 | Lily Neil |  |
134
X.
Alice.But, Eben, is the story all so sad?
Eben.
Not all, my bird.
Alice.
What was it Walter saw
Above the river, when the man fell in?
Eben.
I cannot tell, my bird. It might not be
The angry spirit that it seemed to him.
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I do not understand.
Eben.
Say it was but
A phantom born of Walter's angry thoughts.
Alice.
I do not understand. It seems so strange,
So cruel, almost home to let him come,
And then to send an angel after him.
But God is never cruel, mother says;
Yet, almost home, and bringing joy with him!
It was a pity Walter met him there;
Now, Eben, was it not?
Eben.
The saddest thing
That ever happened, I have always said.
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God is not cruel, mother always says;
I wonder why He did not let him home,
When he was going to be good.
Eben.
My bird,
Great is the mystery of sudden death,
Whene'er it comes: for it does ever seem
That who so dies was brought to meet his fate,
And had no power to go another way.
Even as the bee that many a mile has flown
From flower to flower, returning to the hive,
Is by a passing swallow snatched away.
That song about the sailor sing, my bird.
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(sings).
My Willie, he would be a sailor,
And so on the far-flowing sea,
Wi' a gowden troth-ring in his bosom,
To mony a fair harbour sailed he.
And so on the far-flowing sea,
Wi' a gowden troth-ring in his bosom,
To mony a fair harbour sailed he.
And though a wild storm in mid-ocean
A' life frae his ship washed awa',
Wi' his gowden troth-ring in his bosom,
My Willie cam safe through it a'.
A' life frae his ship washed awa',
Wi' his gowden troth-ring in his bosom,
My Willie cam safe through it a'.
My Willie was hame a' the summer,
And the burn at its ebbest ran clear,
When frae me he gaed in the gloaming,
The sang o' the blackbird to hear.
And the burn at its ebbest ran clear,
When frae me he gaed in the gloaming,
The sang o' the blackbird to hear.
He heard the saft sang o' the blackbird,
And syne in the pool gaed to lave,
And though he was spared by the ocean,
The ebb summer burn was his grave.
And syne in the pool gaed to lave,
And though he was spared by the ocean,
The ebb summer burn was his grave.
138
(continues reading).
Ere yet the student in his grave was laid,
“Will you go with me, father, to the farm?”
Said Lily. When her father answered not,
But in her eyes with growing anger stared,
Again she asked him: “Father, is it meet
That he should die, and in the grave be laid,
And I not say, ‘My Willie, go in peace’?
O father, why should all his friends but her
Who is his very nearest, touch his cheek,
And over him the tear of parting drop?”
“Oh, surely unbecoming on our cheeks,”
Her father said, “would be a tear for him.”
“O father, say not that. He cannot die,—
He will be lying like a man that's dead,—
Till we, whom he deceived, beside him stand,
And from our hearts the wrong for ever cast.
There can be no departure of his soul
Till I have touched him, and have kissed his brow,
And said, ‘My only love, depart in peace!’”
“What! Go to him with tears and kisses? No!
I, if I knew but how, would not permit
A thought of him among your memories,
And yet you ask me this! I cannot go.”
But now she knelt to him, and pled in tears—
“O father, come with me, lest it be said,
‘What brings her here? And wherefore does she come
Robed like a widow? She was ne'er a wife.’
So might they say, and think they wrong me not,
Who am the only wife he ever had,
And from the house of mourning me might turn,
Who am the saddest mourner of them all.”
Then when he answered not, and doubtful stood,
Much wondering at the reasons which she urged,
Again she trembling pled, “Oh, come with me,
Lest when they see me coming there alone,
They say, ‘Her father is ashamed of her,
And yet she has the boldness to come here.’
Alas! there is no boldness in my heart,
But utter sorrow. What's their loss to mine?
At most a son—an only son at most.
But he whom I have lost was coming home
To take away the shame he left with me.”
“Will you go with me, father, to the farm?”
Said Lily. When her father answered not,
But in her eyes with growing anger stared,
Again she asked him: “Father, is it meet
That he should die, and in the grave be laid,
And I not say, ‘My Willie, go in peace’?
O father, why should all his friends but her
Who is his very nearest, touch his cheek,
And over him the tear of parting drop?”
“Oh, surely unbecoming on our cheeks,”
Her father said, “would be a tear for him.”
“O father, say not that. He cannot die,—
He will be lying like a man that's dead,—
Till we, whom he deceived, beside him stand,
And from our hearts the wrong for ever cast.
