Public-domain ebook

Fires - Book 1: The Stone, and Other Tales

Name: Fires - Book 1: The Stone, and Other Tales
Author: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Read now Add to library

Language: en415 downloads on Project Gutenberg

Subjects

English poetry Stories in rhyme

In: Short Stories·British Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #42677.

The opening · free to read

The Stone

"And will you cut a stone for him, To set above his head? And will you cut a stone for him-- A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock Had struck her lover dead-- Had struck him in the quarry dead, Where, careless of the warning call, He loitered, while the shot was fired-- A lively stripling, brave and tall, And sure of all his heart desired... A flash, a shock, A rumbling fall... And, broken 'neath the broken rock, A lifeless heap, with face of clay, And still as any stone he lay, With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her: And I could hear my own heart beat With dread of what my lips might say But, some poor fool had sped before; And, flinging wide her father's door, Had blurted out the news to her, Had struck her lover dead for her, Had struck the girl's heart dead in her, Had struck life, lifeless, at a word, And dropped it at her feet: Then hurried on his witless way, Scarce knowing she had heard.

And when I came, she stood, alone A woman, turned to stone: And, though no word at all she said, I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead, She did not sigh nor moan, His mother wept: She could not weep. Her lover slept: She could not sleep. Three days, three nights, She did not stir: Three days, three nights, Were one to her, Who never closed her eyes From sunset to sunrise, From dawn to evenfall: Her tearless, staring eyes, That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work, I found her at my door. "And will you cut a stone for him?"

She said: and spoke no more: But followed me, as I went in, And sank upon a chair; And fixed her grey eyes on my face, With still, unseeing stare. And, as she waited patiently, I could not bear to feel Those still, grey eyes that followed me, Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, Those eyes that sucked the breath from me And curdled the warm blood in me, Those eyes that cut me to the bone, And pierced my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose, and sought a stone; And cut it, smooth and square: And, as I worked, she sat and watched, Beside me, in her chair. Night after night, by candlelight, I cut her lover's name: Night after night, so still and white, And like a ghost she came; And sat beside me, in her chair; And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke; And hardly stirred: She never spoke A single word: And not a sound or murmur broke The quiet, save the mallet-stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands, With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, My wincing, overwearied hands, She watched, with bloodless lips apart, And silent, indrawn breath: And every stroke my chisel cut, Death cut still deeper in her heart: The two of us were chiselling, Together, I and death.

And when at length the job was done, And I had laid the mallet by, As if, at last, her peace were won, She breathed his name; and, with a sigh, Passed slowly through the open door: And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone, To cut her name upon the stone.

The Wife

That night, she dreamt that he had died, As they were sleeping, side by side: And she awakened in affright, To think of him, so cold and white: And, when she turned her eyes to him, The tears of dream had made them dim; And, for a while, she could not see That he was sleeping quietly. But, as she saw him lying there, The moonlight on his curly hair, With happy face and even breath, Although she thought no more of death; And it was very good to rest Her trembling hand on his calm breast, And feel the warm and breathing life; And know that she was still his wife; Yet, in his bosom's easy stir, She felt a something trouble her; And wept again, she knew not why; And thought it would be good to die-- To sink into the deep, sweet rest, Her hand upon his quiet breast.

She slept: and when she woke again, A bird was at the window-pane, A wild-eyed bird, with wings of white That fluttered in the cold moonlight, As though for very fear of night; And flapped the pane, as if afraid: Yet, not a sound the white wings made. Her eyes met those beseeching eyes; And then she felt she needs must rise, To let the poor, wild creature in To find the rest it sought to win. She rose; and set the casement wide; And caught the murmur of the tide; And saw, afar, the mounded graves About the church beside the waves: The huddled headstones gleaming white And ghostly in the cold moonlight.

The bird flew straightway to the bed; And hovered o'er the husband's head, And circled thrice above his head, Three times above his dreaming head: And, as she watched it, flying round She wondered that it made no sound; And, while she wondered, it was gone: And cold and white, the moonlight shone Upon her husband, sleeping there; And turned to silver his gold hair; And paled like death his ruddy face. Then, creeping back into her place, She lay beside him in the bed: But, if she closed her eyes, with dread She saw that wild bird's eyes that burned Through her shut eyelids, though she turned Her blessings over in her heart, That peace might come: and with a start, If she but drowsed, or dreamt of rest, She felt that wild beak in her breast. So, wearying for the time to rise, She watched, till dawn was in the skies.

