 | Lily Neil |  |
64
V.
Eben.You are not wearying, my silent bird?
Alice.
Ah no! but did the student go to her,
And were they married? You should tell us that.
Eben.
And so I will, but, warbler, you must wait.
Do you remember that white rose which once
We two discovered when it was a bud,
And how you wearied till it grew a flower,
And often stole at eve to gather it,
But found it still a bud; and oft at morn
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Out-peeping from a bearded husk of green,
And how you came to me with heart at mouth,
And sobbed, “That bud will never be a rose,”
And yet it was a peerless rose at last?
And so be patient, think this tale a bud
That cannot be a rose before its time.
Alice.
But were they married?
Eben.
Birdie, you must sing,
And I'll impatient questioning forgive.
Alice
(sings).
Away to the mountain
Where late lay the snow,
Where only the lark listens,
Love, let us go;
Where late lay the snow,
Where only the lark listens,
Love, let us go;
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And there, on the crest standing
'Mid the clear blue,
In the hearing of Heaven, love,
Our vows we'll renew.
'Mid the clear blue,
In the hearing of Heaven, love,
Our vows we'll renew.
Eben
(resumes reading).
The student came and sat by Jacob's hearth,
And played the part that he had come to play,
And talked of living authors he had met,
And quoted ballads old and verses new,
And such a wealth of rare book-lore displayed
That Jacob, wondering, reverent at his feet
In spirit bowed, with all he heard well pleased.
The student told his story—how he won
High honours at the schools, and though he failed
At College, 'twas because his health had failed.
It was a wild life oft the student led
In cities, and perhaps he, too, was not
Too rigid always. But 'twas all past now.
His father wanted him to stay at home,
And be a farmer, and his father's wish
Was one with his, and he would stay at home.
The listener was pleased: for modest seemed
His Lily's wooer—comely, strapping, strong,
And honour's very self. But more than all
He seemed to have the lyric gift, and that
Most eloquently for the wooer pled;
For genius and gentleness of heart
He ever had believed inseparable.
And so the student, when he rose to go,
Knew he had passed unhurt the dreaded test
Of Jacob's eye, and at his past fears laughed.
And when an invitation, kindly urged,
The old man gave to come again, and spend
An hour at night, his heart with triumph swelled,—
“The first-fruit of my daring see!” he thought;
But when, ere parting at the cottage gate,
He breathed in Lily's ear, “Now surely, now
Love's stream will ripple merrily, my own!”
She on his shoulder laid her rosy cheek,
A moment then her blithe face raised to his,
And gave the sweetest proof of perfect trust,
A voluntary, unexpected kiss,
Then ran into the house. It seemed that then
The devil that was dragging him along
Lost for a moment his authority;
For with her kiss still lingering on his lips
A thrill of deep self-loathing made him moan,
“Can I be such a monster?”
And played the part that he had come to play,
And talked of living authors he had met,
And quoted ballads old and verses new,
And such a wealth of rare book-lore displayed
That Jacob, wondering, reverent at his feet
In spirit bowed, with all he heard well pleased.
The student told his story—how he won
High honours at the schools, and though he failed
At College, 'twas because his health had failed.
It was a wild life oft the student led
In cities, and perhaps he, too, was not
Too rigid always. But 'twas all past now.
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And be a farmer, and his father's wish
Was one with his, and he would stay at home.
The listener was pleased: for modest seemed
His Lily's wooer—comely, strapping, strong,
And honour's very self. But more than all
He seemed to have the lyric gift, and that
Most eloquently for the wooer pled;
For genius and gentleness of heart
He ever had believed inseparable.
And so the student, when he rose to go,
Knew he had passed unhurt the dreaded test
Of Jacob's eye, and at his past fears laughed.
And when an invitation, kindly urged,
The old man gave to come again, and spend
An hour at night, his heart with triumph swelled,—
“The first-fruit of my daring see!” he thought;
But when, ere parting at the cottage gate,
He breathed in Lily's ear, “Now surely, now
Love's stream will ripple merrily, my own!”
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A moment then her blithe face raised to his,
And gave the sweetest proof of perfect trust,
A voluntary, unexpected kiss,
Then ran into the house. It seemed that then
The devil that was dragging him along
Lost for a moment his authority;
For with her kiss still lingering on his lips
A thrill of deep self-loathing made him moan,
“Can I be such a monster?”
