 | Lily Neil |  |
115
IX.
Alice.But, Eben, surely she would be afraid
When she beheld a spirit coming down:
Why was she not afraid?
David.
It must have been
Because it was a dream she saw it in.
Robert.
Because it was her mother.
Alice.
Yes—I know.
Her mother and a dream. But yet it seems,
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“My Lily, go into the woods again,
And sing among the birds, and gather flowers:”
I'm sure my mother would have told me that;
And so, I think, it could not be her mother,
But just a spirit with her mother's face:—
I would have been afraid.
Eben.
Perhaps, my bird,
It was because her mother brought her joy—
A joy from heaven. Why should she be afraid
Of that which brought her joy?
Alice.
I know, but then—
I cannot tell you what I want to say—
She brought her joy, but did not leave her glad,—
That's what I mean. That's what my mother would:—
I'm sure you would.
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Yes, if I were in heaven,
And if you were on earth, and ever sad
As Lily was, and if I had the power,
I would be sure to come to you with joy.
Alice.
And leave me glad?
Margaret.
Yes, if I had the power;
But, Alice, for such joy we look to heaven.
Alice
(sighing).
Oh yes! But surely it would come at last.
It would be cruel if she ne'er was glad
Unless she saw a spirit in a dream.
The birds, as Eben says, forget the snows
And wants of Winter, and, when spring returns,
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A merry spring would come to her at last?
Eben.
Be that the secret of the hour, my bird;
Leave Lily with her sorrows and her sighs,
And hear of one who loved her till the last,
And hear a little of the man she loved.
(Opens the book and reads.)
Leave Lily with her sorrows and her sighs,
And hear of one who loved her till the last,
And hear a little of the man she loved.
The winter time had come, and there were some
Who, sitting by their dreary windows, saw
The thorn of leaves and purple berries stript
By blasts and birds, and murmured, “Heaven, unkind,
All beauty from the earth has swept away.”
Not one of these was Walter. Though, alone
Within the glen where Lily had been wooed,
At eve he wandered, full of bitter thoughts,
Not of the shortened day was his complaint,
Nor of the gloom of winter. Had the thrush
His rapture-stream of song above him poured,
He would have heard unheeding: had the woods
Burst into leaf around him, and assumed
At once their summer glory, such sweet change
From gloom to gladness might have come unseen,
For round this thought, “There never was a man
So wronged as I,” his murmur circled still.
Who, sitting by their dreary windows, saw
The thorn of leaves and purple berries stript
By blasts and birds, and murmured, “Heaven, unkind,
All beauty from the earth has swept away.”
Not one of these was Walter. Though, alone
Within the glen where Lily had been wooed,
At eve he wandered, full of bitter thoughts,
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Nor of the gloom of winter. Had the thrush
His rapture-stream of song above him poured,
He would have heard unheeding: had the woods
Burst into leaf around him, and assumed
At once their summer glory, such sweet change
From gloom to gladness might have come unseen,
For round this thought, “There never was a man
So wronged as I,” his murmur circled still.
He thought of Lily: How, so long ago!
He loved her ere he knew how fair she was.
How, when she grew a woman, he had longed
To tell her of his love, but never dared,
Lest she should blight the hope-bud in his heart
With saucy answer or disdainful glance.
How, while he bashfully adoring stood
Far from his shrine, a daring stranger came—
That was the thought had stung him most—and saw,
And wooed, and won, and from him cast. “O God!”
He cried, “That she who ever was to me
So sacred, should have been so cast away!
There never, never was a man so wronged!”
He loved her ere he knew how fair she was.
How, when she grew a woman, he had longed
To tell her of his love, but never dared,
Lest she should blight the hope-bud in his heart
With saucy answer or disdainful glance.
How, while he bashfully adoring stood
Far from his shrine, a daring stranger came—
That was the thought had stung him most—and saw,
And wooed, and won, and from him cast. “O God!”
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So sacred, should have been so cast away!
There never, never was a man so wronged!”
Then he remembered how she would not hear
His wooing now, but had him chidden thus—
“What? Walter! Know ye not I am a wife?
It is not like my father's friend to woo
A married woman.” And again her words,
“If not a married woman, what am I?
Nought, surely, that my father's friend may wed.”
And how, when he had said, “But wherefore should
You stoop to swell a traitor's triumph thus
By sorrowing for ever?” she replied,
“I have no choice. We cannot cast aside
Our sorrows as a tree its withered leaves;
Mine must be borne. I cannot tell you more,
But never dream that love is possible.”
