CROSS PATCH
by: Horace Holley (1887-1960?)
- ER ardent spirit ran beyond her
years
- As light before a flame.
- At fifteen, the tennis medal; at sixteen, the golf cup;
- Then--the coveted!--bluest of blue ribbons
- For faultless horsemanship.
- No man in all that country,
- Whatever his sport,
- But had to own the girl a better man.
- At that she merely laughed--saying that triumph
- Is all a matter of thrill: who tingles most,
- He wins inevitably.
- Half bewilderment, half jest,
- They called her Sprite, those ordinary folk
- Who thought such urge, such instinct of life to joy
- Was somehow mythical.
- And having named her, they no longer thought of her,
- To their relief, as young or old, one sex or other--
- Just herself, apart, a goddess out-of-doors.
- School boys never dreamed of her tenderly
- As one to send a perfumed valentine;
- But when she strode among the horses in the field
- They pawed the ground.
- No leash could hold a dog when she passed by.
-
- Then, despite her ardent race with time--
- Ardent as though each moment was a dare
- To some adventure of freed muscle and thrilled nerve--
- A fleeter runner overtook her flight
- And bound her tightly in a golden net--
- Hands, feet and bosom; lips and hair and eyes--
- Beauty, beauty of women.
- Or was it she, unconscious what she raced,
- Ran suddenly, breathless, glad and yet dismayed,
- Into the arms of her own womanhood?
- Which, no one knew, herself the least of all.
- But no more did she fly beyond herself,
- As eager to leave the very flesh behind,
- But stayed with it in deep and rapturous content;
- Her ardor turned
- Henceforth within upon a secret goal.
- Spirit and beauty seemed to flow together,
- Each rapt in each
- Like a hushed lily in a hidden pool.
- Only at dances did the sprite peep out,
- Ardent and yet controlled,
- Alive to every turn and slope of the rhythm
- As if the music spread a path for her
- To what she truly sought.
-
- 'Twas at a dance she found it--found the man--
- And no one had to question what she found:
- Her eyes, her very finger-tips, proclaimed
- The marvel it was to be a part of her,
- A part of love.
- The man--he had no medals and ribbons of triumph;
- If she had fled on horse or even on foot
- He never could have caught her.
- It must have been his mind's humility
- That made her stay,
- So thoughtless of itself, so thoughtful of
- Forgotten wisdoms, old greatness, world riddles;
- A patient, slow, but never yielding search
- (Passionate too, with wings' flight of its own)
- For what--compared with other minds she knew--
- Might well have seemed the blessed western isles.
- They lived beyond the village on a hill
- Beneath a row of pines; a house without pretense
- Yet fully conscious of uncommon worth--
- A house all books inside.
-
- Their only neighbor was a garrulous man,
- Who smoked a never finished pipe
- Upon a never finished woodpile
- Strategically placed beside the road
- So none could pass without his toll of gossip.
- He started it.
- One day, pointing his thumb across the pines, he said:
- "There's something wrong up yonder;
- Their honeymoon had set behind a storm.
- I heard 'em fight last night . . .
- Well, what'd he expect? They're all alike--women."
- Of course it got about,
- And while no one quite believed,
- Still, to make sure, some friendly women called.
- They said that he was studying, quite as usual,
- Not changed at all, just quiet and indrawn--
- The last man in the world to make a quarrel;
- And she, well, of course she wasn't so easy to read,
- Always strange and different from a child;
- But even in her the sharpest eye saw nothing
- That seemed the loose end of the littlest quarrel.
- No couple could have acted more at ease;
- And anyhow, a woman like that, they said,
- Would never have stayed so quiet in the pines
- With unhappiness, but tossed it from her broadcast
- Like brands from a bonfire.
- She said the house was damp--and that was all.
- At last even the old garrulous woodpile
- Knocked out the ashes of it from his pipe.
-
- But then, a few months later, a frightened servant girl
- Ran at early morning from the pines,
- Crying the judge in town.
- She said her mistress suddenly, without cause,
- Standing by her in the kitchen, turned on her
- Blackly with words no decent girl deserved,
- Then struck her full in the face, spat on her, pulled her
hair.
- She wanted compensation, the servant did,
- And a clean character before the world,
- Yes, and punishment for the beast who hurt her--
- That is, if the woman wasn't mad.
- Mad--oh ho! the shock of it
- Rolled seething over the place like a tidal wave,
- And in the wake of the wave, like weed and wreckage,
- Many a hint and sense of something wrong at the pines,
- Sprawled in the daylight.
