Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
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My words are nearly always an offence.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taughtI should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith women-folk. We could have somearrangementBy which I'd bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you're a-mind to name.Though I don't like such things 'twixt those thatlove.Two that don't love can't live together withoutthem.But two that do can't live together with them."She moved the latch a little. "Don't—-don't go.Don't carry it to someone else this time.Tell me about it if it's something human.Let me into your grief. I'm not so muchUnlike other folks as your standing thereApart would make me out. Give me my chance.I do think, though, you overdo it a little.What was it brought you up to think it the thingTo take your mother-loss of a first childSo inconsolably—in the face of love.You'd think his memory might be satisfied----" "There you go sneering now!" "I'm not, I'm not!You make me angry. I'll come down to you.God, what a woman! And it's come to this,A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.""You can't because you don't know how.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand—-how could you?—-his littlegrave;I saw you from that very window there,Making the gravel leap and leap in air,Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll back down the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.And I crept down the stairs and up the stairsTo look again, and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voiceOut in the kitchen, and I don't know why,But I went near to see with my own eyes.You could sit there with the stains on your shoesOf the fresh earth from your own baby's graveAnd talk about your everyday concerns.You had stood the spade up against the wallOutside there in the entry, for I saw it." "I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.""I can repeat the very words you were saying. 'Three foggy mornings and one rainy dayWill rot the best birch fence a man can build.'Think of it, talk like that at such a time!What had how long it takes a birch to rotTo do with what was in the darkened parlour?You _couldn't_ care! The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretence of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world's evil. I won't have grief soIf I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!" "There, you have said it all and you feel better.You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door.The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up?Amy! There's someone coming down the road!" "_You_-—oh, you think the talk is all. I must go—-Somewhere out of this house. How can I makeyou----" "If—-you—-do!" She was opening the door wider."Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.I'll follow and bring you back by force. I _will!_—-"
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