University of Virginia Library

Good-bye, good-bye! ah, easy little word
When two fond, foolish, lovers, say it o'er,
And make it but the plausible excuse
To meet once more to say it once again!
Ah, sweet indeed those make-believe farewells,
With that dear head on our too happy breast,
And those sweet eyes the brighter for their tears,
And that fond, flutt'ring, heart, that starts and throbs,
But will not break at any rate to-night!
Good-bye, good-bye! and once again good-bye!
She had indeed, in agitated tones,
(With many timid glances at the door,
As tho' she fear'd the eye of Miss L'Estrange,)
Implor'd of Geoffrey Denzil to depart—
And she had held his hand, and said ‘goodbye’
And sad ‘God-bless-yous,’ and her eyes were wet,
Yet Denzil did not leave her, for he said
(Making his conscience readily his dupe,
And almost in a voice of indignation,)
“How can I leave you in a foreign land,
“Deserted, ill, and suff'ring, and for me
“Bearing humiliation and disgrace?
“The common laws of cold civility—
“Humanity,—the merest loosest bond
“Of careless passing friendship, would demand
“That having met you here, by accident,
“I stay at least till you are strong and well.”
And Constance, loving, temporising, weak,
Had felt a burden lifted from her heart,
And echo'd softly Geoffrey Denzil's words,
“When I am well . . .” and thus it was he stay'd.
How had they met? Was Constance cold and stern,
And Geoffrey like the Spartan youth of old
Who nursed without complaint his gnawing fox?
I do not know exactly how they met—
Perchance as mortals made of moulded ice,
Without emotion, or as you or I
Had met again, after suspense and doubt
Our own true love, on an Italian eve,
Alone, save for a little crescent moon
No thicker than an eye-lash, or a “C”—
(A waning moon, for when she first appears
She forms a sulky “C” that turns its back
And will not be a letter, come what may,
Whilst Denzil on this happy ev'ning saw
On looking up, for very joy, to heav'n,
Her dear initial shining in the sky
Seeming to bid him hope!) . . . . .
Constance was working, and she did not speak,
And Geoffrey, stretch'd full length upon the grass,
Had just been reading, now he paused, and propped
His small uplifted head upon his hand,
And Constance felt his eloquent grey eyes
Fix'd on her own, which droop'd upon her work.
He spoke at length, but did not speak of love,
For it is possible to love, and lie
Upon the sward at the Belovèd's feet,
And yet give utt'rance but to careless talk
Of bird, or tree or flow'r, or even things
Seemingly more removed than these from love.
Thus Denzil spoke, for by a mutual bond
These two had bound themselves that whilst they stay'd
Together in the South, (he at the town,
And she amongst the olives,) they would shun
That fatal subject, and that they would be
Dear and united friends and nothing more.
They watch'd each other keenly, fearing lest
One or the other should o'erpass the bounds,
And proving himself (or herself) too weak,
Should break the compact,—slave to mem'ries past
Or to some dream of futures false and fair.
He told her how a distant relative
Had died, and he was summon'd to return
To England, which he had but lately left;
How, on arriving there, he found some chance,
(Some wish to spite the kinsman who till then
Had hoped to be his heir,) had made him leave
To Geoffrey Denzil half his property—
How he, too sad to be rejoiced at this,
(Since now he had surprised his fatal love,
And made a vow that he would never harm
But keep as pure as is the driven snow
The mem'ry of his idol)—had resolved
That, as he needs must visit Denzil Place,
To take some papers from an iron safe,
Relating to his new inheritance,
He would not do so till the silent night—
So, saying as a pretext, at the inn,
That he desired they would not tell Sir John
Of his arrival, lest the good old man
Should deem he trespass'd, staying at the Hall
When Denzil was in England; he arranged
To ride there when the household were in bed,
Awaited only by his ancient nurse,
Who, telling him the house was plunged in sleep,
Had led him to the silent library
And left him to his search; the rest we know.
His letter was a lover's rhapsody,
To be deliver'd if his love surviv'd
Her husband and himself; for in his heart
Had lurk'd a wish that she might some day know
How he had lov'd her once. Therein he told
The guilty reason of his sudden flight,
And after telling how he strove in vain
To school his wayward heart, he wrote these words,
Which Constance partly read at Denzil Place—
“That you should be another's—you who seem
“Created to be mine in ev'ry sense
“In which a woman may belong to man—
“Whom, after all these waiting years, I meet
“At last; it almost seems too hard to bear,
“But so it is, and I must go from hence!”