Her husband woke: but not a word She told him of the strange, white bird: But, as at breakfast-time, she took The pan of porridge from the crook; And all was ready to begin; A neighbour gossip hurried in; And told the news, that Phoebe Wright Had died in childbirth in the night. The husband neither spoke, nor stirred, But sat as one who, having heard, May never hearken to a word From any living lips again; And, heedless of the tongues of men, Hears, in a silence, dread and deep, The dead folk talking in their sleep. His porridge stood till it was cold: And as he sat, his face grew old; And all his yellow hair turned white, As it had looked to her last night, When it was drenched with cold moonlight. And she knew all: yet never said A word to him about the dead; Or pestered him to take his meat: But, sitting silent in her seat, She left him quiet with his heart To thoughts in which she had no part; Until he rose to go about His daily work; and staggered out. And all that day, her eyes were dim That she had borne no child to him.

Days passed: and then, one evening late, As she came by the churchyard-gate, She saw him, near the new-made grave: And, with a lifted head and brave, She hurried home, lest he should know That she had looked upon his woe. And when they sat beside the fire, Although it seemed he could not tire Of gazing on the glowing coal, And though a fire was in her soul; She sat beside him with a smile, Lest he should look on her, the while, And wonder what could make her sad When all the world but him was glad. But, not a word to her he said: And silently they went to bed.

She never closed her eyes that night: And she was stirring, ere the light; And while her husband lay at rest, She left his side, and quickly dressed; And stole downstairs, as though in fear That he should chance to wake, and hear. And still the stars were burning bright, As she passed out into the night; And all the dewy air was sweet With flowers that grew about her feet, Where he, for her, when they were wed, Had digged and sown a wallflower-bed: And on the rich, deep, mellow scent A gust of memories came and went, As, dreaming of those old glad hours, She stooped to pluck a bunch of flowers, To lay upon the flowerless grave That held his heart beside the wave. Though, like a troop of ghosts in white, The headstones watched in cold starlight, As, by the dead girl's grave she knelt, No fear in her full heart she felt: But hurried home, when she had laid Her offering on the turf, afraid That he should wake, and find her gone: And still the stars in heaven shone, When into bed again she crept, And lay beside him, while he slept And when day came, upon his hair, The warm light fell: and young and fair, He looked again to her kind eyes That watched him till 'twas time to rise.

And, every day, as he went by The churchyard-gate with downcast eye, He saw fresh blooms upon the grave That held his heart beside the wave: And, wondering, he was glad to find That any living soul was kind To that dead girl who died the death Of shame for his sake: and the breath Of those fresh flowers to him was sweet, As he trudged home with laggard feet, Still wondering who could be her friend.

He never knew, until the end, When, in the churchyard by the wave, He stood beside another grave: And, as the priest's last words were said, He turned, and lifting up his head, He saw the bunch of flowers was dead Upon the dead girl's grave; and felt The truth shoot through his heart, and melt The frost of icy bitterness, And flood his heart with warm distress: And, kneeling by his dead wife's grave, To her, at last, her hour he gave.

That night, she dreamt he, too, had died, And they were sleeping, side by side.

The Machine

Since Thursday he'd been working overtime, With only three short hours for food and sleep, When no sleep came, because of the dull beat Of his fagged brain; and he could scarcely eat. And now, on Saturday, when he was free, And all his fellows hurried home to tea, He was so dazed that he could hardly keep His hands from going through the pantomime Of keeping-even sheets in his machine-- The sleek machine that, day and night, Fed with paper, virgin white, Through those glaring, flaring hours In the incandescent light, Printed children's picture-books-- Red and yellow, blue and green, With sunny fields and running brooks, Ships at sea, and golden sands, Queer white towns in Eastern lands, Tossing palms on coral strands-- Until at times the clank and whirr and click, And shimmer of white paper turned him sick; And though at first the colours made him glad, They soon were dancing in his brain like mad; And kept on flaring through his burning head: Now, in a flash, the workshop, flaming red; Now blazing green; now staring blue; And then the yellow glow too well he knew: Until the sleek machine, with roar and glare, Began to take him in a dazzling snare; When, fascinated, with a senseless stare, It drew him slowly towards it, till his hair Was caught betwixt the rollers; but his hand, Almost before his brain could understand, Had clutched the lever; and the wheels were stopped Just in the nick of time; though now he dropped, Half-senseless on the littered workshop floor: And he'd lain dazed a minute there or more, When his machine-girl helped him to a seat. But soon again he was upon his feet, And tending that unsatisfied machine; And printing pictures, red and blue and green, Until again the green and blue and red Went jigging in a riot through his head; And, wildest of the raging rout, The blinding, screeching, racking yellow-- A crazy devil of a fellow-- O'er all the others seemed to shout. For hands must not be idle when the year Is getting through, and Christmas drawing near, With piles on piles of picture-books to print For people who spend money without stint: And, while they're paying down their liberal gold, Guess little what is bought, and what is sold.

The book keeps going