University of Virginia Library

DENZIL PLACE

A STORY IN VERSE.

I. PART I.

This is not living, tho' I move and breathe,
Ah, is there nothing better in the world?
I love to see the lily's cup unfurl'd
To greet the sun,—I love the lake beneath
And all the beauty of these barren days,
But is there nothing better? As I gaze
I seem to dream a mad unmeaning dream
About some fairy thing I have not known,
Sigh on, wild winds! your everlasting moan
Haunts me in summer whilst the thrushes sing
And ev'ry day in ev'ry year, the ring
Of something sad seems floating on the air,
I hear it sighing round me ev'rywhere,
And yet I hope and wait, whilst still I seem
As tho' my soul were drifting down a stream
To meet some unknown, unexpected thing.

I.

There, in yon gabled house amongst the oaks
Which shut it off from this, the highway road
That skirts the park towards the village side,
They used to dwell together; he was old,
And she, his wife, a very child in looks,—
Her woman's soul, as yet an unfledg'd thing
Seem'd waiting almost wearily for wings.—
Most dutiful, and kind, and seeming gay
She moved about, the sunbeam of the house,
But like a temp'rate sunbeam, such as here
Warms us in England; she knew no extremes
Of passionate grief or boisterous merriment
Such as so often stormily unite
In the untutor'd natures of the young,—
It was as tho' the day she wore the ring
And took the name of him, her wither'd lord,
She had put by her youth with some old dress
And left it by mistake in her past home
Amongst her toys. She did not know the world
This orphan daughter of a ruin'd man,
Whose only friends had been the birds and flow'rs,
She only knew what they would have her know
Who taught her as they would, and only read
As they would have her read, and then at length
The guardian who had guarded her from far
(One she had never seen), plann'd out her life
And when the question of her marriage rose
Clench'd it at once because Sir John was rich.
And then it was a lifeless life began,
For Constance (thus it was that she was named),
To her not seeming so, who had not liv'd
As yet but for her dolls and lesson-books—
To be the mistress of the grandest house
For many miles, to fuss about the poor,
To teach the villagers, to dress and dine,
And meet the same dull neighbours ev'ry night—
This was her life; to London now and then,
But only for a time, for to Sir John
The air seem'd echoing with a dragon's hiss,—
The Hydra-headed monster call'd “Reform”
That met him as he threaded thro' the streets
And seem'd to glare defiance as he pass'd—
His blear, distorting, ultra-Tory eye
Saw danger in a thousand harmless things
Unfear'd by Constance, to whom all seem'd noise
And hurry and excitement and fatigue,—
The world seem'd rushing to some hidden goal,—
All went so fast, and 'ere she ceased to stare
They were at home and life dragg'd on again.
The neighbours 'round her all led dreary lives
Yet did not know it; stagnant tedious hours
Crawl'd from the rising to the setting sun;—
Such small ambitions, such a narrow creed
All held, and yet, withal, self-satisfied,
Each saw the mote within his brother's eye
As thro' a microscope, and hailing it
With joy, proclaim'd it to the little world
Of waiting Pharisees, whose open mouths
Could mutter other things besides their pray'rs.
Amongst these mouldy human vegetables
Constance rais'd up her head and seem'd a rose,
And when compared with their's, she deem'd her home
A garden, for not only did they live
Their dull, respectable and tedious lives
Apart from thoughts of Beauty, Art, or Love,
But many liv'd them too in enmity
One with another; many too, were poor,
And liv'd in dwellings desolate and damp,
Empty of all save the provincial pride
Of Squire and Squiress; others too, were ill,
For sometimes to the village where they liv'd
Came fevers;—from the chast'ning hand of God,
(So said Sir John, altho' a meddling man
Who came from London, made him build anew
Some cottages he thought were good enough
For such as had been born and bred in them;
And tho' this meddling man had also said
The fever had not been if good Sir John
Had mov'd more with the times).—But what of this?
Some infidels will always see a cause—
A cause of bricks and mortar, in the curse
Sent down by God upon our sinful race!
(So said the parson, and advised a pray'r,
But thought the drainage should be left alone,
As heretofore;) and so they pray'd and pray'd,
And drank the water of polluted wells,
Whilst on the fever raged, and had its course;
Then, strange to say, abated; many homes
Made desolate, and in the village church
Were many mourning forms, and Constance, sad
And humbled, felt ashamed of being well,
Yet thank'd her God the fever spared her home.
