 | Denzil place |  |
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III.
“There are secret workings in human affairs which overrule
all human contrivance, and counter-plot the wisest of our
counsels, in so strange and unexpected a manner, as to cast a
damp upon our best schemes and warmest endeavours.”
Sterne. (Sermon XXXIX., page 170.)
“My loving arms have clasped him from the black hungry jaws of Death.
[OMITTED]“I saw the Grim Foe open wide his red-leafed book, but he wrote not therein the name of my brave love.”
(Adah Isaacs Menken.)To those who own the kindling blood of youth,
I would say, “Watch and ward!—beware, beware!—
Look from the topmost tow'r, like ‘Sister Ann,’
But unlike her, 'tis not for coming friend
That I would have you search with shaded eyes
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The moral whirlwind I would have you fear!”
Yet how provide against events which steal
Silent and snake-like on our quiet lives?
(As thieves at midnight-hour used once to creep,)
For now they rob by day.)—
Silent and snake-like on our quiet lives?
(As thieves at midnight-hour used once to creep,)
For now they rob by day.)—
I would face Fire
And Sword, and Love, more terrible than both,
Had I but time to buckle on my mail;
But often it has been as tho' the Fates
Were press'd for time, and anxious to begin
Their work of devastation; or if time
Is e'er vouchsafed to ponder, then, alas!
Our armour is mislaid, or want of wear
Hath made it rusty and averse to clasp.
Oh, for the peaceful lives we all might lead
And Sword, and Love, more terrible than both,
Had I but time to buckle on my mail;
But often it has been as tho' the Fates
Were press'd for time, and anxious to begin
Their work of devastation; or if time
Is e'er vouchsafed to ponder, then, alas!
Our armour is mislaid, or want of wear
Hath made it rusty and averse to clasp.
If some good angel would but make a sign
At each approaching danger to the soul!
But well-a-day! temptations seem to creep
All shod with silence, and it is as if
In times of feudal warfare, long ago,
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Towards the fort, whilst at the postern gate
The warder has not time to sound a blast
Ere soemen revel in the citadel—
Thus shamed, surprised, the poor beleaguered soul
Dies or surrenders, mortified and maim'd!
'Twas thus with Constance, unexpected ills
Seem'd crowding now upon her harmless life
So calm before. Three quiet happy years
Had pass'd away since Geoffrey Denzil first
Return'd to England;—they were chosen friends
Constance and he, whilst as another son
He seem'd to good Sir John, and to his boy
An elder brother.
Seem'd crowding now upon her harmless life
So calm before. Three quiet happy years
Had pass'd away since Geoffrey Denzil first
Return'd to England;—they were chosen friends
Constance and he, whilst as another son
He seem'd to good Sir John, and to his boy
An elder brother.
One wild, wintry, night
They sat at Farleigh round the blazing hearth,—
Roland had gone to rest, and good Sir John
Was sleeping in his chair. His sister Jane
(A spinster, who had but that night arrived)
Was knitting silently. From time to time
Her eagle eyes, above her spectacles,
Would glance to where two beautiful young heads
Seem'd somewhat close together, bending o'er
Some plans of cottages and alms-houses.
This sister of Sir John's was younger far
Than was her brother—unlike him in face
As in her nature. She had once been fair,
Flatter'd and spoilt, and could not brook the thought
Of growing old. Selfish and cold and proud
(May be resulting from some shock receiv'd
To what she may have “pleased to call” her heart),
She now seemed turn'd to uncongenial ice,
And Constance, who liked almost ev'ryone,
Felt chill'd and frighten'd by her influence.
She also seemed to know, as children do,
(And dogs,) that she, this withering old maid,
Had never wasted o'ermuch love on her;
Nay, she had seen her letters to Sir John
Dissuading him from wedding one so young,
And each one filled with gloomy prophecies—
This had been kind, (for Constance now and then
Had lately had misgivings of her own,)
But then she knew no kindly motive lurk'd
Beneath this good advice for him or her.
They sat at Farleigh round the blazing hearth,—
Roland had gone to rest, and good Sir John
Was sleeping in his chair. His sister Jane
(A spinster, who had but that night arrived)
Was knitting silently. From time to time
Her eagle eyes, above her spectacles,
Would glance to where two beautiful young heads
Seem'd somewhat close together, bending o'er
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This sister of Sir John's was younger far
Than was her brother—unlike him in face
As in her nature. She had once been fair,
Flatter'd and spoilt, and could not brook the thought
Of growing old. Selfish and cold and proud
(May be resulting from some shock receiv'd
To what she may have “pleased to call” her heart),
She now seemed turn'd to uncongenial ice,
And Constance, who liked almost ev'ryone,
Felt chill'd and frighten'd by her influence.
