He'd got to see it through: ay, that was plain —
Plain as the damning figures on that page
Which burned and bit themselves into his brain
Since he'd first lighted on them — such an age
Since he'd first lighted on them! though the clock
Had only ticked one hour out — its white face
And black hands counting time alone. ...
The shock
Had dropped him out of time and out of place
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ...
Yet his living sight
Was fixed on the white ledger while he sat
Before his office-table in his chair —
The chair he'd taken when he'd hung his hat
Within the cupboard door, and brushed his hair,
And stood a moment, humming Chevy Chase ,
His hands beneath his coat-tails, by the grate,
Warming his back, and thinking of a case
They'd won outright with costs and ...
Phil was late —
But Phil was Phil. At home they used to call
His brother " Better-late " . At every turn
He'd had to wait for Phil. And after all
There wasn't so much doing since that concern ...
And little thinking anything was wrong,
Laying his hand upon his own armchair
To draw it out, still humming the old song,
He'd seen the note from Philip lying there
Upon the open ledger.
Once he read
The truth, unrealising, and again;
But only two words echoed in his head
And buzzed uncomprehended in his brain —
" Embezzled " and " absconded " .
Phil had spelt
His shame out boldly in his boyish hand —
And then those figures ...
Dizzily he felt
The truth burn through him. He could hardly stand,
But sank into his chair with eyes set wide
Upon those damning figures, murmuring Phil!
And listening to the whirr of wheels outside
And sparrows cheeping on the window-sill —
Still murmuring Phil, poor Phil!
But Phil was gone,
And he was left alone to bear the brunt. ...
Phil! Little Phil!
And still the morning shone
Bright at the window. ...
Callous, curt and blunt,
The world would call his brother — not that name!
And yet names mattered little at this pass.
He'd known that Phil was slack — but this!
The blame
Was his as much as Phil's: as in a glass
Darkly he saw he'd been to blame as well;
And he would bear the blame. Had he not known
That Phil was slack? For all that he could tell,
If he'd looked after Phil this might ...
Alone
He'd got to face the music. He was glad
He was alone. ... And yet for Phil's own sake
If he had only had the pluck, poor lad,
To see the thing through like a man and take
His punishment!
For him was no escape
Either by Phil's road or that darker road.
He knew the cost and how the thing would shape —
Too well he knew the full weight of the load
He strapped upon his shoulders. It was just
That he should bear the burden on his back.
He'd trusted Phil; and he'd no right to trust
Even his brother, knowing he was slack,
When other people's money was at stake.
He'd too been slack: and slackness was a crime —
The deadliest crime of all. ...
And broad awake
As in a nightmare he was " doing time "
Already. ...
Yet he'd only trusted Phil,
His brother Phil — and it had come to this!
Always before whenever things went ill
His brother'd turned to him for help, and his
Had always been the hand stretched out to him.
Now Phil had fled even him. If he'd but known!
Brooding, he saw with tender eyes grown dim
Phil running down that endless road alone —
Phil running from himself down that dark road,
The road that leads nowhither, which is hell;
And yearning towards him, bowed beneath his load,
And murmuring Little Phil!
Again he fell
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ...
When a ripple of light
Dappled his desk. ...
And they were boys together
Rambling the hills of home that April day,
Stumbling and plunging knee-deep through the heather
Towards Hallypike, the little lough that lay
Glancing and gleaming in the sun, to search
For eggs of inland-breeding gulls. He heard
The curlew piping, saw a blackcock perch
On a stone dyke hard-by — a lordly bird
With queer curled tail. And soon they reached the edge,
The quaggy edge of Hallypike: and then
The gulls rose at them screaming from the sedge
With flapping wings: and for a while like men
They stood their ground among the quaking moss
Until, half-blinded by the dazzling white
Of interweaving wings and at a loss
Which way to turn, they only thought of flight
From those fierce cruel beaks and hungry eyes —
Yet stood transfixed, each on a quaking clump,
With hands to ears to shut out those wild cries.
