The Queen of the fairies (A village story): and other poems: By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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| I. | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Queen of the fairies |  |
I.
“A little cottage girl,
She was eight years old she said,
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.”
Wordsworth.
She was eight years old she said,
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.”
Wordsworth.
“For now, being always with her, the first love
I had—the father's, brother's love, was changed,
I think, in somewise—”
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
I had—the father's, brother's love, was changed,
I think, in somewise—”
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Poor little Nelly in her spotted frock
Used to sit sobbing in our village school,
Biting her short fore-finger, whilst her slate,
All blotted with her tears, hung round her neck
And seem'd a halter. From the narrow form
Her mottled baby legs hung sadly down;
One little foot, as tho' in agony,
Press'd tightly o'er the other, or both strove
With downward-pointed toes to reach the ground.
Low at the neck, her lilac pinafore
Was drawn down sideways thro' perplexity,
Wherefrom her little round right shoulder peep'd,
Hunch'd ear-wards from the burden of her slate.
Used to sit sobbing in our village school,
Biting her short fore-finger, whilst her slate,
All blotted with her tears, hung round her neck
And seem'd a halter. From the narrow form
Her mottled baby legs hung sadly down;
2
Press'd tightly o'er the other, or both strove
With downward-pointed toes to reach the ground.
Low at the neck, her lilac pinafore
Was drawn down sideways thro' perplexity,
Wherefrom her little round right shoulder peep'd,
Hunch'd ear-wards from the burden of her slate.
'Twas not that little Nelly's curly head
Held duller brains than children's of her age,
Yet two and two would seem to make it ache.
It may have been that we, her teachers, tried
The two and two too soon; but thus she sat,
Careworn and sad tho' only eight years old,
Some years ago upon that very form
In this our village school.
Held duller brains than children's of her age,
Yet two and two would seem to make it ache.
It may have been that we, her teachers, tried
The two and two too soon; but thus she sat,
Careworn and sad tho' only eight years old,
Some years ago upon that very form
In this our village school.
Our clergyman
Was then a good, kind, venerable man
Of nigh three-score and ten, which Holy Writ
Hath said to be the age when we of earth
Strain at our tether, which wears ragged and thin
And therefore seems to stretch, but in the main
Gains poor advantage, losing strength in length.
I was his curate;—I had seen the world,
And haunted crowds, and fled in solitudes
The din of cities. Pleasure is not good,
And leads to greater evils;—this I knew,
But ere I knew, or had I never known,
I had loved Pleasure;—as it was, I strove
To love the Right;—'tis often very hard!
Was then a good, kind, venerable man
Of nigh three-score and ten, which Holy Writ
Hath said to be the age when we of earth
Strain at our tether, which wears ragged and thin
And therefore seems to stretch, but in the main
Gains poor advantage, losing strength in length.
I was his curate;—I had seen the world,
3
The din of cities. Pleasure is not good,
And leads to greater evils;—this I knew,
But ere I knew, or had I never known,
I had loved Pleasure;—as it was, I strove
To love the Right;—'tis often very hard!
What matter if it was my poverty,
Or the long purse of some one of my kin,
Led me to make my home amongst the poor,
I doubly poor, from having once seem'd rich?
Here in this village, where the clergyman
Was three-score years and ten, I waited on
(I sometimes thought I waited for his death).
Or the long purse of some one of my kin,
Led me to make my home amongst the poor,
I doubly poor, from having once seem'd rich?
Here in this village, where the clergyman
Was three-score years and ten, I waited on
(I sometimes thought I waited for his death).
Then little Nelly, like a stragg'ling lamb
Long erring from the fold, was brought to school
By me, the shepherd's dog. I long had watch'd,
Outside her cottage door, this lovely child
Of lawless parents; often driven there
Rated by a resentful stepmother,
Biting her bread-and-butter into shapes
Of men and animals, or sharing it
With Wolf, her father's savage mongrel cur.
(Her father, poacher, drunkard, “ne'er do weel,”
Yet having such a careless, handsome face,
Such girth of chest, and such a merry eye,
That somehow we forgave him for his faults
And said “good-morrow” in a friendly way.)
Long erring from the fold, was brought to school
By me, the shepherd's dog. I long had watch'd,
Outside her cottage door, this lovely child
Of lawless parents; often driven there
Rated by a resentful stepmother,
Biting her bread-and-butter into shapes
Of men and animals, or sharing it
4
(Her father, poacher, drunkard, “ne'er do weel,”
Yet having such a careless, handsome face,
Such girth of chest, and such a merry eye,
That somehow we forgave him for his faults
And said “good-morrow” in a friendly way.)
The mother of my pretty little Nell
Forgave him too, and some ten years ago
Had married him, then died in giving birth
To this one daughter. She was said to be
“A better sort of person,” born and bred
Some three good rungs above her husband's head
Upon the social ladder, and from her
It may have been that little Nelly got
Her gentle manner and her gentle look.