So, looking not to those whose lives were bright—
Fairer than her's, she look'd around and saw
How sad life was for many; thus she made
Her's seem the best;—so free, she thought, from toil,
Exempt from pain and squalor, affluent,
And deck'd around with many pleasant things—
The woods, the lake, the cheerful summer-room.
The careless moments,—nothing going wrong,—
This calmly negative and passive life
Seem'd good to her, and so the days went by.
To Constance had been born a seeming son
Without the torture of the “pains of hell”
(As saith the pray'r book), unto him she clung
This childless second mother, young and fair;
Roland his name; he was the child of one
Who might, maybe, have seem'd a rival now
To Constance, had she lov'd kind old Sir John
With that unjust, impassion'd jealousy
Which reaches from the Present to the Past,—
His dead first wife had died before the boy
Had learnt her face, and Constance was to him
Playmate, and friend, and mother all in one.
To her he was the only link that bound
Her life to what was gay, and fresh, and free
From dull restraint; a dear excuse for youth
And secret romping; he was champion, friend,
And little lover, jealous, wayward, fond,
And brooking no control save from her hand.—
“Oh, had he been my son,” she often thought,
“I could not love him more than now I do.”
(Thus oft these self-anointed mothers speak,
With such a tender tremor in their voice,
They almost think their foolish words are true!)
Often in summer days these two would go
And gather cowslips in the dewy fields
Before the hay was mown. The cuckoo-flow'r
Here rais'd her fragile head, and here and there
With joyous cry, the happy child would hail
The rarer blossom of the orchis, prim
And purple, with its spotted snake-like leaves.
As the cool meadow sloped towards the lake,
The grass grew rank and tall and bulrushy,
And giant buttercups and pigmy frogs,
And all the wondrous sprawling water-flies,
Made little Roland clap his hands in glee—
Here was a boat, wherein the youthful friends
Would row at eventide, and watch the sun
Sink down behind the western woodland ridge;
Then all the water grew a pink surprise
To Roland—pink at first, then pale and wan
And yellow as the primroses, then white,
A shining, dazzling, oval mirror, set
In the dim, dark'ning purple of the night.
Sir John, meanwhile, was busy at the town,—
The nearest town, dispensing justice there,
Or corresponding in his library
With some one of the friends who lagg'd behind
The wheels of Progress. “This and this was good,
“But that was dangerous, and might do harm—
“It might do good, but good would come in time,
“No need to hurry it;—the poor man's life
“Was happier and calmer when his mind
“Look'd not beyond the clods from whence he sprung;
“Why, let him plough, and thresh, and sow and reap,
“And let the better people of the world
“Trouble their wiser heads about his weal.”
This was the usual strain in which he wrote
To those in London who were then in power;
“A useful county man,” they said of him,
“Not brilliant,—taking people by the ear,
“But staunch, and true, and English to the bone!”
Of him they spoke the truth, for he was true
And honest in that most dishonest cause—
The war against the liberty of man,—
The war against the liberty of thought,—
The war against the poor the rich have made,—
The temporising for the little while
During the which God holds responsible
The living man, then after “Come what may!
“So long as all the evils that ensue
“Come not in this, my time, it matters not,
“Starvation comes but once,—let well alone!”
This was his argument, could he have look'd
Into the selfish secrets of his soul;
But being kind and just in smaller things,
His very self suspected not himself
Of holding other than a party creed
Respectable and fair; if to himself
And those like him most fair, what matter then?
“Each for himself! He was an Englishman!”
To church together on the Sabbath morn
Constance and Roland used to wend their way,
All thro' the deeply-rutted Sussex lanes,
And o'er the fields, whilst on his sturdy cob,
Sir John would jog along the highway road.
In Constance had been born a passionate love
Of Nature, all that was not made by man
Seem'd sacred, beautiful, and good to see.
Thus, tho' a Christian, in her gentle breast
Some unsuspected germ of Pantheism
Lay dormant; much the easiest gate to Heav'n
Seem'd to be thro' the lovely works of God—
The flow'rs—the trees; she often felt in church
How good it would have been to worship there
Amongst the oaks, as once the Druids did,
With nothing roofing off the blue of Heav'n,
And nothing interfering to distract
The heart from God! Here, in the mouldy church,
So many sights arrested her young mind,
Seeming to drag it back again to earth,
And oftentimes she rais'd her timid eyes
To see the neighbours enter, one by one.
“And who is that?” or “Why is she in black?”
“Oh, yes, I know, the son who was at school!”
