A Conversation at Dawn
He lay awake, with a harassed air,And she, in her cloud of loose lank hair,Seemed trouble-triedAs the dawn drew in on their faces there.
The chamber looked far over the seaFrom a white hotel on a white-stoned quay,And stepping a strideHe parted the window-drapery.
Above the level horizon spreadThe sunrise, firing them foot to headFrom its smouldering lair,And painting their pillows with dyes of red.
“What strange disquiets have stirred you, dear,This dragging night, with starts in fearOf 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 matchedIn 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 assuresThe 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 beIn the hap of thingsOf 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 brideEre the tour be outIn an air so loth can be justified?
“Ah—had you a male friend once loved well,Upon whose suit disaster fellAnd frustrance swift?Honest you are, and may care to tell.”
She lay impassive, and nothing brokeThe stillness other than, stroke by stroke,The lazy liftOf the tide below them; till she spoke:
“I once had a friend—a Love, if you will—Whose wife forsook him, and sank untilShe was made a thrallIn a prison-cell for a deed of ill . . .
“He remained alone; and we met—to love,But barring legitimate joy thereofStood 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 meIn my lover’s absence, hurriedly,And much distrest,I took you . . . Ah, that such could be! . . .
“Now, saw you when crossing from yonder shoreAt yesternoon, that the packet boreOn a white-wreathed bierA coffined body towards the fore?
“Well, while you stood at the other end,The loungers talked, and I could but lendA 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 daysAlone, and not as he dreamt erstwhile!”
“—So you’ve lost a sprucer spouse than I!”She held her peace, as if fain denyShe would indeedFor his pleasure’s sake, but could lip no lie.
“One far less formal and plain and slow!”She let the laconic assertion goAs if of needShe held the conviction that it was so.
“Regard me as his he always should,He had said, and wed me he vowed he wouldIn his prime or sereMost 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-streakThat I might go to him—say for a week—And afford you rightTo put me away, and your vows unspeak.
“To be sure you have said, as of dim intent,That marriage is a plain eventOf black and white,Without any ghost of sentiment,
“And my heart has quailed.—But deny it trueThat you will never this lock undo!No God intendsTo thwart the yearning He’s father to!”
The husband hemmed, then blandly bowedIn 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 trueThat I will never this lock undoFor so depravedA 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 savedThe pain of learning there’s more to know.”
“More? What may that be? Gad, I thinkYou have told me enough to make me blink!Yet if more remainThen own it to me. I will not shrink!”
“Well, it is this. As we could not seeThat a legal marriage could ever be,To end our painWe united ourselves informally;
“And vowed at a chancel-altar nigh,With book and ring, a lifelong tie;A contract vainTo 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 gaveMy 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 fearedThere might be fruit of my tie with him;
“And to cloak it by marriage I’m not the first,Though, maybe, morally most accurstThrough your unpeeredAnd strict uprightness. That’s the worst!
“While yesterday his worn contoursConvinced me that love like his endures,And that my troth-plightHad been his, in fact, and not truly yours.”
“So, my lady, you raise the veil by degrees . . .I own this last is enough to freezeThe warmest wight!Now hear the other side, if you please:
“I did say once, though without intent,That marriage is a plain eventOf black and white,Whatever may be its sentiment.
“I’ll act accordingly, none the lessThat you soiled the contract in time of stress,Thereto inducedBy 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 loosedFor such an episode, don’t suppose!
“No: I’ll not free you. And if it appearThere was too good ground for your first fearFrom your amorous tricks,I’ll father the child. Yes, by God, my dear.
“Even should you fly to his arms, I’ll damnOpinion, and fetch you; treat as shamYour mutinous kicks,And whip you home. That’s the sort I am!”
She whitened. “Enough . . . Since you disapproveI’ll yield in silence, and never moveTill my last pulse ticksA 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 pineWith 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 againIs a lesson I’ll teach you in future years.”
She answered not, but lay listlesslyWith her dark dry eyes on the coppery sea,That now and thenFlung its lazy flounce at the neighbouring quay.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.