Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] With Portrait engraved by E. Stodart ... in two volumes |
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A WIFE'S CONFESSION.
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 | Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |  |
140
A WIFE'S CONFESSION.
“Hear me this once, my husband; you who deem
Me stern and cold,—not loving mine own child,
Our first-born son,—your darling and your heir,
The child you mourn to-day! . . Hear me this once,
Nay, do not hear, but read these written words
When my sad voice is silent. Learn at last
The story of these miserable years
During the which I did my best to seem
A happy wife and mother! . . .
Me stern and cold,—not loving mine own child,
Our first-born son,—your darling and your heir,
The child you mourn to-day! . . Hear me this once,
Nay, do not hear, but read these written words
When my sad voice is silent. Learn at last
The story of these miserable years
During the which I did my best to seem
A happy wife and mother! . . .
. . . You remember
That day of days, just twenty years ago
When, on the terrace-walk, amongst the yews,
You said you loved me? All the world was still,
Whilst the great sunflow'rs, like a row of ghosts,
Stared out upon us from the garden beds.
I can remember ev'ry word you said
On that too blessèd ev'ning; how the years
Had glided by, since you, a sailor lad,
The second son of your illustrious house,
And I—a baby girl—your Rector's daughter,
Had play'd together 'neath those very trees
In old departed days, and how, anon,
Ere you had deem'd it possible,—so fast
Tripp'd the light-footed years,—you came and found
Your playmate grown to woman, and how your heart
Had yearn'd towards her! Yet, because you knew
Your life to be so shifting and unstable,
You strove against your love. . . .
That day of days, just twenty years ago
When, on the terrace-walk, amongst the yews,
You said you loved me? All the world was still,
Whilst the great sunflow'rs, like a row of ghosts,
Stared out upon us from the garden beds.
I can remember ev'ry word you said
On that too blessèd ev'ning; how the years
Had glided by, since you, a sailor lad,
The second son of your illustrious house,
141
Had play'd together 'neath those very trees
In old departed days, and how, anon,
Ere you had deem'd it possible,—so fast
Tripp'd the light-footed years,—you came and found
Your playmate grown to woman, and how your heart
Had yearn'd towards her! Yet, because you knew
Your life to be so shifting and unstable,
You strove against your love. . . .
. . . And then, you told
The story of your elder brother's death,
And how your father's—following so soon,
Had left you lord of all, and changed your fate.
Then, London and its snares, you spoke of next;—
The careless, pleasure-seeking, empty life;—
The making much of little and little of much;—
Its men and women, wrapp'd in selfish aims,
Envying, doubting, struggling, and for what? . . .
And how, at first, all this had seem'd to you
The best that life could yield, until, at last,
You long'd for something nobler than this strife
For mere amusement;—one, at least, to share
Your so-call'd pleasures, and be gladder for them;—
A human life to bless, a face to beam
And brighten at your coming, and, again,
In loftier moods—a faith, a hope, a home
Which Love should bless; and how your lady-mother,
Working upon your mood—had led your mind
To centre upon one who proved unworthy,
And made you deem all women vain and base,
Until, one Sunday, in your village church,
You saw me standing singing in the choir
Dress'd all in white,—for it was summer time,
Before the harvest.
The story of your elder brother's death,
And how your father's—following so soon,
Had left you lord of all, and changed your fate.
Then, London and its snares, you spoke of next;—
The careless, pleasure-seeking, empty life;—
The making much of little and little of much;—
Its men and women, wrapp'd in selfish aims,
Envying, doubting, struggling, and for what? . . .
And how, at first, all this had seem'd to you
The best that life could yield, until, at last,
You long'd for something nobler than this strife
For mere amusement;—one, at least, to share
Your so-call'd pleasures, and be gladder for them;—
142
And brighten at your coming, and, again,
In loftier moods—a faith, a hope, a home
Which Love should bless; and how your lady-mother,
Working upon your mood—had led your mind
To centre upon one who proved unworthy,
And made you deem all women vain and base,
Until, one Sunday, in your village church,
You saw me standing singing in the choir
Dress'd all in white,—for it was summer time,
Before the harvest.
