Part 11 (2/2)

She'll speak to no one now, and every day, Morning and evening, she's at the gate Gazing like a fey creature on that head She was so stricken to behold--you mind it?-- I tell you she's in love with it.

_Jean_.

O don't be silly.

How can you fall in love with a dead man?

And what good could he do you, if you did?

One loves for kisses and for hugs and the rest; A s.p.u.n.ky fellow,--that's the thing to love.

But a dead man,--pah, what a foolery!

_Katrina_.

O yes, to you; for Love's a game for you.

'Twill turn out dangerous maybe, but still,--a game.

_Jean_.

Yes, the best kind of game a girl can play, And all the better for the risk, Katrina.

But where the fun would be in Love if he You played with had not heart to jump, nor blood To tingle, nothing in him to go wild At seeing you betray your love for him, Beats me to understand. You'ld be as wise Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone As loving one that never lived for you.

It isn't just to make a wind you blow, But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.

Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl: I know what love is. But perhaps she saw The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?

_Katrina_.

Not she; Mary has never known a lad I did not know as well. We've shared our lives As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure She's never been in love before.

_Jean_.

Before?

Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--

_Katrina_.

Why, If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything, Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world Whom, if you come across him, you must love, And you could no more pa.s.s his face unmoved Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead, Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes, It is enough: he is the man for you, All as if he were quick and signalling His heart to you in smiles.

_Jean_.

Believe me, dear, You've no more notion of the thing called Love Than a grig has of talking. But I have, And I'm off now to practise with my notions.

_Katrina_.

Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?

VI

_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.

_Mary_.

Beloved, beloved!--O forgive me That all these days questioning I have been, Struggled with doubts. Your power over me, That here slipt through the nets death caught you in, Lighted on me so greatly that my heart Could scarcely carry the amazement. Now I am awake and seeing; and I come To save you from this post of ignominy.

A ladder I have filched and thro' the streets Borne it, on shoulders little used to weight.

You'll say that I should not have bruised myself?-- But it is good, and an ease for me, to have Some ache of body.--Now if there's any c.h.i.n.k In death, surely my love will reach to thee, Surely thou wilt be ware of how I go Henceforth through life utterly thine. And yet Pardon what now I say, for I must say it.

I cannot thank thee, my dear murder'd lad, For mastering me so. What other girls Might say in blessing on their sweethearts' heads, How can I say? They are well done to, when Love of a man their beings like a loom Seizes, and the loose ends of purposes Into one beautiful desire weaves.

But love has not so done to me: I was A nature clean as water from the hills, One that had pleased the lips of G.o.d; and now Brackish I am, as if some vagrom malice Had trampled up the springs and made them run Channelling ancient secrecies of salt.

O me, what, has my tongue these bitter words In front of my love's death? Look down, sweetheart, From the height of thy sacred ignominy And see my shame. Nay, I will come up to thee And have my pardon from thy lips, and do The only good I can to thee, sweetheart.

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