And how she had this paction strange proposed:
“Be this our bargain. I will wed no man
But you, if ever I may wed again;
And I will tell you when that time has come.
Will that content you? What can woman more,
For him she most esteems but dare not love?
But do not bind yourself with vows to me.”
And how, with tears, she begged him to believe
She, seeming cruel, was in truth most kind;
And made him promise he would still come up
At evening, and her patient father cheer.
His wooing now, but had him chidden thus—
“What? Walter! Know ye not I am a wife?
It is not like my father's friend to woo
A married woman.” And again her words,
“If not a married woman, what am I?
Nought, surely, that my father's friend may wed.”
And how, when he had said, “But wherefore should
You stoop to swell a traitor's triumph thus
By sorrowing for ever?” she replied,
“I have no choice. We cannot cast aside
Our sorrows as a tree its withered leaves;
Mine must be borne. I cannot tell you more,
But never dream that love is possible.”
And how she had this paction strange proposed:
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But you, if ever I may wed again;
And I will tell you when that time has come.
Will that content you? What can woman more,
For him she most esteems but dare not love?
But do not bind yourself with vows to me.”
And how, with tears, she begged him to believe
She, seeming cruel, was in truth most kind;
And made him promise he would still come up
At evening, and her patient father cheer.
And then he thought that he, the cause of all,
Lived boasting, it might be, how he had wooed
And won from fifty wooers Lily Neil—
With ribald tongue his vileness blazoning.
“Oh, surely Heaven,” he cried, “prepares for him
Some special bolt that to the startled world
Will thunder Its abhorrence of such wrongs!”
Lived boasting, it might be, how he had wooed
And won from fifty wooers Lily Neil—
With ribald tongue his vileness blazoning.
“Oh, surely Heaven,” he cried, “prepares for him
Some special bolt that to the startled world
Will thunder Its abhorrence of such wrongs!”
Full of such thoughts, he wandered down the glen,
Scarce seeing as he passed the shelfy rocks
With hart's-tongue plumed; nor when he passed the yews,
The coral berries 'mong the foliage saw,
Contrasting grandly. Squirrels crossed his path,
And stock-doves flapped their wings above his head,
And pheasants round about him rose alarmed,
And, gleaming from the rocks, the rillets hung
Like ropes of crystal, swinging in the breeze,
While hoarse the yellow burn ran far below:
Unseen, unheard, his eyes and ears they filled.
But where the yew-tree shadows deepest fell,
And where a little tributary stream
With hollow gurgle dropped from stone to stone,
He kneeled with head uncovered, and this boon
He craved—“O God, if human instrument
Thou need'st to work Thy vengeance, here am I,
Most glad, most meet, to be that instrument:
Me choose, O God, and bring us face to face!”
Then jubilant, as if a voice he heard,
In answer cried, “It is an answered prayer!”
And from among the shadows of the yews
The solemn echo said, “an answered prayer.”
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With hart's-tongue plumed; nor when he passed the yews,
The coral berries 'mong the foliage saw,
Contrasting grandly. Squirrels crossed his path,
And stock-doves flapped their wings above his head,
And pheasants round about him rose alarmed,
And, gleaming from the rocks, the rillets hung
Like ropes of crystal, swinging in the breeze,
While hoarse the yellow burn ran far below:
Unseen, unheard, his eyes and ears they filled.
But where the yew-tree shadows deepest fell,
And where a little tributary stream
With hollow gurgle dropped from stone to stone,
He kneeled with head uncovered, and this boon
He craved—“O God, if human instrument
Thou need'st to work Thy vengeance, here am I,
Most glad, most meet, to be that instrument:
Me choose, O God, and bring us face to face!”
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In answer cried, “It is an answered prayer!”
And from among the shadows of the yews
The solemn echo said, “an answered prayer.”
Then to the river's side with quickened pace
He strode, endeavouring to resolve how best
That which was now to be his life's sole task
Might be accomplished. Should he him pursue
Persistent, as a hound the felon fox,
Or wait till Heaven should bring him to his hand?
He could not long escape him! They would meet!
Oh, he would know him though in face and form
He wore the changes of a thousand years!
He strode, endeavouring to resolve how best
That which was now to be his life's sole task
Might be accomplished. Should he him pursue
Persistent, as a hound the felon fox,
Or wait till Heaven should bring him to his hand?
He could not long escape him! They would meet!
