 | Lily Neil |  |
154
XII.
Alice.But, Eben, surely at the dead of night
Those that are buried do not come again
And take our hands in theirs?
Eben.
No, Alice, no;
Not from the grave the form we buried there.
Alice.
What then can come to us, with eyes to see,
And hands to touch, and voice to speak to us?
Eben.
The form we did not bury in the grave.
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The form we did not bury?
Eben.
Yes, my bird;
The never-dying forms of those we love,
That hang about us wheresoe'er we go,
In sunshine and in shadow. Oft unseen,
But ever ready to reveal themselves
At memory's call. Nay, oft they seem to come
To waken memory, not to wait on it,
So promptly at its calling do they come.
Alice.
I think I understand. They cannot die
While those that loved them live, if those that live
Forget them not. I think I understand.
Ah, Eben, what a wondrous thing is that!
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To come to us, if we but think of them,
'Tis but a little more to come to us
And make us think of them; and so, and so,
If that were so, it would be good to have
One dear one dead,—one dear and good one dead.
I fear I'm saying wrong.
Margaret.
I fear you are.
Eben.
Nay, Margaret, fear not that. Say on, my bird.
Alice.
So that whenever evil thoughts were near,
And we were likely to do something wrong,
The dear one dead might save the one that lives.
Oh, Eben, what a wondrous thing were that!
Oh, what a better world if that were so!
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Ay, bird; but as it is, the world were worse
If those we love were from our memories swept
When in the grave we laid them. None can tell
What follies are averted in this way,
Nor what undreamed of good is possible.
Have you a song to-night?
Alice.
Oh no. No song.
Of Lily and of Walter let us hear.
Eben
(resumes reading).
A sunny Sabbath in the month of May.
Then Jacob, waiting with a happy heart,
Prepared to stroll afield, saw Walter pass,
And presently he heard his cheerful voice;—
“Fair weather, Jacob! Thinking 'twas a sin
To sit at home on such an afternoon,
I said, ‘I'll go and see if Jacob knows
The summer's come, and that the swallow's here.’
The cherry is in bloom, and robed in snow
The plum-tree stands beside the orchard fence.
I wish I could persuade you to come out
And see what flowers have blown, and hear if still
The birds as sweetly by the river sing.”
“Ay, Walter! Joy is in the woods to-day,
And we will go and find her. Sit ye down;
I only wait till Lily gets her plaid,
Then we will go together where she will.”
“You are but waiting till she gets her plaid?
Is Lily going out?”
Then Jacob, waiting with a happy heart,
Prepared to stroll afield, saw Walter pass,
And presently he heard his cheerful voice;—
“Fair weather, Jacob! Thinking 'twas a sin
To sit at home on such an afternoon,
I said, ‘I'll go and see if Jacob knows
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The cherry is in bloom, and robed in snow
The plum-tree stands beside the orchard fence.
I wish I could persuade you to come out
And see what flowers have blown, and hear if still
The birds as sweetly by the river sing.”
“Ay, Walter! Joy is in the woods to-day,
And we will go and find her. Sit ye down;
I only wait till Lily gets her plaid,
Then we will go together where she will.”
“You are but waiting till she gets her plaid?
Is Lily going out?”
“Why not, my friend?
There have been many stranger things, I trow.”
“But seldom things so pleasant and so strange:
How has it happened?”
There have been many stranger things, I trow.”
“But seldom things so pleasant and so strange:
How has it happened?”
“That I cannot tell;
That it has happened is enough for me.
To-day, while we were coming home from church,
I heard one whisper: ‘Father, shall we go
And have a stroll among the glades to-day?’
And when I stood and stared, she softly said,
‘Shall we begin again our strolls to-day?’
See what a trifle makes an old heart light!
She only said, ‘Our Sabbath-evening strolls
Shall we resume?’ and mine with gladness filled.
Yes! we shall go and feast with joy to-day.”
Then from her room came Lily, and he said,
“Walter has come to woo me out to walk:
What say you? Shall we let him go with us?”