Thus it was
That the important and long-wished-for hour,
Whose lingering in the mist of coming days
Such sighs, and tears, and fears, and heart-aches caused—
The hour which Fancy said a scroll would bear
With Lily's destiny among its folds—
Now passed, and bore no scroll that could be read,
But, like the hours it followed, told no tale
Of what the distant days were burdened with.
Again and many times the student came
To spend an evening. Walter met him too,
And learned to play at chess, but never won.
Too happy Lily! Often in the glen
She met him now. At length the bridal day
Was named. He in a cottage was to live;
For though at length the farm would be his own,
Yet now 'twas best to labour and to learn.
That the important and long-wished-for hour,
Whose lingering in the mist of coming days
Such sighs, and tears, and fears, and heart-aches caused—
The hour which Fancy said a scroll would bear
With Lily's destiny among its folds—
Now passed, and bore no scroll that could be read,
But, like the hours it followed, told no tale
Of what the distant days were burdened with.
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To spend an evening. Walter met him too,
And learned to play at chess, but never won.
Too happy Lily! Often in the glen
She met him now. At length the bridal day
Was named. He in a cottage was to live;
For though at length the farm would be his own,
Yet now 'twas best to labour and to learn.
Then came the bridal day, and there were some
Who said their marrying was a foolish thing,
So young—so ill prepared; and there were some,
Old hoary custom-worshippers, and they,
When they were told the village maids were not
To dance at Lily's wedding, prophesied
Unending evils, sorrow, and remorse,—
“How could they hope that luck would wait upon
A wedding where the pipe and violin
Were not to play their joy-inspiring parts?”
Even Jacob had misgivings, and at times
Detected in his heart the startling wish
That there could be no marriage. Lily's self
Seemed not so happy as a bride should be.
Her face was not an April sky, that dropped
Bright tears of gladness, but a winter mist
That neither melts nor lets the sunbeam through.
She did not smile like one to whom sweet Hope
Had proved no flatterer, but liker, far,
A child that sees among the dewy grass
A jewel, brilliant as the sun itself,
And searching where the peerless gem was seen,
No jewel but a drop of water finds.
Who said their marrying was a foolish thing,
So young—so ill prepared; and there were some,
Old hoary custom-worshippers, and they,
When they were told the village maids were not
To dance at Lily's wedding, prophesied
Unending evils, sorrow, and remorse,—
“How could they hope that luck would wait upon
A wedding where the pipe and violin
Were not to play their joy-inspiring parts?”
70
Detected in his heart the startling wish
That there could be no marriage. Lily's self
Seemed not so happy as a bride should be.
Her face was not an April sky, that dropped
Bright tears of gladness, but a winter mist
That neither melts nor lets the sunbeam through.
She did not smile like one to whom sweet Hope
Had proved no flatterer, but liker, far,
A child that sees among the dewy grass
A jewel, brilliant as the sun itself,
And searching where the peerless gem was seen,
No jewel but a drop of water finds.
She fretted as the bridesmaid sought to put
In intricate arrangement her bright locks,
So silken and so yellow. “Tuts!” she said,
“'Tis well enough! I'm sure 'tis well enough!”
Nor were the omens happy. Years ago
A wandering woman pried into her palm,
And dreadful disappointment feared for her,
And said a veil she could not see beyond
Enwrapt her future. So the bride to-day
Again the woman heard, and thought of it,
Inquisitively longing to behold
What was beyond the veil, and sighing oft,
“What was it that the sibyl could not see?”
In intricate arrangement her bright locks,
So silken and so yellow. “Tuts!” she said,
“'Tis well enough! I'm sure 'tis well enough!”
Nor were the omens happy. Years ago
A wandering woman pried into her palm,
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And said a veil she could not see beyond
Enwrapt her future. So the bride to-day
Again the woman heard, and thought of it,
Inquisitively longing to behold
What was beyond the veil, and sighing oft,
“What was it that the sibyl could not see?”
And there were dreams, too. When the bridesmaid asked,
“What, Lily, was your sweetest dream yestreen?”
