Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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| III. |
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| VI. |
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| VII. |
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| IX. |
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| XII. |
 | Denzil place |  |
When Constance rose at morn 'twas not from sleep,
But from a dreary hopeless contemplation
Of the most glorious sunrise. (That same sun
Would rise and set, but never more, maybe,
Cast two fond clinging shadows on the path
That two misguided mortals never more
Might tread together in the coming years!)
“Ah, cruel herald of a hapless morn!”
She thought with aching heart, “Of what avail
“For me, yon flaunting gorgeous display
“Of pink and gold and primrose, since your rays
“Are destin'd soon to light me from my love?”
It was as tho' the sympathetic sun
Had guess'd her thought, for as the hour approach'd
When she departed from her flow'ry home,
He shrouded o'er the glory of his face,
And Geoffrey Denzil drove her to the town
Wrapp'd in her cloak, on quite an English day
Of mist and rain. All look'd so different,
And seem'd so doubly gloomy and forlorn
From long association with the sun—
She thought the day assumed a widow'd look
Which harmonized with what her aching heart
Could now no longer hide.
But from a dreary hopeless contemplation
Of the most glorious sunrise. (That same sun
Would rise and set, but never more, maybe,
Cast two fond clinging shadows on the path
That two misguided mortals never more
Might tread together in the coming years!)
216
She thought with aching heart, “Of what avail
“For me, yon flaunting gorgeous display
“Of pink and gold and primrose, since your rays
“Are destin'd soon to light me from my love?”
It was as tho' the sympathetic sun
Had guess'd her thought, for as the hour approach'd
When she departed from her flow'ry home,
He shrouded o'er the glory of his face,
And Geoffrey Denzil drove her to the town
Wrapp'd in her cloak, on quite an English day
Of mist and rain. All look'd so different,
And seem'd so doubly gloomy and forlorn
From long association with the sun—
She thought the day assumed a widow'd look
Which harmonized with what her aching heart
Could now no longer hide.
Thus to the strand
They went together. Shelter'd from the rain
She waited there, and watch'd the dreaded boat
Lying against the stone-work of the port,
Its palpitating engine now and then
Hissing and smoking, whilst upon the deck
The bales and baggage of the passengers
Lay strewn in wild confusion. Denzil rose
And left her side to help her English maid,
Who, being ignorant of foreign speech,
Was almost helpless;—as he thus explain'd
And cater'd for the comfort of the maid
And her fair mistress, some one touched his arm—
He turn'd, and saw the sunburnt gardener
Belonging to the villa Belvedere,
Who held a written message, ominous
With the dark cover of a telegram—
It was for Constance, but the worthy man
Link'd her with Denzil in his artless mind,
And innocently thought that what was her's
Must surely be of interest to him.
And he was right, for never written words
They went together. Shelter'd from the rain
She waited there, and watch'd the dreaded boat
Lying against the stone-work of the port,
Its palpitating engine now and then
Hissing and smoking, whilst upon the deck
The bales and baggage of the passengers
217
And left her side to help her English maid,
Who, being ignorant of foreign speech,
Was almost helpless;—as he thus explain'd
And cater'd for the comfort of the maid
And her fair mistress, some one touched his arm—
He turn'd, and saw the sunburnt gardener
Belonging to the villa Belvedere,
Who held a written message, ominous
With the dark cover of a telegram—
It was for Constance, but the worthy man
Link'd her with Denzil in his artless mind,
And innocently thought that what was her's
Must surely be of interest to him.
Sent such a thrill thro' Geoffrey Denzil's heart
As these few lines which flutter'd to the ground
Dropp'd from poor Constance's wan, nerveless hand.
The message was from Roland, and ran thus—
“My father's horse, on Monday afternoon,
“Stumbled and threw him, and he died to-day.”
They did not speak—but thro' each startled brain
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Conflicting—unexpected, love, remorse,
Astonishment, and the delirious hope
Of an unhoped-for Future! . . . . . .
| Denzil place | |