 | Denzil place |  |
73
IV.
“Un jour tu sentiras peut-être
Le prix d'un cœur qui nous comprend,
Le bien qu'on trouve à le connaître
Et ce qu'on souffre en le perdant.”
(Alfred de Musset.)
Le prix d'un cœur qui nous comprend,
Le bien qu'on trouve à le connaître
Et ce qu'on souffre en le perdant.”
(Alfred de Musset.)
“I gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin,
I daur na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray he is sae kind to me.”
(“Auld Robin Gray,” by Lady Anne Lindsay.)
I daur na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray he is sae kind to me.”
(“Auld Robin Gray,” by Lady Anne Lindsay.)
So it was over! Love had come to her
All unsuspected, in her harmless youth,
But hardly had she known that it was he
Before his wings were spread and he was gone.
Oh, desolation!—All the hopeless train
Of new emotions, hitherto unguess'd,
Crowded upon my hapless heroine—
The mystery of silence, and the love
Of solitude to brood—to brood on what?
The guilty blush, the forced and ghastly smile,
The fears, the pray'rs, the vain delusive hopes,
For what? For whom? To what ungodly end?
Oh, Misery! oh, Death! and yet, (oh, Shame!)
Strange mingling of the bitter and the sweet!
Oh, treasure newly found! oh, priceless pearl!
Oh, Life! oh, Love!
All unsuspected, in her harmless youth,
But hardly had she known that it was he
Before his wings were spread and he was gone.
Oh, desolation!—All the hopeless train
Of new emotions, hitherto unguess'd,
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The mystery of silence, and the love
Of solitude to brood—to brood on what?
The guilty blush, the forced and ghastly smile,
The fears, the pray'rs, the vain delusive hopes,
For what? For whom? To what ungodly end?
Oh, Misery! oh, Death! and yet, (oh, Shame!)
Strange mingling of the bitter and the sweet!
Oh, treasure newly found! oh, priceless pearl!
Oh, Life! oh, Love!
These were the chequer'd thoughts
That made of Constance such a guilty thing,
An alter'd woman, pale, and wrapp'd in dreams,—
A lovely shadow of her former self.
Ah, now she learnt so many hidden things!—
The secret of the bird's soft even-song,
And what the winter wind at midnight said—
The sympathetic, dumb companionship
Of Nature, with her blessèd haunted shades
And empty shrines! The sward that lately bow'd
Each happy little blade beneath his tread,—
The seat where once they sat—the target still
Stabbed with his certain arrow in the gold—
(There was another target from whose core
Upsprung a pointed poison'd random dart!)—
Ah, what a history in ev'rything!
And that same sun, and that calm careless moon,
Rising and setting as they used of yore,
But lighting with their radiance a world
Seeming so dark and different to her!
That made of Constance such a guilty thing,
An alter'd woman, pale, and wrapp'd in dreams,—
A lovely shadow of her former self.
Ah, now she learnt so many hidden things!—
The secret of the bird's soft even-song,
And what the winter wind at midnight said—
The sympathetic, dumb companionship
Of Nature, with her blessèd haunted shades
And empty shrines! The sward that lately bow'd
Each happy little blade beneath his tread,—
The seat where once they sat—the target still
Stabbed with his certain arrow in the gold—
(There was another target from whose core
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Ah, what a history in ev'rything!
And that same sun, and that calm careless moon,
Rising and setting as they used of yore,
But lighting with their radiance a world
Seeming so dark and different to her!
But tho' to Constance as a dread surprise
Had come this sudden wakening to truth,
Yet there were many who had prophesied
This fatal ending to a friendship form'd
Against the rules of Prudence.
Against the rules of Prudence.
Had come this sudden wakening to truth,
Yet there were many who had prophesied
This fatal ending to a friendship form'd
Against the rules of Prudence.
Against the rules of Prudence.
Round about
The tatt'ling neighbours oft had smiled to meet
Upon the dusty mile of highway road
Which separated Denzil from Sir John's,—
The eager horseman, making for the lodge
Of Farleigh Court, and often had they sigh'd
With many a gloomy presage, when they saw
The pony-carriage with the dappled greys
Driven by Constance, who with rod and line,
Or else with sketch-book, pencils, and camp-stool,
Was going to fish or sketch in Denzil Park.