Then, being still a man the lasses liked,
Her father married, not a day too soon,
His second wife, a slattern and a shrew,
Who bore to him a shaggy-headed brood
Of squalid babies; twins and twins again
Year after year, and then a single child—
And thus the star of this poor family
Slowly declined, but surely.
Forgave him too, and some ten years ago
Had married him, then died in giving birth
To this one daughter. She was said to be
“A better sort of person,” born and bred
Some three good rungs above her husband's head
Upon the social ladder, and from her
It may have been that little Nelly got
Her gentle manner and her gentle look.
Then, being still a man the lasses liked,
Her father married, not a day too soon,
His second wife, a slattern and a shrew,
Who bore to him a shaggy-headed brood
Of squalid babies; twins and twins again
Year after year, and then a single child—
And thus the star of this poor family
Slowly declined, but surely.
5
Now it chanced
One day there came up to the cottage door,
Bearing upon her back a sickly child,
A sunburnt, black-brow'd gipsy of the lanes,
And begg'd for bread, for seeing, as she said,
So many little ones, she deem'd their mother
Would never let her beg for bread in vain
For her one dying child. But Nelly's stepmother
Call'd her an ugly name, and used harsh words,
Saying the more there were around the board,
The more to feed; and in her shrewish voice
Bade her begone and starve—or, if she dared,
Thieve, as it was her wont; then call'd to Wolf
To set him at her.
One day there came up to the cottage door,
Bearing upon her back a sickly child,
A sunburnt, black-brow'd gipsy of the lanes,
And begg'd for bread, for seeing, as she said,
So many little ones, she deem'd their mother
Would never let her beg for bread in vain
For her one dying child. But Nelly's stepmother
Call'd her an ugly name, and used harsh words,
Saying the more there were around the board,
The more to feed; and in her shrewish voice
Bade her begone and starve—or, if she dared,
Thieve, as it was her wont; then call'd to Wolf
To set him at her.
Nell was standing there,
Leaning against the lintel of the door
Like some fair lily, reaching nigh the thatch,
Almost as tall as the brown hollyhock
That flower'd beside her. In her lifted hand
She held her frugal meal—'twas only bread,
But only bread the beggar-woman asked.
So, running to the weird brown woman, she held
It out towards her; with her other hand
Upon the collar of the mongrel dog
To hold him back.
Leaning against the lintel of the door
Like some fair lily, reaching nigh the thatch,
Almost as tall as the brown hollyhock
That flower'd beside her. In her lifted hand
She held her frugal meal—'twas only bread,
But only bread the beggar-woman asked.
So, running to the weird brown woman, she held
It out towards her; with her other hand
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To hold him back.
Then, raising up to heav'n
A gaunt brown finger with a silver ring,
The dark Bohemian mother utter'd a curse,
Looking towards the shaggy-headed brood
That sprawl'd beside the scraper in the sun.
But, turning round to Nelly, “These shall know
Both poverty and want,” she said, “and shame
The mother that has given birth to them
Can she know shame, whilst you, my pretty maid
(You have a lucky face!) shall dress in silks,
And live and love, and one day die a queen.”
A gaunt brown finger with a silver ring,
The dark Bohemian mother utter'd a curse,
Looking towards the shaggy-headed brood
That sprawl'd beside the scraper in the sun.
But, turning round to Nelly, “These shall know
Both poverty and want,” she said, “and shame
The mother that has given birth to them
Can she know shame, whilst you, my pretty maid
(You have a lucky face!) shall dress in silks,
And live and love, and one day die a queen.”
So the weird woman ended; with a bound
(Let loose from Nelly's unresisting hand,
Turn'd into stone by wonder) sprang the dog
To fasten on the gipsy of the lanes
Those sharp white fangs to which he ow'd his name.
But was she human, or some wand'ring witch
Born after date, or fairy godmother,
I know not; but, as swung the garden gate,
They say she vanish'd, and the mongrel cur
Bit at the air he fancied was a rag.
I since have thought that in some subtle way
This prophecy did truly come to pass
(She must have been a witch!) First let me tell
How Nelly came to be a lady, dress'd
In silks and satins; I was at the root
Of all the evil, and I blame myself
Both night and day; altho' on meeting me,
“That God may bless you, sir, for this,” she said,
“I pray each night!” and could I but rejoice
To think that up to heav'n from such sweet lips
Floated my name?
(Let loose from Nelly's unresisting hand,
Turn'd into stone by wonder) sprang the dog
To fasten on the gipsy of the lanes
Those sharp white fangs to which he ow'd his name.
But was she human, or some wand'ring witch
Born after date, or fairy godmother,
I know not; but, as swung the garden gate,
They say she vanish'd, and the mongrel cur
Bit at the air he fancied was a rag.
