What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in - But one chill bed for all to rest in, That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken -
Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters, - And steal away to the lapping waters, And look at your ship in her winter quarters.
You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables - To pitch her sides and go over her cables!
Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow:
And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow Is all we have left through the months to follow.
Ah, what is a Woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
It was too hot to run about in the open, so Dan asked their friend, old Hobden, to take their own dinghy from the pond and put her on the brook at the bottom of the garden. Her painted name was the Daisy, but for exploring expeditions she was the Golden Hind or the Long Serpent, or some such suitable name. Dan hiked and howked with a boat-hook (the brook was too narrow for sculls), and Una punted with a piece of hop-pole. When they came to a very shallow place (the Golden Hind drew quite three inches of water) they disembarked and scuffled her over the gravel by her tow-rope, and when they reached the overgrown banks beyond the garden they pulled themselves upstream by the low branches.
That day they intended to discover the North Cape like 'Othere, the old sea-captain', in the book of verses which Una had brought with her; but on account of the heat they changed it to a voyage up the Amazon and the sources of the Nile. Even on the shaded water the air was hot and heavy with drowsy scents, while outside, through breaks in the trees, the sunshine burned the pasture like fire. The kingfisher was asleep on his watching-branch, and the blackbirds scarcely took the trouble to dive into the next bush. Dragonflies wheeling and clashing were the only things at work, except the moorhens and a big Red Admiral, who flapped down out of the sunshine for a drink.
When they reached Otter Pool the Golden Hind grounded comfortably on a shallow, and they lay beneath a roof of close green, watching the water trickle over the flood-gates down the mossy brick chute from the mill-stream to the brook. A big trout - the children knew him well - rolled head and shoulders at some fly that sailed round the bend, while, once in just so often, the brook rose a fraction of an inch against all the wet pebbles, and they watched the slow draw and shiver of a breath of air through the tree-tops. Then the little voices of the slipping water began again.
'It's like the shadows talking, isn't it?' said Una. She had given up trying to read. Dan lay over the bows, trailing his hands in the current. They heard feet on the gravel-bar that runs half across the pool and saw Sir Richard Dalyngridge standing over them.
'Was yours a dangerous voyage?' he asked, smiling.
'She bumped a lot, sir,' said Dan. 'There's hardly any water this summer.'
'Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when my children played at Danish pirates. Are you pirate-folk?'
'Oh no. We gave up being pirates years ago,'explained Una. 'We're nearly always explorers now. Sailing round the world, you know.'
'Round?' said Sir Richard. He sat him in the comfortable crotch of an old ash-root on the bank. 'How can it be round?'
'Wasn't it in your books?' Dan suggested. He had been doing geography at his last lesson.
'I can neither write nor read,' he replied. 'Canst thou read, child?'
'Yes,' said Dan, 'barring the very long words.'
'Wonderful! Read to me, that I may hear for myself.'
Dan flushed, but opened the book and began - gabbling a little - at 'The Discoverer of the North Cape.'
'Othere, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the lover of truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand.'
'But - but - this I know! This is an old song! This I have heard sung! This is a miracle,' Sir Richard interrupted.
'Nay, do not stop!' He leaned forward, and the shadows of the leaves slipped and slid upon his chain-mail.
"'I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then With their sagas of the seas."'
His hand fell on the hilt of the great sword. 'This is truth,' he cried, 'for so did it happen to me,' and he beat time delightedly to the tramp of verse after verse.
"'And now the land," said Othere, "Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea."'
'A nameless sea!' he repeated. 'So did I - so did Hugh and I.'
'Where did you go? Tell us,' said Una.
'Wait. Let me hear all first.' So Dan read to the poem's very end.
'Good,' said the knight. 'That is Othere's tale - even so I have heard the men in the Dane ships sing it. Not those same valiant words, but something like to them.'
'Have you ever explored North?' Dan shut the book.
'Nay. My venture was South. Farther South than any man has fared, Hugh and I went down with Witta and his heathen.' He jerked the tall sword forward, and leaned on it with both hands; but his eyes looked long past them.
'I thought you always lived here,' said Una, timidly.
'Yes; while my Lady Aelueva lived. But she died. She died. Then, my eldest son being a man, I asked De Aquila's leave that he should hold the Manor while I went on some journey or pilgrimage - to forget.