Roland was there, of course, but then they thought
Of all the tender nothings one may say
Before a child; or how so slight a check
Might even serve to fan the torch of Love—
Their ready minds imagined many words
Wrapp'd up in metaphor, or said in French,
Italian, German, of so many tongues
Denzil was master—surely some of these
Might even mystify poor dear Sir John
If spoken as tho' quoted from a book—
Ah, then those books! a language in themselves!
Accomplices in crime! The subtle mark
Beneath those passages that breathe of love!—
The Lancelots and guilty Guineveres—
All their forbidden converse underlined—
The Fausts and Marguerites, and Héloise
And Abelard, Francesca—all the throng
Of wicked lovers and illicit loves!
Nay, they might almost spare themselves the pains
Of even this, and use the English tongue,
And it would seem the same to good Sir John
As Hebrew or Chaldean—such to him
The language of the poet or the flow'r,—
The cunning compliment—the tender glance,
Who was so simple, thick-headed and good!
Why, they might almost squeeze their guilty hands
Beneath his honest nose, and he remain
As blind as was that husband in the tale
Of Pope and Chaucer, ere he had his sight
Too suddenly restored. How much they pray'd
That poor Sir John might not awaken thus!
So did the scandal-loving neighbourhood
The tatt'ling neighbours oft had smiled to meet
Upon the dusty mile of highway road
Which separated Denzil from Sir John's,—
The eager horseman, making for the lodge
Of Farleigh Court, and often had they sigh'd
With many a gloomy presage, when they saw
The pony-carriage with the dappled greys
Driven by Constance, who with rod and line,
Or else with sketch-book, pencils, and camp-stool,
Was going to fish or sketch in Denzil Park.
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Of all the tender nothings one may say
Before a child; or how so slight a check
Might even serve to fan the torch of Love—
Their ready minds imagined many words
Wrapp'd up in metaphor, or said in French,
Italian, German, of so many tongues
Denzil was master—surely some of these
Might even mystify poor dear Sir John
If spoken as tho' quoted from a book—
Ah, then those books! a language in themselves!
Accomplices in crime! The subtle mark
Beneath those passages that breathe of love!—
The Lancelots and guilty Guineveres—
All their forbidden converse underlined—
The Fausts and Marguerites, and Héloise
And Abelard, Francesca—all the throng
Of wicked lovers and illicit loves!
Nay, they might almost spare themselves the pains
Of even this, and use the English tongue,
And it would seem the same to good Sir John
As Hebrew or Chaldean—such to him
The language of the poet or the flow'r,—
The cunning compliment—the tender glance,
77
Why, they might almost squeeze their guilty hands
Beneath his honest nose, and he remain
As blind as was that husband in the tale
Of Pope and Chaucer, ere he had his sight
Too suddenly restored. How much they pray'd
That poor Sir John might not awaken thus!
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,
78
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
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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,
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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.
Within the house, upon the panell'd walls
Hung many portraits, and in some of these
Constance at times perceiv'd, (or deemed she did,)
Some turn of eyebrow, or some flash of eye,—
Some curl of hair or pointed cut of beard,
Recalling that last scion of the house
Who occupied so much her wand'ring thoughts.
On these she often dwelt, and o'er and o'er
Spelt their departed names, and lov'd to trace
That fancied likeness to her absent host;
Till by and bye these ancestors became
As friends, who seem'd to understand her heart—
She knew them all, and to her dying day
Might have been question'd as to names and dates,
Nor made a single blunder.
Hung many portraits, and in some of these
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Some turn of eyebrow, or some flash of eye,—
Some curl of hair or pointed cut of beard,
Recalling that last scion of the house
Who occupied so much her wand'ring thoughts.
On these she often dwelt, and o'er and o'er
Spelt their departed names, and lov'd to trace
That fancied likeness to her absent host;
Till by and bye these ancestors became
As friends, who seem'd to understand her heart—
She knew them all, and to her dying day
Might have been question'd as to names and dates,
Nor made a single blunder.
First there came
The first Lord Denzil, of Queen Mary's reign,
Attainted, and beheaded in the Tow'r,
(A man of fifty, with a pointed beard,
Wearing a scarlet skull-cap, clad in black.)—
His eldest son, a lad of seventeen—
In breast-plate and buff coat, (an early tomb
Awaited him, for, falling from his horse,
He died before his still more luckless sire.)—
Then ladies, ruff'd and starch'd and farthingaled,
Imprison'd in their pearl-strewn stomachers
So stiff, they surely scarcely could have breathed!
