SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 3842, 1 November 1927, Page 80

SHORT STORIES

THE POET’S WIFE.

“x

Dearmer MacCormac.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) The poet’s hand travelled faster and faster, and faster still—almost illegible dashes and scrawls standing for the words he could not wait to write in full. The words, burning, divine, that flowed and crowded so that he trembled and shook and groaned, and leaned harder and harder upon his desk under the strain of keeping up-with them. “ Leo,” said a voice—his wife’s—from far away; an urgent, frightened little voice. He made no reply. He had not heard. “ Leo,” she said again. He shook his shoulders ever so slightly; the words, “ Go away,” formed themselves on his lips—and died without utterance as he slipped back again into the depths of his work. Oh, Leo,” she said. And now the poet’s hand hesitated, wrote a word, hesitated again, and stopped, and he looked up almost with a snarl. But—Poppy was looking at him so strangely; with panic and pleading in her eyes; hanging on to the door post, smiling a little apologetic smile that seemed to have caught on something. She seemed to be waiting; to be straining desperately to fend off from flying second to flying second, until she had got his attention, a dark and dreadful something ... a .something that would not be denied, and came, irresistibly now, like the soft passing of a cloud over the face of the sun. Very quietly, as its shadow touched her, her lids dropped over her eyes; very quietly, she sagged, slid slowly down the doorpost, huddling against it in a little heap on the floor for a second, and slipped out and lay, her face on her arm, in front of the door. A sudden icy shower of stillness and silence rained stunningly into the room, slowly ceasing, softly settling, and Leo got up and tip-toed through it to his wife’s side, arguing with himself, re-

assuring himself; wildly beating off the nuzzling terror, only to know, stiffly, without daring to tur nhis bristling head, that its old snout was there again at the back of his neck. Poppy! Poppy! She wasn’t dead—■ she couldn’t be! . . . Was she? Was she? Now, steady—he must keep his head—of course she wasn’t! And then — in- suddenly escaping wild frenzy, as he lifted the inert little head and had a glimpse of her face, ashen and still in its frame of too heavy dark braids — Poppy! Poppy! God! God!—or the devil —Poppy! Poppy! He shrieked the name. He sobbed it, and moaned it, while somebody came, somebody took charge, and ordered him unmercifully about, and he obeyed, cursing, imploring, despairing. But, what was it saying now—this voice that seemed to trickle down to him word by word through countless ages? Not to be a fool? That —Poppy wasn’t going to die? That —she wasn’t dead, then ? Understanding penetrated slowly. For a second he felt as he had felt once when, as a sensitive little boy new to school, he had fought —screaming, sobbing, madly striking and kicking, until he was dragged off by main,force —a companion twice his age whom he had caught torturing a mouse. Suddenly snapped and limp and horribly sick, in desperate need of firm support for the small of his back, of someone to grip his ■wrists, to grip them tighter and tighter to prevent his slipping away altogether. Only for a second; . Now he was. laughing, talking other nonsense, almost fawning upon the owner of the house; and then, shrinking, fumbling, and mumbling, and trying to straighten up under the stinging contempt in her look and tone as she barred the way to the bedroom door. “ And where’ve you been gettin’ that water all this time? She’s come round long ago. fco, you don’t —’’quickly—“ she’s very weak. You’re not goin’ in to excite ’er. You’d best go out or somethin’ for an hour or two. I’m going to make ’er a cun of tea, and then she’ll want a sleep.” The old hen ! The cold dislike in the little, light, pin-point eyes of her, the undisguised suspicion in her attitude! Did she think he’d been beating Poppy, or bullying her? He’d a damned good mind to order her out, the prying old busybody! Bustling about, assuming charge, dictating to him like this just because Poppy had fainted! But, instead, he gave way almost guiltily before her, and stood, despising himself, while, still barring his way, she opened the door behind her, poking her head in cautiously in response to Poppy’s eager, weak voice. “Oh, no. Mrs Brown. Please let him come in. I—want him ! ” You see, you mischief-making old cat! If there were any grounds for your sus-picions'-she would “want” me, wouldn’t she ? '"lanced at her, triumphantly, pathetically. and inclined his head with over-

clone carelessness as she stood aside, reluctantly, almost snorting, to let him pass. But on the darkened threshold he became all at once as a shamed suppliant approaching a shrine. He had nothing, nothing, to reproach himself with—he clung desperately to that—God knew that Mother Brown’s thinly-veiled suspicions were unfounded—and yet —and yet. . . . The sight of her waiting for

him there and smiling, in the dimness, with her gleaming sweet eyes, the knowledge that Poppy would always let him in, drew his throat tighter and tighter, made him afraid to take a step forward. He came out, 10 minutes later, like a penitent from the confessional, burning to begin a self-imposed penance. . .

