University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

This is not living, tho' I move and breathe,
Ah, is there nothing better in the world?
I love to see the lily's cup unfurl'd
To greet the sun,—I love the lake beneath
And all the beauty of these barren days,
But is there nothing better? As I gaze
I seem to dream a mad unmeaning dream
About some fairy thing I have not known,
Sigh on, wild winds! your everlasting moan
Haunts me in summer whilst the thrushes sing
And ev'ry day in ev'ry year, the ring
Of something sad seems floating on the air,
I hear it sighing round me ev'rywhere,
And yet I hope and wait, whilst still I seem
As tho' my soul were drifting down a stream
To meet some unknown, unexpected thing.

I.

There, in yon gabled house amongst the oaks
Which shut it off from this, the highway road
That skirts the park towards the village side,
They used to dwell together; he was old,
And she, his wife, a very child in looks,—
Her woman's soul, as yet an unfledg'd thing
Seem'd waiting almost wearily for wings.—
Most dutiful, and kind, and seeming gay
She moved about, the sunbeam of the house,
But like a temp'rate sunbeam, such as here
Warms us in England; she knew no extremes
Of passionate grief or boisterous merriment
Such as so often stormily unite
In the untutor'd natures of the young,—
It was as tho' the day she wore the ring
And took the name of him, her wither'd lord,
She had put by her youth with some old dress
And left it by mistake in her past home
Amongst her toys. She did not know the world
This orphan daughter of a ruin'd man,
Whose only friends had been the birds and flow'rs,
She only knew what they would have her know
Who taught her as they would, and only read
As they would have her read, and then at length
The guardian who had guarded her from far
(One she had never seen), plann'd out her life
And when the question of her marriage rose
Clench'd it at once because Sir John was rich.
And then it was a lifeless life began,
For Constance (thus it was that she was named),
To her not seeming so, who had not liv'd
As yet but for her dolls and lesson-books—
To be the mistress of the grandest house
For many miles, to fuss about the poor,
To teach the villagers, to dress and dine,
And meet the same dull neighbours ev'ry night—
This was her life; to London now and then,
But only for a time, for to Sir John
The air seem'd echoing with a dragon's hiss,—
The Hydra-headed monster call'd “Reform”
That met him as he threaded thro' the streets
And seem'd to glare defiance as he pass'd—
His blear, distorting, ultra-Tory eye
Saw danger in a thousand harmless things
Unfear'd by Constance, to whom all seem'd noise
And hurry and excitement and fatigue,—
The world seem'd rushing to some hidden goal,—
All went so fast, and 'ere she ceased to stare
They were at home and life dragg'd on again.
The neighbours 'round her all led dreary lives
Yet did not know it; stagnant tedious hours
Crawl'd from the rising to the setting sun;—
Such small ambitions, such a narrow creed
All held, and yet, withal, self-satisfied,
Each saw the mote within his brother's eye
As thro' a microscope, and hailing it
With joy, proclaim'd it to the little world
Of waiting Pharisees, whose open mouths
Could mutter other things besides their pray'rs.
Amongst these mouldy human vegetables
Constance rais'd up her head and seem'd a rose,
And when compared with their's, she deem'd her home
A garden, for not only did they live
Their dull, respectable and tedious lives
Apart from thoughts of Beauty, Art, or Love,
But many liv'd them too in enmity
One with another; many too, were poor,
And liv'd in dwellings desolate and damp,
Empty of all save the provincial pride
Of Squire and Squiress; others too, were ill,
For sometimes to the village where they liv'd
Came fevers;—from the chast'ning hand of God,
(So said Sir John, altho' a meddling man
Who came from London, made him build anew
Some cottages he thought were good enough
For such as had been born and bred in them;
And tho' this meddling man had also said
The fever had not been if good Sir John
Had mov'd more with the times).—But what of this?
Some infidels will always see a cause—
A cause of bricks and mortar, in the curse
Sent down by God upon our sinful race!
(So said the parson, and advised a pray'r,
But thought the drainage should be left alone,
As heretofore;) and so they pray'd and pray'd,
And drank the water of polluted wells,
Whilst on the fever raged, and had its course;
Then, strange to say, abated; many homes
Made desolate, and in the village church
Were many mourning forms, and Constance, sad
And humbled, felt ashamed of being well,
Yet thank'd her God the fever spared her home.
So, looking not to those whose lives were bright—
Fairer than her's, she look'd around and saw
How sad life was for many; thus she made
Her's seem the best;—so free, she thought, from toil,
Exempt from pain and squalor, affluent,
And deck'd around with many pleasant things—
The woods, the lake, the cheerful summer-room.
The careless moments,—nothing going wrong,—
This calmly negative and passive life
Seem'd good to her, and so the days went by.
To Constance had been born a seeming son
Without the torture of the “pains of hell”
(As saith the pray'r book), unto him she clung
This childless second mother, young and fair;
Roland his name; he was the child of one
Who might, maybe, have seem'd a rival now
To Constance, had she lov'd kind old Sir John
With that unjust, impassion'd jealousy
Which reaches from the Present to the Past,—
His dead first wife had died before the boy
Had learnt her face, and Constance was to him
Playmate, and friend, and mother all in one.
To her he was the only link that bound
Her life to what was gay, and fresh, and free
From dull restraint; a dear excuse for youth
And secret romping; he was champion, friend,
And little lover, jealous, wayward, fond,
And brooking no control save from her hand.—
“Oh, had he been my son,” she often thought,
“I could not love him more than now I do.”
