Part 3 (1/2)

And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do, The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.

And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying, 'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pa.s.s; It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.

”'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care.

The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you; I've begged Almighty G.o.d, boy, all I dare, To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.

Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you, Don't let the Spital pa.s.s to strangers. Squire Has said he'd give it you if we require.

”'Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me; It was her favourite walk down to the mill; And there we'd talk how little death would be, Knowing our work was going on here still.

You've got the brains, you only want the will-- Don't disappoint your mother and your father.

I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'

”But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.

Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue, Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed, And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.

And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.

And when we three would sit to supper, Jane Would fillip dad till dad began again.

”'I've been here all my life, boy. I was born Up in the room above--looks on the mead.

I never thought you'd c.o.c.kle my clean corn, And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.

Father and I have made here 'thout a weed: We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.

And now I go down to the grave in tears.'

”And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat, And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowing And then I'd creep away and sail my boat, Or watch the water when the mill was going.

That's my delight--to be near water flowing, Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks, Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.

”And one day father found a s.h.i.+p I'd built; He took the cart-whip to me over that, And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt, Went up and hid in what we called the flat, A dusty hole given over to the cat.

She kittened there; the kittens had worn paths Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.

”And putting down my hand between the beams I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear: A book with white coc.o.o.ns stuck in the seams.

Where spiders had had nests for many a year.

It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear, Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life Was not her own while she was father's wife.

”There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.

March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three, Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.

The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.

That was a holy afternoon to me; That book a sacred book; the flat a place Where I could meet my mother face to face.

”She had found peace of spirit, mother had, Drawing the landscape from the attic there-- Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad, Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.

That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where I, too, could get away; and then I knew That drawing was the work I longed to do.

”Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled, And every penny I could get I spent On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled Up in the attic to my heart's content, Till one day father asked me what I meant; The time had come, he said, to make an end.

Now it must finish: what did I intend?

”Either I took to farming, like his son, In which case he would teach me, early and late (Provided that my daubing mood was done), Or I must go: it must be settled straight.

If I refused to farm, there was the gate.

I was to choose, his patience was all gone, The present state of things could not go on.

”Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke.

The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour, And something told me father's heart was broke, For all he stood so set and looked so sour.

Jane took a duster, and began to scour A pewter on the dresser; she was crying.

I stood stock still a long time, not replying.