7
This prophecy did truly come to pass
(She must have been a witch!) First let me tell
How Nelly came to be a lady, dress'd
In silks and satins; I was at the root
Of all the evil, and I blame myself
Both night and day; altho' on meeting me,
“That God may bless you, sir, for this,” she said,
“I pray each night!” and could I but rejoice
To think that up to heav'n from such sweet lips
Floated my name?
Our worthy clergyman
Went now and then in state, with all forewarn'd,
To mark the children's progress at their tasks—
Inspect their copy-books, and thro' his glass
Look wisely at their slates, and then a hymn
Was sung, and with some pompous words of praise
To some, or else to others of rebuke
(Most keenly felt, and held to cast a slur
Upon the after-life) he used to pass
Out thro' the rows of singing school-children,
Whose fresh young voices he could hear at home
During his mid-day meal—the Rectory
Being so near at hand, tho' screen'd by trees.
He was a parson of the port-wine school—
Kind-hearted, but good pay and little work
Had always been his motto. With him dwelt
The ladies of his family—his wife,
A handsome, sleepy woman, over-fed,
But kindly, and his daughters Anne and Fanny.
Anne was a meek, good, serviceable girl,
Willing and fearing God, and full of faith,
Not caring for the “plaiting of the hair”
Or fine apparel. (She is now my wife.)
But spruce Miss Fanny, with her wicked eyes,
And hour-glass form, dress'd in the newest fashion,
The butterfly of nearly twenty springs,
Had all that gay inconstancy of mood
Which goes with cherry cheeks and yellow hair.
Never was maid in less congenial sphere
Than Fanny at the Rectory: like me,
She had not her vocation with the poor.
Squalor and poverty, disease and death,
Were hateful to her; whilst the halt, the lame,
The blind—in fine, all the unfortunate,
She class'd with wasps and fleas and noisome things
Sent to torment mankind, the use of which
The sceptic questions. This I said one day,
And straightway she became offended with me
And pouted fiercely, taking it to mean
That I, the Curate, would have none of her,
Wanting a wife less worldly; for 'twas then
That foolish gossips link'd our names together,
And tho' poor Fanny could not give a heart
From breast as empty as the upper globe
Of that same hour-glass she resembled so,
Still, being vain, she loved the admiration
Of even the earth-worm underneath her heel,
And took amiss that I should, as she thought,
Say openly, “I will have none of you,”
For no prey was too mean for Fanny's net,
No mark too humble for the random darts
She shot at hazard o'er the country-side.
Went now and then in state, with all forewarn'd,
To mark the children's progress at their tasks—
Inspect their copy-books, and thro' his glass
Look wisely at their slates, and then a hymn
Was sung, and with some pompous words of praise
To some, or else to others of rebuke
(Most keenly felt, and held to cast a slur
Upon the after-life) he used to pass
Out thro' the rows of singing school-children,
Whose fresh young voices he could hear at home
During his mid-day meal—the Rectory
Being so near at hand, tho' screen'd by trees.
8
Kind-hearted, but good pay and little work
Had always been his motto. With him dwelt
The ladies of his family—his wife,
A handsome, sleepy woman, over-fed,
But kindly, and his daughters Anne and Fanny.
Anne was a meek, good, serviceable girl,
Willing and fearing God, and full of faith,
Not caring for the “plaiting of the hair”
Or fine apparel. (She is now my wife.)
But spruce Miss Fanny, with her wicked eyes,
And hour-glass form, dress'd in the newest fashion,
The butterfly of nearly twenty springs,
Had all that gay inconstancy of mood
Which goes with cherry cheeks and yellow hair.
Never was maid in less congenial sphere
Than Fanny at the Rectory: like me,
She had not her vocation with the poor.
Squalor and poverty, disease and death,
Were hateful to her; whilst the halt, the lame,
The blind—in fine, all the unfortunate,
She class'd with wasps and fleas and noisome things
Sent to torment mankind, the use of which
The sceptic questions. This I said one day,
9
And pouted fiercely, taking it to mean
That I, the Curate, would have none of her,
Wanting a wife less worldly; for 'twas then
That foolish gossips link'd our names together,
And tho' poor Fanny could not give a heart
From breast as empty as the upper globe
Of that same hour-glass she resembled so,
Still, being vain, she loved the admiration
Of even the earth-worm underneath her heel,
And took amiss that I should, as she thought,
Say openly, “I will have none of you,”
For no prey was too mean for Fanny's net,
No mark too humble for the random darts
She shot at hazard o'er the country-side.
(Mark you, I have not named a single name
In this poor simple tale, and of my wife
Have only said that she was christen'd “Anne”—
A common name, and homely, like herself—
So I can say my say from out my heart,
Nor write as tho' my arm were in a sling.)
In this poor simple tale, and of my wife
Have only said that she was christen'd “Anne”—
A common name, and homely, like herself—
So I can say my say from out my heart,
Nor write as tho' my arm were in a sling.)