(Thus oft these self-anointed mothers speak,
With such a tender tremor in their voice,
They almost think their foolish words are true!)
Often in summer days these two would go
And gather cowslips in the dewy fields
Before the hay was mown. The cuckoo-flow'r
Here rais'd her fragile head, and here and there
With joyous cry, the happy child would hail
The rarer blossom of the orchis, prim
And purple, with its spotted snake-like leaves.
As the cool meadow sloped towards the lake,
The grass grew rank and tall and bulrushy,
And giant buttercups and pigmy frogs,
And all the wondrous sprawling water-flies,
Made little Roland clap his hands in glee—
Here was a boat, wherein the youthful friends
Would row at eventide, and watch the sun
Sink down behind the western woodland ridge;
Then all the water grew a pink surprise
To Roland—pink at first, then pale and wan
And yellow as the primroses, then white,
A shining, dazzling, oval mirror, set
In the dim, dark'ning purple of the night.
Sir John, meanwhile, was busy at the town,—
The nearest town, dispensing justice there,
Or corresponding in his library
With some one of the friends who lagg'd behind
The wheels of Progress. “This and this was good,
“But that was dangerous, and might do harm—
“It might do good, but good would come in time,
“No need to hurry it;—the poor man's life
“Was happier and calmer when his mind
“Look'd not beyond the clods from whence he sprung;
“Why, let him plough, and thresh, and sow and reap,
“And let the better people of the world
“Trouble their wiser heads about his weal.”
This was the usual strain in which he wrote
To those in London who were then in power;
“A useful county man,” they said of him,
“Not brilliant,—taking people by the ear,
“But staunch, and true, and English to the bone!”
Of him they spoke the truth, for he was true
And honest in that most dishonest cause—
The war against the liberty of man,—
The war against the liberty of thought,—
The war against the poor the rich have made,—
The temporising for the little while
During the which God holds responsible
The living man, then after “Come what may!
“So long as all the evils that ensue
“Come not in this, my time, it matters not,
“Starvation comes but once,—let well alone!”
This was his argument, could he have look'd
Into the selfish secrets of his soul;
But being kind and just in smaller things,
His very self suspected not himself
Of holding other than a party creed
Respectable and fair; if to himself
And those like him most fair, what matter then?
“Each for himself! He was an Englishman!”
To church together on the Sabbath morn
Constance and Roland used to wend their way,
All thro' the deeply-rutted Sussex lanes,
And o'er the fields, whilst on his sturdy cob,
Sir John would jog along the highway road.
In Constance had been born a passionate love
Of Nature, all that was not made by man
Seem'd sacred, beautiful, and good to see.
Thus, tho' a Christian, in her gentle breast
Some unsuspected germ of Pantheism
Lay dormant; much the easiest gate to Heav'n
Seem'd to be thro' the lovely works of God—
The flow'rs—the trees; she often felt in church
How good it would have been to worship there
Amongst the oaks, as once the Druids did,
With nothing roofing off the blue of Heav'n,
And nothing interfering to distract
The heart from God! Here, in the mouldy church,
So many sights arrested her young mind,
Seeming to drag it back again to earth,
And oftentimes she rais'd her timid eyes
To see the neighbours enter, one by one.
“And who is that?” or “Why is she in black?”
“Oh, yes, I know, the son who was at school!”
“She is in mourning for his grandmother;
“And that's the Captain, who is going to wed
“With Helen.” Often worldly thoughts like these
Constance would try to check, but still they came;
Then there were sadder thoughts,—above the pew
The mildew'd hatchments of her husband's race
Hung in a gloomy row upon the wall,
The one that hung over the entrance hall
The year that little Roland's mother died,
Eight years ago, when she was only twelve,
(Roland was eight years old,) she saw it then
And ask'd her maid the reason it was there,
That painted piebald sign-board, and half thought
That Farleigh Court had turn'd into an inn.
“Some day,” poor Constance thought, “I too must die
“And lie forgotten, nothing will be left
“To make these simple peasants think of me
“Save some such dismal diamond on the wall
“Of this old church! My side will be in black
“With three poor greyhounds madly rushing on,
“Ah, rushing whither? But Death comes to all
“And Life is very often very sad!”
Sometimes they skirted Geoffrey Denzil's park
(Their absent nearest neighbour, then abroad,
Unknown as yet to Constance, tho' Sir John
Had been his guardian when he was a boy,
Their fathers being kinsmen). From the wall
That fenced it round, the ivy-tresses hung,
And served to help young Roland when he climb'd
Follow'd by Constance, into Denzil park,
There would they wander, for the tangled shade
Unthinn'd for many years, possess'd a charm
For her young heart she scarce could understand,
The gnarlèd limbs of those neglected trees
Seem'd weirdly twisting into human shapes,
And nowhere did the ferns and mosses grow
In such luxuriance; the rooks, too, built
Whole cities, she could scarcely call them nests,
And Roland once had said, on seeing them,
He thought the weight of them must make the heads
Of the poor heavy-laden fir-trees ache—
They often waded ankle-deep in leaves
Scatter'd by many winters;—here the air
Seem'd heavy with the Past, from man to leaf,
But by and bye the tangled thicket ceased,
And evergreens, and winding gravel walks
(Untended now) led to the sloping lawn—
Quaint shapes of nymph and satyr guarded it,
And further on, a gate of filagree
Sided by Denzil dragons, open'd full
On the deserted terrace. Here and there
Forming the centre of a garden bed,
A yew-tree (pointed once, and duly trimm'd
As are the toy-trees of a Noah's Ark,)
Uprear'd its head, all ragged and unshorn,
And seem'd to show the garden's plan had been
Italian. With doors and windows barr'd,
Sometimes the trespassers would peep and mark
The silent, low, Elizabethan house
Behind the bowling-green; thro' screening boughs
They often watch'd its only sign of life—
The kitchen chimney's faint blue smoke, that curl'd
Over the cedars when the wind was east.