There can be no departure of his soul
Till I have touched him, and have kissed his brow,
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“What! Go to him with tears and kisses? No!
I, if I knew but how, would not permit
A thought of him among your memories,
And yet you ask me this! I cannot go.”
But now she knelt to him, and pled in tears—
“O father, come with me, lest it be said,
‘What brings her here? And wherefore does she come
Robed like a widow? She was ne'er a wife.’
So might they say, and think they wrong me not,
Who am the only wife he ever had,
And from the house of mourning me might turn,
Who am the saddest mourner of them all.”
Then when he answered not, and doubtful stood,
Much wondering at the reasons which she urged,
Again she trembling pled, “Oh, come with me,
Lest when they see me coming there alone,
They say, ‘Her father is ashamed of her,
And yet she has the boldness to come here.’
140
But utter sorrow. What's their loss to mine?
At most a son—an only son at most.
But he whom I have lost was coming home
To take away the shame he left with me.”
He answered not, but in his heart he said,
“I know not if 'tis wrong: it may be right,—
But if she goes she cannot go alone.”
So, leaning on her father's arm, she went;
And when they reached the farm, his father came
And grasped their hands in silence.
“I know not if 'tis wrong: it may be right,—
But if she goes she cannot go alone.”
So, leaning on her father's arm, she went;
And when they reached the farm, his father came
And grasped their hands in silence.
“I have come,”
Said Jacob, wondering at the friendly grasp,
“Because my daughter wishes once again
To see the face of him she loved too well.”
He answered not, but gently took her hand,
And led her to the coffin; raised the lid,
And let her see the face she came to see.
Down stooping once, she kissed his rigid lips,
And laid her hand upon his ice-cold brow;
And then she gazed as if she thought there must
(Indeed she thought there must) some answering thrill
Suffuse his cheek, or lift the eyelids up,
And let his soul gleam out a parting look:
At least a smile would round the cold lips play.
But when she saw no lifting of the lids,
Nor smile, nor warm suffusing of the cheek,
She knelt and said, “My Willie, go in peace!”
And when she found her tears begin to flow,
When in her throat the sorrow-sob she felt,
That utterance sought in wailing, she arose,
And hazarding no glance toward the dead,
Nor lifting to a living face her eyes,
In silence sought the door.
Said Jacob, wondering at the friendly grasp,
“Because my daughter wishes once again
To see the face of him she loved too well.”
He answered not, but gently took her hand,
And led her to the coffin; raised the lid,
And let her see the face she came to see.
Down stooping once, she kissed his rigid lips,
141
And then she gazed as if she thought there must
(Indeed she thought there must) some answering thrill
Suffuse his cheek, or lift the eyelids up,
And let his soul gleam out a parting look:
At least a smile would round the cold lips play.
But when she saw no lifting of the lids,
Nor smile, nor warm suffusing of the cheek,
She knelt and said, “My Willie, go in peace!”
And when she found her tears begin to flow,
When in her throat the sorrow-sob she felt,
That utterance sought in wailing, she arose,
And hazarding no glance toward the dead,
Nor lifting to a living face her eyes,
In silence sought the door.
“Nay, go not yet:
I will not bid you wait until the end,”
The farmer said, “but I must show you this.”
Then from a desk a leathern book he brought,—
“'Tis yours,” he said, and put it in her hand;
“This in an inner pocket safe we found,
Though wet, not wasted. All that's here is yours,—
Not much of riches, but to you, our child,
Far more than riches. Take them home with you;
They prove at least that he was penitent.
Let me forgiveness ask for him and me,
For I, too, wronged you. Jacob, I have oft—
With shame I say it—I have often striven
With specious argument to prove my son
Was but the humble instrument of Heaven,
The chosen helpless worker of God's work,
And therefore blameless. He the shaft that struck,
But God the Archer from whose hand it flew.
And when one said, ‘But he has ruined her,’
I had the daring answer ready aye,
‘Not he! not he! 'twas Heaven that did it all;
And it may not be ruin, but great good.’
And when they would not be convinced, I said:
‘Events, like mortals, have their pedigrees,
For one begets another; but though man
May only unto Adam trace descent,
The thing that now transpires goes back and back
From cause to cause, till at the birth of Time
It finds an ancestor that is itself
But an effect of something older still.
And, therefore, of the ruin of this maid
My son is but the last apparent cause,
Not guiltier than all that went before.’