Then the gulls closed on Phil, and with a jump
And one shrill yell he'd plunged into the lake
Half-crazed with terror. Only just in time
He'd stumbled after through the quag aquake
And caught him by the coat, and through black slime
Had dragged him into safety, far away
From the horror of white wings and beaks and eyes.
And he remembered now how Philip lay
Sobbing upon his bosom. ...
Now those cries
Were threatening Phil again, and he was caught
Blind in a beating, baffling, yelling hell
Of wings and beaks and eyes. And there was naught
That he could do for him. ...
Once more he fell
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, and his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ... Then the pitchy night
Rolled by. ...
And now that summer noon they sat
In the shallows of Broomlee Lough, the water warm
About their chins, and talked of this and that;
And heeded nothing of the coming storm
Or the strange breathless stillness everywhere
On which the dull note of the cuckoo fell,
Monotonously beating through dead air,
A throbbing pulse of heat made audible.
And even when the sky was brooding grey
They'd slowly dressed and started to walk round
The mile-long lake; but when they'd got half-way
A heavy fear fell on them, and they found
That they were clutching hands. The still lough gleamed
Livid before them 'neath a livid sky,
Sleek and unrippling. ... Suddenly they screamed
And ran headlong for home, they knew not why —
Ran stumbling through the heath and never stopped,
And still hot brooding terror on them pressed
When they had climbed up Sewingshields and dropped
Dead-beat beneath the dyke: and on his breast
Poor frightened Phil had sobbed himself to sleep.
And even when the crashing thunder came,
Phil snuggled close in slumber sound and deep,
And he alone had watched the lightning flame
Across the fells and flash on Hallypike. ...
And, in his office chair, he felt once more
His back against the sharp stones of the dyke
And Phil's hot clutching arms. ...
An outer door
Banged in the wind and roused him. ...
He was glad,
In spite of all, to think he'd trusted Phil.
He'd got to see it through. ...
He saw the lad,
His little frightened brother, crouching still
Beneath the unknown horror of the sky.
That he might take him in his arms once more!
Now he must pull himself together — ay!
For there was some one tapping at the door.
Plain as the damning figures on that page
Which burned and bit themselves into his brain
Since he'd first lighted on them — such an age
Since he'd first lighted on them! though the clock
Had only ticked one hour out — its white face
And black hands counting time alone. ...
The shock
Had dropped him out of time and out of place
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ...
Yet his living sight
Was fixed on the white ledger while he sat
Before his office-table in his chair —
The chair he'd taken when he'd hung his hat
Within the cupboard door, and brushed his hair,
And stood a moment, humming Chevy Chase ,
His hands beneath his coat-tails, by the grate,
Warming his back, and thinking of a case
They'd won outright with costs and ...
Phil was late —
But Phil was Phil. At home they used to call
His brother " Better-late " . At every turn
He'd had to wait for Phil. And after all
There wasn't so much doing since that concern ...
And little thinking anything was wrong,
Laying his hand upon his own armchair
To draw it out, still humming the old song,
He'd seen the note from Philip lying there
Upon the open ledger.
Once he read
The truth, unrealising, and again;
But only two words echoed in his head
And buzzed uncomprehended in his brain —
" Embezzled " and " absconded " .
Phil had spelt
His shame out boldly in his boyish hand —
And then those figures ...
Dizzily he felt
The truth burn through him. He could hardly stand,
But sank into his chair with eyes set wide
Upon those damning figures, murmuring Phil!
And listening to the whirr of wheels outside
And sparrows cheeping on the window-sill —
Still murmuring Phil, poor Phil!
But Phil was gone,
And he was left alone to bear the brunt. ...
Phil! Little Phil!
And still the morning shone
Bright at the window. ...
Callous, curt and blunt,
The world would call his brother — not that name!
And yet names mattered little at this pass.
He'd known that Phil was slack — but this!
The blame
Was his as much as Phil's: as in a glass
Darkly he saw he'd been to blame as well;
And he would bear the blame. Had he not known
That Phil was slack? For all that he could tell,
If he'd looked after Phil this might ...
Alone
He'd got to face the music. He was glad
He was alone. ... And yet for Phil's own sake
If he had only had the pluck, poor lad,
To see the thing through like a man and take
His punishment!