- A stable boy remembered
- How not a week before she'd called for a horse,
- The spiritedest saddle they had,
- And when she brought him back 'twas late at night,
- The horse and woman both done up,
- Slashed, splashed and dripping;
- But all she said was, "Send the bill;
- The beast's no good--I'll never ride again."
-
- So this and other stories quite as strange
- Stretched everybody's nerves for the trial to come
- And made them furious when it didn't come--
- He settling with the girl outside of court.
- The judge's wife knew all there was to know:
- Not jealousy at all, just nerves--
- Every woman, you know, at certain times . . .
- Of course, agreed the village, so that's it? still
- (Not to be cheated outright?), still
- Even so, she'd best take care of that temper;
- A husband's one thing, an unborn child's another--
- She'd always been a stormy, uncontrollable soul.
- Some blamed the husband he had never reined her in,
- Most pitied him a task impossible.
- All waited the event on tiptoe--
- It wasn't like other women, somehow, for her to have a child.
-
- The months passed, no child was born.
- Then other women sneered openly:
- She wanted one and couldn't--served her right.
- This lapse from the common law of wives
- Was all the fissure the sea required
- To force the dike with. Little by little then,
- The pressure of year on year,
- The pines and the two lives they hid
- Grew dubious, then disagreeable, then at last sinister.
- At this point the new generation took up
- Its inheritance, the habit of myth,
- And quite as a matter of course it found her hateful,
- Ugly, a symbol of sudden fear by darkened paths--
- Cross Patch!
- And one by one the people who were young
- Beside her youth, moved off or died or changed,
- Forgetting her youth as they forgot their own;
- Until if ever she herself
- Had felt a sudden overwhelming pang
- To stop some old acquaintance on the road
- And stammer out, "You know--don't you--the girl I was--
- I was not always this, was I?" she might have
found
- A dozen at most the know the Sprite her youth,
- But none to clear the overtangled path
- That led from Sprite to Cross Patch; not one, not one,
- But looking back would damn
- The very urge of joy in Sprite, and all its ardent spirit
- For having mothered Cross Patch; not one, not one,
- To see the baffled womanhood she was,
- Orphan of hopes too bright, not mother of evil.
- And thus besieged on all sides by the present
- She fought against all sides, as if by fury
- To force one way to yield.
-
- For both it was a nightmare, not a life, and neither
- Could well have told how it had ever begun;
- But once begun it seemed inevitable,
- A storm that settled darkly round their souls,
- Unwilled as winter,
- With moan of wind through sere and barren boughs
- And skies forever masked.
- The first blow of the quarrel had been hers,
- A blow unguessed by either, for she struck
- Like nature, not to hurt but to survive.
- But wrath accrued
- So soon thereafter that the blow seemed angry,
- And she struck out again with eyes and tongue
- Pursuing him, the angrier at his grief,
- Until in sheer defense he hit
- Not at herself, but at her blows, to ward them;
- Keeping the while
- His thought above the dark upon a star or so
- Fixed in the past. But she defended her wrath
- As part of her dignity and right: they stormed
- Up, up the hill and down,
- Increasing darkness to the end of life.
- Of him friends said
- He seemed like a lonely sentinel
- Posted against the very edge of doom,
- Whom no watch came relieving.
- "She'll kill him yet, the fool!" the woodpile's
verdict
- Before the pipe went out for the last time,
- Leaving the pines unneighbored.
-
- But he was wrong, the urn outlasted the flame.
- One night, hands at her throat, she came
- And knelt before him, timidly reaching out
- And trying to speak, to speak--struggling as if words
- Were something still to learn.
- At last speech broke from her, so agonized
- He hardly knew if it were supreme wrath or supreme supplication:
- "You did not love me . . ."
- And as he bent to her he felt
- Her girlhood cry, a murdered thing returned.
- He hoped that it was wrath, as easier to endure,
- Feeling it burn from mind to heart, from heart to soul,
- Gathering more awe, more terror, at each advance.
- Like a priest with sacrifice it passed
- The colonnades of his thought, entering without pause
- An unknown altar of his being
- Behind a curtain never moved before.
- "You did not love me. . . ."
- Both gazed upon the sacrifice held up
- As though it were the bleeding heart of their own lives
- Somehow no longer their own.
-
- And then the priest returned, slowly, pace by pace,
- Out of the hush of feeling into the hush of thought.
- It was the priest and not himself, the man believed,
- Who like an echo, not less agonized,
- Whispered across the waste of many lives,
- Whispering "No . . ."
-
- Whose heart, the man's or woman's, lowest stooped
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