I like to think that in these early days
Poor little Nelly loved me; as a child
Loves one who strives to mitigate its task
Or slur its punishment. Perchance in her
I guess'd a spirit kindred to my own—
A lover of the lovely things of earth,
Which I too loved, and so a sympathy
Sprang up between this little child and me
In these her baby days. So quick her wit
To seize and fathom some things that we taught,
A word, a movement of the hand sufficed
To make her know and love the firmament,
With all its constellations and lone stars,
And then the world she had not known was round
Till yesterday—how quickly did her sense
Travel across the map from Pole to Pole!
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Loves one who strives to mitigate its task
Or slur its punishment. Perchance in her
I guess'd a spirit kindred to my own—
A lover of the lovely things of earth,
Which I too loved, and so a sympathy
Sprang up between this little child and me
In these her baby days. So quick her wit
To seize and fathom some things that we taught,
A word, a movement of the hand sufficed
To make her know and love the firmament,
With all its constellations and lone stars,
And then the world she had not known was round
Till yesterday—how quickly did her sense
Travel across the map from Pole to Pole!
One day our Rector coming to the school
Absent, and in an after-dinner mood,
Took Nelly unawares, out of her turn,
Attracted doubtless by her lovely face,
And bearing in his mind some late complaints
About her slowness at arithmetic.
So, calling to her with sonorous voice,
He took her slate, first smoothing down her hair—
Being a man who, tho' in most things dense,
Could read the lines of beauty. Blushing red,
Poor Nelly gave her uncongenial task
Into his hands, with such a piteous look
I guess'd she fear'd rebuke, or even worse—
When lo! sketch'd cleverly in master-strokes,
The Rector's portrait, with his portly form,
His rough white hair and spectacles on nose,
Stood boldly out beneath a blund'ring row
Of smudgy figures. Then in abject fear
The culprit burst into a flood of tears.
The school-mistress, who scarce could read herself
(Since then the times are changed), here rush'd at her,
And thinking to propitiate the powers
By giving thus the reins to righteous wrath,
Shook her and cuff'd her soundly more than once.
But here our good old Rector interposed,
Held up his hand to stay her, and the while
Murmur'd half to himself, “'Tis very like!
'Tis very like!”
Absent, and in an after-dinner mood,
Took Nelly unawares, out of her turn,
Attracted doubtless by her lovely face,
And bearing in his mind some late complaints
About her slowness at arithmetic.
So, calling to her with sonorous voice,
He took her slate, first smoothing down her hair—
11
Could read the lines of beauty. Blushing red,
Poor Nelly gave her uncongenial task
Into his hands, with such a piteous look
I guess'd she fear'd rebuke, or even worse—
When lo! sketch'd cleverly in master-strokes,
The Rector's portrait, with his portly form,
His rough white hair and spectacles on nose,
Stood boldly out beneath a blund'ring row
Of smudgy figures. Then in abject fear
The culprit burst into a flood of tears.
The school-mistress, who scarce could read herself
(Since then the times are changed), here rush'd at her,
And thinking to propitiate the powers
By giving thus the reins to righteous wrath,
Shook her and cuff'd her soundly more than once.
But here our good old Rector interposed,
Held up his hand to stay her, and the while
Murmur'd half to himself, “'Tis very like!
'Tis very like!”
“This child has wondrous power,”
Said I, advancing, “thus to seize at will
The semblance of the countenance that strikes
Her youthful fancy; such and such a one
Were but unlike because they did not speak—
She draws with strange facility;” and here
I held the slate to Fanny and to Anne;
Both were delighted. Fanny quickly said,
“This little girl shall learn to draw with me!”—
A happy thought, since might she not in time
Gain such perfection in the limner's art
As might enable her to earn her bread
Less hardly than in labour coarse and vile
Amongst her rude relations? She possess'd
Such love of art and beauty, and, alas!
Small aptitude, her jealous mentors said,
For useful knowledge. All the “work-a-day”
And harsh necessities of peasant life
Had well-nigh kill'd, I deem'd, a child so frail,
So fashion'd, as I thought, for better things.
So these few careless scratches on a slate
Changed little Nelly's future; mighty things
Oft come of small beginnings, yet t'was strange,
Those few white lines upon a dirty slate!
Said I, advancing, “thus to seize at will
The semblance of the countenance that strikes
Her youthful fancy; such and such a one
12
She draws with strange facility;” and here
I held the slate to Fanny and to Anne;
Both were delighted. Fanny quickly said,
“This little girl shall learn to draw with me!”—
A happy thought, since might she not in time
Gain such perfection in the limner's art
As might enable her to earn her bread
Less hardly than in labour coarse and vile
Amongst her rude relations? She possess'd
Such love of art and beauty, and, alas!
Small aptitude, her jealous mentors said,
For useful knowledge. All the “work-a-day”
And harsh necessities of peasant life
Had well-nigh kill'd, I deem'd, a child so frail,
So fashion'd, as I thought, for better things.