One day (it was a Friday) they were thus
Roaming about, and playing hide and seek,
Spring-time was near, and all the noisy rooks
Were busy with their nests,—the day was fine,
And on the leafless trees the little buds
Were green with tender promises of spring.
The old house seemed to wear a brighter look,
The shutters were unbarr'd, an agèd man,
A gardener, was passing to and fro
Rolling the gravel walks;—some carpets hung
Upon the garden-gate;—the breath of life
Seem'd once more waking with the budding spring;
A groom rode by them on a chestnut horse,
They look'd, and saw that ev'ry chimney smoked,
And Constance said, “He must be coming home.”
They linger'd on till almost eventide,
Constance, unconsciously, whilst Roland play'd,
Lost in her aimless, nameless, day-dreaming,
And building many castles in the air.
Her years, so few, so pure, so soon arrang'd
Into this unemotional, dull, shape,
Not to be chang'd, had never known as yet
Those violent alternate lights and shades
Which many lives have weather'd, yet at times
She seem'd to feel the spray of coming storms,
Or bask beneath the rays of unknown suns,
Whilst something softly whisper'd to her heart
That life as yet had not begun for her—
She seemed to wait, and often with a smile
She woke to chide her foolish maiden-dreams
And wonder'd how she ever could forget
That she had been the wife of good Sir John
For three whole years, and liv'd at Farleigh Court.
This day it was the trotting of a horse
And all the cawing cloud of frighten'd rooks
That call'd the gentle dreamer back to life,—
Roland had wander'd from her, and in sport
She waited for him, hiding in the shade
Of tangled laurels, near the avenue.
So thickly grown was all the underwood,
That Constance, dress'd in sombre color'd serge,
Was lost and hidden; as she waited there
A rider on a chestnut horse pass'd by
(The same she noticed ridden by a groom
Two hours ago). From out her hiding-place
She watch'd him pass her;—tho' unseen till then
His was a face she seem'd to know before,
And she felt glad the master had return'd
To light the fires, and let the sunshine in,
To plant the terraces with glowing flow'rs,
To sweep away the wither'd winter leaves,
And bring the breath of life to Denzil Place.
There are some scenes in this our little life
Which the uncertain light of memory
Seems to illumine with more vivid glow
Than all the rest, as in old banquet halls
Dim with oak-panelling, ere candles beam,
Some falling log will raise a transient flame
To light one pictured face upon the wall
When all the space around is indistinct,—
Thus Constance, looking back upon her youth,
At what she was, and what she was not yet,
In after years, saw Geoffrey Denzil ride
As she had seen him first, thro' long arcades
Of evergreens; his head a little bow'd,
As tho' to shun the overhanging leaves,
And sitting somewhat forward on his horse,
His eager profile as he pass'd her by—
A little hawk-like—looking far to front,
His boyish head, with all its cluster'd curls
And trace of southern suns upon his cheek,—
Then, she had heard the trotting of the horse
Upon the shingly English avenue
Long after that young rider had pass'd by;
And after, when so many more had pass'd
(The horsemen who had left her on Life's road),
She often seem'd to hear that trotting steed.

II.

If Geoffrey Denzil never had return'd
To Denzil Place, if from the distant shores
Where he had wander'd now for many years
His English heart had never long'd for home,
Then, maybe, this, the simple history
Of some few years in some few English lives
Had ne'er been written, or had worse repaid
Even than now, the pains to trace or read.
When homeward bound, no thoughts of coming change,
Of brighter days, or sadder, vex'd his mind
Indifferent to Fate. With careless eyes
He saw the white cliffs of his native land,
His country! Yet so stern and cold and grey
This misty sole surviving mother seem'd
After the smiling violet-scented lands
Where he had linger'd, that he wonder'd why
He had so yearn'd to see those shores again.
He mused of home, and here a flash of pain
And sad remembrance clouded o'er his brow,
As he bethought him that no happy face
Would beam to welcome him. Anon his thoughts
Return'd in sadness to those bygone years
When, with the mother who had been to him
So much in youth, he had so lov'd the spot
He now approach'd thus carelessly. As yet
He had no thought of long abiding there,
But he was wearied of perpetual change
And exile, and he long'd to look again
On the once lov'd and still familiar scenes
Of his past boyhood; thus upon the day
Which look'd so bright to Constance in the woods,
But which was dim and misty near the coast,
Geoffrey returned to lonely Denzil Place.
He had determin'd that, as never more
There was a chance of his remaining there
'Twere best to let the house, for then at least
There would be light and life within its walls,
And the slow, certain fingers of decay
Might be awhile arrested, so for this
He came to England.
But the days went by
And still he linger'd on, and Denzil Place
Remain'd unlet, nor did he lease the land
As he had purpos'd ere he left the south.