What you thought of me,
Seeing me thus,—my innocence, my faith,
My ignorance of evil,—all was true,
My love, my life! in those too happy days.
I swear the very semblance of a lie
Had never pass'd my lips; upon my youth
The watchful and all-seeing eye of God
Seem'd ever looking down, to keep it pure.
Yes; I was almost worthy, then, of you,
Albeit a humble maiden, set apart
From all temptation. . . . God knows how I fell
Once the temptation came! . . .
Seeing me thus,—my innocence, my faith,
My ignorance of evil,—all was true,
My love, my life! in those too happy days.
I swear the very semblance of a lie
Had never pass'd my lips; upon my youth
The watchful and all-seeing eye of God
Seem'd ever looking down, to keep it pure.
Yes; I was almost worthy, then, of you,
Albeit a humble maiden, set apart
From all temptation. . . . God knows how I fell
Once the temptation came! . . .
143
I like to muse
Now, in my wretchedness, upon that day
When, after church, hard by my mother's grave,
With the great organ pealing down the aisle,
You spoke, and took my hand, and read my heart!
Then follow'd one sweet week of very Heav'n,
Of more than human bliss! . . . The secret joy
That comes of knowing and yet knowing not,
This joy was mine; the golden moments flew
As by enchantment; ev'ry day some pray'r
Seem'd heard and granted, some new hope begot
But to be realised, and then, at last,
Came that blest ev'ning, when the giant yews
Were black against the blushing summer sky,
And Night was near at hand, to fold her wings
Over two happy lovers! . . .
Now, in my wretchedness, upon that day
When, after church, hard by my mother's grave,
With the great organ pealing down the aisle,
You spoke, and took my hand, and read my heart!
Then follow'd one sweet week of very Heav'n,
Of more than human bliss! . . . The secret joy
That comes of knowing and yet knowing not,
This joy was mine; the golden moments flew
As by enchantment; ev'ry day some pray'r
Seem'd heard and granted, some new hope begot
But to be realised, and then, at last,
Came that blest ev'ning, when the giant yews
Were black against the blushing summer sky,
And Night was near at hand, to fold her wings
Over two happy lovers! . . .
. . . Was I cold,
Or stern, or obdurate, in those dear days,
As you have call'd me since? . . . Did not my heart,
My very soul,—go forth to meet your love? . . .
And then our wedded days;—Was I remiss
In any wifely duty? If I err'd
I knew it not—receiving only praise
For ev'ry action; nay, then all went well!
Too well,—too smoothly! Am I paying now
In solitude and tears, the penalty
Of having been vouchsafed too much of love,
Too much of happiness? . . .
Or stern, or obdurate, in those dear days,
As you have call'd me since? . . . Did not my heart,
My very soul,—go forth to meet your love? . . .
And then our wedded days;—Was I remiss
In any wifely duty? If I err'd
I knew it not—receiving only praise
For ev'ry action; nay, then all went well!
144
In solitude and tears, the penalty
Of having been vouchsafed too much of love,
Too much of happiness? . . .
. . . Your mother came,
That was our first awak'ning from a dream
Of sweet contentment. She was dear to me,
Being your mother; I, to her, less dear,
Being your wife,—the girl who cross'd her plans;
(This knowledge reach'd me slowly!)—I would cast
No blame on her, nor yet on faithful Alice,
My more than second mother,—once my nurse,
(God grant her soul repose, and give me grace
Only to blame the guilty!) . . . Yet, their sighs
And lamentations, at the childless house,
Made the now growing hunger at my heart
The more insatiate. Thus the days went by.
That was our first awak'ning from a dream
Of sweet contentment. She was dear to me,
Being your mother; I, to her, less dear,
Being your wife,—the girl who cross'd her plans;
(This knowledge reach'd me slowly!)—I would cast
No blame on her, nor yet on faithful Alice,
My more than second mother,—once my nurse,
(God grant her soul repose, and give me grace
Only to blame the guilty!) . . . Yet, their sighs
And lamentations, at the childless house,
Made the now growing hunger at my heart
The more insatiate. Thus the days went by.
