Madge Linsey, Or the Three Souls
Madge Linsey at the well raised the deep waters,
Brimmed her brass bucket full, went from her place.
Loose hung her collar her full throat exposing,
Rough fell her silken hair, sullen her face.
Went down the village street jauntily singing,
Knowing well women’s tongues rang to her song;
Knowing men’s greedy eyes pierced her thin garments—
Poised she the bucket high, young she and strong.
Nature has laid on the wild hare and red fox
A scent for the hound lest he lose them in chase,
So for her sport may they fly hill and hollow,
And weaponless fall at the end of the race,
She on Madge Linsey laid rich and soft beauty
So the hot thought of her leapt to men’s brain;
Had she awoke in a lady’s lace cradle
This her destroyer were but her sweet gain.
Had she a mother to point her path softly!
Had she a sister to laugh by her side!
In some good way had life’s mysteries come to her
Girded her modesty, wakened her pride.
But, as the young dog who greets the world kindly
Learns in the sullen street anger or ear,
Found she the strength of her youth and her beauty,
If women were merciless men held her dear.
Had her old father but stayed in his reaping
One summer day to uplift from the ground
Some stricken bloom he had slain in his passing
On his child’s mind some sure light he had found.
Glad had the lissome plant sprang to its promising
Leapt straight to heaven’s glow, delicate green,
Spoilt now each tender bud, but from the trampled root
New life demands its way where this had been.
Where now the splendid hope that drew it straight and fair
Out of the dark chill earth, innocent, brave?
There it creeps crookedly seeking to find its way
Fair still but pitiful, stricken earth’s slave.
Who taught her right or wrong? See there her teacher grows—
Switch of the hazel tree, branch of the thorn.
Power of her father’s arm full of wrath falling sore
Bruising the child’s young soul tenderly born.
Madge Linsey from the well brought the deep waters
Passed through her father’s gate with a slow smile.
Only two gazed at her, holding her tenderly,
Only two spoke of her kindly the while.
‘There’s trouble brewing here,' said John the gardener,
‘Bitter black trouble, sure,’ sighed he again,
‘Oh, the sad tale of it, she like the wayside rose,
Would I could shield her grief, suffer her pain.’
‘She goes her wayward path,’ spoke Ben the shoemaker,
‘Lost soon her straying feet on life’s highway,
Would she were fair of soul as she so comely is
I would have called her mine. Now I but pray.’
Under the wings of night slept the small hamlet still
Fanned by her pinions dark, weary of day,
Breathing her perfumed soft winds of sweet clover bloom,
Meadow sweet, wild thyme, and newly-cut hay.
Never a light but one in all the homesteads gleamed;
Never a sound but one faint in the night,
Was it a maiden’s sigh, was it her weeping sore,
Or but low laughter all shallow and light?
Open a casement flew and on the shadowed wall
Hands shook the passion flower nigh from her hold.
Then woke a frightened sheep at the noise full of fear,
Called to her little lamb safe in the fold.
Someone had crept through the deep of the meadow grass;
Someone had gone through the gate and away;
Only the screech owl alarmed her witch sister there,
Shook from her brown wings the dust of the day.
Never a howl from the watch-dog a-lying still
Close to his bed—was there naught to assail?
Some friendly thought in his bright eyes were glancing sure
Kindly reproof with his slow wagging tail.
Then sent the night her chill hour before dawning came;
Hushed all the village lay wrapped in its rest;
Only the little clocks in each home counting quick
Knew of swift passing time, chimed to attest.
Soon chirped a bird in the elm by the smithy old,
Saw the East paling impatient for day;
Then the red cock from the barn of Dan Linsey crew,
First he to welcome the dawn on his way.
Soon from the hamlet small, silence and slumber flew,
Smoke from each chimney came, loud voices shrilled,
Tramping of horses and jingle of harness chimed,
Lowing of cattle the morning hours filled.
Then the watch-dog in the yard at Dan Linsey’s rose,
Stretched his sleek body and whined at the door,
Slunk from it sudden and ran to his kennel swift,
Hid in the darkness there grieving forlore.
Soon up the village street whispers went stealing by
‘Madge Linsey’s run from home in the darknight,
Keep from her father’s path, he loud as thunder goes
Thong in hand seeking her, shaken and white.’
Nine long days wonder grew, in cot and cabin small,
Talk of her welcome as circus or fair;
Late homers soon were shrived on their confessing there
‘Heard news of Linsey’s lass at the ‘Grey Mare.’’
Old foes grew friends again, loud in discussing it
‘Is true that master’s son?'—'Hush, have a care!—
She was a wanton sure, see her eyes glancing light;
All game who came her way, devil may care!’
Tom Lee the innkeeper chuckled the live-long day,
Threw tempting bits of news his guests among,
Not since the squire’s son came of age in the spring
Had his ale flowed so free, or the coin rung.
Where hides the stricken beast, where falls the wounded bird,
That the sharp tooth and claw seek not his state,
Tears out the feeble strength, plucks at the broken wings,
So tossed on poisoned tongues Madge Linsey’s fate.
Only two stood aside from all the gossiping,
Sighed for her dolefully, whispered their pain.