Nay, Jacob, more than that I dared, as thus:
‘The Great All-seeing, He who wrote at first
The drama men call Time,—beneath whose eye,
And at whose prompting, men rehearse the parts
Set down to them from all eternity,—
He knows why Willie played a villain's part,
And why he had no choice but play that part;
And shall we dare to judge?’ Nay, more and worse:
‘Oh, if we could but know the mystery
Of that which, rash in ignorance, we say
Is Evil, whence its power, and wherefore used,
Who knows how much of pity he had won
Instead of curses, sympathy for hate?
And if our knowledge were but deep enough,
We might discover that such hateful things
As lawless passion, in whose following
Are Ruin, Wrong, and Death, are known in heaven
By names that shock not angels.’ Thus I dared;
Though, as I argued, something in my heart
Would rise and brush away my argument,
Revealing all his guilt, even as the wind
Does from the dandelion brush the down,
And leave it staring naked in the sun.
So, daughter, when a letter came and said,
‘At such a time expect your prodigal,’
I sware no fatted calf should bleed for him.
Nay, when they brought him in and laid him down
I stood dry-eyed, and kept my heart close barred
Against all sympathy and thought of him:
‘He is unworthy of his father's house.’
But I have wept since then, when none could see.
He was my only child—his mother gone.
I've wept since then, for I have writings seen
That tell me Willie was not wholly bad;
For penitent he was, and Penitence,
Like Innocence itself, is hailed in Heaven.
So, Jacob, go not angry from my house.
So, daughter, kindly think of him that's dead.
Let us be friends. Our sorrow has one source,
And we should not be strangers. Fare-ye-well.”
I will not bid you wait until the end,”
The farmer said, “but I must show you this.”
Then from a desk a leathern book he brought,—
142
“This in an inner pocket safe we found,
Though wet, not wasted. All that's here is yours,—
Not much of riches, but to you, our child,
Far more than riches. Take them home with you;
They prove at least that he was penitent.
Let me forgiveness ask for him and me,
For I, too, wronged you. Jacob, I have oft—
With shame I say it—I have often striven
With specious argument to prove my son
Was but the humble instrument of Heaven,
The chosen helpless worker of God's work,
And therefore blameless. He the shaft that struck,
But God the Archer from whose hand it flew.
And when one said, ‘But he has ruined her,’
I had the daring answer ready aye,
‘Not he! not he! 'twas Heaven that did it all;
And it may not be ruin, but great good.’
And when they would not be convinced, I said:
‘Events, like mortals, have their pedigrees,
143
May only unto Adam trace descent,
The thing that now transpires goes back and back
From cause to cause, till at the birth of Time
It finds an ancestor that is itself
But an effect of something older still.
And, therefore, of the ruin of this maid
My son is but the last apparent cause,
Not guiltier than all that went before.’
Nay, Jacob, more than that I dared, as thus:
‘The Great All-seeing, He who wrote at first
The drama men call Time,—beneath whose eye,
And at whose prompting, men rehearse the parts
Set down to them from all eternity,—
He knows why Willie played a villain's part,
And why he had no choice but play that part;
And shall we dare to judge?’ Nay, more and worse:
‘Oh, if we could but know the mystery
Of that which, rash in ignorance, we say
144
Who knows how much of pity he had won
Instead of curses, sympathy for hate?
And if our knowledge were but deep enough,
We might discover that such hateful things
As lawless passion, in whose following
Are Ruin, Wrong, and Death, are known in heaven
By names that shock not angels.’ Thus I dared;
Though, as I argued, something in my heart
Would rise and brush away my argument,
Revealing all his guilt, even as the wind
Does from the dandelion brush the down,
And leave it staring naked in the sun.
So, daughter, when a letter came and said,
‘At such a time expect your prodigal,’
I sware no fatted calf should bleed for him.
Nay, when they brought him in and laid him down
I stood dry-eyed, and kept my heart close barred
Against all sympathy and thought of him:
‘He is unworthy of his father's house.’
145
He was my only child—his mother gone.
I've wept since then, for I have writings seen
That tell me Willie was not wholly bad;
For penitent he was, and Penitence,
Like Innocence itself, is hailed in Heaven.
So, Jacob, go not angry from my house.
So, daughter, kindly think of him that's dead.
Let us be friends. Our sorrow has one source,
And we should not be strangers. Fare-ye-well.”
There was no need for answering. Jacob's heart
Was softened to forgiveness of the dead,
And Lily had forgiven long ago.
But from that day in widow's weeds she went
To church, and sat in her accustomed seat,
And let the village marvel as it might.
Was softened to forgiveness of the dead,
And Lily had forgiven long ago.
But from that day in widow's weeds she went
To church, and sat in her accustomed seat,
And let the village marvel as it might.
| Lily Neil | |