What a little saint Poppy was! What a poor little saint! And what an unthinking, selfish brute he’d been! He might have known, he might have guessed long ago. But he’d make it up to her—his little Poppy-wife—he wouldn’t fail her again. He’d keep his murmured, broken promises of just now, see if he didn’t! Well, where was that Brown woman, the fat, funny old hen? It wouldn’t do to offend her now—Poppy’d need her—she had no one else. For Poppy’s sake he’d have to overlook her intrusions and insolences. A sacrifice, of course—for Poppy’s sake. And, of course, he’d pay her, and well, and dismiss her from their life and memory—as soon as he got his book fixed up! Yes—he squared his shoulders—there’d be an end of all this, when his book was finished!

Whistling, with an assumed, air of jauntiness, he went out to the kitchen to her. By Jove, Poppy’ had given him. a bad fright that time, Mrs’ Brown ! And then in sudden, secret, miserable fury, as she sniffed—did she think he’d better have a doctor look in, just to be on the safe side ?

Mrs Brown snorted audibly, muttered something about it’s not being a doctor that Poppy needed so much, and demanded the whereabouts of the foodstuffs. He indicated the safe into winch she had already peered ; and stood uncertainly clenching and unclenching his hands, having no choice but to ignore, to refuse to ackowledge the implied insult, while she poked about again in the interior, slammed the suddenly shut, glared at him, and flounced off to her own quarter,? for her own materials.

His shoulders seemed to slump as she disappeared, and he went on tip-toe back to Poppy s door, listened there, hesitating, for a second, and turned at the sound of Mi;s Brown’s returning footsteps and crept along the narrow hall to the little front room that served as dining room and sitting room and study. As he stood at the window he felt a wave of self-pity, of desolation, creeping up, up. He swallowed, stooping to retrieve a page that lay under his desk. As he replaced it the scattered papers rustled and fluttered like the dry whisperings of burnt-out ashes in a draughty black fireplace.

He sank into the chair becoming suddenly aware—with a strange little sensation of lightness, with a feeling of forlornness so acute that he heard himself give a sob—that for about a month he had had nothing to eat more appetising, more sustaining, than chops or sausages—he shuddered uncontrollably from head to foot at the very words—or stew and cheese and tea, tea. He who always crept away from his work like a neglected child from' a cheerless, bleak nursery into the firelight, literally hungry for warmth and petting and dainty fare.

The thought struck him sharply, like a sudden stinging lash, “Cad! Unspeakable ead! What of Poppy, then, and Betty ? ” He groaned under the searing stroke, and groaned again, and ran his fingers through his fine sleek hair, flinging himself back from the window as at that moment Betty came flying into sight from the corner grocery at the top of the harsh little street, with three white-headed brown children, laughing, waving her thin little arms, racing—as wild almost as any other child of the neighbourhood. An intolerable vision rose before him of the little daughter Betty she should be—Betty', absorbed, adorable, making i dolls’ clothes under a shady tree with a i pleasant young teacher and’ half a dozen mewing little companions—Betty, in ulainty frock and little cloak and slippers, a band of daisies round her shining fair head, going out, carefully, consciously carrying a diminutive party handbag just like mother’s to a children’s affair at Government House, or- to_ dance or recite at some charity concert. Betty, gloved, gaitered, with glowing cheeks and peeping curls on a sunny frosty morning just like this, trotting happily, with a little skip now then, beside kina old Nan and—here Leo writhed—dear little new wrapped-up baby brother, to the park to play and feed the ducks and swans. A proud little girl of six, with ,a high, haughty little voice, and a quick glad laugh, and eager, imperious ways. He sat up, striking the desk with a ■petulant gesture. As if it was his fault! iAs if it was his fault that he hadn’t 'been '‘born a bridge-builder—or a brickflayer! Hadn’t he done all—and more—that a man could? Had he even stopped, as last year, at odd jobs here and there? Waiting, hanging about for

them like an out-of-work navvy; slink* ing doggedly to and fro with head down and luinds deep in pockets in sick dread of meeting anyone he knew. Hadn’t he borrowed, or tried to borrow; halting, hating himself, averting his eyes from what he knew he should see in tho coldly courteous, uncompromising eyes ( the good-natured, pitying eyes, tha hostile, detecting eyes, regarding him. Wouldn’t he have to do it again now—« if he could. Would he hesitate, to try—for them?