She said, “My only dream was far from sweet:
It was about a hearse that came for me,
With black steeds foaming. Yet I was not dead,
And yet it seemed they were to bury me.”
“What could be better?” Mary said; “it was—
It could be nothing else—a wedding-chaise,
With snow-white palfreys prancing! What more sweet?”
She did not like the dream, but wished to cheer
The bride, so—“Lily, you should mind,” she said
(Urging with smiles her kind philosophy),
“That dreams are never sent to frighten us;
So if a dream is dismal, it should have
A happy reading; and if it be sweet,
It only speaks of coming happiness,
And need not be reversed when it is read.
I too had dreams, I do not mind them all,
But 'twas of you, and you were in a chaise
Alone, it seemed—that was the strangest part—
And you were whirled away I know not where.
But when I wakened I was glad to think
I had been dreaming of a chaise and you.”
“Alone!” said Lily—“in a chaise alone?
And I was in a hearse, and all alone.
'Tis all a riddle.—Will my hair not do?”
“What ails you, Lily? Such a wedding face
Was never seen. There's no man brave enough
To wed a woman with a face so sad.
What ails you?”
“What, Lily, was your sweetest dream yestreen?”
She said, “My only dream was far from sweet:
It was about a hearse that came for me,
With black steeds foaming. Yet I was not dead,
And yet it seemed they were to bury me.”
“What could be better?” Mary said; “it was—
It could be nothing else—a wedding-chaise,
With snow-white palfreys prancing! What more sweet?”
She did not like the dream, but wished to cheer
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(Urging with smiles her kind philosophy),
“That dreams are never sent to frighten us;
So if a dream is dismal, it should have
A happy reading; and if it be sweet,
It only speaks of coming happiness,
And need not be reversed when it is read.
I too had dreams, I do not mind them all,
But 'twas of you, and you were in a chaise
Alone, it seemed—that was the strangest part—
And you were whirled away I know not where.
But when I wakened I was glad to think
I had been dreaming of a chaise and you.”
“Alone!” said Lily—“in a chaise alone?
And I was in a hearse, and all alone.
'Tis all a riddle.—Will my hair not do?”
“What ails you, Lily? Such a wedding face
Was never seen. There's no man brave enough
To wed a woman with a face so sad.
What ails you?”
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As she spoke a knock was heard,
And Lily, flushing, said, “Can it be he
Already? 'Tis an hour before the time,
And I'm not ready yet.”
And Lily, flushing, said, “Can it be he
Already? 'Tis an hour before the time,
And I'm not ready yet.”
But Mary said,
“A lad went past the window—'tis his knock.
What ails you, Lily?”
“A lad went past the window—'tis his knock.
What ails you, Lily?”
“Mary,” said the bride,
“My dream is read. There's something in my heart,—
All day there has been something in my heart,—
Of evil whispering. Oh, my dream is read.
Let father in.—Oh, father, what is this?”
“Good news, my Lily. Something from the farm:
A letter—but it is the best of news.
I have been praying Heaven would interfere,
And Heaven has heard me. 'Tis the best of news,
And you, my Lily, can have nought but scorn
For perjury.—Oh that I had him here!
Be brave, my bairn. He is not worth a sigh—
Not worth a tear.”
“My dream is read. There's something in my heart,—
All day there has been something in my heart,—
Of evil whispering. Oh, my dream is read.
Let father in.—Oh, father, what is this?”
“Good news, my Lily. Something from the farm:
A letter—but it is the best of news.
I have been praying Heaven would interfere,
And Heaven has heard me. 'Tis the best of news,
And you, my Lily, can have nought but scorn
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Be brave, my bairn. He is not worth a sigh—
Not worth a tear.”
“But, father, what is wrong?”
“He is not coming—that's the sum of it:
And Heaven be praised, say I.”
“He is not coming—that's the sum of it:
And Heaven be praised, say I.”
But then he paused,
For, as the fearful meaning came to her,
She wildly turned and stared in Mary's face,
As if she sought a refutation there
Of all she heard; and when she found it not,
Fell silent, swooning, into Mary's arms.
“Poor bairn,” he murmured. “Mary, lay her down.
I was too sudden. This is more like death
Than like a swoon; and death, perhaps, were best.