(Alas, where are they now, those Orient pearls
Sewn with such lavish prodigality
Over the dresses of our grandmothers?
Some pear-shaped, dropping from their tender ears,
And others in magnificent festoons
Hanging about their shoulders?—
The first Lord Denzil, of Queen Mary's reign,
Attainted, and beheaded in the Tow'r,
(A man of fifty, with a pointed beard,
Wearing a scarlet skull-cap, clad in black.)—
His eldest son, a lad of seventeen—
In breast-plate and buff coat, (an early tomb
Awaited him, for, falling from his horse,
He died before his still more luckless sire.)—
Then ladies, ruff'd and starch'd and farthingaled,
Imprison'd in their pearl-strewn stomachers
82
(Alas, where are they now, those Orient pearls
Sewn with such lavish prodigality
Over the dresses of our grandmothers?
Some pear-shaped, dropping from their tender ears,
And others in magnificent festoons
Hanging about their shoulders?—
Pearls like these
The ladies of my family possess'd—
Witness their portraits, did they pawn or sell
Or melt them, like dark Egypt's Queen, in wine,—
A toast to some more modern Anthony
In doublet and trunk-hose? or else did they—
They or their thriftless, careless handmaidens,
Break all the strings, and let them roll away
Like common beads, under the rugs and chairs,
Being so large and round? Ah, had they but
(To use a billiard phrase) had “legs enough”
To roll a little further—down to me!)—
Then came the beetle brows of one Sir Guy
With his two brothers, oblong, in a row,
Their heads in profile, whilst his own, in full
Scowled at poor Constance as she gazed on him.—
Ev'rard and Ralph came next, who both died young,
And then a Geoffrey; Constance read the name,
It seem'd to ease the aching of her heart
To see those letters, painted in in white
Beneath the coat of arms! Unfortunate
This Geoffrey was, he died at Naseby field
Fighting for Charles, whilst on the other side
His brother Hugh fought under Oliver,
(Alas for Civil War, which brothers thus
Could “Cain and Abel-ify”! but so it was.)
Then simp'ring dames, artistically draped,
Each holding betwixt thumb and fore finger
A spray of jess'mine,—painted at the time
When ev'ry lady seem'd to dress in blue,—
Next, all bewigged, and with his hanging sleeves,
She saw another Ralph, a Jacobite,
On whom King James, when he had fled to France,
Bestow'd some “barren honors.” Next to these
There came the days of powder and of paint,
Patch, pig-tail, petticoat and high-heel'd shoe,
And so they glided downwards, to the days
Remember'd by the living, and the last
Of all the line was Geoffrey's grandfather
Playing the violin, beneath a bust
Of sage Minerva—by his side the globes
Of Earth and Heaven. He was known to Fame
As a mild poet of the night-cap school,
He also held an office at the Court,
And prosper'd, wrote, and fiddled till he died,
The only lucky Denzil. “And a fool.”—
(So Geoffrey said, half jealous of the praise
Monopolized by this weak forefather,
Who wrote a poem, call'd “The Birth of Love,”
Which, as some compensation for the ills
His house had will'd the House of Hanover,
He dedicated with a fulsome pen
Dipp'd more in milk and water than in ink,
To the plain-headed tho' deserving Queen
Of George the Third, in which she was compared
To Venus, and the Prince of Wales to Love.)
But what to Constance seem'd the dearest thing
The ladies of my family possess'd—
Witness their portraits, did they pawn or sell
Or melt them, like dark Egypt's Queen, in wine,—
A toast to some more modern Anthony
In doublet and trunk-hose? or else did they—
They or their thriftless, careless handmaidens,
Break all the strings, and let them roll away
Like common beads, under the rugs and chairs,
Being so large and round? Ah, had they but
(To use a billiard phrase) had “legs enough”
To roll a little further—down to me!)—
Then came the beetle brows of one Sir Guy
With his two brothers, oblong, in a row,
Their heads in profile, whilst his own, in full
Scowled at poor Constance as she gazed on him.—
Ev'rard and Ralph came next, who both died young,
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It seem'd to ease the aching of her heart
To see those letters, painted in in white
Beneath the coat of arms! Unfortunate
This Geoffrey was, he died at Naseby field
Fighting for Charles, whilst on the other side
His brother Hugh fought under Oliver,
(Alas for Civil War, which brothers thus
Could “Cain and Abel-ify”! but so it was.)