But precious little thanks he’d get for it. Just because he never whined it was assumed he bad nothing to whine about. Because he suffered in silence rt was supposed he was not suffering at all—that he liked navvying and borrow* ing. All the sympathy went to Poppy—not that he wanted sympathy. And Poppy—working, himself up—little fool that she was! Why hadn’t she complained, reproached, rebelled even, instead of going on like this? Creeping about always like a mouse with that set little smile and her great eyes for “ever looking, looking out of her peaked littlo face! And what'had given her that look? It had made its appearance even before these days of acute hard times —it couldn’t be that. And she had been such a grave little, quiet bride; softly-moving, silent always with the silence of still, deep happiness. Silent, she was silent still. What was the difference ?

Damn it all! What was it? What was the meaning of the pinched lips and following eyes of the neighbourhood, of tho slouching glances of the steady workmen husbands who brought home regular if meagre wages, and chopped the household firewood, and enforced maternal authority at rounding-up time when a game of cricket or chasings in the dusky street proved too engrossing, and helped with the filling and emptying of the Saturday night baths. Had he ever ill-treated her. as he knew it was suspected? Hadn’t he been good to her always? Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? If he had had little time to spare for her lately—for months—hadn’t it been because he’d been working himself half to death for her? If, sometimes, he had been irritable and morose, if he had flared up and flung himself out. as if the very sight of her, the sound of her voice, drove him to frenzy, hadn’t it been because he was nearly out of his mind with anxiety for her, half-guessing, refusing to let himself guess?

Didn’t she know it? And hadn’t he always remorsefully made it up to her—with kisses, and promises, and assurances ?

He pushed his chair back noisily ‘and rose, striving to keep up the futile fury. The little idiot! Why hadn’t she told him at once that she felt faint, instead of standing there swaying; waiting, waiting his pleasure? Making a martyr of herself, causing that scene! But—“Oh, Leo!” she had said. The unutterable patience in her voice, the uncomplaining, unconscious reproach ! Oh, he was a cad ! An abyssmal cad! Poppy little soft brown bird! To have given room for a second—the millionth part of a second, to such thoughts of her—kind little Fawn Eye ... so timid, so fearful, and faithful. Always—there. . . He rushed out, gripping lrf s hair, to Poppy’s door, and charged straight into the solid form of Mrs Brown with a tray. °

She s asleep, ’ she said grimly, recovering from the impact, and placing herself protectively in front of it. Hi s own door! His own wife! Ha felt a sudden insane impulse to grasp the short, dumpy figure by the shoulders and heave it aside, to strike the rough, apple-cheeks first on one side and then on the other, harder and harder. But no—and the rage gave wav, suddenly. The chill-crept up, slowly,’slowly - after all she had been good to Poppy; in her own way she was fond of her. Poppy clung to her—he had always secretly, fiercely resented it. After all she was only a poor old washerwoman; she couldn’t be expected to understand. Even Poppy—loving, forgiving Poppy—• didn’t understand. ... With lowered eyes, almost with a trembling lip, he stepped back, reached for his hat. “ I shall not be long,” he said to her, quietly. “ Poppy will need some fruit and things, and—” he straightened himself and met her eyes—“l will call in and —remind the grocer and coal people not to be late with their orders.” She opened her lips, and closed them again with a snap, inwardly fuming as she vi atched him turn and go out, his head high, holding hi s hat in his hand until he had passed the threshold. The pretences of him, and the gentleman airs of him ! ” she muttered furiously, and marched back to her own part of the house.