Oh, he would know him though in face and form
He wore the changes of a thousand years!
Thus Walter, letting passion rage unreined,
Arranged a scheme of vengeance, viewing it
In every light, and where there seemed a way
Through which his purposed victim might escape,
That way he sternly closed. He is no more
A man of peace that wishes ill to none.
He now can fancy in some lonely dell,
Where none can see, and nothing interrupt,
A struggle terrible for life or death,—
And with grim glee imagines to himself
A superhuman strength vouchsafed by Heaven,
Just as the strife grows doubtful, and, well pleased,
Can see despair set on his victim's face,
And hear the vain entreaty on his tongue,
And know he has a villain in his power
To crush or spare; and—how unreined his wrath!—
His only thought is how he best may crush.
But Walter of the wildness of his thoughts
Had no perception, and ne'er dreamed he felt
But as a man with such a wrong should feel.
Arranged a scheme of vengeance, viewing it
In every light, and where there seemed a way
Through which his purposed victim might escape,
That way he sternly closed. He is no more
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He now can fancy in some lonely dell,
Where none can see, and nothing interrupt,
A struggle terrible for life or death,—
And with grim glee imagines to himself
A superhuman strength vouchsafed by Heaven,
Just as the strife grows doubtful, and, well pleased,
Can see despair set on his victim's face,
And hear the vain entreaty on his tongue,
And know he has a villain in his power
To crush or spare; and—how unreined his wrath!—
His only thought is how he best may crush.
But Walter of the wildness of his thoughts
Had no perception, and ne'er dreamed he felt
But as a man with such a wrong should feel.
So, quickly, seeing nothing but the path
Before him, down the river-bank he strode,
Till, looking up, he saw the smoke that curled
Above his own white cottage in the wood.
The night returned when the despairing cry
Was heard that took him to the river's side.
How every reminiscence seemed to spur
Him on to vengeance! Nay, so vividly
Was all recalled, that with his hands outstretched
He bent above the well-remembered spot
Where she had lain so pale. The long suspense
Till she her eyes had opened came again
To be resuffered, and his hurried thoughts
Seemed thoughts that hurriedly had passed before.
So rapt he stood, till at his side he heard
The foot of some one brushing through the grass:
The spell was broken, and he raised his eyes,
And—strange coincidence!—the man was there
Of whom he had been thinking. He had but
To stretch his arm and reach him, and one thrust
Would yield a retribution meeter far
Than any he had fancied. Such a thought
Flashed on him, and he grew as pale as death,
And shook as if he had an ague-fit;
But ere he could resolve, he seemed to hear
A voice that whispered, “Walter, would you dare?
So he was saved from murder.
Before him, down the river-bank he strode,
Till, looking up, he saw the smoke that curled
Above his own white cottage in the wood.
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Was heard that took him to the river's side.
How every reminiscence seemed to spur
Him on to vengeance! Nay, so vividly
Was all recalled, that with his hands outstretched
He bent above the well-remembered spot
Where she had lain so pale. The long suspense
Till she her eyes had opened came again
To be resuffered, and his hurried thoughts
Seemed thoughts that hurriedly had passed before.
So rapt he stood, till at his side he heard
The foot of some one brushing through the grass:
The spell was broken, and he raised his eyes,
And—strange coincidence!—the man was there
Of whom he had been thinking. He had but
To stretch his arm and reach him, and one thrust
Would yield a retribution meeter far
Than any he had fancied. Such a thought
Flashed on him, and he grew as pale as death,
And shook as if he had an ague-fit;
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A voice that whispered, “Walter, would you dare?
So he was saved from murder.
Face to face,
A pace or two apart, they voiceless stared.
The stranger saw how Walter strove to keep
His wrath subdued, then with an earnest face
And friendly eye he said, “I have come home
Full of a growing love for her I wronged
So cruelly, to make her yet my wife—
For if she lives I know she waits for me.
You too I vilely, as a plaything, used:
Can we be friends? What say you? Is it peace?
'Tis to be humble I have crossed the sea.”
A pace or two apart, they voiceless stared.
The stranger saw how Walter strove to keep
His wrath subdued, then with an earnest face
And friendly eye he said, “I have come home
Full of a growing love for her I wronged
So cruelly, to make her yet my wife—
For if she lives I know she waits for me.
You too I vilely, as a plaything, used:
Can we be friends? What say you? Is it peace?
'Tis to be humble I have crossed the sea.”