Then simp'ring dames, artistically draped,
Each holding betwixt thumb and fore finger
A spray of jess'mine,—painted at the time
When ev'ry lady seem'd to dress in blue,—
Next, all bewigged, and with his hanging sleeves,
She saw another Ralph, a Jacobite,
On whom King James, when he had fled to France,
Bestow'd some “barren honors.” Next to these
There came the days of powder and of paint,
Patch, pig-tail, petticoat and high-heel'd shoe,
And so they glided downwards, to the days
Remember'd by the living, and the last
Of all the line was Geoffrey's grandfather
Playing the violin, beneath a bust
Of sage Minerva—by his side the globes
84
As a mild poet of the night-cap school,
He also held an office at the Court,
And prosper'd, wrote, and fiddled till he died,
The only lucky Denzil. “And a fool.”—
(So Geoffrey said, half jealous of the praise
Monopolized by this weak forefather,
Who wrote a poem, call'd “The Birth of Love,”
Which, as some compensation for the ills
His house had will'd the House of Hanover,
He dedicated with a fulsome pen
Dipp'd more in milk and water than in ink,
To the plain-headed tho' deserving Queen
Of George the Third, in which she was compared
To Venus, and the Prince of Wales to Love.)
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,—
85
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,
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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
87
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
88
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.
Next day an agèd dame, the housekeeper,
(Once Geoffrey's nurse,) knock'd gently at the door,
Said some half-dozen kind maternal words
About her health, then took the blotting-book
And lock'd it up, and Constance felt as tho'
A friend was gone. “Was Mr. Denzil well
“Before he left?” she ask'd the kindly dame,
“Yes, he seem'd well, but moody—he was odd—
“The Denzils all were odd in all their ways—
“Incomprehensible;—his father odd,
“Incomprehensible,”—(and here the dame
Mutter'd a homely Athanasian Creed
About the family she serv'd so long)—
“Before he left,” she said, “he wrote in here
“Near half the night; he made a kind of Will—
“(They are so strange!) and then he sent for me
“And told me what to do when he was dead—
“He gave me then two letters,—one for Prince
“(The country lawyer here) and one for you—
“He said, my lady, if I died before
“(As well I hope I may!) your letter then
“Was to be sent to Prince, and so to you,
“I think 'tis something touching the entail
“Of this estate; Sir John, you know, is heir
“To all that part his kinswoman brought in
“As dowry; but Sir John is likely soon
“To go, my dear, the way of younger men,—
“(Don't look down-hearted,) Mr. Roland then,
“If master does not marry, has it next,
“And this is something telling you of that—
“Maybe you'll never know if master lives,
“As aye I pray he may.” “I pray he may,”
Poor Constance echo'd.
(Once Geoffrey's nurse,) knock'd gently at the door,
89
About her health, then took the blotting-book
And lock'd it up, and Constance felt as tho'
A friend was gone. “Was Mr. Denzil well
“Before he left?” she ask'd the kindly dame,
“Yes, he seem'd well, but moody—he was odd—
“The Denzils all were odd in all their ways—
“Incomprehensible;—his father odd,
“Incomprehensible,”—(and here the dame
Mutter'd a homely Athanasian Creed
About the family she serv'd so long)—
“Before he left,” she said, “he wrote in here
“Near half the night; he made a kind of Will—
“(They are so strange!) and then he sent for me
“And told me what to do when he was dead—
“He gave me then two letters,—one for Prince
“(The country lawyer here) and one for you—
“He said, my lady, if I died before
“(As well I hope I may!) your letter then
“Was to be sent to Prince, and so to you,
“I think 'tis something touching the entail
“Of this estate; Sir John, you know, is heir
“To all that part his kinswoman brought in
“As dowry; but Sir John is likely soon
90
“(Don't look down-hearted,) Mr. Roland then,
“If master does not marry, has it next,
“And this is something telling you of that—
“Maybe you'll never know if master lives,
“As aye I pray he may.” “I pray he may,”
Poor Constance echo'd.
So, he thought of her
On that last ev'ning he had passed at home
Before his voluntary exile thence!—
This sacred chamber, where she sat and wept,
Knew all the secrets of that absent heart!