She hesitated, flushed, and then—“Unless
He thinks I would be better here at home.”
“I think you have been far too much at home;
And I with you will wander anywhere,
Unless I am forbidden. Let's away.”
“Then we will wander down the glen,” she said,
“And then perhaps along the river-side,
And then, if Mary is at home, may rest
Till gloaming comes with her.”
That it has happened is enough for me.
To-day, while we were coming home from church,
I heard one whisper: ‘Father, shall we go
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And when I stood and stared, she softly said,
‘Shall we begin again our strolls to-day?’
See what a trifle makes an old heart light!
She only said, ‘Our Sabbath-evening strolls
Shall we resume?’ and mine with gladness filled.
Yes! we shall go and feast with joy to-day.”
Then from her room came Lily, and he said,
“Walter has come to woo me out to walk:
What say you? Shall we let him go with us?”
She hesitated, flushed, and then—“Unless
He thinks I would be better here at home.”
“I think you have been far too much at home;
And I with you will wander anywhere,
Unless I am forbidden. Let's away.”
“Then we will wander down the glen,” she said,
“And then perhaps along the river-side,
And then, if Mary is at home, may rest
Till gloaming comes with her.”
They had not thought
She would have dared so much, but in her heart,
“It will be best to see it all,” she said,
“When friends are near. I am not brave enough
To be alone, with memory, in the glen.
I am not brave enough to dare alone
The subtle wooing of that dreadful pool,
If it were whirling as it was that day.
But with my father near me I might stand,
And o'er again those awful moments live,
And speak of them, and give them to the past.”
160
“It will be best to see it all,” she said,
“When friends are near. I am not brave enough
To be alone, with memory, in the glen.
I am not brave enough to dare alone
The subtle wooing of that dreadful pool,
If it were whirling as it was that day.
But with my father near me I might stand,
And o'er again those awful moments live,
And speak of them, and give them to the past.”
So through the village passed they, drawing eyes
To blindless windows and to open doors.
But, though she by the ringing of her ears
Was well assured that malice-poisoned shafts
Were aimed at her, she heeded them no more
Than does the heron, sailing riverward,
The little, feeble, needle-headed dart,
Which towards him from the schoolboy's bow is sped,
As if death-charged, but, tiring, earthward turns,
A thousand yards beneath him.
To blindless windows and to open doors.
But, though she by the ringing of her ears
Was well assured that malice-poisoned shafts
Were aimed at her, she heeded them no more
Than does the heron, sailing riverward,
The little, feeble, needle-headed dart,
Which towards him from the schoolboy's bow is sped,
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A thousand yards beneath him.
Never was
A soul so glad as hers, if what seemed joy
Was joy indeed; for all the way her voice,
With many a happy saying, stirred the hearts
Beside her. “Oh, how beautiful to-day
The larches, with their drooping plumes of green;
The beeches, with their silken fluttering leaves;
The million flower-buds on the waving thorn;
The blossomed chestnuts—fairest of them all!
How grand the floating masses of white cloud!
How pleasant the surprise of light and shade
Among the distant hills! How swiftly pass
The mighty shadows o'er the level holms!
How strange it seems that such vast things should move
With such an easy motion—rushing up
The steep hillside, and gliding down the slope!
How pleasant is the singing of the birds!
How strange that in their oft-repeated notes
There's no monotony, unless the soul
In all that's gladsome finds but weariness!”
Thus, as they walked, the fountain of her thoughts,
With many a pause, welled up and overflowed;
And still through all there ran the unspoken hope
That Walter would not speak of love that day.
A soul so glad as hers, if what seemed joy
Was joy indeed; for all the way her voice,
With many a happy saying, stirred the hearts
Beside her. “Oh, how beautiful to-day
The larches, with their drooping plumes of green;
The beeches, with their silken fluttering leaves;
The million flower-buds on the waving thorn;
The blossomed chestnuts—fairest of them all!
How grand the floating masses of white cloud!
