Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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 | Denzil place |  |
After long days of fever and of pain
There comes a lull, which almost mimics death,
When the weak frame, which a false energy
Has fired with transient force, revives to find
The languid level of that listless life
Which surely follows on the fever's track.
Then one by one upon the wak'ning sight
Dawn the familiar objects; gradually
The doubtful, semi-dormant mind renews
Its old impressions, by the contrast made
Terribly sharp, expressive and distinct.
How strong she was, and how her tender care
Had nurs'd her back to life. An exile here
She lifted up her grateful heart to God
Who thus had will'd that she should find a friend,
For in her desolation she had thought
That all the world abhorred and hated her.
Ah, when we deem we are deserted thus
What double tenderness and gratitude
We feel for those who even by mistake
Have thrown to us some little random word,
Some crumb of comfort! How the ready tears
Which would not rise to plead nor to resent,
Will flood our eyes when some kind stranger thus
Has heart to pity all the wounds of ours!
Much more did Constance feel indebted now
To this devoted woman, who had thus
Nursed her from Christian charity and love;—
She gently push'd the folding doors aside
And thinking but to see that placid face
She look'd into the sun-lit sitting-room.
So Denzil thought, as fearing to pursue
The trembling fugitive who thus in haste
Regain'd the precints of the sanctuary,
He made one stride towards the closing door
And there remain'd discomfited and sad
With disappointment.
There comes a lull, which almost mimics death,
When the weak frame, which a false energy
Has fired with transient force, revives to find
The languid level of that listless life
Which surely follows on the fever's track.
154
Dawn the familiar objects; gradually
The doubtful, semi-dormant mind renews
Its old impressions, by the contrast made
Terribly sharp, expressive and distinct.
To Constance came this slow awakening
As from the past experience of a soul
Toss'd into port from some mysterious sea,
Quick-sanded, and of dangerous ebb and flow—
She look'd around, and saw the well-known room,
Her little bed within its arch'd alcove—
The painted chimney-board, and on a chair
She saw a pray'r book and a rosary
And the blue over-garment of a Nun—
A plate of oranges, some fresh cut flow'rs—
A heap of needle-work she noticed next—
And then the tall geranium-tree that climb'd
Up half the house, look'd thro' the window-pane
And nodded its red head, and seem'd to say
“Good morning! welcome back again to Life
And sunshine!”
As from the past experience of a soul
Toss'd into port from some mysterious sea,
Quick-sanded, and of dangerous ebb and flow—
She look'd around, and saw the well-known room,
Her little bed within its arch'd alcove—
The painted chimney-board, and on a chair
She saw a pray'r book and a rosary
And the blue over-garment of a Nun—
A plate of oranges, some fresh cut flow'rs—
A heap of needle-work she noticed next—
And then the tall geranium-tree that climb'd
Up half the house, look'd thro' the window-pane
And nodded its red head, and seem'd to say
“Good morning! welcome back again to Life
And sunshine!”
Thro' the folding-doors ajar,
Which led into the little sitting-room,
She saw a bending form, and recognised
Sister Theresa's pallid pensive face—
Beside the open window at her work
She sat, her busy needle up and down
Plied without ceasing, whilst a moted beam
Of golden sunshine falling on her head,
Liken'd her to those pale prë-Rafaelite
Pictures of suff'ring saints, which seem to waft
A faint, sad, odour of asceticism
Down to these striving, money-making days
In which we live. Then, when her wand'ring eyes
Had seen the sister, with a gentle sigh
As of contentment, Constance turn'd aside
And fell into a quiet dreamless sleep.
Which led into the little sitting-room,
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Sister Theresa's pallid pensive face—
Beside the open window at her work
She sat, her busy needle up and down
Plied without ceasing, whilst a moted beam
Of golden sunshine falling on her head,
Liken'd her to those pale prë-Rafaelite
Pictures of suff'ring saints, which seem to waft
A faint, sad, odour of asceticism
Down to these striving, money-making days
In which we live. Then, when her wand'ring eyes
Had seen the sister, with a gentle sigh
As of contentment, Constance turn'd aside
And fell into a quiet dreamless sleep.
Dreamless—yet often did she seem to feel
The vague and half-acknowledged influence
Of fond eyes looking at her whilst she slept,
Shedding on her their kind caressing beams.
And now and then, she saw upon the wall
The shadow of the Sister as she work'd,
Or leaning o'er her, list'ning if she breathed
Calmly and quietly, and once she thought
She heard some whisper'd words in that dear voice
She dared not ever hope to hear again
Save in such waking dreams.
