 | Lily Neil |  |
78
VI.
David.But, Eben, did the bridegroom run away?
Eben.
Across the sea he fled.
Alice.
And was not drowned?
Robert.
Ah! but he would repent and hurry back,
And marry her at last—was that not it?
He surely would come back.
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I'll tell you all,
If you will but have patience and be still.
(Goes on reading.)
If you will but have patience and be still.
Far westward fled the bridegroom, and his flight
Was yet on all men's tongues, and all agreed
That if he landed safe, no man could say
That Heaven is on the side of Innocence—
When in the early autumn, when the corn
Still in the furrows shone a golden green,
Alone among the shadows of the glen
Walked Lily weeping. Now and then she stood
And wrung her hands, or wildly with them pressed
Her streaming eyes, as if she wished to shut
The world all out; or, staring on the path
Before her, murmured thus her wild despair:
“O God forgive me, if it be a sin!
And yet what matter though it be a sin,
Since it is but another and the last?
There is no sinning in the other world.
They say there are a thousand ways to Death;
And there are many pleasant ways, they say.
I only seek a path where none would think
It strange to see another traveller;
And such a path there is far down the glen,
Where, in the streamlet's bed among the stones,
Death waits and welcomes those who dare to leap.
There once in winter, when the trees were bare,
And all the far-down distance lay unveiled,
I lingered on the cliff's grey brink, and much
Was urged to leap—Oh that I then had leapt!
Oh that I had but listened to the voice
That seemed to whisper, ‘Lily, come to me,’
Among the mossy boulders in the burn!”
Was yet on all men's tongues, and all agreed
That if he landed safe, no man could say
That Heaven is on the side of Innocence—
When in the early autumn, when the corn
Still in the furrows shone a golden green,
Alone among the shadows of the glen
Walked Lily weeping. Now and then she stood
And wrung her hands, or wildly with them pressed
Her streaming eyes, as if she wished to shut
The world all out; or, staring on the path
Before her, murmured thus her wild despair:
“O God forgive me, if it be a sin!
80
Since it is but another and the last?
There is no sinning in the other world.
They say there are a thousand ways to Death;
And there are many pleasant ways, they say.
I only seek a path where none would think
It strange to see another traveller;
And such a path there is far down the glen,
Where, in the streamlet's bed among the stones,
Death waits and welcomes those who dare to leap.
There once in winter, when the trees were bare,
And all the far-down distance lay unveiled,
I lingered on the cliff's grey brink, and much
Was urged to leap—Oh that I then had leapt!
Oh that I had but listened to the voice
That seemed to whisper, ‘Lily, come to me,’
Among the mossy boulders in the burn!”
The cliff she found, but near its brink there sat
A lady reading. Softly apssing her
Unheard, she hurried on, and felt like one
Detected plotting murder. Down the glen,
And past the manor to the river's side,
She sped, and trusted that she sped unseen.
Then to the rushing river down she reached,
And bathed her eyes, thus thinking: “Those I pass
Shall see upon my face no sign of grief;
And all the strollers that I chance to meet
Shall see upon my face the mask of mirth,
And think it is the face of mirth unmasked.
They'll hear a blithe-like humming as they pass,
And think it is a merry heart that sings;
And so when they are told the maid they met
Has in the flooded river met her doom,
They will not think she came to seek it there,
But that she, dreaming, tripped and stumbled in.
A lady reading. Softly apssing her
81
Detected plotting murder. Down the glen,
And past the manor to the river's side,
She sped, and trusted that she sped unseen.
Then to the rushing river down she reached,
And bathed her eyes, thus thinking: “Those I pass
Shall see upon my face no sign of grief;
And all the strollers that I chance to meet
Shall see upon my face the mask of mirth,
And think it is the face of mirth unmasked.
They'll hear a blithe-like humming as they pass,
And think it is a merry heart that sings;
And so when they are told the maid they met
Has in the flooded river met her doom,
They will not think she came to seek it there,
But that she, dreaming, tripped and stumbled in.
“My father, too. Oh that he first had gone!
When he returns and finds me not at home,
What will he say?—What think? And when he finds
I stay away, and all the weary night
Sits waiting for me, wondering where I am,
And what detains me,—when he sees the dawn
Before me come, what will he say or do?
Dear, trustful father, he too will believe
The best of me, and never, never dream
There was a reason why his only child
Should shelter in the foaming river seek
From even him. Why should I fly from him?
What will he do without me? I must keep
A weeping father from my heart, and then
I'll die light-hearted.”
When he returns and finds me not at home,
82
I stay away, and all the weary night
Sits waiting for me, wondering where I am,
And what detains me,—when he sees the dawn
Before me come, what will he say or do?