And now, it seem'd, some transformation swept
Athwart your spirit. You were noble, kind,
And generous as ever, but some link
That bound us in the past, seem'd snapt and gone.
I know not if another had perceived
What I,—who lived for nothing but your love,—
Perceived so plainly, when, unconsciously,
You said some little word that stabb'd my heart.
You could not be unkind to living soul,
Yet, now, to me, your kindness bore the taint
Of condescension,—seeming, from a height,
To light upon a being all too lowly
To be a second self; whilst, oftentimes,
You spoke regretfully of days gone by
In which I had no share, as tho' you grieved
To know them past and done. Or else, you dwelt
Upon some sudden project for the future
From which my sex debarr'd me; perilous search
In Arctic regions, after shipwreck'd crews;—
The tracking of the tiger to his lair
In Indian jungles;—hurried journeyings
By land and sea,—long absences from home,
Alone, in distant climes; the roving life
Of your past sailor years resumed once more.
Yet always, when I ask'd you, did you love me?
You answer'd; you had proved it, could I doubt? . . .
But never, now, as in the dear old days,
The precious words we women long to hear
Leapt to your lips unask'd! And once at night,
When you were lying dreaming by my side,
I heard you echo, in sleep, your mother's moan:
“A childless home!” Then, waking up, you said
'Twas strange your race had dwindled to one man
And he unworthy;—lapp'd in aimless ease
And self-indulgence!—One, alas, whose loss
Would scarcely be perceived, were he to go,
And take his place in his appointed niche
Beneath the gray church tow'r! . . .
Athwart your spirit. You were noble, kind,
And generous as ever, but some link
That bound us in the past, seem'd snapt and gone.
I know not if another had perceived
What I,—who lived for nothing but your love,—
145
You said some little word that stabb'd my heart.
You could not be unkind to living soul,
Yet, now, to me, your kindness bore the taint
Of condescension,—seeming, from a height,
To light upon a being all too lowly
To be a second self; whilst, oftentimes,
You spoke regretfully of days gone by
In which I had no share, as tho' you grieved
To know them past and done. Or else, you dwelt
Upon some sudden project for the future
From which my sex debarr'd me; perilous search
In Arctic regions, after shipwreck'd crews;—
The tracking of the tiger to his lair
In Indian jungles;—hurried journeyings
By land and sea,—long absences from home,
Alone, in distant climes; the roving life
Of your past sailor years resumed once more.
Yet always, when I ask'd you, did you love me?
You answer'd; you had proved it, could I doubt? . . .
But never, now, as in the dear old days,
The precious words we women long to hear
Leapt to your lips unask'd! And once at night,
When you were lying dreaming by my side,
I heard you echo, in sleep, your mother's moan:
146
'Twas strange your race had dwindled to one man
And he unworthy;—lapp'd in aimless ease
And self-indulgence!—One, alas, whose loss
Would scarcely be perceived, were he to go,
And take his place in his appointed niche
Beneath the gray church tow'r! . . .
And all this while,
Early and late, one pray'r was in my soul
And on my lips! Ah, wherefore, Lord of Heaven,
Did I not go on beating out my heart
In pray'r and supplication at Thy feet?
Had I proved patient, all in Thy good time
Thou would'st have lent an ear to my complaint! . . .
Oh, erring human heart, this was thy last
Of innocence and truth! . . . Henceforth, one dream,
One hope, possess'd me, which some haunting fiend,—
Some plausible persistent spirit of Hell,—
(Albeit the germ was set in good intent
And clinging tenderness,) did so corrupt
And train amiss, that soon it came to bear
A poison'd fruit!
Early and late, one pray'r was in my soul
And on my lips! Ah, wherefore, Lord of Heaven,
Did I not go on beating out my heart
In pray'r and supplication at Thy feet?
Had I proved patient, all in Thy good time
Thou would'st have lent an ear to my complaint! . . .