“She is in mourning for his grandmother;
“And that's the Captain, who is going to wed
“With Helen.” Often worldly thoughts like these
Constance would try to check, but still they came;
Then there were sadder thoughts,—above the pew
The mildew'd hatchments of her husband's race
Hung in a gloomy row upon the wall,
The one that hung over the entrance hall
The year that little Roland's mother died,
Eight years ago, when she was only twelve,
(Roland was eight years old,) she saw it then
And ask'd her maid the reason it was there,
That painted piebald sign-board, and half thought
That Farleigh Court had turn'd into an inn.
“Some day,” poor Constance thought, “I too must die
“And lie forgotten, nothing will be left
“To make these simple peasants think of me
“Save some such dismal diamond on the wall
“Of this old church! My side will be in black
“With three poor greyhounds madly rushing on,
“Ah, rushing whither? But Death comes to all
“And Life is very often very sad!”
Sometimes they skirted Geoffrey Denzil's park
(Their absent nearest neighbour, then abroad,
Unknown as yet to Constance, tho' Sir John
Had been his guardian when he was a boy,
Their fathers being kinsmen). From the wall
That fenced it round, the ivy-tresses hung,
And served to help young Roland when he climb'd
Follow'd by Constance, into Denzil park,
There would they wander, for the tangled shade
Unthinn'd for many years, possess'd a charm
For her young heart she scarce could understand,
The gnarlèd limbs of those neglected trees
Seem'd weirdly twisting into human shapes,
And nowhere did the ferns and mosses grow
In such luxuriance; the rooks, too, built
Whole cities, she could scarcely call them nests,
And Roland once had said, on seeing them,
He thought the weight of them must make the heads
Of the poor heavy-laden fir-trees ache—
They often waded ankle-deep in leaves
Scatter'd by many winters;—here the air
Seem'd heavy with the Past, from man to leaf,
But by and bye the tangled thicket ceased,
And evergreens, and winding gravel walks
(Untended now) led to the sloping lawn—
Quaint shapes of nymph and satyr guarded it,
And further on, a gate of filagree
Sided by Denzil dragons, open'd full
On the deserted terrace. Here and there
Forming the centre of a garden bed,
A yew-tree (pointed once, and duly trimm'd
As are the toy-trees of a Noah's Ark,)
Uprear'd its head, all ragged and unshorn,
And seem'd to show the garden's plan had been
Italian. With doors and windows barr'd,
Sometimes the trespassers would peep and mark
The silent, low, Elizabethan house
Behind the bowling-green; thro' screening boughs
They often watch'd its only sign of life—
The kitchen chimney's faint blue smoke, that curl'd
Over the cedars when the wind was east.
One day (it was a Friday) they were thus
Roaming about, and playing hide and seek,
Spring-time was near, and all the noisy rooks
Were busy with their nests,—the day was fine,
And on the leafless trees the little buds
Were green with tender promises of spring.
The old house seemed to wear a brighter look,
The shutters were unbarr'd, an agèd man,
A gardener, was passing to and fro
Rolling the gravel walks;—some carpets hung
Upon the garden-gate;—the breath of life
Seem'd once more waking with the budding spring;
A groom rode by them on a chestnut horse,
They look'd, and saw that ev'ry chimney smoked,
And Constance said, “He must be coming home.”
They linger'd on till almost eventide,
Constance, unconsciously, whilst Roland play'd,
Lost in her aimless, nameless, day-dreaming,
And building many castles in the air.
Her years, so few, so pure, so soon arrang'd
Into this unemotional, dull, shape,
Not to be chang'd, had never known as yet
Those violent alternate lights and shades
Which many lives have weather'd, yet at times
She seem'd to feel the spray of coming storms,
Or bask beneath the rays of unknown suns,
Whilst something softly whisper'd to her heart
That life as yet had not begun for her—
She seemed to wait, and often with a smile
She woke to chide her foolish maiden-dreams
And wonder'd how she ever could forget
That she had been the wife of good Sir John
For three whole years, and liv'd at Farleigh Court.
This day it was the trotting of a horse
And all the cawing cloud of frighten'd rooks
That call'd the gentle dreamer back to life,—
Roland had wander'd from her, and in sport
She waited for him, hiding in the shade
Of tangled laurels, near the avenue.
So thickly grown was all the underwood,
That Constance, dress'd in sombre color'd serge,
Was lost and hidden; as she waited there
A rider on a chestnut horse pass'd by
(The same she noticed ridden by a groom
Two hours ago). From out her hiding-place
She watch'd him pass her;—tho' unseen till then
His was a face she seem'd to know before,
And she felt glad the master had return'd
To light the fires, and let the sunshine in,
To plant the terraces with glowing flow'rs,
To sweep away the wither'd winter leaves,
And bring the breath of life to Denzil Place.