But the words did not dispel the unaccountable little stirring of pity, of motherliness, that she irritably refused to acknowledge, and with much cautious rattling and banging to relieve her feelings she set about the preparation of a' generous pie. “ And anyway,” she justified herself, deceived herself—Poppy had only a few.weeks ago asked her for the recipe of this favourite dish of Leo’s—“ and anyway, a plate of tripe and onions like we're having wouldn’t be tempting enough for Poppy, and there won’t be room at our table for Betty with Milly and her two cornin’ for tea ; if I make a decent-sized' one and send it in there’ll be enough for to-night and some over to-morrow nerhaps, and it’ll save Poppy worryin".” The repetition of the names Popin’ and Betty seemed to soothe her; so much so that when she returned to Poppy’s kitchen she carried in addition to the pie a luscious cake calculated to bring a gleam to the eye of an overworked school hov—or a miserable muddler of i poet that no one except a dear little food

]ike Poppy could have any patience with for five minutes.

* * * Poppy wished that Leo would come. That clump of ragged bushes just outside the window—in the gusty dusk it looked for all the world like a capering, uncouth half-wit, humping his shoulders, slapping his knees, pointing and waggling his head at her.

And those trees over there against the watery cold yellow afterglow of the punset—they weren’t trees. Trees weren’t the sun had gone down. They were souls —dumb souls with their feet chained to the earth. Shifting their arms imploringly, shrinking, drooping; suddenly flinging back their hair, throwing wide their arms, leaping up again desperately; straining frantically, resisting futilely as little by little they were • obliged to give way, and then, vanquished at last, sinking down quivering, rocking intolerably from side to side, groping drearily . . . Trees, anguished twilight trees that reminded her, somehow, of Leo

She turned restlessly in bed, sighing and sighing. Oh, where was Leo? What could have kept him like this? And oh, where had he got the wood for the leaping fire that Airs Brown had lighted in the grate, and the groceries and supplies that Betty had announced had been delivered as well ? Had he .... ? She turned again to the window, almost wringing her hands—and turned again, suddenly flushed and tremulously smiling, as the door opened. But it was only Betty, poised on onefoot on the threshold. " Alummie, Airs Brown's going to bring in your tea ’n a minute,” said her_shrill little voice, “an’ I’ve had mine, so can I go an’ play with Tessie and Alma and Milly’s boys on the footpath till hcr’s is ready? ’ She put her head coaxingly on one side as Poppy hesitated. “ Do, ‘ mummie,” she added wheed’lingly. and waited, still on one foot, ready to fly instantly at the word of permission. Poppy sat up, sighing. “ Come here, dear,” she said. The child obeyed- reluctantly with a little pout, and stood reluctantly while Poppy slipped an arm about the small thin shoulders, drawing her closer, with wistful little mother-touches fingering her collar, loosening the curly short hair that was screwed up tightly with a hairpin, Brown fashion, to one side. The small fair face in its light frame was ashine, as were hands and wrists, from a kindly rough scrubbing with the Brown household soap. And “Can I” and “An’” she had said—her little daughter and Leo's. Poppy held her closer. “ Don’t you think that it would be nicer to get a hook and look at the pictures by the fire, dear?” she said gently, worriedly. “You know mummie doesn't like you to play in the street.” Betty slipped out of the circle of her arm. “Oh, mummie! ” she cried, quickly tearful. And then, instantly sunny again: “Well, can I then if we stay inside, the gate We can play with the wheelbarrow ’stead.” Betty flew at her disarmingly, taking the permission for granted, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead, and danced out on tiptoe, the door banging to behind her. Poppy sat up to call her back, but sank on to the pillows again instead with a little sob. Half-past 6, and Leo not home. It was going to rain, too, and he had no overcoat, and he hadn’t been home for lunch; perhaps he had gone without all day just to punish himself for this morning.