The days went by, the months, and then a year,
And but that now and then he went to town,
The lonely owner of those mortgaged lands
Stay'd on at Denzil. Once the Denzil race
Had been amongst the wealthiest of squires;
But thro' misfortune or thro' ignorance,
Or else thro' siding with the losing side
Whenever there was anything to lose,
Or else by being intellectually
Too far ahead the age in which they liv'd,
Or else by clinging to some yesterday
In Politics, Religion, or Reform,
And crawling thus too stubbornly behind,—
Be it enough to say they had been poor
Of later years; elections, lawsuits, debts,
Or earlier still, attainders, forfeits, dice,
Had left the present Denzil with a third
Of what had been his ancestors' estate;
And thus he had not wealth enough to tend
With the magnificence it merited
His rambling red-brick mansion;—and again,
As his extensive sylvan slopes and shades
Yielded him nothing save the Beautiful,
They but encumber'd him, and were it not
For the old memories that haunted them,
He long ago had sold them, to become
Once more a rich and independent man.
Then there began for Constance a new life—
The dang'rous life of close companionship
With one who is not bound by tie of blood
To be a comrade; hitherto her days
Fled in contented converse with a child,
Or else in list'ning, kindly tolerant
To childish sayings from a dull old man,—
Those days seem'd good, she miss'd no promised joy,
But now how empty had they seem'd to her
Without this first-found sharer of her thoughts!
Their very arguments (they differ'd much
Upon religion), roused her from her dream,
And made of her a champion of the cross,
The zealous advocate of Highest Heav'n,
Her whole soul rose in arms to subjugate,
As with an angel's slashing two-edg'd sword,
The paganism of her new-found friend.
He held, indeed, unorthodox beliefs
And unbeliefs, (nay, mostly unbeliefs,
For these to him were easiest to hold,)
He felt so much was wrong here on the earth—
One giant fraud—a mutual “take in”—
An all-pervading system of deceit—
“Deluding one another”—this he saw,
And being by nature honest, loyal, true,
He loath'd and hated all the canting lies
That smirk'd and prosper'd wheresoe'er he turn'd;
Yet how to set things right he did not know,
How to resuscitate to greener growth
The wither'd branches of a rotting tree—
To lop them off, he thought, were surely best,
So he had laid the axe unsparingly
To many an offshoot of the Tree of Faith,
But lacked the knowledge how to vitalize
The wholesome after-growth of tree and fruit
That he would raise instead. Without a creed,
His childhood's innocent beliefs pull'd down,
Stubborn, and seeming careless, (for in Care
He told himself he never should believe,
Nothing was worth a care!) Pensive at times,
Yet often kindling with a keener wit
Than we dull islanders are wont to show,
Inheriting a wild, impulsive heart,
Yet deeming he had drill'd himself to feel
No warmer than an iceberg; with a face
Which said more of the secrets of his soul
Than he had wish'd maybe, could he have seen
The tell-tale flash of light that sometimes beam'd
From out his eager eyes;—this was the man
Who came to Constance in her loveless youth,
And, well-a-day! 'twas just about the time
When she was wearied with Sir John's complaints
Against the railways and Democracy,
And when the extracts from the Tory press
Ceased to amuse her! When this stranger came
His cold indifference to all these things
Became a bond of union, and in time
They smiled at them together. Then Sir John
Treated young Geoffrey Denzil like a boy,
Bore with his strange beliefs and unbeliefs,
And patronized and gave him good advice;
And Constance, being married to Sir John,
Seem'd bound to be a sort of mentor too,
And took with him a sweet maternal way,
Tho' he was ten years older than herself,
And deem'd himself e'en older still, in heart.
“You may not be too poor,”
She said one day, “to do such little things
“As they require. Your bailiff rais'd the rent
“Of that thatch'd cottage near the Farleigh lodge,
“The very day old Sands was paralyzed—
“His son enlisted on the self-same day
“To be a soldier—he had been his help
“Like a right hand; and then his daughter died
“In child-bed (Do they ever come alone
“Misfortunes?). So, you see this poor old man
“Who scarce can lift one arm, must, half the day
“Carry his daughter's child—his roof is gone,
“Or more than half, and lets in all the rain—
“(He was a first-rate thatcher once, himself,
“But now his arm . . .). You said you meant to hunt
“This Winter—you are rich enough for that,
“Would it not make you happier to think
“You had one horse the less, and feel the while
“Your tenants had more comfortable homes?”
“Or, all is false,” he said, “or all is true,
“If true, then let us live and die for it;
“If false, then let us cast away this creed,
“However good, it cannot be the best,
“If based upon a long accepted lie.
“But, if our faith is not the work of priests—
“If the great God, indeed, could stoop so low—
“If such a paltry plan to save us all,
“Or such a cruel trap to get us damned,
“Could please the high great God, then can he be
“The God to whom I clasp'd my infant hands?—
“The God my tender mother lov'd?—the God
“For whom the saints and martyrs dared to die?
“Oh, give me back my youth's fidelity,
“But give me also back my childhood's God!
“Kind and forgiving Father! from the clouds,
“How did'st Thou seem to heave the pitying sigh
“At my cut finger! When my bullfinch died,
“I thought of how He counted all my hairs
“And all about the sparrows! Now, alas!
“The caring for the individual—
“The sparing one mean unit 'special pain
“Seems so averse to the great principle
“Of abstract commonweal, methinks, that Heav'n
“Could scarcely work a pamper'd emmet good
“In this great ant-hill, without working ill
“To many more; just, but Republican,
“His wrath must crush out Pestilence and Sin,
“What matter if the swing of His strong arm
“Strike down some good and whole amongst the rest?”
Then Constance answer'd, “Oh, it cannot be!
“I feel assured the Bible is the truth!
“It is the only comfort of the poor.
“Think how the very poor and ignorant
“Have liv'd for many years upon its words!