Oh, erring human heart, this was thy last
Of innocence and truth! . . . Henceforth, one dream,
One hope, possess'd me, which some haunting fiend,—
Some plausible persistent spirit of Hell,—
(Albeit the germ was set in good intent
And clinging tenderness,) did so corrupt
And train amiss, that soon it came to bear
A poison'd fruit!
147
And now, ten married years,
(Bringing no diminution of my love,
But rather, thro' intensity of passion
And longing unfulfill'd, transforming love
Into a curse and torment,) glided by;—
And still, the childless hearth—the aching void;
Whilst she who once had well-nigh been your wife
Had borne her husband seven stalwart sons,
And round about, in all the cottage homes,
Were piping voices heard, and pattering feet! . . .
(Bringing no diminution of my love,
But rather, thro' intensity of passion
And longing unfulfill'd, transforming love
Into a curse and torment,) glided by;—
And still, the childless hearth—the aching void;
Whilst she who once had well-nigh been your wife
Had borne her husband seven stalwart sons,
And round about, in all the cottage homes,
Were piping voices heard, and pattering feet! . . .
Then crouch'd the tempting demon at mine ear
And whisper'd low; “His love is on the wane,
The sure decline! Snatch at the fleeting treasure
Ere it elude thee quite! Seize on the means
Beneath thine hand; set mind and will to work,
Achieve thine end, and earn thy sure reward!”
(Read on, and as you read, knowing me dead,
Forgive and pity! . . .)
And whisper'd low; “His love is on the wane,
The sure decline! Snatch at the fleeting treasure
Ere it elude thee quite! Seize on the means
Beneath thine hand; set mind and will to work,
Achieve thine end, and earn thy sure reward!”
(Read on, and as you read, knowing me dead,
Forgive and pity! . . .)
You remember how,
From grief at losing you, I scarce could hold
The warm tears back, when you departed hence
For but one little week? Yet, when you went
Your long projected voyage round the world
I did not weep. A woman would have mark'd
And wonder'd, fear'd, suspected! Not so, you,
Being a man, and blind to many things!
Ah, those were days of loneliness indeed,
Yet, was I not alone; I nursed my hope,
Matured my project; Alice, faithful Alice,
(Nay, foolish, guilty Alice!) aiding me
With sage advice and counsel. (She is dead;
God's peace be with her, for she loved me well!)
From grief at losing you, I scarce could hold
The warm tears back, when you departed hence
For but one little week? Yet, when you went
Your long projected voyage round the world
I did not weep. A woman would have mark'd
148
Being a man, and blind to many things!
Ah, those were days of loneliness indeed,
Yet, was I not alone; I nursed my hope,
Matured my project; Alice, faithful Alice,
(Nay, foolish, guilty Alice!) aiding me
With sage advice and counsel. (She is dead;
God's peace be with her, for she loved me well!)
I do believe I would have sold my soul
For that first letter, after you had read
My joyful news! . . . You had been months away,
When, at the very uttermost end of Earth,
You learnt that God had hearken'd to my pray'r,
And then, you wrote! . . . I, falling on my knees,
Thank'd Heav'n for those sweet words! . . .
For that first letter, after you had read
My joyful news! . . . You had been months away,
When, at the very uttermost end of Earth,
You learnt that God had hearken'd to my pray'r,
And then, you wrote! . . . I, falling on my knees,
Thank'd Heav'n for those sweet words! . . .
Could I retract,
Go back from my intent, once having read? . . .
Having re-gain'd your heart, re-made you mine,
Re-captured my lost treasure? . . . Could I keep
All you bestow'd, yet seem to give you back
No newer gift than mere undying love? . . .
Twas thus I reason'd. Was I mad, misled,
Or only, wholly wicked? . . .
Go back from my intent, once having read? . . .
Having re-gain'd your heart, re-made you mine,
Re-captured my lost treasure? . . . Could I keep
All you bestow'd, yet seem to give you back
No newer gift than mere undying love? . . .
Twas thus I reason'd. Was I mad, misled,
Or only, wholly wicked? . . .
149
When we met,
Ronald—the blue-eyed boy you mourn to-day,
Lay sleeping in my arms. Can I forget
Your silent greeting? . . . Yes; your heart was mine,
I had reconquer'd it! . . .
