathed her name.

Then Dick stretched out his hand; and caught His brother's arm; and whispered in his ear: "Bob, lad, there's naught to fear ... And, when we're out, lad, you and she shall wed."

Bob gripped Dick's hand; and then no more was said, As, slowly, all about them rose The deadly after-damp; but close They sat together, hand in hand. Then their minds wandered; and Dick seemed to stand And shout till he was hoarse To speed his winning whippet down the course ... And Robert, with the ball Secure within his oxter charged ahead Straight for the goal, and none could hold, Though many tried a fall.

Then dreaming they were lucky boys in bed, Once more, and lying snugly by each other: Dick, with his arms clasped tight about his brother, Whispered with failing breath Into the ear of death: "Come, Robert, cuddle closer, lad, it's cold."

THE BLIND ROWER

And since he rowed his father home, His hand has never touched an oar. All day, he wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the swishing foam. Though blind from birth, he still could row As well as any lad with sight; And knew strange things that none may know Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve To sink the lobster-pots at sea, The sun was crimson in the sky; And not a breath was in the sky, The brooding, thunder-laden sky, That, heavily and wearily, Weighed down upon the waveless sea That scarcely seemed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then The father gave the word for home: He took the tiller in his hand, And, in his heart already home, He brought her nose round towards the land, To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke, Nor stirred again: A sudden stroke, And he lay dead, With staring eyes, and lips of lead.

The son rowed on, and nothing feared: And sometimes, merrily, He lifted up his voice, and sang, Both high and low, And loud and sweet: For he was ever gay at sea, And ever glad to row, And rowed as only blind men row: And little did the blind lad know That death was at his feet: For still he thought his father steered; Nor knew that he was all alone With death upon the open sea. So merrily, he rowed, and sang; And, strangely on the silence rang That lonely melody, As, through the livid, brooding gloom, By rock and reef, he rowed for home-- The blind man rowed the dead man home.

But, as they neared the shore, He rested on his oar: And, wondering that his father kept So very quiet in the stern; He laughed, and asked him if he slept; And vowed he heard him snore just now. Though, when his father spoke no word, A sudden fear upon him came: And, crying on his father's name, With flinching heart, he heard The water lapping on the shore; And all his blood ran cold, to feel The shingle grate beneath the keel: And stretching over towards the stern, His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But, help was near at hand; And safe he came to land: Though none has ever known How he rowed in, alone, And never touched a reef. Some say they saw the dead man steer-- The dead man steer the blind man home-- Though, when they found him dead, His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro, In every sort of weather, The blind lad wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the foam. His hand has never touched an oar, Since they came home together-- The blind, who rowed his father home-- The dead, who steered his blind son home.

THE FLUTE

"Good-night!" he sang out cheerily: "Good-night!" and yet again: "Good-night!"

And I was gay that night to be Once more in my clean countryside, Among the windy hills and wide. Six days of city slush and mud, Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel, Made me rejoice again to feel The tingling frost that fires the blood, And sets life burning keen and bright; And down the ringing road to stride The eager swinging stride that braces The straining thews from hip to heel: To breathe again the wind that sweeps Across the grassy, Northern steeps, From crystal deeps and starry spaces.

And I was glad again to hear The old man's greeting of good cheer: For every night for many a year At that same corner we had met, Summer and Winter, dry and wet: And though I never once had heard The old man speak another word, His cheery greeting at the bend Seemed like the welcome of a friend.

But, as we neared to-night, somehow, I felt that he would stop and speak: Though he went by: and when I turned, I saw him standing in the road, And looking back, with hand to brow, As if to shade old eyes, grown weak Awaiting the long sleep they'd earned: Though, as again towards him I strode, A friendly light within them burned. And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke With shaking head, and voice that broke: "I've missed you these last nights," he said "And I have not so many now That I can miss friends easily... Aye: friends grow scarce, as you grow old: And roads are rough: and winds are cold: And when you feel you're losing hold, Life does not go too merrily." And then he stood with nodding head, And spoke no more. And so I told How I had been, six days and nights, Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights. And now, as though my voice had stirred His heart to speech, he told right out, With quickening eye and quavering word, The things I care to hear about, The little things that make up life: How he'd been lonesome, since his wife Had died, some thirty year ago: And how he trudged three mile or so To reach the farmstead where he worked, And three mile back to his own door... For he dwelt outby on the moor: And every day the distance irked More sorely still his poor, old bones; And all the road seemed strewn with stones To trip you up, when you were old-- When you were old, and friends were few: How, since the farmstead had been sold, The master and the men were new, All save himself; and they were young; And Mistress had a raspy tongue: So, often, he would hardly speak A friendly word from week to week With any soul. Old friends had died, Or else had quit the countryside: And, since his wife was taken, he Had lived alone, this thirty year: And there were few who cared to hear An old man's jabber ... and too long He'd kept me, standing in the cold, With his long tongue, and such a song About himself! And I would be...