“Then, what you say of Christianity,
“I pray that you may see things as they are—
“I understand it all—I grasp it all;
“But even were its teachings too obscure,
“You know that we are told we cannot know.
“‘All things with God are possible,’ and then,
“Think what a beautiful and tender creed!—
“Think of the little babe in manger laid—
“The three wise men, all looking for the star—
“(I work'd them once in color'd Berlin wool;
“They all wore turbans—dress'd in Eastern dress—
“And in the distance was the hostelrie.)
“Ah, can you doubt? (Her eyes were filled with tears,)
“And then the Virgin, with her lovely face—
“Oh, think upon the glory round that head!
“How many painters lov'd to dwell on it!—
“Much greater men than you—wiser than you—
“Yet they believed it all. Think, too, of those—
“The martyrs—all the early Christian saints
“Thrown to wild beasts; then, Cranmer, it is true
“He died in what I call the civil war
“Of Christianity—but still he died—
“Died at the stake, and let his wrong right hand
“Burn first, and said it had offended him.
“Think of his faith!—ah, how it must have hurt!”
She added, shuddering, and held her hand
Against the light, and stroked it tenderly,
Seeing before her only in her zeal
Archbishop Cranmer's burnt apostate hand.
Thus with her gentle female arguments
She strove to quench the heathen in his heart.
He listen'd for the sake of her sweet voice,
Which murmur'd on and on so childishly,
(So thought he) yet his heart went out to meet
The signs of her soft foolish innocence.
He felt the while as might some cruel hawk,
Beneath the shadow of whose outspread wings
A little bird is chirping her sweet song.
For surely did he deem her child-like mind
Would bend and yield to his, and those soft notes
Become the echo of his stubborn thought;—
Feeling she was his prey, for what he would,
He linger'd still in pity, teaching her,
(He fondly deem'd) and stifling the desires
That would have risen in his lawless heart
Had his poor little pupil seemed more wise.
Thus months pass'd by, and whilst the old man dosed
In the long ev'nings, by the winter fire,
To listen to the sound theology
Of one, the other's sad materialism,
No guardian angel would have shed a tear,
And e'en a crouching Mephistopheles
Had scarcely dared to rub his hands in glee.
Yet in those fire-lit ev'nings, all unknown
To each as yet, the germ of bitter fruit
Was sown. By both more sadly ev'ry night
The soft “good night” was utter'd, when the foes
After their wordy tournament, clasp'd hands.
It seemed that Friendship, banish'd for awhile,
Rush'd with too sudden haste to her old place,
For as these votaries of hostile creeds
Parted reluctantly, (unguess'd by one,)
The Christian lov'd the Heathen, and the sinner
Felt all his heart's blood warm towards the saint.

III.

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
Along the far horizon; 'tis the foe,—
The moral whirlwind I would have you fear!”
Oh, for the peaceful lives we all might lead
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,
An enemy approach'd, conceal'd by night
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!
Sir John awoke and cried “God bless my soul!”
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,
Till, going up to bed, with many a joke
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.
Anon, a cloud of smoke, and flames that seem'd
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.
Sir John, with happy smile and beaming eye,
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
Restrain'd her, saying, “No, you must not go,
“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.
But Geoffrey Denzil, though he scarcely breathed,
Was yet alive—beneath some fallen beams
And crumbled brick-work, blacken'd by the smoke
And drenched with water, they at first had deem'd
He had been crushed, for scarcely could they tell
What aspect he would wear when they had freed
His almost buried form. One broken arm
Hung limp and useless; he was stunned, they saw
By a thick beam which struck him on the brow,
But still he lived;—they tended him with care,
Washed from his cheek the trace of smoke and blood,
And saw that it was pale, but still the face
Of one who liv'd. The doctor set his arm,
And watch'd him long, and said some hopeful words.
Thus Constance saw him, when, with new-found strength,
Hearing he liv'd, with Roland by her side,
She asked for tidings, longing once again
To see his face ere it might be too late.
She thought she would not care, so he should live,
E'en if she did not ever see again
The face that seem'd so beautiful to her—
Only to know that somewhere, far away,
He liv'd and breathed, and that there was a hope,
However vague, that she might once again
Dream (only dream!) to look at him on earth!
Kneeling beside the bed she tried to pray,
But her impatient spirit fear'd lest Heav'n
Was too far off to listen to her pray'r,
So, in the madness of her agony,
She call'd to Geoffrey Denzil, praying him
Upon her bended knees that he would live.
“Oh, if you die,” she said, “you break my heart,
“Good-bye to life! oh, let me die with you!
“Think of the three whole years we have been friends,
“Think of the places we have seen together—
“When you are gone my poor dreams crumble down,
“Oh, stay with me! oh, live to be again
“My chosen friend! ah, do not go away!—
“I love you more than life—come back to me!”
She threw her hopeless arms about his neck,
For o'er his face a death-like pallor spread,—
Some change seem'd working in him—all her soul
Look'd out upon him from her haggard eyes.
He did not move, she thought he scarcely breathed—
The pulses of her body seem'd to die—
“Oh, speak to me! Ah, do not leave me thus!
“Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey! you will break my heart!”
She sobb'd, and fainting, fell upon the floor.
I know not how it was some bell was rung,
And by and bye a servant sought the room
Denzil was sitting looking at the wall,
And Constance lay unconscious at his side,
“She fainted,” in the faintest voice he said—
“This shock has been too great”—he waved his hand,
“I'm better now,” he said. “Leave me alone—
‘Take care of her, she needs must want repose.”