Ronald—the blue-eyed boy you mourn to-day,
Lay sleeping in my arms. Can I forget
Your silent greeting? . . . Yes; your heart was mine,
I had reconquer'd it! . . .
My love, my life,
For just the time it takes to read these lines
Try to be me; to see things as I saw
With my poor woman's eyes!
For just the time it takes to read these lines
Try to be me; to see things as I saw
With my poor woman's eyes!
Last night you said,
Looking on Ronald as he lay in death,
These bitter words: “You never loved my boy,
Our eldest born. You ever favoured Frank,
Your second son, as having more of you,
Your face, your disposition! . . . But I swear
Here, by the coffin of my dear dead boy,
That little Frank, for all his winning ways,
Can never conquer in his father's heart
The place that once was Ronald's!”
Looking on Ronald as he lay in death,
These bitter words: “You never loved my boy,
Our eldest born. You ever favoured Frank,
Your second son, as having more of you,
Your face, your disposition! . . . But I swear
Here, by the coffin of my dear dead boy,
That little Frank, for all his winning ways,
Can never conquer in his father's heart
The place that once was Ronald's!”
These, your words,
(Words we had sigh'd together, you and I,
Had things been different!) went to my heart
And stabb'd it like a knife! I did love Ronald
Ere Frank was born! Who was as proud as I
On his first birthday, when the bonfire crown'd
Yon purple hill and lit the lake with flame?
Or who more grateful, when your tenants traced
A likeness to so many of your race
Stamp'd on his baby features? . . . “God is kind
And helping me,” (I thought), “He reads the heart;
He heard the bitter cry—the ardent pray'r;
He knew the need; the gracious gift besought;
The gift denied! His ways are not our ways;
Herein is consolation!” And the will,
Helping the erring heart to cloud the brain
And fire the fancy, made that seem the best
Which had its origin in fraud and guile.
We women, by some subtle alchemy,
Turn fiction into fact, dross into gold,
And, when we love, a man into a god!—
What wonder then, this child, so full of life
And strength and beauty, seeming like a link
To bind your heart to mine, should come to be,
For three short years, my darling and my pride? . . .
(Words we had sigh'd together, you and I,
Had things been different!) went to my heart
And stabb'd it like a knife! I did love Ronald
Ere Frank was born! Who was as proud as I
150
Yon purple hill and lit the lake with flame?
Or who more grateful, when your tenants traced
A likeness to so many of your race
Stamp'd on his baby features? . . . “God is kind
And helping me,” (I thought), “He reads the heart;
He heard the bitter cry—the ardent pray'r;
He knew the need; the gracious gift besought;
The gift denied! His ways are not our ways;
Herein is consolation!” And the will,
Helping the erring heart to cloud the brain
And fire the fancy, made that seem the best
Which had its origin in fraud and guile.
We women, by some subtle alchemy,
Turn fiction into fact, dross into gold,
And, when we love, a man into a god!—
What wonder then, this child, so full of life
And strength and beauty, seeming like a link
To bind your heart to mine, should come to be,
For three short years, my darling and my pride? . . .
“For three short years!” and then, my Frank was born,
My very own! . . . And God's avenging hand
Descended like a two-edged sword, to smite
My guilty heart, and all was turn'd to tears
And secret bitterness!
My very own! . . . And God's avenging hand
Descended like a two-edged sword, to smite
151
And secret bitterness!
. . . You loved not Frank
As you loved Ronald! . . . 'Twas as tho' the want,
The longing of your life, had been assuaged;—
Your heart so fill'd, you had no need of him;
You cared for him with all a father's care,
But ever with a difference, whilst I
Loved him as Ronald never had been loved,
With all a mother's passion for the son
Born after years of longing,—for the child
Of her one love, the husband of her heart!