How pleasant the surprise of light and shade
Among the distant hills! How swiftly pass
The mighty shadows o'er the level holms!
How strange it seems that such vast things should move
With such an easy motion—rushing up
The steep hillside, and gliding down the slope!
How pleasant is the singing of the birds!
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There's no monotony, unless the soul
In all that's gladsome finds but weariness!”
Thus, as they walked, the fountain of her thoughts,
With many a pause, welled up and overflowed;
And still through all there ran the unspoken hope
That Walter would not speak of love that day.
Her father was as blithesome as a boy.
“I am an Adam, and to-day,” he said,
“I have a first awakening—all seems new:
So lovely, surely, ne'er were flowers before;
No clouds were e'er so white, no sky so blue.
I am as if my vision had been doomed
To gaze for ever on a muddy way,
Where nothing I might see that keeps the soul
Above the cares that bind it. Flowers, and trees,
And fields of every hue, have been to me
But as a painted world of sheenless green,
On which the eye might rest and be at peace,
But which no thrill of pleasure ever woke;
And yonder ever-varying sky has been
A chamber-roof to me that never changed:
But all is fresh and beautiful to-day.”
Yet Walter had a strange presentiment
Of coming sorrow in his heart, and so
He walked beside them, sharing not their joy,
And seeing not the beauty which they saw.
So when her father, thinking it was best
To leave them to themselves, and half ashamed
Of thoughts so pleasant, said, “There is a nook
Beyond the burn, where earliest, long ago,
The woodruff gave its odour to the glen:
I'll go alone, and see if it is out.
Go round and meet me at the upper bridge.”
Then to himself said Walter: “I will know
The worst to-day, if she will let me speak,
And surely she will hear me.”
“I am an Adam, and to-day,” he said,
“I have a first awakening—all seems new:
So lovely, surely, ne'er were flowers before;
No clouds were e'er so white, no sky so blue.
I am as if my vision had been doomed
To gaze for ever on a muddy way,
Where nothing I might see that keeps the soul
Above the cares that bind it. Flowers, and trees,
And fields of every hue, have been to me
But as a painted world of sheenless green,
On which the eye might rest and be at peace,
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And yonder ever-varying sky has been
A chamber-roof to me that never changed:
But all is fresh and beautiful to-day.”
Yet Walter had a strange presentiment
Of coming sorrow in his heart, and so
He walked beside them, sharing not their joy,
And seeing not the beauty which they saw.
So when her father, thinking it was best
To leave them to themselves, and half ashamed
Of thoughts so pleasant, said, “There is a nook
Beyond the burn, where earliest, long ago,
The woodruff gave its odour to the glen:
I'll go alone, and see if it is out.
Go round and meet me at the upper bridge.”
Then to himself said Walter: “I will know
The worst to-day, if she will let me speak,
And surely she will hear me.”
To a bench,
That, 'neath a ferny, overhanging rock,
Time out of mind had been a lovers' seat,
He led her, not without a dreamy hope
That that, whate'er it is, that fills the soul
With love's sweet longing, might at last be moved
With pity, when it saw him sitting there.
Then on the lovers' seat he sat him down,
And, uninvited, she (it augured well,
He thought) beside him sat, and thus he wooed:—
“Now, Lily, I must dare to speak again:
Say, dearest, will you let me take your hand,
And when we meet your father, shall I say,
‘Your daughter has agreed to be my wife’?”
She answered nothing. Then he spoke again:
“It falls perhaps like frost on early flowers,
My boldness on your happy thoughts to-day,
But I have wearied; is your answer ‘Yes’?”
She still was silent. Then he said again—
“I am not like a stranger, Lily, love,
Whose passion, born of yesterday, is full
Of words to-day, and may to-morrow die.
You know me as I know myself—say ‘Yes.’”
“O Walter, this was what I feared to-day!
This is the hour whose coming I have seen
And dreaded, for 'tis not an easy thing
For me to tell a man who loves like you
That ‘No’ must be my answer. Yet 'tis ‘No.’”