So these few careless scratches on a slate
Changed little Nelly's future; mighty things
Oft come of small beginnings, yet t'was strange,
Those few white lines upon a dirty slate!
At first she seem'd no better than a toy
To Fanny, list'ning only whilst she learnt
Her music or her painting; next she join'd
In these her studies, equall'd, then surpass'd
Her fellow-pupil, tho' so young a child.
Next, as her cottage stood some miles away,
'Twas purposed she should stay for good and all
There at the Rectory, and make believe
To sew and wait on Fanny, and for this
Receive some small reward. So thus it fell
That Nelly stay'd with them, and grew each year
More lovely, and less like a peasant child,
And Fanny, who took sudden loves and hates,
Like a spoilt beauty, who is chiefly spoilt
By her own self-indulgence, made of her
Companion, sister, daughter, and white slave—
Nelly could play and sing, and draw, and sew
White linen into holes, as women will,
And it was Nelly this, and Nelly that—
All spoiling her and making much of her.
She used to read the Rector's wife to sleep,
And copy out the sermons that he droned
On Sundays, so that we might deem them his;
Then fetch'd and carried for Fanny, who, I fear,
Confided to her all about her loves
(Which Anne was far too wise to listen to),
And lent her tales of folly and romance.
Then as she grew to budding womanhood,
She slid out of her common cotton gowns
Into those planned by Fanny, who would try
Experiments on one who look'd alike
Lovely in all; or she would make her wear
The dresses she had wish'd to cast aside,
Deeming them ugly, but on seeing them
On Nelly's graceful form, would take them back
And wear them out herself. Thus made and marr'd,
Spoilt and improved, did Nelly seem to grow
A perfect lady, even more refined
Than pert Miss Fanny, with a softer voice
And gentler ways, and wearing on her brow
A pale, predestin'd look that touch'd the heart.
To Fanny, list'ning only whilst she learnt
Her music or her painting; next she join'd
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Her fellow-pupil, tho' so young a child.
Next, as her cottage stood some miles away,
'Twas purposed she should stay for good and all
There at the Rectory, and make believe
To sew and wait on Fanny, and for this
Receive some small reward. So thus it fell
That Nelly stay'd with them, and grew each year
More lovely, and less like a peasant child,
And Fanny, who took sudden loves and hates,
Like a spoilt beauty, who is chiefly spoilt
By her own self-indulgence, made of her
Companion, sister, daughter, and white slave—
Nelly could play and sing, and draw, and sew
White linen into holes, as women will,
And it was Nelly this, and Nelly that—
All spoiling her and making much of her.
She used to read the Rector's wife to sleep,
And copy out the sermons that he droned
On Sundays, so that we might deem them his;
Then fetch'd and carried for Fanny, who, I fear,
Confided to her all about her loves
(Which Anne was far too wise to listen to),
And lent her tales of folly and romance.
14
She slid out of her common cotton gowns
Into those planned by Fanny, who would try
Experiments on one who look'd alike
Lovely in all; or she would make her wear
The dresses she had wish'd to cast aside,
Deeming them ugly, but on seeing them
On Nelly's graceful form, would take them back
And wear them out herself. Thus made and marr'd,
Spoilt and improved, did Nelly seem to grow
A perfect lady, even more refined
Than pert Miss Fanny, with a softer voice
And gentler ways, and wearing on her brow
A pale, predestin'd look that touch'd the heart.
Nelly saw little of her parents now
(Her stepmother and father), when she went
Taking her earnings and a lap of toys
For Polly, Kate, and Rachel, and the twins;
And those, the younger twins, and all the boys
(Eleven in all), they only jeer'd at her,
Urged by their jealous mother; all the twins
Thrust out their tongues, whilst Kate and Polly vied
In mockery, till finally in tears
She left the cottage. “Where is father?” she ask'd.
“He's out,” they said, “a-trapping Parson's hares,
And when he's took and shaved, and lodged in jail,
Thou'lt hold thy head less high, thou saucy minx!”
(Her stepmother and father), when she went
Taking her earnings and a lap of toys
For Polly, Kate, and Rachel, and the twins;
And those, the younger twins, and all the boys
(Eleven in all), they only jeer'd at her,
Urged by their jealous mother; all the twins
Thrust out their tongues, whilst Kate and Polly vied
In mockery, till finally in tears
15
“He's out,” they said, “a-trapping Parson's hares,
And when he's took and shaved, and lodged in jail,
Thou'lt hold thy head less high, thou saucy minx!”
Nelly thinks 'twas the germs of sickness made
Them taunt her thus, for next we heard a fever
Had struck them one and all—Polly and Kate
And Rachel and the twins (the elder twins
Escaped by miracle, and all the boys);
But Polly died, and Rachel only rallied
After the parish people sent her shell,
Which did for Jessie (of the younger twins).