They took her to her chamber, where she lay
As one exhausted; ev'ry now and then
She sadly ask'd them, “Is he still alive?”
Or else she wept and said, “He was my all
“On earth, my one companion! Save his life!”
Sir John was touch'd, and watch'd her tenderly,
And told his sister with how true a love
She lov'd his boy, for never did he doubt
That all her trouble came from fears for him—
But Miss L'Estrange compress'd her virgin lips,
Put on a face of Sphinx-like mystery,
And shook her head with a contemptuous look
At good Sir John, who was not one of those
Born to decipher riddles. Thus for days
Prostrate and weak, and wandering at times,
She kept her chamber; sometimes for whole hours
She stared at the gay pattern on the wall,
Forming the tendrils and the leaves and flow'rs
Into unmeaning words and animals,
And human faces, all unknown to her.
The doctor merely echoed Geoffrey's words:
“The fright has been too much, she needs repose;
“She has received a shock, and nervous fear
“Prostrates her mind and body; let her rest.”
Oh, love! thou who shelt'rest some
'Neath thy wings so white and warm,
Wherefore on a bat-like wing
All disguisèd did'st thou come
In so terrible a form?
As a dark forbidden thing,
As a demon of the air—
As a sorrow and a sin,
Wherefore cam'st thou thus to me,
As a tempter and a snare?
When the heart that beats within
This, my bosom, warm'd to thee,
Was it from a love of sinning,—
From a fatal love of wrong,
From a wish to shun the light?
Nay! I swear at the beginning
Had'st thou sung an angel's song,—
Had this wrong thing been the right,
Thou had'st seem'd as worth the winning
And with will as firm and strong
I had lov'd with all my might!

IV.

So did the scandal-loving neighbourhood
Gossip and slander; many shook their heads
On hearing Constance had been ill, and much
They whisper'd and surmised when they were told
How she and good Sir John had gone to stay
At Denzil; but this fact, somehow, became
Shorn of all interest when soon they learnt
That Geoffrey Denzil had departed, bound
For foreign lands. It seem'd a cruel thing
That he should go away just at the time
When they foresaw a “thick'ning of the plot!”
But still they did their best, and soon they wove
The fears and tremors which poor Constance felt
Into some sentimental malady
Connected with his absence.—One old man
Who had a wicked twinkle in his eye,
At a dull local dinner, with a leer
Inquired facetiously which fire had caused
Lady L'Estrange's illness? that one lit
By Mr. Denzil, or the lesser one
He help'd extinguish? All his list'ners here
Titter'd convulsively, and one of them
Call'd him a “naughty, odious, funny man.”
But Constance did not hear these calumnies
(Having, alas, a fatal grain of truth!)—
Those envious voices did not penetrate
The tangled brakes of Denzil Park, which rose
Bird-haunted, flower starr'd, a leafy screen
Between the idle whisp'ring world and her.
'Twas early spring-time, all the eager buds
Were pressing into life, as on that day
Three years ago, when Constance, like a child,
Came smiling hither, playing hide and seek—
Thinking to cull the earliest snow-drop flow'r,
Or find the first four blue hedge-sparrow's eggs,—
Seeking for these, she came, and met her Fate,—
Hoping and seeking now (against her will)
To meet some trace of him who was her Fate
She wander'd listlessly, and found but these
The early eggs of happy mated birds
And the first snow-drop, looking like that one
Three years ago; but had it been the same,
And had its hanging head concealed an eye,
That little peeping modest eye had mark'd
The change wrought in those white and trembling hands
That cull'd so tenderly its transient bloom!
Alas, for snow-drop immortality!—
The same to careless eyes, yet not the same,—
Heir to the drooping head and fragile stem,—
Heir to the chaste traditions of the race—
Emblem to trusting hearts of those belov'd
Whose sleeping bodies, wrapp'd in silent clay,
Await the second wakening to life,
To rise like these fair blossoms, from a dark
Mysterious imprisonment! Ah, who
May say if this long-cherish'd metaphor
Which Spring each year renews, is, as a whole,
Perfect, or but a visionary hope
Begot of Faith and Love? Ah, true indeed
The wondrous resurrection of the flow'r,—
The flow'r of kin, the fragrant heir-in-fee,
But not, alas, that flow'r of bygone Spring
Which, brown and faded, lies between the leaves
Of some old book, a soulless scentless thing,
Wither'd as those dear hands, maybe, that cull'd
Its dead forgotton blossom! Ah that flow'r,
That very flow'r! Grant me the grace to know,—
To understand the subtle second life
Which was not crush'd, when on its pearly youth
Closed those dim pages like a living tomb!
But to sad Constance, fill'd with trusting faith,
Came no such wistful musings;—in her eyes
The pointed petals rising from the earth
Were emblems of the pure immortal soul
Aspiring heavenwards; those snowy leaves
Seem'd like the folded wings of patient saints
Waiting the signal of the April show'r
To spread themselves in glorious disproof
Of sophistry, above the empty graves
Of their awaken'd hearts; and thus she watch'd
Sadly, but trustfully, the coming Spring.
But what to Constance seem'd the dearest thing
Was a fair little boy who held a dog,—
Painted some five-and-twenty years ago
In water colours: very badly drawn,
Having a prim white frock and sky-blue sash;
His little hoop and stick were lying near,
And in the distance there was Denzil Place—
This funny little picture had no name,—
The little fair-hair'd boy was like a doll,
Or still more like all other little boys
In any other badly finish'd sketch;
Yet Constance lov'd it—it was small and light,
Easy to move, and so she took it down
From off its nail, and brought that little boy
To dwell where she might see him, in her room.