Said Walter,—“Lily, you are thinking still
Of that unhappy season. With the past
Be all its memories buried, and be mine.”
“This is the way of men,” she said. “They plead
And plead, and take no answer but the one
They wish for, thinking if they persevere,
The little word they want will come at last.
But, Walter, I've been haunted by this day,
Until I've been afraid to think of it—
Afraid of it as one who, doomed to die,
May look upon the day that brings to him
The end of time. To him 'twill take a form,
And stalk long-paced behind the marshalled hours,
Grim, vast, and terrible. To me this seemed
To cry with many a threat of coming woes,
‘Beware! and never dare to wed again.’”
“'Tis but a dream,” said Walter—“but a dream
Whose memory haunts you. Say you will be mine.”
“Ah, Walter! were it nothing but a dream,
And memories of dreams, I might forget,
And let you have your way. But look at me.
Am I like one, who, fond of being wooed,
Defers consent, and gives with happy eyes
Her words the lie? What see you in my face
But shame and pity?—pity for the man
Whom most I honour, but whose dearest wish
I, choiceless, must deny; and shame because,
So honouring him, I dare not be his wife.”
“I wish you had a blither eye,” he said;
“And so you shall, if you will let the past
But lie at peace, and speak of shame no more,—
No more of daring. It is I who dare
When I aspire to such a noble wife.
Say ‘Yes,’ and with a kiss the bargain seal.”
Then tears began to gather in her eyes:
“O Walter, if you would but look at me!
If you would but believe my ‘No’ means ‘No.’
You do not see me as the just world sees,
For it is not love-blinded. And the pride
That must be in the heart of men like you
With love is fettered, else 'twould stir you up
To spurn me,—never let you stoop to kiss.”
“So earnest, love?” said Walter. “Have you then
So little faith in me, that thus you weigh
My love against the thing the world calls pride?
Out of this question let us bar the world,
And settle it ourselves. So, Lily, love,
Say ‘Yes,’ and with a kiss the bargain seal.”
“If you but knew,” she said—“if you but knew
How vile I am. I tell you I was not
So deeply wronged as you have all believed.
I took with open eyes the first wrong step,
Consenting to be led astray. Read these.”
Then from her bosom tremblingly she took
Some written papers. “These will let you know
How willingly I fell. These we exchanged,
And when he said, ‘My Lily, now my wife
For ever,’ I believed 'twas so indeed.”
“Indeed 'twas so,” said Walter. “Yes,” she said.
“And then—what mattered it?—‘Lest I should change
My mind,’ he said, the lines were left with him.
And so—and so. It is a tale of shame.
But when you saw him in the river fall,
He had them in his bosom safely rolled;
For he was penitent, and coming home
To claim his wife, and tell it to the world.
But he was lost, and these came home unharmed,
Because it was foreseen that you to-day
Would in love's madness seek me for your wife,
And not take ‘No’ for answer till you saw
These foolish lines, when you would turn with scorn
From her who for them gave herself away.
Give me my proofs of shame and let me go.”
“But they are proofs of virtue, Lily, love,
Not proofs of shame,” he said.
That, 'neath a ferny, overhanging rock,
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He led her, not without a dreamy hope
That that, whate'er it is, that fills the soul
With love's sweet longing, might at last be moved
With pity, when it saw him sitting there.
Then on the lovers' seat he sat him down,
And, uninvited, she (it augured well,
He thought) beside him sat, and thus he wooed:—
“Now, Lily, I must dare to speak again:
Say, dearest, will you let me take your hand,
And when we meet your father, shall I say,
‘Your daughter has agreed to be my wife’?”
She answered nothing. Then he spoke again:
“It falls perhaps like frost on early flowers,
My boldness on your happy thoughts to-day,
But I have wearied; is your answer ‘Yes’?”
She still was silent. Then he said again—
“I am not like a stranger, Lily, love,
Whose passion, born of yesterday, is full
Of words to-day, and may to-morrow die.
165
“O Walter, this was what I feared to-day!
