VIII

It came, the time of Dora, when no man, No man of all her three, was home for messenger. Darius snored in his own house—a ball Of skin beneath the bedclothes—and the night Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked, And working, thought of Dora—all day long Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after. But it was now, and none of all the three men Home to be her messenger! The doctor— How could he be told the time had come For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother, Moaning, was so helpless at the door, Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you? Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!” But Bruce was on the low road, and the only Ears that heard were scattered up the sky. Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain, Heard; and woke Athene; and the others, Knowing it was time, went with them both Like falling stars—all of them, like stars, To drop and stand in darkness by the door While Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called: “Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!” And still another heard. But Aphrodite, Listening while Daniel sat, could smile And wait; could think and wait. It was the time For punishing this man who in his dreams Refused her. She could wait and let it work— The punishment she planned. For she had looked Last night along the valley, and seen coming, Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers, And said: They shall be mine. She heard the moaning Cease, and knew that Artemis was there. The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying Softly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!” So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength, Waited no longer. Where were those poor wanderers— That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew. She saw them even now at the abandoned Chapel down the old road, trying doors And windows, and forlornly turning in Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness, Nothing but cobwebs. Smiling a last smile, Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose And scented the whole night, the outer night Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn As in her brilliant singleness she flew And flew to be the first where Hermes came. For even now the tall nurse—goddess again In the dooryard where they clustered—told her peers: “The time! It is the time! Go, two of you— Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?— And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for. I could do all alone, for I am skilful, I am the green deliveress. Yet go— Gabriel, with Hermes—while I soothe And ready her. The horses that he drives— You hear them now, drawing the tired one home. But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him. Say it is the nurse—say anything— But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs, Between you lest she die.” The feet of Hermes Glistened as the staff in his right hand Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly Touched him again. And so the pair departed. Before the goddess turned they were a rustle In the far woods; and Artemis went in Where Dora lay. “The doctor—he is sent for. Child! What are you staring at?” For Dora Shuddered, and alternately her eyes Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled. “It was my own mistake—the way I am. You were so different. You shone in the door Like candles, you were like a statue lady— Different from us. I didn’t know you. Now I do, though.” She permitted hands To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever, And as the pain returned; while Artemis Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow, At the small face whereon the truth had fallen; Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes, Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man? But Aphrodite was there first—an ancient Gypsy, rising out of the dim road And shrilling between wheels: “Doctor, Doctor! Come to the dead church—the one they don’t Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow And his sick queen—not my people, but I pity, Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed. Or she does, the queen. In all the world No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles From nowhere, and no house would take them in. She whimpers with the young thing in her belly, The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor, And help her. Be the one man in the world To help her.” “Who are you?” His glasses peered Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down. “Romany.” “And what’s this? You mean the church—” “The old one.” “Even mice won’t go near that. Mischief—you mean mischief. Out of the way, Granny!” But she seized the reins and said: “Good doctor! Be the one man in the world—” And why it was he knew not, but he went Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy Building where no hymnsong had been heard Since war days, and where beggars—did she lie?— Might be or not be. So when Hermes came, And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway— Soft as they listened, never the good sound Of hooves, of whirring felloes. Long they looked And listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard, Signalling their presence; so that Artemis, Stooping at the window, saw them desolate, And knew herself defeated. “Aphrodite!” She only thought the word, but Dora stared And begged of her: “Has someone—has he come? The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?” “Be patient, dear. In time, in time. The doctor was not found. But there is time, and I myself have medicines— You trust me?” Dora nodded. “Then I’ll go, child, For certain things—for such help as I need. Be patient a few minutes. She is here.” For Bruce’s mother, torturing her hands As if they were another’s on the rack, Stood by them, bent and weeping. All were there When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her, Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled And innocently listened, fair as ever In the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy, And no more theater woman. Even Ares— All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus Filling his low place among the pear trees, When the green goddess called. “Her breath is going. Enemy of all”—to Aphrodite— “I shall waste none on you. I only say, The girl inside is going. Which of you Can help me, and help her? The middle angel— Second of you three—immense of wing— Raphael—have you knowledge?” There was mournful Music in the answer. “I have mended, Green one, all the wounds made here on earth— Or there—by deed of angels. In the old days They fell—not such as we are—and their fall, As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons, The daughters of frail man. If this is such—” “It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs And needles. You have strength, and a strange art. Between us—but come quickly!” And Darius Snored in his own house. And Daniel sat Late by a brass lamp, reading. And the doctor, Bending to ask the name of the new mother, Heard “Mary.” By the half light of a low Fire she lay on straw and let her weak hand Wander. “But my husband—he is Joe. There was no work for him. So we went on. Thank you, Doctor.” “Quiet. No more talking.” And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road, Wondered why his son would never rest.