She gave another little sob, turning her eyes away from the unreal trees writhing and swaying in far-off agony. It would be just like Leo. He was so whole-hearted and headlong, so merciless with himself when he found himself out; so brutal even—dragging himself back to her, all bloody and ghastly, after a self-scourging, yielding himself pitifully, with closed eyes, to her distracted, despairing ministrations and trembling, tear-wet caresses. His overcoat, for instance.' She had gone to him timidly a day or two ago to ask him for money, and lie had turned on her desperately, demanding to know what she had done with the 30 shillings he had given her the day before yesterday, running his fingers through and through his hair as if this last extravagance of hers in paying the butcher and having Betty’s shoes mended was absolutely the last straw; and had flung out, leaving her crying quietly into the potato bowl; to return in an hour, all repentance and coaxing kisses, with a bottle of oysters, a pawn ticket for his one overcoat, and five shillings. In the dead of winter, with that cough of his, when her last request, with tightly clasped hands and that wild deer look in her eyes, every time he went out was, “ And take care of yourself, won't you, Leo, please—please? ” That Time he had gone and got work on the waterfront, in white-hot rage, at the refusal of a loan by an acquaintance, who had, however, half-sneeringly offered to try -and find him some employment to tide him over. He’d show him, he’d show them all; whether he’d asked because he liked being refused and insulted, whether he'd stop at work or not, whether he was a shirker or not—lie! How he had worked! Like.a maniac, heedless of Poppy’s protests and prayers, staggering in at night, reeling to bed, heroically refusing to let her tend or even see his scratched, strained, bruised arms, ‘until one morning he had hap-

pened, oh! quite forgetfully, quite by accident, to stand in front of the mirror where she could see his reflection from the bed.

As the dusk deepened she slipped down further and further into the pillows, sobbing wildly, silently. Oh, she wanted Leo! Wanted and wanted-- him. She wanted him to have finished his book; she wanted him to come to her, quickly, quickly—the Leo he always was when he was free—gay, tender, and confident, lifting her strongly, ignoring her resistance, raising her face with his finger and laughing down at her till at last she had to smile back at him, obediently, wanly, with wet cheeks and quivering lips and a little childish catch in her breath.

Leo’s eyes were bright, his head was up, as he strode down the street and opened the gate; he was shivering, not with cold, not with damp, but with excitement, with exaltation.

That was it, he was reflecting. No spur like necessity! If it hadn’t been for this morning he’d have been still muddling along at his desk, hunched, with downbent head and deliberately closed ears, while the storm above rumbled and grew. It had not been pleasant, certainly—he clenched his hands and made a little movement as if to shake off a weight —but it had been all for Poppy, every cent of it. Hadn’t he gone without lunch and walked home so as not to break into it even for tram fare for himself? And it was over now —he need think only of the fresh lease of leisure that lay before him in which to finish his book. And when it was finished ....

He mounted the two steps with a spring, opened the door quickly, confidently, and stopped, shrinking into himself, drooping with the old hesitation, the old lump in his throat. “ Poppy,” he called through the darkness, softly, hungrily, and waited, his eyes on the strip of light under her door, not daring to go forward until he heard her voice. ,

He heard the bed creak as she sat up. “Leo, is that you?” came her voice, with a little glad tearful note in it. “I'm—in here, Leo!”

In here ! Here, the one steady taper in his strange dark heart—quietly, softly burning all by itself while that other great flame flickered and sank and flared, gleam ing gently, pure, and sweet, amid the awful blackness when it had died again. He went in to her, gropingly, slipping down by the bed in the firelight, clinging to her hands and groaning. She tried to disengage them, to slip her arm about his neck, but he clung to them tightly, brokenly confessing, accusing himself; only yielding one skeleton to haltingly, hopefully expose another. She freed one hand, and put her arm protectingly about his neck with a little smile that he could not see Such pathetic little old skeletons, that she had long ago discovered and secretly, pitifully covered again. But

‘‘What a silly boy you are, Leo!’’ she said, and laughed the low, reassuring laugh of a mother chiding an imaginative child who “ sees things ” in the dark. And laughed again, softly, scornfully, at his protests and insistences, indulgently searching, taper in hand, the dark corners he pointed out; returning triumphant and soothing, with loving jests at his expense, until at last reluctantly, relievedly he began to believe that, after all, there were no skeletons, had been no skeletons.

Such a weight it was off his mind ! He told her so. laughing happily, looking up at her with clear, -wide eyes, confiding and planning and promising. There was not a shadow to mar the old dear, winning smile—he believed it, believed himself implicit!*-. The little scene was over again—until next time. She laughed down at him in return, drawing his head tenderly against her little thin shoulders, Ifting back the fine black hair from his forehead. And she quickly caught a sigh as he fell silent and hid his face, held it for a second, and exhaled it, very slowly. very, very softly—so that he should not know’