University of Virginia Library

AFTER DINNER

Returned from Ballarat, where he had found
Gold nuggets in the early rush, and more
Golden experience, Martin Lusk, one day,
Bearded and bronzed, dropt in upon the quiet
Where I with treasured books—mine ancient friends—
Was communing. At first, I knew him not,
But soon the name recalled a form, a face
From the dim past, that might perhaps have grown
Into this son of Anak. So we fell
A-talking, and I found his mind well stored
With fresh, quaint pictures of that Digger-life
Fighting with Death and Fortune, gambling, drinking,
Thieving and pistolling, in dirt and squalor,
Brutal-heroic, yet with touching gleams
Of human tenderness, and gradual sway
Of Law that, self-evolved, yet mastered self,
And rough-shaped that wild chaos. I could see
This keen observer was a thinker too,
Patient and tolerant, with the stuff in him
For building up an empire. Being lonely
In his hotel, and so conversible,
I made him promise he would dine with me.
Reluctant he agreed, reluctant came,
And sat uneasy and silent, changed as much
From the clear-sighted man I met at noon
As from the bright-eyed youth of early days.
Lusk, as a lad, was bold and confident,
An only son, spoilt by a doting mother,
Spoilt, too, by sisters proud of him, even spoilt
By admiration of his college mates
For a rich nature foremost in all games,
Well forward too in studies and in speech,
And yet not greatly spoilt by all their spoiling,
Just frank and bold and sure of his position.
But now he sat there, like a bashful girl
At her first ball, blushing, and hardly spoke
Save yea and nay, until we were alone.
Then I: What ails you, Martin? What is wrong?
Have we done aught to vex you, that you sit
Dumb as a moulting raven? My home-bred girls,
Untravelled, when they heard that you were coming,
Donned their best muslins, and their gayest ribbons,
Meaning to show their best, and talk their best,
And listen at their best. For they were all
Eager to hear of pouchèd kangaroos,
And duck-billed quadrupeds, and great emus
Piling their eggs amid the sandy scrub,
Black fellows, and the pig-tailed Chinamen,
Bush-rangers, and the cradling and the crushing,
And nugget-finding in the deep-delved loam,
And other strange adventures of your life,
As they romanced it; for the less they know,
The more their fancy bubbles up and glitters.
Yet there you sat, and stammered curt replies
As frightened at their feather-heads. They'll vow
That my old friends are stupid as myself:
And oh, if they had seen what you had seen!
If girls might only do what men may do,
They would have tongues to tell it.
Then he: What came of Muriel Lumisden?
You used to haunt the widow's house, I think,
With the fair daughters. What a flirt she was!
And how she kept a score of silly lads
Dangling about her, every one quite sure
He was the favoured, and the rest were gulls!
Flirting came natural to her; you could see it
In every movement, every dainty curl
And fold of her black hair, in every tone,
And glance and turn of the eyebrows, and in all
The gesture of her lithe and supple beauty.
To flirt was in the marrow of her bones;
Even as a child she'd make eyes to her doll;
And just to keep her hand in, I have known her
Beam on the butcher's boy a winning glance
That sent him half-way heavenward to his calves.
And yet there have been times when she has seemed
A noble creature to me, all compact
Of womanly grace, with heart that answered true
To every noblest impulse, and inspired
High-souled enthusiasm, till I have felt
I could have been content to do some deed
That she would smile upon, and then to die,
Keeping that smile for ever. How she fooled us!
Yet oh how beautiful she was! those eyes
Melting with tenderness, or flashing scorn
At any baseness, and those lips for all
Emotions eloquent! But such a flirt!
Then he: What mean you? Loss is long since lost,
And gain can never be from her to me.
You knew her not as I did. What remains
When bubbles burst i' the hand? not even the glitter.
Is she a maiden still, and fancy-free?
Why, so am I, and free of her for ever.
Is she a widow? I should gain a loss,
Indeed, to be her second. Is that your riddle?
Or is she mated to a life-long sorrow?
What else could come of such a way as hers?
But in the night she, bearing down the Channel
Through a thick fog, struck on a hidden rock,
Yet in a quiet sea. The sailors thought,
With the next tide she would be floated off;
And many went to sleep again, scarce heeding
Whether she sank or swam, if they might rest,
And sleep and dream of home. But by and by,
The Master grew uneasy, muttered somewhat
Of cranky ships that scarce would float in ponds,
Dry-rotten in the docks—of useless boats
That were but painted tinder; and one heard him
Murmur a prayer for wife and babes, the while
He paced the deck alone, and resolute
Issued his orders. Then a whisper went,
Gloomy, that she was leaking, and would soon
Break up amidships; but as yet there was
No panic, for the land was not far off.
But as the day broke, eerie, on the fog,
The timbers 'gan to crack, and great seams yawned,
And with the rushing tide the terror rose.
Then hands unhandy loosed the painted boats,
And swamped them; and from near four hundred throats
A cry rose to high heaven—a pitiful cry
Of anguish that might touch the heart of Fate,
As to and fro they reeled, and wrung their hands.
Muriel stood with her husband and her babes,
Calm, on the poop. She saw the dim grey sea
Deceitful, and the shore loomed through the mist,
Uncertain, for there was no gleam of light
From fisher's hut or farm; a lone waste land
Of unthrift and neglected husbandry,
Where neither glebe nor sea was harvested.
Then, holding fast her little ones, her face
Just a shade paler—it was always pale—
She said in a low voice: You can swim, Malcolm;
The shore is near, I think a sandy shore
By the dull thud o' the waves; could you not save
Some mother and her child, setting example
Others might follow? Oh, we're not afraid,
My little ones and I; God cares for us;
And you will come too ere the danger comes.
The Captain says the ship will float an hour
At least, and it is misery to see
Those faces, and to hear the bitter cries.
Nay, not us first! but speak a word to them,
And show them what to do; we can be still,
But they are frantic, and their madness works
Their ruin; we will wait in patience here.
Try, dearest; you are strong and brave; but yet
Be not too bold, your life is all to us.
Oh, can God hear that cry, and help them not?
Alone, alone, I fell into a strain
Of musing melancholy,
Recalling, with keen sense of shame and pain,
A man whom, living, I had reckoned vain,
And to his calling holy
Untrue, until I read, with blinding tears
Which give clear sight, the story of his fears
And clingings unto God through weary years,
Till peace came slowly
To him grown meek and lowly.
And I have sinned against a soul, I said,
Noble and good and true,
Whom God has gathered with the blessèd dead,
And put the crown of glory on his head,
And I am humbled too:
But by this shame, O Lord, thou teachest me,
He only walks aright who walks with Thee,
Meek, in the judgments of that Charity
Which unto all is due,
And never heart shall rue.