Then Nelly's father caught it, but his strength
And iron courage made him conquer it;
Tho' afterwards he never was the man
He once had been. Nelly had long'd to go
And nurse and tend them, but Miss Fanny shriek'd,
Saying it would be base ingratitude
To bring the fever to the Rectory,
Which needs must happen if she went to them;
Whilst I, who in the course of parish work
Went thither often, was not suffer'd now
To cross the threshold. Nelly sent by me
Kind messages and money, and despite
Miss Fanny's protestations, would have gone,
But hardly had she time to think of it
Before the scourge had pass'd away again.
Them taunt her thus, for next we heard a fever
Had struck them one and all—Polly and Kate
And Rachel and the twins (the elder twins
Escaped by miracle, and all the boys);
But Polly died, and Rachel only rallied
After the parish people sent her shell,
Which did for Jessie (of the younger twins).
Then Nelly's father caught it, but his strength
And iron courage made him conquer it;
Tho' afterwards he never was the man
He once had been. Nelly had long'd to go
And nurse and tend them, but Miss Fanny shriek'd,
Saying it would be base ingratitude
To bring the fever to the Rectory,
Which needs must happen if she went to them;
Whilst I, who in the course of parish work
Went thither often, was not suffer'd now
To cross the threshold. Nelly sent by me
16
Miss Fanny's protestations, would have gone,
But hardly had she time to think of it
Before the scourge had pass'd away again.
The Rector spoke to Nell to comfort her,
Patted her head and chid her for her grief,
Saying that in this fever he could see
A hidden blessing; but that she should know
The Lord mov'd in a most mysterious way,
Not making manifest to all His servants
His secret purpose; but he saw it now
Plain as the day. The cottage was too small,
Her father's family was far too large
(Eleven in all), and so the Lord had will'd
Polly and Jessie should be laid asleep
In Christ, and hence the fever: he could see
And grasp it all!
Patted her head and chid her for her grief,
Saying that in this fever he could see
A hidden blessing; but that she should know
The Lord mov'd in a most mysterious way,
Not making manifest to all His servants
His secret purpose; but he saw it now
Plain as the day. The cottage was too small,
Her father's family was far too large
(Eleven in all), and so the Lord had will'd
Polly and Jessie should be laid asleep
In Christ, and hence the fever: he could see
And grasp it all!
After a quarantine
Seeming to me to be unduly long,
I went once more to see the Rector's girls,
And with them Nelly, in her mourning dress,
Wearing an angel's face. Fanny and I
Were friends again, forgetful of the past;
For on the far horizon of her life
Appear'd a star of hope. The years had fled,
And Nelly now was nearly seventeen,
And bright Miss Fanny was Miss Fanny still,
When flash'd this luminary on her path.
And never shipwreck'd mariner who watch'd
On desert isle forsaken, hail'd a sail
With greater joy, or with a heart that beat
Much more tumultuously than Fanny's heart,
As, calling all her graces to allure
Like island bonfires, and with ev'ry flag
Floating mast-high, delightedly she hail'd
This lover who had come at last to woo.
Seeming to me to be unduly long,
I went once more to see the Rector's girls,
And with them Nelly, in her mourning dress,
Wearing an angel's face. Fanny and I
Were friends again, forgetful of the past;
17
Appear'd a star of hope. The years had fled,
And Nelly now was nearly seventeen,
And bright Miss Fanny was Miss Fanny still,
When flash'd this luminary on her path.
And never shipwreck'd mariner who watch'd
On desert isle forsaken, hail'd a sail
With greater joy, or with a heart that beat
Much more tumultuously than Fanny's heart,
As, calling all her graces to allure
Like island bonfires, and with ev'ry flag
Floating mast-high, delightedly she hail'd
This lover who had come at last to woo.
I would that I had never seen his face
Or heard his name, and that his regiment
Had fix'd on any spot upon the earth
So that it had not been our nearest town
A short ride hence. “To give the devil his due,”
He was a handsome captain of dragoons,
Steel-eyed, and standing nearly six feet two;
And what was more, he was the second son
Of a great county lord, which women like,
And so I fear they seldom said him nay—
And this I saw was written on his brow.
Or heard his name, and that his regiment
Had fix'd on any spot upon the earth
So that it had not been our nearest town
A short ride hence. “To give the devil his due,”
He was a handsome captain of dragoons,
Steel-eyed, and standing nearly six feet two;
And what was more, he was the second son
Of a great county lord, which women like,
18
And this I saw was written on his brow.
I often talk'd to Nelly whilst he sat
Ogling Miss Fanny in the summer-house,
Stooping from time to time his length of limb
To pick her ball of worsted from the ground.
Sometimes he glistened in the panoply
Of war; his charger all caparisoned
Would clatter up the little avenue,
Making the windows ring, and fill with caps
Of fluttering maid-servants. I could not help
Contrasting my meek advent with what seem'd
A bright triumphal entry, and I said
Slily to Nelly, “When I come to tea
No one looks out, and thrice I ring the bell,
Yet no one comes; whilst now each servant strives
To cast the other's efforts in the shade.”
