|
Page 47
SO Gervase went to seek
if anywhere
Tidings of Lota's husband might be found,
And thought "If he be living, it were well
To find him; for he might want even bread,
And if not, one might save him from himself
With a friend's hand perhaps: and thought again
"If he be living and were one so schooled
That he might make my dear one happy yet,
Well then, what better use could be of me
Than to have bought her happiness at last,
Ever so dearly?" Yet he seemed to know,
As by presentiment, the man was dead.
He went; and scarcely could he yet have seen
The shores of southern France wane into sky
Behind the waves, when Lota, suddenly
Fallen weaker than a year-old baby, lay
Drifting and drifting on to death. At first
She said to the good woman from the inn,
Who flounced and clattered round her busily
And cried about her, "Never fear for me;
You'll see me strong again. Once I was thus -
Just after we left Venice last - you heard;
I was not ill, only my life seemed spent,
Like a little brook in June whose waters waste
Till you can scarcely see a runnel thread.
I shall grow strong again as I did then;
Just like the little brook that, drop by drop,
Gets back some life from every passing shower."
But when day after day went by and still
Each morning wakened her a thought more tired
Than last night saw her fall asleep, she said
"Nay this time I am dying," and she sent
A little pencilled note to Evelyn,
A word or two that ended suddenly
Because she was so tired. And her good friend
Wrote at the end, "Miss, she can never live
She is so weak, and she don't seem to try
But takes it as it may. Some one should come
That's fit to chirrup to her."
Next ...
|