The vague and half-acknowledged influence
Of fond eyes looking at her whilst she slept,
Shedding on her their kind caressing beams.
And now and then, she saw upon the wall
The shadow of the Sister as she work'd,
Or leaning o'er her, list'ning if she breathed
Calmly and quietly, and once she thought
She heard some whisper'd words in that dear voice
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Save in such waking dreams.
Thus, half asleep
She floated on the quiet sun-lit hours
Back into life. The Sister rais'd her head
With propping pillows, read to her, and talk'd,
And told her stories of Italian life:
As thus the Nun was tending her one day
She fell asleep, and waking up refresh'd
As with returning strength, she softly rose,
Half dress'd herself, and looking in the glass
Miss'd her long auburn hair, and met a face
Looking like that of some sweet southern boy
With tender dreamy eyes, and curling hair
Cut closely round the little classic head.
She thought Theresa would be glad to see
She floated on the quiet sun-lit hours
Back into life. The Sister rais'd her head
With propping pillows, read to her, and talk'd,
And told her stories of Italian life:
As thus the Nun was tending her one day
She fell asleep, and waking up refresh'd
As with returning strength, she softly rose,
Half dress'd herself, and looking in the glass
Miss'd her long auburn hair, and met a face
Looking like that of some sweet southern boy
With tender dreamy eyes, and curling hair
Cut closely round the little classic head.
How strong she was, and how her tender care
Had nurs'd her back to life. An exile here
She lifted up her grateful heart to God
Who thus had will'd that she should find a friend,
For in her desolation she had thought
That all the world abhorred and hated her.
Ah, when we deem we are deserted thus
157
We feel for those who even by mistake
Have thrown to us some little random word,
Some crumb of comfort! How the ready tears
Which would not rise to plead nor to resent,
Will flood our eyes when some kind stranger thus
Has heart to pity all the wounds of ours!
Much more did Constance feel indebted now
To this devoted woman, who had thus
Nursed her from Christian charity and love;—
She gently push'd the folding doors aside
And thinking but to see that placid face
She look'd into the sun-lit sitting-room.
She look'd, and all her re-awaken'd being
Flung to the winds its languid apathy,
Whilst all the blood in her impassive veins
Hasten'd tumultuously once more to warm
Her faded cheeks; for, looking out to sea
And seeming dark against its blue expanse
Framed by the flower-cover'd window-sill,
Sat Geoffrey Denzil, leaning on his hand
As plunged in thought.
Flung to the winds its languid apathy,
Whilst all the blood in her impassive veins
Hasten'd tumultuously once more to warm
Her faded cheeks; for, looking out to sea
And seeming dark against its blue expanse
Framed by the flower-cover'd window-sill,
Sat Geoffrey Denzil, leaning on his hand
As plunged in thought.
With wild impatient eyes
She gazed on him who seem'd the 'live response
To those uncertain visions, which the night
Of Nature and of Reason had reveal'd
To her unquiet mind. Yes, there alone
He waited silently: she thought his face
Look'd older and more haggard than of yore,
Its features somewhat harder, and the lines
Which time or care had traced upon his brow
Seem'd written now in plainer characters.
As Constance look'd, she noted ev'ry turn
Of form and feature; Denzil's proud sad face
(The face she knew, and lov'd, alas, so well!)
Turn'd half aside, away from where she stood,
Showing the outline of his haughty brow,
His sunburnt cheek, and little pointed beard,
Resembled much that portrait of Van Dyke
Which the great master painted of himself,
Or even more those gallant cavaliers
Whose pictures deck'd the walls of Denzil Place.
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To those uncertain visions, which the night
Of Nature and of Reason had reveal'd
To her unquiet mind. Yes, there alone
He waited silently: she thought his face
Look'd older and more haggard than of yore,
Its features somewhat harder, and the lines
Which time or care had traced upon his brow
Seem'd written now in plainer characters.
As Constance look'd, she noted ev'ry turn
Of form and feature; Denzil's proud sad face
(The face she knew, and lov'd, alas, so well!)
Turn'd half aside, away from where she stood,
Showing the outline of his haughty brow,
His sunburnt cheek, and little pointed beard,
Resembled much that portrait of Van Dyke
Which the great master painted of himself,
Or even more those gallant cavaliers
Whose pictures deck'd the walls of Denzil Place.