She sigh'd, look'd down, and innocently said,
“You see he is so handsome,” and then blushed;
And from that day I felt I hated him.
Ogling Miss Fanny in the summer-house,
Stooping from time to time his length of limb
To pick her ball of worsted from the ground.
Sometimes he glistened in the panoply
Of war; his charger all caparisoned
Would clatter up the little avenue,
Making the windows ring, and fill with caps
Of fluttering maid-servants. I could not help
Contrasting my meek advent with what seem'd
A bright triumphal entry, and I said
Slily to Nelly, “When I come to tea
No one looks out, and thrice I ring the bell,
Yet no one comes; whilst now each servant strives
To cast the other's efforts in the shade.”
She sigh'd, look'd down, and innocently said,
“You see he is so handsome,” and then blushed;
And from that day I felt I hated him.
So weeks went by, and spring was here again—
The time of pairing birds—and Fanny still
Was still Miss Fanny, and the tall dragoon
Still at the Rectory. I tired of him,
And long'd, I knew not why, to say some word
Provocative to combat; for no cause
My sight was wearied of his length of limb,
His eyes that look'd at women with a look
That seem'd to mean possession, and his face
“So very handsome,” as poor Nelly said.
And hence I grew morose and quarrelsome,
And let fall bitter sarcasms in my talk,
Whereat he fix'd me with his steely glance,
And feeling that I could not trust myself
To meet him save in so distorted mood,
I fled his presence, and I forthwith plunged
Into my parish work, or sought the woods,
And there would sit and con old classic lore,
Or try to solve from pious Christian page
Life's strange enigmas.
The time of pairing birds—and Fanny still
19
Still at the Rectory. I tired of him,
And long'd, I knew not why, to say some word
Provocative to combat; for no cause
My sight was wearied of his length of limb,
His eyes that look'd at women with a look
That seem'd to mean possession, and his face
“So very handsome,” as poor Nelly said.
And hence I grew morose and quarrelsome,
And let fall bitter sarcasms in my talk,
Whereat he fix'd me with his steely glance,
And feeling that I could not trust myself
To meet him save in so distorted mood,
I fled his presence, and I forthwith plunged
Into my parish work, or sought the woods,
And there would sit and con old classic lore,
Or try to solve from pious Christian page
Life's strange enigmas.
Thus it chanced one day,
I linger'd 'neath the fan-like chestnut leaves,
And where the tremulous laburnum shower'd
Its wealth of unappreciated gold
Low at my feet; like to the amorous god
Who pleaded erst to prison'd Danaë,
Raining his golden kisses on her breast,
So did the yellow kisses of the flower
Light on my heart and make it warm with spring.
O god of bygone ages! well I know
Thine altars all deserted, and the fires
That warm'd them and thine heart incontinent
Died out, and yet, O sire of Perseus!
As on my breast these faint warm yellow flakes
Descended, in this prosy modern time,
Some knowledge of the pastime of thy lips
Breath'd to my soul the kisses of the flower;
Then to my heart dreams of immortal love,
Of sweet ambrosial kisses from sweet lips,
Seem'd wafted on the fragrant air of spring,
Bidding me hope, and make my evening dream
Of love, and of the multifarious forms
That lovers oft have taken to assure
Their heart's desire. I counted o'er and o'er
The loves of bygone ages, and from each
Cull'd some example or some augury
For my poor love—my love as yet unguess'd!
I linger'd 'neath the fan-like chestnut leaves,
And where the tremulous laburnum shower'd
Its wealth of unappreciated gold
Low at my feet; like to the amorous god
Who pleaded erst to prison'd Danaë,
20
So did the yellow kisses of the flower
Light on my heart and make it warm with spring.
O god of bygone ages! well I know
Thine altars all deserted, and the fires
That warm'd them and thine heart incontinent
Died out, and yet, O sire of Perseus!
As on my breast these faint warm yellow flakes
Descended, in this prosy modern time,
Some knowledge of the pastime of thy lips
Breath'd to my soul the kisses of the flower;
Then to my heart dreams of immortal love,
Of sweet ambrosial kisses from sweet lips,
Seem'd wafted on the fragrant air of spring,
Bidding me hope, and make my evening dream
Of love, and of the multifarious forms
That lovers oft have taken to assure
Their heart's desire. I counted o'er and o'er
The loves of bygone ages, and from each
Cull'd some example or some augury
For my poor love—my love as yet unguess'd!
I knew not why into these waking dreams
Slid little Nelly's image “spic and span,”
Dress'd in Miss Fanny's faded left-off gowns,
Which look'd so much the better for their wear—
And then I found myself, I knew not why,
Regretting Nelly's humble parentage,
And then excusing it—and then (O shame!