There are some scenes in this our little life
Which the uncertain light of memory
Seems to illumine with more vivid glow
Than all the rest, as in old banquet halls
Dim with oak-panelling, ere candles beam,
Some falling log will raise a transient flame
To light one pictured face upon the wall
When all the space around is indistinct,—
Thus Constance, looking back upon her youth,
At what she was, and what she was not yet,
In after years, saw Geoffrey Denzil ride
As she had seen him first, thro' long arcades
Of evergreens; his head a little bow'd,
As tho' to shun the overhanging leaves,
And sitting somewhat forward on his horse,
His eager profile as he pass'd her by—
A little hawk-like—looking far to front,
His boyish head, with all its cluster'd curls
And trace of southern suns upon his cheek,—
Then, she had heard the trotting of the horse
Upon the shingly English avenue
Long after that young rider had pass'd by;
And after, when so many more had pass'd
(The horsemen who had left her on Life's road),
She often seem'd to hear that trotting steed.

II.

If Geoffrey Denzil never had return'd
To Denzil Place, if from the distant shores
Where he had wander'd now for many years
His English heart had never long'd for home,
Then, maybe, this, the simple history
Of some few years in some few English lives
Had ne'er been written, or had worse repaid
Even than now, the pains to trace or read.
When homeward bound, no thoughts of coming change,
Of brighter days, or sadder, vex'd his mind
Indifferent to Fate. With careless eyes
He saw the white cliffs of his native land,
His country! Yet so stern and cold and grey
This misty sole surviving mother seem'd
After the smiling violet-scented lands
Where he had linger'd, that he wonder'd why
He had so yearn'd to see those shores again.
He mused of home, and here a flash of pain
And sad remembrance clouded o'er his brow,
As he bethought him that no happy face
Would beam to welcome him. Anon his thoughts
Return'd in sadness to those bygone years
When, with the mother who had been to him
So much in youth, he had so lov'd the spot
He now approach'd thus carelessly. As yet
He had no thought of long abiding there,
But he was wearied of perpetual change
And exile, and he long'd to look again
On the once lov'd and still familiar scenes
Of his past boyhood; thus upon the day
Which look'd so bright to Constance in the woods,
But which was dim and misty near the coast,
Geoffrey returned to lonely Denzil Place.
He had determin'd that, as never more
There was a chance of his remaining there
'Twere best to let the house, for then at least
There would be light and life within its walls,
And the slow, certain fingers of decay
Might be awhile arrested, so for this
He came to England.
But the days went by
And still he linger'd on, and Denzil Place
Remain'd unlet, nor did he lease the land
As he had purpos'd ere he left the south.
The days went by, the months, and then a year,
And but that now and then he went to town,
The lonely owner of those mortgaged lands
Stay'd on at Denzil. Once the Denzil race
Had been amongst the wealthiest of squires;
But thro' misfortune or thro' ignorance,
Or else thro' siding with the losing side
Whenever there was anything to lose,
Or else by being intellectually
Too far ahead the age in which they liv'd,
Or else by clinging to some yesterday
In Politics, Religion, or Reform,
And crawling thus too stubbornly behind,—
Be it enough to say they had been poor
Of later years; elections, lawsuits, debts,
Or earlier still, attainders, forfeits, dice,
Had left the present Denzil with a third
Of what had been his ancestors' estate;
And thus he had not wealth enough to tend
With the magnificence it merited
His rambling red-brick mansion;—and again,
As his extensive sylvan slopes and shades
Yielded him nothing save the Beautiful,
They but encumber'd him, and were it not
For the old memories that haunted them,
He long ago had sold them, to become
Once more a rich and independent man.
Then there began for Constance a new life—
The dang'rous life of close companionship
With one who is not bound by tie of blood
To be a comrade; hitherto her days
Fled in contented converse with a child,
Or else in list'ning, kindly tolerant
To childish sayings from a dull old man,—
Those days seem'd good, she miss'd no promised joy,
But now how empty had they seem'd to her
Without this first-found sharer of her thoughts!
Their very arguments (they differ'd much
Upon religion), roused her from her dream,
And made of her a champion of the cross,
The zealous advocate of Highest Heav'n,
Her whole soul rose in arms to subjugate,
As with an angel's slashing two-edg'd sword,
The paganism of her new-found friend.