This is the hour whose coming I have seen
And dreaded, for 'tis not an easy thing
For me to tell a man who loves like you
That ‘No’ must be my answer. Yet 'tis ‘No.’”
Said Walter,—“Lily, you are thinking still
Of that unhappy season. With the past
Be all its memories buried, and be mine.”
“This is the way of men,” she said. “They plead
And plead, and take no answer but the one
They wish for, thinking if they persevere,
The little word they want will come at last.
But, Walter, I've been haunted by this day,
Until I've been afraid to think of it—
Afraid of it as one who, doomed to die,
May look upon the day that brings to him
The end of time. To him 'twill take a form,
And stalk long-paced behind the marshalled hours,
Grim, vast, and terrible. To me this seemed
166
‘Beware! and never dare to wed again.’”
“'Tis but a dream,” said Walter—“but a dream
Whose memory haunts you. Say you will be mine.”
“Ah, Walter! were it nothing but a dream,
And memories of dreams, I might forget,
And let you have your way. But look at me.
Am I like one, who, fond of being wooed,
Defers consent, and gives with happy eyes
Her words the lie? What see you in my face
But shame and pity?—pity for the man
Whom most I honour, but whose dearest wish
I, choiceless, must deny; and shame because,
So honouring him, I dare not be his wife.”
“I wish you had a blither eye,” he said;
“And so you shall, if you will let the past
But lie at peace, and speak of shame no more,—
No more of daring. It is I who dare
When I aspire to such a noble wife.
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Then tears began to gather in her eyes:
“O Walter, if you would but look at me!
If you would but believe my ‘No’ means ‘No.’
You do not see me as the just world sees,
For it is not love-blinded. And the pride
That must be in the heart of men like you
With love is fettered, else 'twould stir you up
To spurn me,—never let you stoop to kiss.”
“So earnest, love?” said Walter. “Have you then
So little faith in me, that thus you weigh
My love against the thing the world calls pride?
Out of this question let us bar the world,
And settle it ourselves. So, Lily, love,
Say ‘Yes,’ and with a kiss the bargain seal.”
“If you but knew,” she said—“if you but knew
How vile I am. I tell you I was not
So deeply wronged as you have all believed.
I took with open eyes the first wrong step,
Consenting to be led astray. Read these.”
168
Some written papers. “These will let you know
How willingly I fell. These we exchanged,
And when he said, ‘My Lily, now my wife
For ever,’ I believed 'twas so indeed.”
“Indeed 'twas so,” said Walter. “Yes,” she said.
“And then—what mattered it?—‘Lest I should change
My mind,’ he said, the lines were left with him.
And so—and so. It is a tale of shame.
But when you saw him in the river fall,
He had them in his bosom safely rolled;
For he was penitent, and coming home
To claim his wife, and tell it to the world.
But he was lost, and these came home unharmed,
Because it was foreseen that you to-day
Would in love's madness seek me for your wife,
And not take ‘No’ for answer till you saw
These foolish lines, when you would turn with scorn
169
Give me my proofs of shame and let me go.”
“But they are proofs of virtue, Lily, love,
Not proofs of shame,” he said.
But she stood up
And charged him to be silent. Then she took
The little sinless scraps, and faltered not,
But tore them into shreds, and scattered them
Towards the burn. The merry breeze that played
Among the bushes snatched them from her hand,
As if her eager wish it had divined,
And in a sportive manner, far aloft
In little niches of the trees put some,
And some within the fissures of the rocks,
And others in the bosoms of the ferns,
And others on the billows of the burn,—
Together never to be brought again.
When thus she saw them scattered, “Let us go,”
She said, “and seek my father at the bridge.
Ah, Walter! it is I who have esteem,
And you have only love. You must not wed
A woman you would blush for by-and-by.
But as for me, e'en Scandal's self, ashamed
And sick of me, in silence passes by;
But if she heard that I had married you,
It would be such a feast as comes to her
But once in many years. And she, most like,
Would choose some drunken fellow, and in him
Would sit, as devils did in men of old,
And in some crowd would make him cry at you—
‘There is the man who married Lily Neil!’