My poor, poor Lily!”
For, as the fearful meaning came to her,
She wildly turned and stared in Mary's face,
As if she sought a refutation there
Of all she heard; and when she found it not,
Fell silent, swooning, into Mary's arms.
“Poor bairn,” he murmured. “Mary, lay her down.
I was too sudden. This is more like death
Than like a swoon; and death, perhaps, were best.
My poor, poor Lily!”
'Twas indeed like death;
But in a little, with a wildered look,
She rose, and snatching from the bridesmaid's hand
The sheet that meant so much, she read it all,
Because she thought the evidence of ears
Too poor a proof of such calamity.
Then she sat down and piteously wailed,
“He is not coming! Oh, I never dreamed
A man could be so cruel. Not to come,
And not to tell me till the very hour.
O Willie! Willie! Willie!” Thus she wailed
Most piteously, and uttered wishes wild,
Such as the wretches who, in their despair,
('Tis written) on the hills will call to come
And cover them. She knew not what she said,
It seemed, so startling was her tearless wail.
But in a little, with a wildered look,
She rose, and snatching from the bridesmaid's hand
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Because she thought the evidence of ears
Too poor a proof of such calamity.
Then she sat down and piteously wailed,
“He is not coming! Oh, I never dreamed
A man could be so cruel. Not to come,
And not to tell me till the very hour.
O Willie! Willie! Willie!” Thus she wailed
Most piteously, and uttered wishes wild,
Such as the wretches who, in their despair,
('Tis written) on the hills will call to come
And cover them. She knew not what she said,
It seemed, so startling was her tearless wail.
Then Jacob took the bridesmaid from her side.
“Time only heals a wound like that,” he said;
“She will be best alone, my poor, poor bairn!”
Then Walter entered, speaking pleasantly,
Like one who had no sorrow at his heart,
But was as blithe as bridegroom's man should be.
But hardly had he entered till he saw
His sister's tearful face. “What! tears?” he said;
“You look as if a corpse were in the house!
What ails her, Jacob?”
“Time only heals a wound like that,” he said;
“She will be best alone, my poor, poor bairn!”
Then Walter entered, speaking pleasantly,
Like one who had no sorrow at his heart,
But was as blithe as bridegroom's man should be.
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His sister's tearful face. “What! tears?” he said;
“You look as if a corpse were in the house!
What ails her, Jacob?”
“Read,” he answered, “read.”
Then Walter read the brief, unmanly note,
And read again, and scanned the unwritten parts
For that which might the written make more clear.
“Is this thing real?” he said. “Has he not come?
Not come? but sent her this? And where is she?
Poor Lily! But he would not ask me here
To take his glove off and to see him wed,
And then instead of coming send but this!
Is nothing to be done but bear the wrong,
And never think about the remedy?
He must be found! I'll hurry to the farm!
And yet I need not. He is on the sea,
If this he writes is true.” “Nay, let him go,”
Said Jacob, sighing. “So it must be now.
It seems no human work, and Heaven alone
The closing of this tearful drama sees.
Words will not mend the matter. We must wait,
Howe'er it galls us, till the end is come.
My poor, poor bairn! A scorned and slighted bride!
I have been blinder than the burrowing mole,
Or this had never happened. Sit ye down,
And when the dusk has come, take Mary home.”
Then Walter read the brief, unmanly note,
And read again, and scanned the unwritten parts
For that which might the written make more clear.
“Is this thing real?” he said. “Has he not come?
Not come? but sent her this? And where is she?
Poor Lily! But he would not ask me here
To take his glove off and to see him wed,
And then instead of coming send but this!
Is nothing to be done but bear the wrong,
And never think about the remedy?
He must be found! I'll hurry to the farm!
And yet I need not. He is on the sea,
If this he writes is true.” “Nay, let him go,”
Said Jacob, sighing. “So it must be now.
It seems no human work, and Heaven alone
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Words will not mend the matter. We must wait,
Howe'er it galls us, till the end is come.
My poor, poor bairn! A scorned and slighted bride!
I have been blinder than the burrowing mole,
Or this had never happened. Sit ye down,
And when the dusk has come, take Mary home.”
| Lily Neil | |