II
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o Widow La Rue has gone to a friendFor the afternoon and the night,Where the phantom will not come,Where the phantom may be forgotten.And scarcely has she turned the road,Round the water-mill by the creek,When the telephone rings and daughter FloraSprings up from a drowsy chairAnd the ennui of a book,And runs to answer the call.And her heart gives a bound,And her heart stops still,As she hears the voice, and a faintness coursesQuick as poison through all her frame.And something like bees swarming in her breastComes to her throat in a surge of fear,Rapture, passion, for what is the voiceBut the voice of her lover?And just because she is here aloneIn this desolate summer-house by the lake;And just because this man is forbiddenTo cross her way, for a taint in his bloodOf drink, from a father who died of drink;And just because he is in her thoughtBy night and day,The voice of him heats her through like fire.She sways from dizziness,The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ...He is in the village, is walking out,He will be at the door in an hour.
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