And all the crowd would sneer.”
And charged him to be silent. Then she took
The little sinless scraps, and faltered not,
But tore them into shreds, and scattered them
Towards the burn. The merry breeze that played
Among the bushes snatched them from her hand,
As if her eager wish it had divined,
And in a sportive manner, far aloft
In little niches of the trees put some,
And some within the fissures of the rocks,
And others in the bosoms of the ferns,
And others on the billows of the burn,—
Together never to be brought again.
When thus she saw them scattered, “Let us go,”
She said, “and seek my father at the bridge.
Ah, Walter! it is I who have esteem,
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A woman you would blush for by-and-by.
But as for me, e'en Scandal's self, ashamed
And sick of me, in silence passes by;
But if she heard that I had married you,
It would be such a feast as comes to her
But once in many years. And she, most like,
Would choose some drunken fellow, and in him
Would sit, as devils did in men of old,
And in some crowd would make him cry at you—
‘There is the man who married Lily Neil!’
And all the crowd would sneer.”
“Oh, dread not that,
For at your name no man would dare to sneer
Were I your husband!”
For at your name no man would dare to sneer
Were I your husband!”
“Walter, none will dare;
But if you had your way it would be said.
The world has no forgiveness for the wretch
Who from its torture seeks relief in death.
Come, let us seek my father.”
But if you had your way it would be said.
The world has no forgiveness for the wretch
Who from its torture seeks relief in death.
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“Oh, not yet:
Our parting must be here, if part we must.
But must we part? Give me another day
To hope that there is something here at home
Worth waiting for. To-morrow I will come.
There is no haste. Take time and think again.
I have not waited such a little while
But I can wait a little longer yet.”
“Ah, Walter! all my thoughts but one way tend:
In this there's no to-morrow. Let us part.”
Our parting must be here, if part we must.
But must we part? Give me another day
To hope that there is something here at home
Worth waiting for. To-morrow I will come.
There is no haste. Take time and think again.
I have not waited such a little while
But I can wait a little longer yet.”
“Ah, Walter! all my thoughts but one way tend:
In this there's no to-morrow. Let us part.”
Then Walter rose and took her hand in his,
And bade her look at him, and gazed at her
Until her eye sank, searching for the hope
Her tongue refused him—searched for it in vain,
But saw, or seemed to see, within her soul
The firm and irremovable resolve
To know no more of love, and honoured it.
“So dies my hope,” he said—“so vanishes
My dream. You would be kinder if you could,
And so I blame you not.” Then as she glanced
A grateful look at him, he took her face
Between his hands, and stooped and kissed her brow;
Then left her, and she never saw him more.
And bade her look at him, and gazed at her
Until her eye sank, searching for the hope
Her tongue refused him—searched for it in vain,
But saw, or seemed to see, within her soul
The firm and irremovable resolve
To know no more of love, and honoured it.
172
My dream. You would be kinder if you could,
And so I blame you not.” Then as she glanced
A grateful look at him, he took her face
Between his hands, and stooped and kissed her brow;
Then left her, and she never saw him more.
Alice.
No more?
Eben.
No more, my bird. The tale is true:
She never saw him more; but this he learned,
Long after, that she sat, and when at last
His footfall on the gravel reached her not,
Up-gazing at a little space of sky
That filled an eastward opening in the wood,
As if through it the face of God she saw,
And knew her cry would reach Him—
She never saw him more; but this he learned,
Long after, that she sat, and when at last
His footfall on the gravel reached her not,
Up-gazing at a little space of sky
That filled an eastward opening in the wood,
As if through it the face of God she saw,
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“Bless,” she cried,
“The one true lover in the world, O God!”
Then on the lovers' seat she sat, and wept
As surely never woman wept before.
“The one true lover in the world, O God!”
Then on the lovers' seat she sat, and wept
As surely never woman wept before.
| Lily Neil | |