Dear, trustful father, he too will believe
The best of me, and never, never dream
There was a reason why his only child
Should shelter in the foaming river seek
From even him. Why should I fly from him?
What will he do without me? I must keep
A weeping father from my heart, and then
I'll die light-hearted.”
With such thoughts as these
She trod the flowery bank, until she reached
A pool that for her dreadful purpose seemed
Most meet: for rumour said the river there
Was bottomless. O'er all the further bank
An air of desolation hung. Grey heaps
Of weather-wasted hay along the slope
Lay flattened with the rain; and here and there
A clump of fire-scathed furze stood brown and bleak,
Contrasting sadly with the clover-fields
A little further off, and with the glow
Of sunset on the braes. She saw not this,—
Saw nought, indeed, except the foaming stream
That seemed to whirl and linger in the pool,
As if for her it waited. Drawing close
Her plaid about her, there she sat her down,
Resolved, but loath to do, so dire a deed.
She trod the flowery bank, until she reached
A pool that for her dreadful purpose seemed
Most meet: for rumour said the river there
Was bottomless. O'er all the further bank
An air of desolation hung. Grey heaps
83
Lay flattened with the rain; and here and there
A clump of fire-scathed furze stood brown and bleak,
Contrasting sadly with the clover-fields
A little further off, and with the glow
Of sunset on the braes. She saw not this,—
Saw nought, indeed, except the foaming stream
That seemed to whirl and linger in the pool,
As if for her it waited. Drawing close
Her plaid about her, there she sat her down,
Resolved, but loath to do, so dire a deed.
E'en then her father, further down the stream,
Was coming slowly towards her. He had been
To do some household errands at a fair,
And, ere the crowd began to thin,—ere dusk
Called Riot out, and bade Debauch sit down,—
Had homeward strolled, and chose the river path
To see what blossoms he could find for her,
Who, as he thought, was sitting sad at home.
How sweet the contrast to the noisy mirth
And tumult of the town! It soothed his soul—
The shadow in his heart could not eclipse
The beauty of the scene. The sun, now near
His setting, shot across the woods of Ross
A flood of yellow light, and dazzling clouds,
The valley tinging with their borrowed glare,
Hung o'er the sun. The gnat-clouds, as they rose
And fell above the stream, were golden-hued;
Each moth was amber-winged, and every branch
Appeared with golden gossamer festooned.
All spoke of peace. The river-banks were full,
But not to overflowing. Flakes of foam
Were floating slowly down the long deep reach,
As if they feared the torrent at the bridge.
From either side the trees, with slow salute,
Like friends each other greeted, and at times
A playful zephyr 'mong the foam-flakes danced
In graceful eddies, whirling them about,
Then rising, died among the fruited limes.
Though now and then a cheer came from the road,
Where youngsters hurried homeward jubilant;
And now and then a woman's playful scream,
By distance softened into music, came
Harmonious with mirth,—all else was still.
Was coming slowly towards her. He had been
To do some household errands at a fair,
And, ere the crowd began to thin,—ere dusk
Called Riot out, and bade Debauch sit down,—
Had homeward strolled, and chose the river path
To see what blossoms he could find for her,
Who, as he thought, was sitting sad at home.
84
And tumult of the town! It soothed his soul—
The shadow in his heart could not eclipse
The beauty of the scene. The sun, now near
His setting, shot across the woods of Ross
A flood of yellow light, and dazzling clouds,
The valley tinging with their borrowed glare,
Hung o'er the sun. The gnat-clouds, as they rose
And fell above the stream, were golden-hued;
Each moth was amber-winged, and every branch
Appeared with golden gossamer festooned.
All spoke of peace. The river-banks were full,
But not to overflowing. Flakes of foam
Were floating slowly down the long deep reach,
As if they feared the torrent at the bridge.
From either side the trees, with slow salute,
Like friends each other greeted, and at times
A playful zephyr 'mong the foam-flakes danced
In graceful eddies, whirling them about,
Then rising, died among the fruited limes.
85
Where youngsters hurried homeward jubilant;
And now and then a woman's playful scream,
By distance softened into music, came
Harmonious with mirth,—all else was still.
Filled with the peaceful grandeur of the scene,
On Jacob strolled, and now a simple flower
And now a stalk of graceful grass he culled;
Till where the river takes a sudden turn,
Where not a bush adorned the sloping bank,
He saw a woman sitting all alone—
A moment only saw her, for she rose
With hurried hustling and despairing cry,
Then ran hand-blinded to the river's brim,
And sank where rumour said 'twas bottomless.