I put my arm through his; and turned To go upon his way with him: And once again that warm light burned In those old eyes, so weak and dim: While, with thin, piping voice, he told How much it meant to him each night To change a kindly word with me: To think that he'd at least one friend Who'd maybe miss him, in the end.

Then, as we walked, he said no more: And, silent, in the starry light, Across the wide, sweet-smelling bent, Between the grass and stars we went In quiet, friendly company: And, all the way, we only heard A chirrup where some partridge stirred, And ran before us through the grass, To hide his head till we should pass.

At length, we reached the cottage-door: But, when I stopped, and turned to go, His words came falteringly and slow: If I would step inside, and rest, I'd be right welcome: not a guest Had crossed his threshold, thirty year... He'd naught but bread and cheese and beer To offer me ... but, I'd know best...

He spoke with hand upon the latch; And, when I answered, opened wide The cottage-door; and stepped inside; And, as I followed, struck a match, And lit a tallow-dip: and stirred The banked-up peats into a glow: And then with shuffling step and slow He moved about: and soon had set Two mugs of beer, and bread and cheese: And while we made a meal off these, The old man never spoke a word; But, brooding in the ingle-seat, With eyes upon the kindling peat, He seemed awhile to quite forget He was not sitting by himself To-night, like any other night; When, as, in the dim candle-light, I glanced around me, with surprise I saw, upon the rafter-shelf, A flute, nigh hidden in the shade.

And when I asked him if he played, The light came back into his eyes: Aye, aye, he sometimes piped a bit, But not so often since she died. And then, as though old memories lit His poor, old heart, and made it glad, He told how he, when quite a lad, Had taught himself: and they would play On penny whistles all the day-- He and the miller's son, beside The millpool, chirping all they knew, Till they could whistle clean and true: And how, when old enough to earn, They both saved up to buy a flute; And they had played it, turn for turn: But, Jake was dead, this long while back... Ah! if I'd only heard him toot, I'd know what music meant. Aye, aye... He'd play me something, by-and-bye; Though he was naught to Jake ... and now His breath was scant, and fingering slack... He used to play to her at night The melodies that she liked best, While she worked on: she'd never rest By daylight, or by candle-light... And then, with hand upon his brow, He brooded, quiet in his chair, With eyes upon the red peat-glare; Until, at length, he roused himself, And reached the flute down from the shelf; And, carrying it outside the door, I saw him take a can, and pour Fresh water through the instrument, To make it sweet of tone, he said. Then, in his seat, so old and bent, With kindling eyes, and swaying head, He played the airs he used to play To please his wife, before she died: And as I watched his body sway In time and tune, from side to side, So happy, playing, and to please With old familiar melodies, His eyes grew brighter and more bright, As though they saw some well-loved sight: And, following his happy gaze, I turned, and saw, without amaze, A woman standing, young and fair, With hazel eyes, and thick brown hair Brushed smoothly backward from the brow, Beside the table that but now, Save for the empty mugs, was bare. Upon it she had spread a sheet: And stood there, ironing a shirt, Her husband's, as he played to her Her favourite tunes, so old and sweet. I watched her move with soundless stir; Then stand with listening eyes, and hold The iron near her glowing cheek, Lest it, too hot, should do some hurt, And she, so careful not to burn The well-darned shirt, so worn and old. Then, something seemed to make me turn To look on the old man again: And, as I looked, the playing stopped; And now I saw that he had dropped Into his brooding mood once more, With eyes again grown dull and weak. He seemed the oldest of old men Who grope through life with sight worn dim And, even as I looked at him, Too full of tender awe to speak, I knew once more the board was bare, With no young woman standing there With hazel eyes and thick, brown hair; And I, in vain, for her should seek, If I but sought this side death's door.

And so, at last, I rose, and took His hand: and as he clasped mine tight, I saw again that friendly look Fill his old weary eyes with light, And wish me, without words, good-night And in my heart, that look glowed bright Till I reached home across the moor.

And, at the corner of the lane, Next night, I heard the old voice cry In greeting, as I struggled by, Head-down against the wind and rain. And so each night, until one day, His master chanced across my way: But, when I spoke of him, he said: Did I not know the man was dead, And had been dead a week or so? One morn he'd not turned up to work; And never having known him shirk; And hearing that he lived alone; He thought it best himself to go And see what ailed: and coming there, He found the old man in his chair, Stone-dead beside the cold hearthstone. It must be full a week, or more... Aye, just two weeks, come Saturday, He'd found him; but he must have died O'ernight--(the night I heard him play!) And they had found, dropt by his side, A broken flute upon the floor.

Yet, every night, his greeting still At that same corner of the hill, Summer and Winter, wet or dry, 'Neath cloud, or moon, or cold starlight, Is waiting there to welcome me: And ever as I hurry by, The old voice sings out cheerily: "Good-night!" and yet again, "Good-night!"

1910-1911.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED. DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.