Constance, with all a woman's instinct, guess'd
That this was not the first and only time
That Geoffrey Denzil, looking at the sea,
Had watched and waited near her all the day,
Hoping for happy tidings ev'ry morn
And sadly leaving, when the ev'ning light
Flush'd all the changeful Mediterranean,
The house where hover'd on the brink of death
The woman whom he lov'd:
That this was not the first and only time
That Geoffrey Denzil, looking at the sea,
Had watched and waited near her all the day,
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And sadly leaving, when the ev'ning light
Flush'd all the changeful Mediterranean,
The house where hover'd on the brink of death
The woman whom he lov'd:
She truly guess'd;
The peasants beating with their staves and canes
The purple berries from the olive-boughs,
Had often paus'd and watch'd with curious eyes
The figure of the tall young Englishman,
Who hasten'd ev'ry morning from the town
Towards the painted Villa Belvedere.
Arrested by no obstacle, he strode
O'er outspread olive-sheets, and often left
His footprints in the drying golden grains
Of Indian corn. Or, Briton-like, he leapt
Each rugged wall or pointed aloe-hedge
Which separated garden-grounds or groves
Of olive and of orange.
The peasants beating with their staves and canes
The purple berries from the olive-boughs,
Had often paus'd and watch'd with curious eyes
The figure of the tall young Englishman,
Who hasten'd ev'ry morning from the town
Towards the painted Villa Belvedere.
Arrested by no obstacle, he strode
O'er outspread olive-sheets, and often left
His footprints in the drying golden grains
Of Indian corn. Or, Briton-like, he leapt
Each rugged wall or pointed aloe-hedge
Which separated garden-grounds or groves
Of olive and of orange.
Well they knew
That either love, or some absorbing grief
Impell'd him thus, and for his handsome face
And careworn look, they smilingly forgave
His indiscriminating disregard
Of property or landmark. Ah, those days
Were days indeed of bitterness to him!
'Twas little wonder if his anxious face
Bore trace of all his spirit underwent
During this cruel time! Amongst his hair
(Had Constance follow'd blindly the advice
Of her impetuous heart, and with her arms
Encircled that dear head,) she would have seen
How many subtle little silver threads
Were coiled and intermingled with the brown,
For love of her!
That either love, or some absorbing grief
Impell'd him thus, and for his handsome face
And careworn look, they smilingly forgave
His indiscriminating disregard
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Were days indeed of bitterness to him!
'Twas little wonder if his anxious face
Bore trace of all his spirit underwent
During this cruel time! Amongst his hair
(Had Constance follow'd blindly the advice
Of her impetuous heart, and with her arms
Encircled that dear head,) she would have seen
How many subtle little silver threads
Were coiled and intermingled with the brown,
For love of her!
“For her!” Ah, reader, thou
Who with thy chaste and disapproving eye
May'st deign to read this simple history,
“Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove,”
Let not the voice of thine immaculate heart
Go forth to judge my hapless heroine
Who was not fashion'd of that sterner stuff,
Fit to pursue the undeviating path
Of perfect wisdom! Surely to resist
With such an impulse tearing at her heart
Must prove at least she was not always weak;
So, pretty prude, read on, nor skip the page
Whereon no tale of amorous interview
Will cause thy gentle cheek to wear a blush,
For Constance, almost fearful as thyself,
Found strength to close the double folding-doors
As a defence against her guilty heart
And Geoffrey Denzil.
Who with thy chaste and disapproving eye
May'st deign to read this simple history,
“Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove,”
Let not the voice of thine immaculate heart
Go forth to judge my hapless heroine
Who was not fashion'd of that sterner stuff,
Fit to pursue the undeviating path
Of perfect wisdom! Surely to resist
With such an impulse tearing at her heart
Must prove at least she was not always weak;
So, pretty prude, read on, nor skip the page
Whereon no tale of amorous interview
161
For Constance, almost fearful as thyself,
Found strength to close the double folding-doors
As a defence against her guilty heart
And Geoffrey Denzil.
As he quickly turn'd
He only saw a flutt'ring muslin fold
Which somehow seem'd entangled in the door,
And then a wan white hesitating hand
Withdrew what might have been a flag of truce
To the reluctant warfare he had waged
For many weary days against his heart.
Thus Constance could be strong, and cruel too—
He only saw a flutt'ring muslin fold
Which somehow seem'd entangled in the door,
And then a wan white hesitating hand
Withdrew what might have been a flag of truce
To the reluctant warfare he had waged
For many weary days against his heart.
So Denzil thought, as fearing to pursue
The trembling fugitive who thus in haste
Regain'd the precints of the sanctuary,
He made one stride towards the closing door
And there remain'd discomfited and sad
With disappointment.
| Denzil place | |