We men are too ignoble!) catching at straws
Of vague, imagin'ry gentility—
Why Nelly's father had that noble look
Which none disputed,—such a classic line
Of brow and beard; of stories got afloat
Of Nelly's mother, how she wrote and read
English and French and German, and had been
“A better sort of person,” none denied.
These nibbling worms of caste, I fancied I
Of all men most despised, seem'd rising now
Like dragons, one by one to be impaled
By me, a poor inglorious Saint George
In rusty cassock! Thus the daylight dimm'd
Into a deep'ning twilight. That one star
That always rises o'er the fir-tree belt
Was there betimes. (I look at it each night;
It seems to me a little watching eye
That knows my past and brings it back to me.)
I was awaken'd from my reverie
By the dull thudding of a horse's hoofs
Treading on meadow grass. I look'd and saw,
Divided from me by a hawthorn hedge
Snow'd o'er with bloom, the Captain and a form
I took for Fanny's. Angrily I thought
“This man seems doom'd to haunt me ev'rywhere!”
And rose to go. He held his bridle-rein
Loosely about his arm, and came on foot,
Leading his horse along the grassy lane
That cut the copse in two. They came towards me,
I being too far off to hear their words,
Yet feeling all the guilt of eaves-dropping,
Since opposite my only exit thence
They stopp'd, as seemingly to say farewell.
Slid little Nelly's image “spic and span,”
21
Which look'd so much the better for their wear—
And then I found myself, I knew not why,
Regretting Nelly's humble parentage,
And then excusing it—and then (O shame!
We men are too ignoble!) catching at straws
Of vague, imagin'ry gentility—
Why Nelly's father had that noble look
Which none disputed,—such a classic line
Of brow and beard; of stories got afloat
Of Nelly's mother, how she wrote and read
English and French and German, and had been
“A better sort of person,” none denied.
These nibbling worms of caste, I fancied I
Of all men most despised, seem'd rising now
Like dragons, one by one to be impaled
By me, a poor inglorious Saint George
In rusty cassock! Thus the daylight dimm'd
Into a deep'ning twilight. That one star
That always rises o'er the fir-tree belt
Was there betimes. (I look at it each night;
It seems to me a little watching eye
That knows my past and brings it back to me.)
22
By the dull thudding of a horse's hoofs
Treading on meadow grass. I look'd and saw,
Divided from me by a hawthorn hedge
Snow'd o'er with bloom, the Captain and a form
I took for Fanny's. Angrily I thought
“This man seems doom'd to haunt me ev'rywhere!”
And rose to go. He held his bridle-rein
Loosely about his arm, and came on foot,
Leading his horse along the grassy lane
That cut the copse in two. They came towards me,
I being too far off to hear their words,
Yet feeling all the guilt of eaves-dropping,
Since opposite my only exit thence
They stopp'd, as seemingly to say farewell.
It was a leafy hollow in the lane
Leading up to the darkness of the wood—
I could not see the head that on his breast
Was leaning lovingly, the hawthorn hedge
Rising just high enough to make a screen
Up to the captain's shoulder, but I knew
Her head was there, seeing his tender glance
Down-droop'd to what he often bent to kiss.
Then I felt angry, tho' I scarce knew why,
That he should make so free with women's lips—
I thought, “It is the myth of Danaë
Over again; the glitter of the gold
Is what o'ercomes them, even when, as now,
'Tis only on his coat!” then bitterly
I turn'd to go, first having seen afar
The flitting of a speeding female form
Athwart the boughs, clad in a flutt'ring dress
Of white, and hast'ning with a quicker step
Than Fanny's usual lazy measured walk.
Leading up to the darkness of the wood—
I could not see the head that on his breast
Was leaning lovingly, the hawthorn hedge
Rising just high enough to make a screen
Up to the captain's shoulder, but I knew
Her head was there, seeing his tender glance
Down-droop'd to what he often bent to kiss.
23
That he should make so free with women's lips—
I thought, “It is the myth of Danaë
Over again; the glitter of the gold
Is what o'ercomes them, even when, as now,
'Tis only on his coat!” then bitterly
I turn'd to go, first having seen afar
The flitting of a speeding female form
Athwart the boughs, clad in a flutt'ring dress
Of white, and hast'ning with a quicker step
Than Fanny's usual lazy measured walk.
I met her as I near'd the Rectory,
Seemingly coming from another way,
And said to her with a malicious smile,
“Those who keep trysts should never dress in white.”
She open'd her blue eyes as wondering,
And as I still was standing bant'ring her,
Nelly pass'd thro' the garden, dress'd in white,
Bound round the waist with black, and half her face
Hid in a bunch of newly gather'd flow'rs.
Seemingly coming from another way,
And said to her with a malicious smile,
“Those who keep trysts should never dress in white.”
She open'd her blue eyes as wondering,
And as I still was standing bant'ring her,
Nelly pass'd thro' the garden, dress'd in white,
Bound round the waist with black, and half her face
Hid in a bunch of newly gather'd flow'rs.
| The Queen of the fairies | |