University of Virginia Library

X.

At length arrived those last unwelcome days
Which heralded that last sad day of all,
When those who, haply, never should have met,
Felt bound in honor, or, to say farewell,
Or else to let the angry world go by
And cling together; she to bear the shame,
And he the keen reproach of having caused
Such shame in her. For Constance, who was weak,
And influenced above all influence
By him she lov'd, had deem'd it would be best
(Now she could never more on bended knee
Appeal to God but as a guilty thing,)
That she should honestly avow her love,
And live to be his wife, at least in heart,
Who vow'd to her his life's fidelity.
Often in vain she look'd across the sea
When Denzil left her at the ev'ning hour,
Hoping to read upon the pink expanse
Some sign or symbol telling how to act.
She often long'd to open wide her arms
And say to Denzil, “Geoffrey, I am your's
“In life—in death!” if it were but to see
The cloud uplift which shrouded that dear brow!
But, as he left those happy olive-grounds,
And ere he vaulted o'er the boundary
Dividing town from country, 'neath the shade
Sister Theresa, in her quiet dress
Would glide in silence thro' the garden gate,
And seeking Constance, in an earnest voice
Would strive to exorcise the sinful thought,
And seem to treat the sacred name of Love
As a mere thing of naught—a childish thing.
“There are some moments in our lives” she said
“When we can almost see (both seem so plain!)
“The fair good angels pointing out one way,
“And on the other side the pow'rs of hell
“Who strive to drag us trembling to the brink
“Of some abyss! Not that I deem your friend,”
(She added, in a calm prosaic tone,)
“Poor Mr. Denzil, who seems kind at heart,
“A demon in disguise, but lawless love
“Must needs assume to all discerning eyes
“A shape of dread, a form to be abhorred.”
For, all went wrong, he said, now she was gone—
The servants left—his Aunt was, oh, so cross!
She finally had quarrell'd with Sir John
And left him all alone to grief and gout—
His father said all luck had left the house
Since she was taken ill and went abroad!
“I swear if any child were born of you,”
He said to her one balmy afternoon,
“I would not press you, Constance, but you leave—
“In leaving home for me, what do you leave?
“A kind old man, but he can be replaced—
“You cannot even know the pleasant pang
“A bride may feel, who leaves the loving breast
“Of her fond mother for the folding arms
“Of her Belov'd;—you are not kith or kin,
“But mated by mischance, who might have been
“Father and daughter, child and grandfather—
“The long, dull years that seem your married days,
“To him are but a little speck of time—
“A fleeting moment in an old man's life
“Who liv'd and lov'd long, long ere you were born!
“Ah, he may miss you, as those fathers miss
“Or as those grandfathers, a two years' child,
“But think of what we are! Friends—friends till death,
“And lovers—loving till this heart of mine
“Ceases to beat, and husband, dear, and wife,
“If you will let me call you by that name
“And wear my ring upon your little hand.
“I say again, if round about your knees
“Were rosy faces grouped, and tiny hands
“And piping voices, ever and anon
“Clasping and calling you to stay at home,
“I had been base indeed to bid you stray
“And leave for me those sunny little heads
“But now—!”
(Here Constance press'd against her brow
A trembling hand, whilst with the other one
She gently push'd away her tempter's lips,
And tried to think he was a “Pow'r of Hell.”)
“Nay, I would rather,” Denzil wildly cried,
“Much as I loathe the superstitious creed
“That dooms a woman to a life unlov'd
“Of penance and seclusion, that you went
“And prison'd your sweet youth within the walls
“Of yonder convent, than that you should go
“Seeking yourself, and of your own free will
“The hateful life you used to live before!”
Then soften'd by her scared bewilder'd look,
He added, “I am mad, and seem to you
“To utter foolish words;—do what is best
“For you, my darling; should you feel one day
“The bitterness of parting with all joy,
“(Such as I feel to-day), come back to me
“And we will try to make, despite the World,
“A new fair life together; I shall wait.”
Thus torn and tortured with conflicting doubts
Did Constance travel thro' these latter days
(For such she deem'd they were,) in Italy.
Her lover's passionate entreaties now
Tearing her gentle heart; and then the Nun's,
Who seemed to see to ev'ry complication
One only answer, one sure remedy
Against the Future's perils, and implored
That she would forthwith give herself to God,
And “'prison her sweet youth” (as Denzil said)
Within the quiet convent in the hills.
Sad and remorseful, Constance mark'd the change
Her resolution wrought in Denzil's face
And voice and bearing, and she wonder'd much
How any one so weak and frail as she
Could thus subdue and conquer one so strong,
Who ne'er had seem'd disturb'd by greater things.
Thus wand'ring listlessly, they reach'd at last
A garden they had often sought before,
Where Constance used to sketch, for here it seem'd
That Nature, Art, and Past and Present join'd
To make an earthly Eden;—it had been
Long years ago, a Roman residence
Of some importance, and tho' ruin'd now
And desolate, its beauty still survived
To lure all lovers of the picturesque.
(Deem it not strange that they should roam so late
Fair reader, who hast never left thy home
After the few first flittings of the bat!
For, where the sun is lavish with his beams
As in these southern lands, this is the hour
When those who dread his fierce meridian heat,
Go forth, approved by custom, 'neath the rays
Of a more temperate planet; hence they stay'd.)
Upon the terrace, like a row of ghosts,
They saw the moonlit glories of the past
Silv'ry and silent, and from time to time
Some echo reach'd them wafted from the town
Of song or music, but these died away
At last, in silence, and the croaking frogs,
And now and then a falling leaf or fruit,
Or the clear piping of a nightingale,
Alone recall'd their spirits back to earth.
For both seem'd lost in some absorbing dream
Impossible to utter or translate
Into material language; thus for hours
They scarcely spoke, until they heard the chimes
Of midnight, echo from the noisy spires
Of all the many churches of the town.
Then Constance, frighten'd at the flight of time,
Would fain have hurried to her quiet home,
But ere she rose, the ghastly haunting dread
That this might be her last and only hope
Of playing truant thus, induced her still
A little while to linger: Denzil then
Awaking from his mournful reverie,
Held fast her hands, as one in shipwreck clings
To spar or mast, or as a miser grasps
Some cherish'd treasure he is soon to lose,
Whilst all the pent-up anguish in his heart
He strove to ease by his impassion'd words
Of love and mad reproach, for by those chimes
He knew how soon they needs must say farewell.