(Oh, read and pity! . . .) All these seven years
Since Frank was born, my life has been a Hell
Of torment and remorse! . . . Ronald, the first,
Ever before my boy! . . . Why was he tall
And strong, and bold, and daring, and my boy
Thoughtful and gentle, with a dreamer's mind,
A student's nature? . . . “Having more of me,”
You said, and said I loved him most for this;—
Nay! more of you! . . . Ah, husband, let your curse
Fall lightly on my head;—the head of one
So humbled and abased! . . . No drop of blood
Of yours, of mine, of your illustrious sires,
E'er flow'd in Ronald's veins! The child you mourn
Was but a pauper foundling; Alice knew
His mother's name, and knew that he should prove
A stalwart, comely lad, but she is dead,—
(Peace to her soul!) Ah, look into your heart,
And understand what brought my own to this,
And read and pardon! . . .
As you loved Ronald! . . . 'Twas as tho' the want,
The longing of your life, had been assuaged;—
Your heart so fill'd, you had no need of him;
You cared for him with all a father's care,
But ever with a difference, whilst I
Loved him as Ronald never had been loved,
With all a mother's passion for the son
Born after years of longing,—for the child
Of her one love, the husband of her heart!
(Oh, read and pity! . . .) All these seven years
Since Frank was born, my life has been a Hell
Of torment and remorse! . . . Ronald, the first,
Ever before my boy! . . . Why was he tall
And strong, and bold, and daring, and my boy
Thoughtful and gentle, with a dreamer's mind,
A student's nature? . . . “Having more of me,”
You said, and said I loved him most for this;—
Nay! more of you! . . . Ah, husband, let your curse
Fall lightly on my head;—the head of one
So humbled and abased! . . . No drop of blood
Of yours, of mine, of your illustrious sires,
152
Was but a pauper foundling; Alice knew
His mother's name, and knew that he should prove
A stalwart, comely lad, but she is dead,—
(Peace to her soul!) Ah, look into your heart,
And understand what brought my own to this,
And read and pardon! . . .
. . . When the tidings came
That both the boys, whilst sailing on the lake,
Had sunk together, and that one was saved
Whilst one had perish'd, in my agony
I pray'd. . . Ah, no! I did not pray for Ronald,
But for our own sweet child! And God has heard
Who would not hear before, and Frank is safe! . . .
But, even as I clasp'd him in my arms,
I saw the look of anguish in your eyes,
And knew that you had pray'd another pray'r,
A pray'r that was not granted! . . .
That both the boys, whilst sailing on the lake,
Had sunk together, and that one was saved
Whilst one had perish'd, in my agony
I pray'd. . . Ah, no! I did not pray for Ronald,
But for our own sweet child! And God has heard
Who would not hear before, and Frank is safe! . . .
But, even as I clasp'd him in my arms,
I saw the look of anguish in your eyes,
And knew that you had pray'd another pray'r,
A pray'r that was not granted! . . .
I too mourn
That brave young life, yet scarce have time for tears;
Let him be laid beside me, I may prove
A better mother to the boy in death!
How could I live on,—knowing that you know,
To meet your scorn, who, having lost your love,
Risk'd Heaven to regain it? . . .
That brave young life, yet scarce have time for tears;
Let him be laid beside me, I may prove
A better mother to the boy in death!
How could I live on,—knowing that you know,
To meet your scorn, who, having lost your love,
153
. . . . Fare you well,
Love of my life! 'Tis with a twofold aim
I make my mute confession; to implant
Some germ of consolation in your breast,
(If this were possible), for Ronald's death,
Who was no kith or kin to you or me,—
And next, to plead for Frank;—to ask, for him,
That first place in your heart, till now denied.—
Once it was mine, my love, but I have vanish'd
And pass'd into the everlasting shade,—
The place is empty; these are my last words:
“Give it to Frank, your own, our only child!’
Love of my life! 'Tis with a twofold aim
I make my mute confession; to implant
Some germ of consolation in your breast,
(If this were possible), for Ronald's death,
Who was no kith or kin to you or me,—
And next, to plead for Frank;—to ask, for him,
That first place in your heart, till now denied.—
Once it was mine, my love, but I have vanish'd
And pass'd into the everlasting shade,—
The place is empty; these are my last words:
“Give it to Frank, your own, our only child!’
| Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] | |