‘Would God her love were mine,’ said John the gardener
‘In my heart would she rest safe without stain.’
‘She goes her shameful path,’ said Ben the shoemaker,
‘Once I did call her wife in the lone night,
Pure mother of my child, I in my dreaming spoke
God knew and rescued me, kept my soul white.’
So went the slow year on putting the horse to plough;
Hoeing the crops from weeds, tossing ripe hay.
Thatching the golden rick, drawing the earth fruit home,
Few thought of Linsey’s lass through the hard day.
But Roy the postman’s son driving one night from town,
Into the 'Grey Mare’ strode calling for ale,
Sat with his pipe and glass glad of his consequence
Laughed at each leering face slow with his tale.
‘Madge Linsey’s left forlorn.' ‘So did we say ’twould be,’
‘Would she come home again!’ ‘not though she dare!’
‘Her father’s arm was strong! wanton she ever was,’
‘Jeered long at Roy,’ he said, ‘devil may care.’
Only two softly spoke, said Ben the shoemaker
‘So of our wilful sins pay we the toll,
Steep slopes the easy path, quick is the downward way,
Into hell hath she gone, God save her soul.’
Then John the gardener rising a moment stood
‘After her little feet there shall I go!
Into hell’s mouth itself. She like the wayward rose,
I’ll bring her soul to God white as the snow.’
Only two went her way, stopped on the vortex brim,
From their slow country hours chilled in amaze,
Seeing this seething pool of frail humanity,
Crime, lust, and savagery, of city ways.
Here slipped the thief by night, there dragged the sloven by,
Now rose the drunkard’s laugh, now his lewd song,
Here little children screamed, hurt by some wanton hand,
Dragged to destruction sure in the wild throng.
As the white faces passed, in whirling waters lost,
They met Madge Linsey’s eyes heavy with woe;
But on her reddened lips laughter for ever hung
Scorn of their sympahty stung like a blow.
‘I dare not follow her,’ said Ben the shoemaker,
‘Lost is she ever now, evil her goal.’
Back to his home he went, prayed till he tranquil was,
Calm in the village peace, saving his soul.
‘I can but follow her,’ said John the gardener,
Into the seething pool leaped from his place,
‘Hold to me, sweet,’ he cried, ‘soon will I draw you forth,
Rest on my shoulder strong, your darling face.’
Madge Linsey at his call laughed on her wilful way,
Lifting her brimming glass quaffed the red wine.
‘Yet I shall draw you forth,’ said John the gardener
‘If for your drowning soul I should lose mine.’
Into the whirling pool followed he after her,
Drank glass for glass with her, shared sin for sin,
Fought for her, slaved for her, went down to hell for her.
There in its agonies strove he to win.
So went the slow years by, putting the horse to plough
Hoeing the weeds from crop, tossing ripe hay,
Thatching the golden rick, drawing the ripe fruits home,
Till with fair harvest came thanksgiving day.
Lone in the little church stood Ben the shoemaker,
Looked on the golden grain heaped by the rail.
Saw ripe fruit by the font and saw the wheaten bread
Blush roses flushing red, lilies all pale.
Earth’s timid offering laid by the altar stone,
In his hands bore he, too, gifts for the day;
Down by the chancel he stood his ripe basket full,
Sighed deep and wearily kneeling to pray.
Thought of Dan Linsey’s lass and John the gardener,
Here did they kneel with him holy of brow,
What was the loss to her on this thankgiving day!
What had his harvesting brought to him now?
Sudden there came through the dark porch approaching him
One who was gaunt of frame, weary, unslept.
In his arms bore he a burden all white and chill,
Up to the altar rails stealthily crept.
‘Who comes here in such guise?’ said Ben the shoemaker
‘Bright is the church to-day, hear the bells ring?’
‘All that is left of me, once John the gardener.
I, too, the fruits of my harvest would bring.’
‘What do you bear to your heart held so piteously,
If it fair offering why do you mourn?’
‘All that is left of her who was Dan Linsey’s lass
She like the wayside rose broken and torn.’
Down at the altar stone he laid her tenderly
Folded her chill white hands, smoothed her hair,
‘Here is my offering, here my good harvesting,
Lord! I have brought it thee, safe from the snare.’
‘To the depths have you gone,’ said Ben the shoemaker,
‘In the dark waters of sin you went down,
Kneel by me now and pray, pray for your pardoning,
So that your penitence weave you a crown.’
‘Into the depths I went,’ cried John the gardener,
‘Drank glass for glass with her, shared sin for sin,
Fought for her, slaved for her, went into hell for her,
Pawned my own soul her faint spirit to win.’
‘Now I but bear her up, up from the whirling pool
Over the brim of it to Heaven’s gate,
Hold to her, cling to her, ere I slip back again,
Pray for her wounded soul early and late.’
‘Lost he is, wild he is,’ said Ben the shoemaker,
‘See how he runs apace from the church door,
Even as he were I, had my heart conquered me,
But the Lord aided my strength to restore.’
Then by Madge Linsey’s side knelt he a little while,
‘So of our wilful sins pay we the toll.
Even as she were I, had I but followed her.
But the Lord succoured me saving my soul.’