She also seemed to know, as children do,
(And dogs,) that she, this withering old maid,
Had never wasted o'ermuch love on her;
Nay, she had seen her letters to Sir John
Dissuading him from wedding one so young,
And each one filled with gloomy prophecies—
This had been kind, (for Constance now and then
Had lately had misgivings of her own,)
But then she knew no kindly motive lurk'd
Beneath this good advice for him or her.
Sir John had known his sister wish'd to pass
Her days beneath his roof—to keep his house
And rule over his servants and his son,
And blurted out, in his blunt, honest, way,
The same to Constance, to excuse the thought
That there was aught of malice against her—
But Constance had been happier to know
It was some sentiment of enmity
Which she might conquer, than to know the words
Came from base motives of self-interest—
And so she did not love Miss Jane L'Estrange,
Who did not love her either.
Her days beneath his roof—to keep his house
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And blurted out, in his blunt, honest, way,
The same to Constance, to excuse the thought
That there was aught of malice against her—
But Constance had been happier to know
It was some sentiment of enmity
Which she might conquer, than to know the words
Came from base motives of self-interest—
And so she did not love Miss Jane L'Estrange,
Who did not love her either.
On this night
There suddenly arose a cry of “fire!”
And shrieks and sobs, and sounds of hurrying feet—
Geoffrey at once rush'd to the op'ning door,
And thrusting all the frighten'd crowd aside,
Sprang up the stair, whilst Constance from below
Exclaim'd “Alas! 'tis in the western wing
“Where little Roland sleeps! oh, save his life!”
“And Mr. Denzil!” Miss L'Estrange call'd out,
Ere Geoffrey's active figure disappear'd—
“I pray you, in the room that faces south—
“The blue front room—my room—save all you can—
“My Bible and my rings—my dressing-case—
“My keys, my purse”—but here her voice was drown'd
By cries of frighten'd women, weights that fell,
And sounds of coming footsteps from below,
Hast'ning to succour those who still might be
Alive, where there was such a chance of death.
Then Miss L'Estrange begg'd Constance to be calm,
“An active boy would not be burnt in bed—
“He is upon the roof, and helping now
“To quench the fire—or if, perchance, the smoke
“Has hinder'd him from waking, 'tis a death
“More painless, probably than I shall die—
“We, providentially, are safe enough,
“Ere they can reach the place where now we stand
“The flames will yield; and then the garden door
“Is close at hand. ('Tis well that all my things
“Are not arrived;—that blunder I deplored
“Was for the best.) Pray conquer your alarm!”
Sir John awoke and cried “God bless my soul!”
There suddenly arose a cry of “fire!”
And shrieks and sobs, and sounds of hurrying feet—
Geoffrey at once rush'd to the op'ning door,
And thrusting all the frighten'd crowd aside,
Sprang up the stair, whilst Constance from below
Exclaim'd “Alas! 'tis in the western wing
“Where little Roland sleeps! oh, save his life!”
“And Mr. Denzil!” Miss L'Estrange call'd out,
Ere Geoffrey's active figure disappear'd—
“I pray you, in the room that faces south—
“The blue front room—my room—save all you can—
“My Bible and my rings—my dressing-case—
“My keys, my purse”—but here her voice was drown'd
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And sounds of coming footsteps from below,
Hast'ning to succour those who still might be
Alive, where there was such a chance of death.
Then Miss L'Estrange begg'd Constance to be calm,
“An active boy would not be burnt in bed—
“He is upon the roof, and helping now
“To quench the fire—or if, perchance, the smoke
“Has hinder'd him from waking, 'tis a death
“More painless, probably than I shall die—
“We, providentially, are safe enough,
“Ere they can reach the place where now we stand
“The flames will yield; and then the garden door
“Is close at hand. ('Tis well that all my things
“Are not arrived;—that blunder I deplored
“Was for the best.) Pray conquer your alarm!”
And cough'd and sneezed, and then rang all the bells—
The screaming maid-servants press'd down the stairs,
Hurling before them all their worldly goods
As yet unburnt, and which they hoped to save—
For they had all been gossiping below,
Whilst undisturbed the fire was burning on,
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Made by the way, and full of “cakes and ale,”
They met the smoke, and heard the crackling beams
And all their laughter turned to piercing cries.
Constance stood clinging to the crowded stair;
They jostled past her, rough and toil-stain'd men,
Who came from out the village, having seen
The flames that shot up over Farleigh Court,—
Two sweeps, as black as demons, whom she met,
She seized by each of their hard sooty hands,
And pray'd they would save little Roland's life
“And Mr. Denzil's.”—For a horrid dread
Gnaw'd at her heart, new-born and terrible—
It was the thought that Geoffrey, brave and strong,
Would rush to meet his doom, urged on, may be,
By those last parting words she hurled at him,
Without a seeming care about his life.