Then Walter, angry—“Peace! while there remains
The harvest of the sorrow which you sowed
Half reaped? And you have come to woo again?
You will be humble if you may have friends?
'Tis with another purpose Heaven has led
You hither—not to give you peace and love,
But that there may be justice done to you
For murdering Lily Neil.” He knew not why
He so accused him. It was but a flash—
Th' electric sequence of a train of thought
That aimed at retribution.
The harvest of the sorrow which you sowed
Half reaped? And you have come to woo again?
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'Tis with another purpose Heaven has led
You hither—not to give you peace and love,
But that there may be justice done to you
For murdering Lily Neil.” He knew not why
He so accused him. It was but a flash—
Th' electric sequence of a train of thought
That aimed at retribution.
“What is this?”
The stranger said; “what monstrous lie is this?
I murder her?”
The stranger said; “what monstrous lie is this?
I murder her?”
“Who else then?” Walter said;
“You surely never dreamed that she could live,
And have the scorn of every neighbour's eye
To bear for ever. Where you stand she stood—
I marvel that no instinct tells you this—
And leapt and bade defiance to the world.
Who was it drove her to a deed so dire?”
In pity, when he saw the agony
The half-told tale produced, he thought to say,
“True she was saved, and with her father lives,”
But he another moment silent stood.
Then, when the words were coming to his tongue,
He heard, “My father shall not see my face!
Poor Lily! I will to my ship again.”
Then, as the stranger turned his face from home,
Said Walter slowly, “She was saved, and lives.”
Then Fate's design was visible:—The man,
Startled and wonder-stricken, turning round,
Too near the river staggered, where the turf
Had by the autumn floods been undermined,
And sideward, helpless, in the very pool
Where Lily had before him sunk, he fell.
“You surely never dreamed that she could live,
And have the scorn of every neighbour's eye
To bear for ever. Where you stand she stood—
I marvel that no instinct tells you this—
And leapt and bade defiance to the world.
Who was it drove her to a deed so dire?”
In pity, when he saw the agony
The half-told tale produced, he thought to say,
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But he another moment silent stood.
Then, when the words were coming to his tongue,
He heard, “My father shall not see my face!
Poor Lily! I will to my ship again.”
Then, as the stranger turned his face from home,
Said Walter slowly, “She was saved, and lives.”
Then Fate's design was visible:—The man,
Startled and wonder-stricken, turning round,
Too near the river staggered, where the turf
Had by the autumn floods been undermined,
And sideward, helpless, in the very pool
Where Lily had before him sunk, he fell.
With terror rigid Walter stood, because
Some Being more than human seemed at hand
A fixed decree of fate to execute.
And something dim, angelic, terrible,
A moment o'er the river seemed to float,
Then, as the lightning vanishes, was gone.
Some moments passed before to action roused,—
“But for her sake I'll save him yet,” he cried.
He soon was in the river, swimming round
And round, and diving in the pool's dark depths,—
A stronger swimmer was not in the vale.
Then down to where a gravel bed contracts
The stream he swam, and waited there and watched,
And did what one man could to save a life,
But it was all in vain.
Some Being more than human seemed at hand
A fixed decree of fate to execute.
And something dim, angelic, terrible,
A moment o'er the river seemed to float,
Then, as the lightning vanishes, was gone.
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“But for her sake I'll save him yet,” he cried.
He soon was in the river, swimming round
And round, and diving in the pool's dark depths,—
A stronger swimmer was not in the vale.
Then down to where a gravel bed contracts
The stream he swam, and waited there and watched,
And did what one man could to save a life,
But it was all in vain.
At next day-dawn,
Far down the river, in a still deep pool,
The searchers found the corse, and took it home.
Far down the river, in a still deep pool,
The searchers found the corse, and took it home.
But while the river hidden in its depths
Still kept the student from the searchers' eyes,
At home to Lily reading Jacob sat,
With poesy the long hours shortening.
He read the story of the war in heaven
Ere time began, and of the fall of man,
And, to the march majestic of the verse
And limitless imaginings, she sat
And listened, of her own wrongs thinking not—
Unconscious tribute paying to the bard.
But suddenly she gathered up her work,
And to her own room hurried. Then he heard
A tapping at the door, and when he went
And opened, in the starlight Walter stood.
“'Tis only me,” he said; “let me come in—
If it be possible, let me come in.
Speak low, for, Jacob, I have news to tell
So dreadful that I fear to let her hear.”
