VERONIQUE
FRASER
|
|
IN THE
TWILIGHT Veronique Fraser,
Her
hands hid in her sleeves,
Searches for something she never can find
Rustling
the autumn leaves.
Her hair has patches of silver,
|
5 |
Gaunt
is her frame;
But in her eyes there flickers
A
quick, bright flame.
Once her beauty was dark and vivid,
She
was wild as a hawk in flight,
|
10 |
Her
eyes were as proud of her black hair
As
stars are proud of the night.
Now that pride has left her
And
passion has died,
Alone she walks with self-pity,—
|
15 |
| The
shadow of pride.
In haunting dreams and delusions
As
she wanders to and fro,
She mutters a querulous burden,—
“How
could I know?”
|
20 |
It brings to her broken memory
Flashes
from the day
When she was the belle of the river,
And
the hours were dancing away.
Many there were that wooed her,
|
25 |
And
as lovers came and went,
Her moods were ever swinging between
The
proud and petulant.
She was cruel to all her suitors,
Ever
scorned to decide,
|
30 |
And
never knew that a tender heart
Can
be ruined by pride.
She thought that love was nothing,
Only
a means to her will,
And of all her passing lovers
|
35 |
| Two
were faithful still.
Then one night in the quiet,
When the fiddler had stopped the dance,
Everyone heard her promise
With
a laugh and a reckless glance;
|
40 |
“I’ll marry the man that brings me
“First
to the door,
“That shawl or a four-point blanket
“From
Thibault’s store.”
The
blanket was coarse and common,
|
45 |
She
coveted the shawl;
It was woven with brilliant yellow stripes
On
purple over all;
For she loved things that were patterned,
Fringed
and coloured high,
|
50 |
Things
that made the heart merry
And
proud the eye.
There was only one way to Thibault’s,—
A
portage steep and long,
For the river water was broken,
|
55 |
| The
rapids were strong.
One way of return from Thibault’s
Was
the swift river way;
It was the time of high-water
In
the month of May.
|
60 |
The other,–the old worn portage,
Beaten
with many a load:
One dared the rapids,
One
took the road.
At evening Veronique Fraser
|
65 |
Was
thoughtless and free of care;
Maples were dropping their ruby flowers
Through
the cool air.
Spring had come to the northland
With
a rush of leaf and wing;
|
70 |
She
carried her vivid beauty
With
all the power of spring.
Down she went to the rapids,
Where
the eddy is never at rest,
She had forgotten her lovers
|
75 |
| And
their quest.
She sat by the stormy water
And
let her hair fall down,
She plaited it close and piled it
On
her lovely head, like a crown.
|
80 |
|
Her heart became simple and quiet,
She
put away her pride;
She thought as if in an idle dream,
Would
she be the bride,
Of
Jacques, the jester and gossip, |
85 |
First
in the song and dance,
Of Narcisse with the wave of gold in his hair
And
the steady glance?
She saw him clear and brilliant—
Her
heart stopped dead!
|
90 |
She
would have unsaid the arrogant
Words
she had said.
For she knew in the instant passion
That
he was her mate;
She had the power of choosing
|
95 |
| And
had thrown it to Fate.
Then as she gazed at the river,
Where
the eddy swift as a wheel
Spins, and the ridges of water
Look
solid as steel,
|
100 |
She saw in the rush of terror
A
gleam,— a flash of red,
From the fold of a floating blanket
From
the turn of a drowned head;
And wading deep in the current,—
|
105 |
Grasped
the golden hair.
She drew her dead love from the water:
They
were alone there.
As the reef is shown to the sailor
By
the lightning stroke,
|
110 |
She
saw the dangerous future
Before
her heart broke.
But she took the gift that was offered,
Too
proud to break her word.
The shawl was woven with sorrow
|
115 |
| But
her will never stirred.
She fought the tempest of living,
Its
whirlwinds and shocks:—
Now her memories are broken like wreckage
Strewn
on the rocks.
|
120 |
Where is the man she married?
Stabbed
in a drunken brawl,
He was a jester and dancer
And
that was all.
Where are the sons she bore him?
|
125 |
Roving
the world when alive,
Lost in the barren northland,
Drowned
on the “drive.”
She wanders unregarded
Of
the river or the road;
|
130 |
Her
shack is under the pine-tree,
She
takes her meat from God.
Visions taunt or delude her,
For
Time, without ruth,
Has raised the ghost of the treasure
|
135 |
| She
lost in her youth.
Often she goes to the eddy
When
the water is high in May;
She watches the rush and whirling
Like
one distrait.
|
140 |
But no red or gold in the torrent
Turns
with the flow;—
“How could I know?” she mutters,
“How
could I know?”
When she gathers the wild raspberries
|
145 |
In
the sultry heat,
An appearance forms in the quivering haze
Where
the birches and poplars meet.
Something seems to signal
Out
of the silver blur,
|
150 |
But
when she waves her berry-pail
Nothing
answers her.
In the trance of a winter morning
As
she sets a rabbit-snare;
Look,—by the dark of the cedars,
|
155 |
| Someone
is there
Standing! Only the cedars.
From
the firs the frozen snow
Streams in a cloud of diamond:—
“How
could I know?”
|
160 |
She buries her fire in ashes,
Storm
shoulders the door,
She covers her knees with a blanket,
Snow
drifts over the floor.
|
|
|