Here had he written to her—here, maybe,
Where she was standing now, a week ago
(One little week!) he stood, and had his thoughts
Wander'd to her above the fir-tree tops
Over the silent rooks? When all men slept
He was awake, and writing in this room,
And she, one little easy mile away,
Was waking too, at Farleigh Court alone,
Nursing the fatal secret of her love!
On that last ev'ning he had passed at home
Before his voluntary exile thence!—
This sacred chamber, where she sat and wept,
Knew all the secrets of that absent heart!
Here had he written to her—here, maybe,
Where she was standing now, a week ago
(One little week!) he stood, and had his thoughts
Wander'd to her above the fir-tree tops
Over the silent rooks? When all men slept
He was awake, and writing in this room,
And she, one little easy mile away,
Was waking too, at Farleigh Court alone,
Nursing the fatal secret of her love!
Ah, hapless Constance! so, then, this was love—
This was the master passion of the earth,
This was the envied blessing of the few,
The common curse of the unfortunate!
She saw before her now, without disguise,
The outline of her uneventful life;
Till now, her lonely childhood, motherless—
The handsome easy-going parish priest,
Her father, who had fixed upon the Church
As a profession, merely as a means
Of livelihood for him, a younger son
Of an impov'rish'd house. His thriftless ways,
His open-handed dealings with the poor
“Which saved much time and trouble” (so he said,)
And then his love of sport, his love of wine,
His pressing debts, increasing poverty,
And finally his illness and his death—
And then she saw herself, a little girl
With large appealing eyes, dress'd all in black,
Taken to dwell with a stern kinswoman
She could not love; once more she seem'd to live
In fancy, o'er those miserable days
Of solitude and sadness;—then she thought
Of the first day she saw good kind Sir John
With wrinkled rosy face, and genial laugh,
And how, one day, he took her for a ride—
Lent her a horse, and used to cheer the house,
And make a kinder woman of her Aunt
Whene'er his honest footstep cross'd the door—
And how, when she was only seventeen,
He drove her Aunt and her to Farleigh Court,
Where, in the billiard-room he question'd her
If she admired the place? She said she did,
“So beautiful, so grand, the rooms so large.”
“Well, why not live here!” kind Sir John exclaim'd,
Then hemm'd and haw'd, whilst on his cheek the red
Grew redder; then, with apoplectic snort,
He hurried from the room, and Constance stood
Bewilder'd at his words, tho' guessing nought
Of their intended meaning.
This was the master passion of the earth,
91
The common curse of the unfortunate!
She saw before her now, without disguise,
The outline of her uneventful life;
Till now, her lonely childhood, motherless—
The handsome easy-going parish priest,
Her father, who had fixed upon the Church
As a profession, merely as a means
Of livelihood for him, a younger son
Of an impov'rish'd house. His thriftless ways,
His open-handed dealings with the poor
“Which saved much time and trouble” (so he said,)
And then his love of sport, his love of wine,
His pressing debts, increasing poverty,
And finally his illness and his death—
And then she saw herself, a little girl
With large appealing eyes, dress'd all in black,
Taken to dwell with a stern kinswoman
She could not love; once more she seem'd to live
In fancy, o'er those miserable days
Of solitude and sadness;—then she thought
Of the first day she saw good kind Sir John
With wrinkled rosy face, and genial laugh,
And how, one day, he took her for a ride—
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And make a kinder woman of her Aunt
Whene'er his honest footstep cross'd the door—
And how, when she was only seventeen,
He drove her Aunt and her to Farleigh Court,
Where, in the billiard-room he question'd her
If she admired the place? She said she did,
“So beautiful, so grand, the rooms so large.”
“Well, why not live here!” kind Sir John exclaim'd,
Then hemm'd and haw'd, whilst on his cheek the red
Grew redder; then, with apoplectic snort,
He hurried from the room, and Constance stood
Bewilder'd at his words, tho' guessing nought
Of their intended meaning.
Up and down
She roll'd the white and color'd billiard-balls—
(She yet could hear the harmless ‘cannoning,’
And still more harmless ‘kisses’ that they made
These three unconscious witnesses to what
So chang'd her life!) Then by and bye her Aunt
Enter'd the room, and open'd wide her arms,
Enfolding to an unaccustom'd kiss
The fair astonish'd girl. Sir John stood near
Smiling and gibb'ring, in a whirl of hope
And doubting diffidence; and next she thought
Of how (all ignorant of what they meant,
Those marriage vows, either to bind or break).