And when he closed the door he told his tale
Abruptly thus: “The bridegroom has come home:
He fell into the river, and he's drowned.”
“Home? drowned?”
Still kept the student from the searchers' eyes,
At home to Lily reading Jacob sat,
With poesy the long hours shortening.
He read the story of the war in heaven
Ere time began, and of the fall of man,
And, to the march majestic of the verse
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And listened, of her own wrongs thinking not—
Unconscious tribute paying to the bard.
But suddenly she gathered up her work,
And to her own room hurried. Then he heard
A tapping at the door, and when he went
And opened, in the starlight Walter stood.
“'Tis only me,” he said; “let me come in—
If it be possible, let me come in.
Speak low, for, Jacob, I have news to tell
So dreadful that I fear to let her hear.”
And when he closed the door he told his tale
Abruptly thus: “The bridegroom has come home:
He fell into the river, and he's drowned.”
“Home? drowned?”
“Yes, drowned,” said Walter;
“but speak low,
Or she will hear us. He is not yet found:
We have been searching all the night, and some
Are searching yet, but he is surely dead.
'Tis Heaven's own doing. From the very spot
Where Lily leapt he fell. I stood close by,
And saw him fall, and tried in vain to save.”
Then Walter told him all the incidents,—
Where he had been with Lily in his heart;
How of the pleasure of revenge he thought;
What 'neath the yew-trees he had asked of Heaven;
What he had sworn; and how, when in a mood
For any devil's work, he met the man
Of whom he thought; what he had said to him;
How suddenly the tiger of revenge
Grew tame within him: (Heaven alone knew how!)
And how the fated man, whose pallid face,
Had sorrow graven on it, seaward turned;
And how a moment later he was lost.
But, as he spoke, so loud his whispering grew
That she the eager, muffled talking heard,
And wondering what could be the mystery
That needed to be whispered, with light foot
Drew near them, and the tragic end soon knew.
Then bursting in upon them, she beheld
Upon their faces horror and alarm,
And wonder-stricken gazed from face to face.
Then “Who is dead?” she said. “A part I heard
Of something dreadful. Tell me who is dead.”
What could they do but tell her? “Drowned?” she cried,
“And there! My poor, poor Willie!” Then in tears
She left them for a little. Back again,
Grasping her hair like one distraught, she rushed,
And thus proclaimed the wildness of the thought
That moved her: “Walter! Walter! was it you?”
Then to the lamp she drew him, and her eyes
Fixed stern on his a moment; then his arm
She dropt, and muttering, “'Tis the work of God,—
I feared it might be yours,” she turned away.
And when you hear that all night long she wept
And wailed for him who in the river lay,
You must not think it strange, for it is but
The way of women to have gentle hearts,
That easier can forgive than harbour hate.
Or she will hear us. He is not yet found:
We have been searching all the night, and some
Are searching yet, but he is surely dead.
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Where Lily leapt he fell. I stood close by,
And saw him fall, and tried in vain to save.”
Then Walter told him all the incidents,—
Where he had been with Lily in his heart;
How of the pleasure of revenge he thought;
What 'neath the yew-trees he had asked of Heaven;
What he had sworn; and how, when in a mood
For any devil's work, he met the man
Of whom he thought; what he had said to him;
How suddenly the tiger of revenge
Grew tame within him: (Heaven alone knew how!)
And how the fated man, whose pallid face,
Had sorrow graven on it, seaward turned;
And how a moment later he was lost.
But, as he spoke, so loud his whispering grew
That she the eager, muffled talking heard,
And wondering what could be the mystery
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Drew near them, and the tragic end soon knew.
Then bursting in upon them, she beheld
Upon their faces horror and alarm,
And wonder-stricken gazed from face to face.
Then “Who is dead?” she said. “A part I heard
Of something dreadful. Tell me who is dead.”
What could they do but tell her? “Drowned?” she cried,
“And there! My poor, poor Willie!” Then in tears
She left them for a little. Back again,
Grasping her hair like one distraught, she rushed,
And thus proclaimed the wildness of the thought
That moved her: “Walter! Walter! was it you?”
Then to the lamp she drew him, and her eyes
Fixed stern on his a moment; then his arm
She dropt, and muttering, “'Tis the work of God,—
I feared it might be yours,” she turned away.
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And wailed for him who in the river lay,
You must not think it strange, for it is but
The way of women to have gentle hearts,
That easier can forgive than harbour hate.
| Lily Neil | |