For him was no escape
Either by Phil's road or that darker road.
He knew the cost and how the thing would shape —
Too well he knew the full weight of the load
He strapped upon his shoulders. It was just
That he should bear the burden on his back.
He'd trusted Phil; and he'd no right to trust
Even his brother, knowing he was slack,
When other people's money was at stake.
He'd too been slack: and slackness was a crime —
The deadliest crime of all. ...
And broad awake
As in a nightmare he was " doing time "
Already. ...
Yet he'd only trusted Phil,
His brother Phil — and it had come to this!
Always before whenever things went ill
His brother'd turned to him for help, and his
Had always been the hand stretched out to him.
Now Phil had fled even him. If he'd but known!
Brooding, he saw with tender eyes grown dim
Phil running down that endless road alone —
Phil running from himself down that dark road,
The road that leads nowhither, which is hell;
And yearning towards him, bowed beneath his load,
And murmuring Little Phil!
Again he fell
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ...
When a ripple of light
Dappled his desk. ...
And they were boys together
Rambling the hills of home that April day,
Stumbling and plunging knee-deep through the heather
Towards Hallypike, the little lough that lay
Glancing and gleaming in the sun, to search
For eggs of inland-breeding gulls. He heard
The curlew piping, saw a blackcock perch
On a stone dyke hard-by — a lordly bird
With queer curled tail. And soon they reached the edge,
The quaggy edge of Hallypike: and then
The gulls rose at them screaming from the sedge
With flapping wings: and for a while like men
They stood their ground among the quaking moss
Until, half-blinded by the dazzling white
Of interweaving wings and at a loss
Which way to turn, they only thought of flight
From those fierce cruel beaks and hungry eyes —
Yet stood transfixed, each on a quaking clump,
With hands to ears to shut out those wild cries.
Then the gulls closed on Phil, and with a jump
And one shrill yell he'd plunged into the lake
Half-crazed with terror. Only just in time
He'd stumbled after through the quag aquake
And caught him by the coat, and through black slime
Had dragged him into safety, far away
From the horror of white wings and beaks and eyes.
And he remembered now how Philip lay
Sobbing upon his bosom. ...
Now those cries
Were threatening Phil again, and he was caught
Blind in a beating, baffling, yelling hell
Of wings and beaks and eyes. And there was naught
That he could do for him. ...
Once more he fell
Into the dead void of eternity,
Lightless and aching, and his soul hung dead
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see
Those damning figures, burning hugely red
On the low aching dome of the black heaven
That crushed upon his temples, glaring bright —
10,711 —
Searing his eyeballs. ... Then the pitchy night
Rolled by. ...
And now that summer noon they sat
In the shallows of Broomlee Lough, the water warm
About their chins, and talked of this and that;
And heeded nothing of the coming storm
Or the strange breathless stillness everywhere
On which the dull note of the cuckoo fell,
Monotonously beating through dead air,
A throbbing pulse of heat made audible.
And even when the sky was brooding grey
They'd slowly dressed and started to walk round
The mile-long lake; but when they'd got half-way
A heavy fear fell on them, and they found
That they were clutching hands. The still lough gleamed
Livid before them 'neath a livid sky,
Sleek and unrippling. ... Suddenly they screamed
And ran headlong for home, they knew not why —
Ran stumbling through the heath and never stopped,
And still hot brooding terror on them pressed
When they had climbed up Sewingshields and dropped
Dead-beat beneath the dyke: and on his breast
Poor frightened Phil had sobbed himself to sleep.
And even when the crashing thunder came,
Phil snuggled close in slumber sound and deep,
And he alone had watched the lightning flame
Across the fells and flash on Hallypike. ...
And, in his office chair, he felt once more
His back against the sharp stones of the dyke
And Phil's hot clutching arms. ...
An outer door
Banged in the wind and roused him. ...
He was glad,
In spite of all, to think he'd trusted Phil.
He'd got to see it through. ...
He saw the lad,
His little frightened brother, crouching still
Beneath the unknown horror of the sky.
That he might take him in his arms once more!
Now he must pull himself together — ay!
For there was some one tapping at the door.
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