She went to church in white, and how the way
Was strewn with flow'rs, and how she pass'd the grave
Of her dead father, and the wish she felt
That he could see his daughter's happiness.
Her happiness! ah, bitter mockery!
Since then her heart had fathom'd many truths!
She knew that bitterest of bitter things
(As says a German writer) not to feel
So much the pangs of sorrow, as to guess
The unsuspected happiness we miss'd!
She roll'd the white and color'd billiard-balls—
(She yet could hear the harmless ‘cannoning,’
And still more harmless ‘kisses’ that they made
These three unconscious witnesses to what
So chang'd her life!) Then by and bye her Aunt
Enter'd the room, and open'd wide her arms,
Enfolding to an unaccustom'd kiss
The fair astonish'd girl. Sir John stood near
Smiling and gibb'ring, in a whirl of hope
93
Of how (all ignorant of what they meant,
Those marriage vows, either to bind or break).
She went to church in white, and how the way
Was strewn with flow'rs, and how she pass'd the grave
Of her dead father, and the wish she felt
That he could see his daughter's happiness.
Her happiness! ah, bitter mockery!
Since then her heart had fathom'd many truths!
She knew that bitterest of bitter things
(As says a German writer) not to feel
So much the pangs of sorrow, as to guess
The unsuspected happiness we miss'd!
Yet could she be so heartless as to wrong,
Even in thought, this generous old man
Who took her from the dull monotony
Of her desponding youth? He had perform'd
All he had vow'd, she could alone deplore
Her own shortcomings! If he had but been
Her father, or her uncle, or her friend—
How she had lov'd him then! but now, alas,
Upon her guilty head each kindness fell
Like coals of fire! But she would do her best,
And if she could not love him as she ought,
At least her wretched heart would pray for strength
To fight against this other alien love!—
And so she pray'd, and register'd a vow
That she would cast away for evermore
This fatal snare, and strive to be to him
(Her husband) such a wife as she had hoped,
Before she knew the meaning of the words
“Love, honor, and obey.”
Even in thought, this generous old man
Who took her from the dull monotony
Of her desponding youth? He had perform'd
All he had vow'd, she could alone deplore
Her own shortcomings! If he had but been
Her father, or her uncle, or her friend—
How she had lov'd him then! but now, alas,
Upon her guilty head each kindness fell
Like coals of fire! But she would do her best,
94
At least her wretched heart would pray for strength
To fight against this other alien love!—
And so she pray'd, and register'd a vow
That she would cast away for evermore
This fatal snare, and strive to be to him
(Her husband) such a wife as she had hoped,
Before she knew the meaning of the words
“Love, honor, and obey.”
Alas, for these—
The vows of mortals vowing not to love!
At which, I wonder, do the mocking gods
Smile most—at these, or at those rasher vows
To love eternally! Alas, that both
Should be so often but as sounding brass
And tinkling cymbal! The relentless Fates
Are weaving, as we swear, the tangled webs
Of a deceitful dim Futurity
Into a galling everlasting chain,
Or snipping with their scissors the last link
Of what we deem'd would fetter us for life!
Ah, will they change their pre-concerted plan
And shift the web to what should be the woof
At sight of pray'rs and tears, and wringing hands?
I dare not say, but Constance, as she pray'd,
Felt happier and calmer—o'er her stole
A dreary resignation, wrapp'd in which
As in a garment, still she wept and pray'd.
The vows of mortals vowing not to love!
At which, I wonder, do the mocking gods
Smile most—at these, or at those rasher vows
To love eternally! Alas, that both
Should be so often but as sounding brass
And tinkling cymbal! The relentless Fates
Are weaving, as we swear, the tangled webs
Of a deceitful dim Futurity
Into a galling everlasting chain,
Or snipping with their scissors the last link
Of what we deem'd would fetter us for life!
Ah, will they change their pre-concerted plan
And shift the web to what should be the woof
At sight of pray'rs and tears, and wringing hands?
95
Felt happier and calmer—o'er her stole
A dreary resignation, wrapp'd in which
As in a garment, still she wept and pray'd.
| Denzil place | |