Her room! it had been Geoffrey Denzil's once,
She had not known it, choosing it by chance
Because from out its windows she could see
So fair a landscape—woods and grassy slopes,
And nearer, when she look'd towards the left,
The arch'd beginning of the avenue,
Dusk with its over-hanging evergreens
E'en in the leafless seasons of the year—
This chamber, on the basement of the house,
Open'd upon a spacious corridor,
And at one end of this, three steps led down
Into the dim, low, silent library
Which Constance lov'd, for here besides the books
(She lov'd to read,) were rang'd upon the floor
Some four or five square cases, made of tin,
Dark-color'd, and on these, in letters white,
Constance devour'd, with eager hungry eyes
The name she lov'd, despite of all the shame
Such love might bring her. She would close the doors
On chilly afternoons and sit alone,
Feasting her eyes on those belovèd words:
This “Geoffrey Henry Denzil, Denzil Place”
Was comfort to her at this dreary time,
And here she used to read and write and dream,
And try forgetting, or in rasher moods
Try to remember ev'ry line and tone
Of vanish'd features or of silent voice.
For she was very lonely in these days
Of early Spring: Sir John and Miss L'Estrange
Went almost daily to inspect the works
At Farleigh Court, where builders, whitewashers,
And painters, all were busied with repairs.
Constance would often watch them as they pass'd
Under her windows o'er the swampy lawn
After the rain; her husband's stalwart form,
Upright and hale, despite his sixty years,
And Miss L'Estrange, who, clinging to his arm,
Trudged with the brisk flat-footed energy
Of wither'd spinsterhood, and keeping step
With his more manly stride, thro' wind and rain
Accompanied Sir John. As in a dream
Constance would watch them, wave a languid hand,
And with a shiver turn towards the fire;—
Time was when she could also breast the storm
And brave the struggles of encroaching Spring
With unrelenting Winter, but those times
Were changed, and now she shudder'd as she gazed
On mist and sleet; so, when the days were cold
She stay'd within the doors of Denzil Place.
Roland had gone to School; she often wrote
And said “Ah, how I miss you dear, dear boy!
“The place is different—it all seems changed—
“Now you are gone”—and even as she wrote
She tried to think it was indeed the loss
Of him, her youthful playmate, made her sad.
One day as she was writing in her room,
And listlessly consid'ring what to say,—
What news she had to tell the absent boy,
To write of which might serve to lure her mind
From one sad thought; and as she dreamily
O'erturn'd the pages of the writing-book,
She started suddenly, and seem'd to wake
To newer life, for she had found a trace—
An unexpected trace of him she lov'd.
There on a scrap of paper, partly torn,
She read these words, in Geoffrey Denzil's hand:
“At last. It almost seems too hard to bear—
“But so it is, and I must go from hence.”
She look'd, and on the scarce used blotting-book
Perceiv'd some straggling and uncertain lines
Illegible, (if she had tried to read,)
Save where her timid, hesitating eye
Espied the curling crescent of a “C,”
And knew her name had once been blotted there.
Why did he go away? What was so “hard”—
“Almost too hard to bear” (she thought,) “for him?”
But whilst she mused, her self-accusing heart
Dared not delude itself with such a doubt.
A hundred trivial unimportant things
Flash'd to her memory, in each of which
She seem'd to read a hidden meaning now,—
She knew, and all her aching lonely heart
Went out to Geoffrey Denzil over-sea.

V.

When she recover'd consciousness, her head
Was resting on his breast—against her own
His cheek was press'd, and on her mouth she felt
The ardent lips of her too well-belov'd
Kissing her back to life, and heard his words
Thrill thro' her being, as he murmur'd thus—
“My love, my life! my love whom I have lov'd
So long, so tenderly, ah, look at me!
Speak to me! say again those blissful words
You said when you believ'd I heard them not!”
(So, he had heard!) “Ah, darling, ere I go
“Leaving behind me all I love so well,
“Oh, let me know that she who is to me
“Far dearer than is aught on earth—in heav'n—
“Has been to me but once my very own!
“Surely the marriage vows we may not break
“Are such as our's had been if God had will'd
“That we had met before, and now could live
“Join'd heart and soul and body, till we died—
“God knows that I have wrestled with my love
“As Jacob with the angel, or as man
“May wrestle with a fiend sent here to tempt
“His soul astray, I tore myself from home
“And only came to it again by stealth
“As would a thief, so that I might not meet
“So sweet a snare as lurks in these dear eyes—
“But now some stronger, some more subtle pow'r
“Than I possess, has will'd that we should meet
“Here in the dead of night, where none can see,
“In this deserted room, now face to face
“I find my love alone—I hold her fast—
“Ah, can I be of earth—of flesh and blood—
“Can I be mortal man, and let her go?”
She saw some flow'rs she gather'd yesterday
Unfaded, tho' it seemed so long ago,
She went towards her glass half absently,
And gazed and started, for her face looked changed—
The air of child-like innocence was gone—
She groan'd aloud, and falling on her knees
She cover'd with her white and trembling hands
What seem'd the fair accomplice of her guilt.