On Jacob strolled, and now a simple flower
And now a stalk of graceful grass he culled;
Till where the river takes a sudden turn,
Where not a bush adorned the sloping bank,
He saw a woman sitting all alone—
A moment only saw her, for she rose
With hurried hustling and despairing cry,
Then ran hand-blinded to the river's brim,
And sank where rumour said 'twas bottomless.
Oh, what unmanning horror seized his soul
When he beheld her in the water sink,
And knew it was his daughter he had seen!
But when she rolling rose above the stream,
He ran and swam and brought her to the bank,
And fought with Death for her, and prayed for her,
Beseeching Heaven to let her die at home:
Oh, wherefore should she die a suicide?
When he beheld her in the water sink,
And knew it was his daughter he had seen!
86
He ran and swam and brought her to the bank,
And fought with Death for her, and prayed for her,
Beseeching Heaven to let her die at home:
Oh, wherefore should she die a suicide?
There was a little cottage on the brae
(You knew it, Margaret, many years ago)—
Half hid among the apple-trees it stood.
There Walter was at work among the fruit,
When through the evening stillness came the cry
That Jacob heard. “'Tis some one in distress,”
He said to Mary, and they hurried down.
And thus it was that Jacob, as he chafed
His daughter's flaccid hands, found friends were near.
But when he looked on Walter's pallid face
And voiceless agony, and heard revealed
In broken sentences the silent love
Which he had ne'er suspected—when he thought
What might have been, and now could never be—
It seemed as if his cup of woe ran o'er,
For he stood up, and, with clenched hands to Heaven
Outstretched, a curse upon the wretch evoked,
Who to his house had all the trouble brought.
(You knew it, Margaret, many years ago)—
Half hid among the apple-trees it stood.
There Walter was at work among the fruit,
When through the evening stillness came the cry
That Jacob heard. “'Tis some one in distress,”
He said to Mary, and they hurried down.
And thus it was that Jacob, as he chafed
His daughter's flaccid hands, found friends were near.
But when he looked on Walter's pallid face
And voiceless agony, and heard revealed
In broken sentences the silent love
Which he had ne'er suspected—when he thought
87
It seemed as if his cup of woe ran o'er,
For he stood up, and, with clenched hands to Heaven
Outstretched, a curse upon the wretch evoked,
Who to his house had all the trouble brought.
Even as he cursed she sighed, or seemed to sigh,
They knew not which; and when they had begun
To fear 'twas only Hope that said she sighed,
Her bosom heaved distinctly, and her eyes
A little moved beneath their lily lids;
And then her breath, as if reluctant, came
And went with gentle swell: then warmth began,
As beauteous as the dawn-flush on the snow,
To spread about her, and they said, “She lives!”
And then when Walter whispered “She is saved,”
Her eyelids quivering rose, and on his face
She gazed a moment, in a wildered way;
And then in Mary's and her father's eyes.
And thus she thought (if that which was a whirl
Of hurrying fancies may be reckoned thought),
“Where am I? These are voices that I know.
What have I gained by flying from the world,
If those I sought to shun have followed me
Already?” Then she listened, and she heard
She had been rescued, and was still on earth.
But when they spoke to her she answered not,
But let them lead her up the cottage path,
And let them lay her down on Mary's bed,
And took whate'er they gave her, like a child
Whose waywardness long illness has subdued:
And when the moon was up they took her home.
In pain she went, and ere the sun had risen,
The culmination of her shame had come,
And through the danger and the agony
In silent apathy she safely passed.
They knew not which; and when they had begun
To fear 'twas only Hope that said she sighed,
Her bosom heaved distinctly, and her eyes
A little moved beneath their lily lids;
And then her breath, as if reluctant, came
And went with gentle swell: then warmth began,
As beauteous as the dawn-flush on the snow,
To spread about her, and they said, “She lives!”
And then when Walter whispered “She is saved,”
Her eyelids quivering rose, and on his face
She gazed a moment, in a wildered way;
And then in Mary's and her father's eyes.
88
Of hurrying fancies may be reckoned thought),
“Where am I? These are voices that I know.
What have I gained by flying from the world,
If those I sought to shun have followed me
Already?” Then she listened, and she heard
She had been rescued, and was still on earth.
But when they spoke to her she answered not,
But let them lead her up the cottage path,
And let them lay her down on Mary's bed,
And took whate'er they gave her, like a child
Whose waywardness long illness has subdued:
And when the moon was up they took her home.
In pain she went, and ere the sun had risen,
The culmination of her shame had come,
And through the danger and the agony
In silent apathy she safely passed.
| Lily Neil | |