Part 8 (2/2)
”Birds gived awver singin', Flittermice was wingin', Mists lay on the meadows-- A purty sight to see.
Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy, Down-long in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me.
”Five gude mile o' walkin', Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question And put the same to she.
Up-long in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light, Up-long in the owl-light, Theer corned my maid wi' me.
”But I wonder you write the common words, Clem--you who be so much tu clever to use 'em.”
”The words are well enough. They were not common once.”
”Well, you knaw best. Could 'e sell such a li'l auld funny thing as that for money?”
He shook his head.
”No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good. It is worthless.”
”An' to think how long it took 'e! If you'd awnly put the time into big-fas.h.i.+oned verses full of the high words you've got. But you knaw best. Did 'e hear anything of them rhymes 'bout the auld days you sent to Lunnon?”
”They sent them back again. I told you 't was wasting three stamps. It 's not for me, I know it. The world is full of dumb singers. Maybe I haven't got even a pinch of the fire that _must_ break through and show its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it. G.o.d knows I burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longings for love and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires--whether they are soul-fires or body-fires--only burn my heart out.”
She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what he said.
”We must be patient. 'T is a solid thing, patience. I'm puttin' by pence; but it 's so plaguy little a gal can earn, best o' times and with the best will.”
”If I could only write the things I think! But they vanish before pen and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish before the hard, searching sun. I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in the world who might help me will never know of me. As for those around about, they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of re-writing names over their dirty shop-fronts.”
”Yet it 's money. What did 'e get for that butivul fox wi' the goose in his mouth you painted 'pon Mr. Lamacraft's sign to Sticklepath?”
”Ten s.h.i.+llings.”
”That's solid money.”
”It isn't now. I bought a book with it--a book of lies.”
Chris was going to speak, but changed her mind and sighed instead.
”Well, as our affairs be speeding so poorly, we'd best to do some gude deed an' look after this other coil. You must let Will knaw what 's doin' by letter this very night. 'T is awnly fair, you being set in trust for him.”
”Strange, these Grimbal brothers,” mused Clement, as the lovers proceeded in the direction of Chagford. ”They come home with everything on G.o.d's earth that men might desire to win happiness, and, by the look of it, each marks his home-coming by falling in love with one he can't have.”
”Shaws the fairness of things, Clem; how the poor may chance to have what the rich caan't buy; so all look to stand equal.”
”Fairness, you call it? The d.a.m.ned, cynical irony of this whole pa.s.sion-driven puppet-show--that's what it shows! The man who is loved cannot marry the woman he loves lest they both starve; the man who can give a woman half the world is loathed for his pains. Not that he 's to be pitied like the pauper, for if you can't buy love you can buy women, and the wise ones know how to manufacture a very lasting subst.i.tute for the real thing.”
”You talk that black and bitter as though you was deep-read in all the wickedness of the world,” said Chris; ”yet I knaw no man can say sweeter things than you sometimes.”
”Talk! It 's all talk with me--all snarling and railing and whining at hard facts, like a viper wasting its venom on steel. I'm sick of myself--weary of the old, stale round of my thoughts. Where can I wash and be clean? Chrissy, for G.o.d's sake, tell me.”
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