How long she thus remain'd she did not know,
But when she saw the first faint struggling ray
Of morning, dazed, and shivering with cold
She rose from off her knees, look'd out, and saw
A wintry sun rise on her new-born life,
(For so it seem'd). Her flimsy dressing-gown
Was blown aside, and the chill morning air
Breathed on her heart, but still she stood, and look'd
As might a statue. All at once she heard
A sound as of a passing horse's hoofs—
The laurels hid the rider, but she knew
That it was Geoffrey, faithful to his word,
Tearing himself from England and from Love.
Till then she had not analyzed her thoughts,
They all had been so wild with self-reproach,
But now an uncontrollable desire
To follow him who “lov'd and rode away”
Made her outstretch her empty aching arms
Towards the spot wherefrom the dying sound
Was now but faintly echo'd; then to heav'n
She raised them pleadingly, with clasping hands,
And in her desolation cried aloud
“God bless my darling wheresoe'er he goes!”

VI.

Oh, lovers of all ages, kingdoms, climes,
How have you suffer'd! What a motley crew
Would throng the earth could all your buried hordes
Collect from out the scatter'd dust of Time
And re-assume the human shapes you wore!
Yet, could you carry in your wither'd hands
Some record telling of the hopes and fears
That thrill'd you once, I ween that each of these
Would bear a closer semblance to the other
Than would the fashion of your winding-sheets!
The legend 'graven on the scarabee,—
The pictured emblem of the Ninevite,—
The roll of papyrus, held in the grasp
Of the illustrious mummy,—all of these
Translated, doubtless would resemble much
Our modern hist'ries of despairing sighs,
Or those still further from us,—tales of loves
Antediluvian or prë-Adamite,
When, haply, in the groves now fossilized,
Haunted by monster Megatherium
And Plesiosaurus, mortals liv'd and lov'd
And sinn'd, as now they live and love and sin.
Constance had wept when she had read the first—
The kind sad letter of her outraged lord
But now she felt as is supposed to feel
The worm that has been trampled till it turns,—
The malice lurking in each spiteful line,
The pent-up poison flowing from this pen,
Let loose at last, as from the adder's tongue—
The base injustice, the impatient wish
Thus to exaggerate and multiply
Her fault, all this directed at herself
She did not dare resent—it was deserved—
But what she felt she never could forgive
Were those envenom'd arrows aim'd at him
Her love, her life; the angry crimson blood
Rush'd to her cheek as she read o'er again
Each bitter accusation. Well she knew
That he had fallen from his high resolve,
But then her heart would have it that he fell
Fighting against some superhuman pow'r—
A power he had striven with for years—
She would not think that that belovèd form
Concealed a cruel calculating heart
Such as she heard had sometimes lurk'd beneath
A mien deceptive. Yet these lying lines
Then she bethought her how she oft had heard
Wise saws about the fickleness of men,
And how they love to pluck forbidden fruit,
And how, when tasted, they will fling away
What they have striven with such pains to grasp—
Or how a man will often in his heart
Despise the woman who will yield to him,
Loving some other, who is hard and cold
And unrelenting;—how upon the paths
Of men like these, lie many faded flow'rs
Strewn with the years, and trodden under foot,
Loves of all shades and colours—many-voiced,
With song-notes variable as the birds'
By sunny shores, and under alien skies
Beguiled and won. She sadly thought, “Alas!
“I may be such a little thing to him—
“A passing thought—a moment's light caprice,
“Whilst he is, oh, so very much to me!”
Then sadly she prepared her to depart,
An outcast and an exile; first she tore
Into a thousand fragments, which she burnt,
The hated letter. With a sinking heart
She bade a sad farewell to ev'ry spot
She lov'd so well. The garden she explored,
And gather'd from each glossy evergreen
A dear memento—laurel, box, and fir,
Cypress and rosemary, and one dark spray
Of sad funereal yew, to which there clung
A single waxen berry; these she bound
Into a garland, and thereon she wrote
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden;—to be kept for evermore.”
She did not know, who had not seen as yet
The bright luxuriant gardens of the South
How little like the fancied fields of Heav'n
This one would seem in an Italian's eyes,
Accustom'd to behold in his own land
Such blaze of blossom—such a brilliant sun!
But unto her it seemed as tho' the doors
Were closed upon some earthly paradise,
As soon as swung the heavy iron gates
Of Denzil Park, behind the speeding wheels
Of the old-fashion'd carriage, on the morn
She and her maid departed on their way—
So much she lov'd the home that was his home,
The sacred spot where she had seen him first.
Her maid, who watch'd her shyly, wonder'd why
Lady L'Estrange's eyes were fill'd with tears,
When she herself was all too pleas'd to leave
The dull old mansion and the tiresome trees
Of dismal Denzil, and to go to Town,
But Constance felt as if her heart would break,
“Good-bye” she thought, “Dear trees, dear shaded walks,
“Earth that his feet have trod—good-bye, good-bye!
“Good-bye, old house, where he was born and bred,
“Where he may dwell some day, and some day die,
“Home of the buried fathers of my love!”
Thus Constance quitted silent Denzil Place,
To face that stern relentless outer world
Of which she knew so little. Never more
For her those gates unfasten'd;—ne'er again
Fell her light footstep on the polish'd floors,
Nor were the dim old oaken panell'd walls
Flatter'd again by that sweet flitting shade
Caressing them. The old house stands and waits,
And all its windows look like straining eyes
Watching for Constance,—for the fairy thing
That suddenly became identified
With its moth-eaten records of the Past.
Ah, never more! those windows wait in vain,
Thro' all the changing years she will not come,
No more her sunny head and wistful eyes
Will grace the empty open window-frames!
She came and went, as vanishes a dream,
And the old house is waiting her in vain.