In utter helplessness she waited long,
Feeling each moment like a creeping age
And list'ning for the voices that she lov'd—
At last each pulse seem'd silent, and the fear
That she might swoon, or show a woman's heart
When she would fain be braver than a man,
Urged her to stagger to an open door
Which led down narrow terraced steps of stone
Into the garden.
They jostled past her, rough and toil-stain'd men,
Who came from out the village, having seen
The flames that shot up over Farleigh Court,—
Two sweeps, as black as demons, whom she met,
She seized by each of their hard sooty hands,
And pray'd they would save little Roland's life
“And Mr. Denzil's.”—For a horrid dread
Gnaw'd at her heart, new-born and terrible—
It was the thought that Geoffrey, brave and strong,
Would rush to meet his doom, urged on, may be,
By those last parting words she hurled at him,
Without a seeming care about his life.
In utter helplessness she waited long,
Feeling each moment like a creeping age
And list'ning for the voices that she lov'd—
At last each pulse seem'd silent, and the fear
That she might swoon, or show a woman's heart
When she would fain be braver than a man,
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Which led down narrow terraced steps of stone
Into the garden.
There, she saw the flames
Lighting the startled landscape far and near;
The angry tempest blew them to the East,
Where, streaming like the tongues of hungry fiends,
They seem'd to hurry on to meet the moon,
Which, calm and still, beyond the glare of red,
Watch'd with her placid eye the raging fire.
Anon, a cloud of smoke, and flames that seem'd
Lighting the startled landscape far and near;
The angry tempest blew them to the East,
Where, streaming like the tongues of hungry fiends,
They seem'd to hurry on to meet the moon,
Which, calm and still, beyond the glare of red,
Watch'd with her placid eye the raging fire.
Half quench'd, fill'd Constance with a ray of hope,
Then with a fiercer glare, high up in heav'n
Again they darted, to be driv'n once more
Towards the kingdom of the quiet moon.
“The roof has fall'n!” anon she heard them cry,
And dreading to behold the fiery foe,
Fed with fresh food, spring forth in horrid glee,
She hasten'd in, as pallid as the forms
Of marble on the narrow terraced stair.
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Met her, and grasp'd her hands and kissed her cheek,
Crying, “He's safe! he's safe!” But Constance, stunn'd
And looking like a disembodied ghost,
Ask'd, feebly, “Who? Where is he? Which of them?”
To whom Sir John replied, “The boy! the boy!”
And Roland, with his happy childish face
A little pale, ran to the open arms
Which Constance stretch'd towards him absently.
A horrid fear which clutch'd her by the throat
Threaten'd to suffocate her, till at last
She hurried forward, and as one inspired,
Said, in a firm authoritative voice:
“All are not saved, for Mr. Denzil still
“May be amongst the fiercest of the flames—
“We will reward the one who rescues him.”
“Aye, that we will—he saved my Roland's life!”
Sir John exclaimed, on which the soldier Sands
(The son of that old man whom Constance once
Had so befriended, and who for awhile
Had sought his native village) hearing her,
Leap'd up the stair, and hasten'd to the spot
Where the now half-extinguish'd fire had raged.
Constance was following, when kind Sir John
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“The falling floors and ceilings are not safe
“Altho' the fire is conquer'd; then, alas,
“He may be burnt or crush'd, or even worse,—
“You must not go.”
So, looking as for Life,
So, praying, could her lips have form'd a pray'r,
So hoping, could her heart have dared to hope,
And longing, with a longing terrible
Intense and breathless; thus she waited on.
The moments pass'd, then nearly half an hour,
When at the summit of the winding stair
She saw two men, one was the soldier Sands—
The other was—not Denzil;—in their arms
They carried something covered with a cloak,
Cumbersome, oblong, difficult to guide
Adown the stair.
When at the summit of the winding stair
She saw two men, one was the soldier Sands—
The other was—not Denzil;—in their arms
They carried something covered with a cloak,
Cumbersome, oblong, difficult to guide
Adown the stair.
Then Constance guess'd the worst,
And all the ills she had not feared before
Rushed to her heart—the guilty, hopeless truth!—
Then there arose before her anguish'd mind
The vision of a future, desolate,—
The dim vast desert of an empty world
Mapp'd out in ghastly colours; and Sir John,
Thinking to spare her tender heart the shock
It needs must feel at any horrid sight
Of Death or mutilation, took her hand
And led her gently to the morning-room.
And all the ills she had not feared before
Rushed to her heart—the guilty, hopeless truth!—
Then there arose before her anguish'd mind
The vision of a future, desolate,—
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Mapp'd out in ghastly colours; and Sir John,
Thinking to spare her tender heart the shock
It needs must feel at any horrid sight
Of Death or mutilation, took her hand
And led her gently to the morning-room.
| Denzil place | |