The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

So the weary search began then, and for months that search went on:
Half through England I went seeking, silent, grim, forlorn, alone,
Past all human words despairing, with despair that mixed with shame,
For I knew well, if I found her, she would never be the same.

No: the damning step was taken. Fate had tossed her on the sea
Of the great world, given the devil his grand opportunity:
If the devil did not seize it, he was not the devil of old,
Swaying man by lust of woman, woman's heart by lust of gold.

As the dark sad thought flashed through me, I remembered where he reigns,
Satan, chiefliest crowned as monarch, not as king of hills and plains
But as deathless lord of London—king eternal and supreme
Of the city where the gaslights on his countless armies gleam.

196

There, it might be, I should find her. There for some two years I sought
Vainly, vainly, ever vainly—hearing nothing, finding nought;
Till at last, one evening, entering Charing Cross to catch the train
I ran almost up against her—yes, her very self again.

Yes, her very self unaltered—so at first I fondly dreamed:
Nay, the light that through the dark eyes flashed and sparkled, shone and gleamed,
Bright and lovely, was not lovely as it used to be of old;
Now the gaze had grown self-conscious, it might be a trifle bold.

Yet she seemed well pleased to see me and with tears the brown eyes filled
(Ah, for just one rapturous moment all the storm of life seemed stilled!)—
Then we moved away together, out of sound and sight of all;
Much my heart fails to remember, but these wild words I recall:—

197

“Yes, I always loved you dearly, but you would not understand,
You were thinking of your preaching—you were sombre, and so grand!
You were thinking of the next world—I was happy, quite, in this—
And you dreamed of heavenly mansions, while I coveted a kiss.

“You were wrong and I was right, love—I was ready, you were not;
You were writing passion's novel but mismanaging the plot:
Come with me—I want to show you that my life is glad and bright;
I will love you, sad old lover, I will love you for a night.

“I will love you—yes, for nothing—that I never did before;
I will show you all my treasures, you shall be one conquest more:
You look grave and you are solemn, but I know you love me well;
When you travel back to Cornwall you shall have a tale to tell.

198

“You shall see my diamond earrings, and my lovely china jars
With such strange old pictures on them—one of Venus kissing Mars:
You shall see my blue plush curtains and my ostrich-feather fans;
All my room is like a dream, love,—fairer far than dream of man's.

“Oh, you used to tell me stories of the fairies, what they did,
In their palaces immortal or their leafy coverts hid;
But my palace is the richer and my jewels are more grand
Than the jewels of the fairies through the whole of fairy-land!

“There are blossoms everlasting in my room, they never fade;
It is merely a small question of the florist's man well paid:
Did the fairies' blossoms glitter even in wintry hostile hours?
That is nought; in mid-December I can gather hot-house flowers!

199

“I have strawberries—yes, at Christmas—I have peaches when the moon
Dreads her dreary five months' journey to the purple skies of June:
I have everything I wish for; if I craved for one thing more
I should surely in the morning find it set outside my door!

“That is love, you know—to gratify a woman's every whim:
That is better far than preaching of the saints and seraphim;
Those old saints you used to preach of—how I pitied them poor things,
Dragging o'er the heavenly hill-tops their gold harps and heavy wings!

“I'm a saint too—some one thinks me quite a lovely perfect saint:
If you knew how he adores me—and his stories are so quaint;
Oh! the anecdotes he tells me—(let me whisper in your ear,
He's a lord too—but be careful—not a soul must ever hear!)

200

“There was never girl so perfect—and he says a perfect girl
(Shall I trust you even further? yes, I'll tell you—he's an earl!)
Ought to know all sorts of stories, ought to hear all kinds of things;
Yes, I like him all the better for the funny books he brings.

“There are goody-goody stories—there are novels of intrigue,—
And I read the former yawning, but the last without fatigue;
There are wonderful French novels, full of horrors—just like life—
Where the good man dreams of heaven, while the bad man steals his wife.

“I get up at twelve to breakfast, and I go to bed at two;
That seems wonderful, old lover, and disgraceful—yes, to you.
Down in Cornwall you don't labour like us Londoners at night:
When the stars and weak moon fail us, we turn on the electric light.

201

“But we're wasting time—step out now—I will show you where I live,
And I'll give you one night's pleasure—that's a real big boon to give
(All for love too, all for nothing) when the golden youth in town
Pay a brougham for a smile, dear, and a bank-note for a frown!

“For I frown upon them sometimes, and they love me just as well,
Stuff their bank-notes in my pocket—then I laugh and come and tell
My real darling, my brave lover, my kind ducky of an earl,
That he's found a faithful mistress, quite a treasure of a girl.

“Come, come quickly, for to-morrow—so he writes me—he'll return;
There's one night, my friend, still left you—hasten—never look so stern!
Why your whole glad face should brighten with a measureless content
When a girl so tries to please you. You'll come with me?” And I went.