He held, indeed, unorthodox beliefs
And unbeliefs, (nay, mostly unbeliefs,
For these to him were easiest to hold,)
He felt so much was wrong here on the earth—
One giant fraud—a mutual “take in”—
An all-pervading system of deceit—
“Deluding one another”—this he saw,
And being by nature honest, loyal, true,
He loath'd and hated all the canting lies
That smirk'd and prosper'd wheresoe'er he turn'd;
Yet how to set things right he did not know,
How to resuscitate to greener growth
The wither'd branches of a rotting tree—
To lop them off, he thought, were surely best,
So he had laid the axe unsparingly
To many an offshoot of the Tree of Faith,
But lacked the knowledge how to vitalize
The wholesome after-growth of tree and fruit
That he would raise instead. Without a creed,
His childhood's innocent beliefs pull'd down,
Stubborn, and seeming careless, (for in Care
He told himself he never should believe,
Nothing was worth a care!) Pensive at times,
Yet often kindling with a keener wit
Than we dull islanders are wont to show,
Inheriting a wild, impulsive heart,
Yet deeming he had drill'd himself to feel
No warmer than an iceberg; with a face
Which said more of the secrets of his soul
Than he had wish'd maybe, could he have seen
The tell-tale flash of light that sometimes beam'd
From out his eager eyes;—this was the man
Who came to Constance in her loveless youth,
And, well-a-day! 'twas just about the time
When she was wearied with Sir John's complaints
Against the railways and Democracy,
And when the extracts from the Tory press
Ceased to amuse her! When this stranger came
His cold indifference to all these things
Became a bond of union, and in time
They smiled at them together. Then Sir John
Treated young Geoffrey Denzil like a boy,
Bore with his strange beliefs and unbeliefs,
And patronized and gave him good advice;
And Constance, being married to Sir John,
Seem'd bound to be a sort of mentor too,
And took with him a sweet maternal way,
Tho' he was ten years older than herself,
And deem'd himself e'en older still, in heart.
“You may not be too poor,”
She said one day, “to do such little things
“As they require. Your bailiff rais'd the rent
“Of that thatch'd cottage near the Farleigh lodge,
“The very day old Sands was paralyzed—
“His son enlisted on the self-same day
“To be a soldier—he had been his help
“Like a right hand; and then his daughter died
“In child-bed (Do they ever come alone
“Misfortunes?). So, you see this poor old man
“Who scarce can lift one arm, must, half the day
“Carry his daughter's child—his roof is gone,
“Or more than half, and lets in all the rain—
“(He was a first-rate thatcher once, himself,
“But now his arm . . .). You said you meant to hunt
“This Winter—you are rich enough for that,
“Would it not make you happier to think
“You had one horse the less, and feel the while
“Your tenants had more comfortable homes?”
“Or, all is false,” he said, “or all is true,
“If true, then let us live and die for it;
“If false, then let us cast away this creed,
“However good, it cannot be the best,
“If based upon a long accepted lie.
“But, if our faith is not the work of priests—
“If the great God, indeed, could stoop so low—
“If such a paltry plan to save us all,
“Or such a cruel trap to get us damned,
“Could please the high great God, then can he be
“The God to whom I clasp'd my infant hands?—
“The God my tender mother lov'd?—the God
“For whom the saints and martyrs dared to die?
“Oh, give me back my youth's fidelity,
“But give me also back my childhood's God!
“Kind and forgiving Father! from the clouds,
“How did'st Thou seem to heave the pitying sigh
“At my cut finger! When my bullfinch died,
“I thought of how He counted all my hairs
“And all about the sparrows! Now, alas!
“The caring for the individual—
“The sparing one mean unit 'special pain
“Seems so averse to the great principle
“Of abstract commonweal, methinks, that Heav'n
“Could scarcely work a pamper'd emmet good
“In this great ant-hill, without working ill
“To many more; just, but Republican,
“His wrath must crush out Pestilence and Sin,
“What matter if the swing of His strong arm
“Strike down some good and whole amongst the rest?”
Then Constance answer'd, “Oh, it cannot be!
“I feel assured the Bible is the truth!
“It is the only comfort of the poor.
“Think how the very poor and ignorant
“Have liv'd for many years upon its words!
“Then, what you say of Christianity,
“I pray that you may see things as they are—
“I understand it all—I grasp it all;
“But even were its teachings too obscure,
“You know that we are told we cannot know.
“‘All things with God are possible,’ and then,
“Think what a beautiful and tender creed!—
“Think of the little babe in manger laid—
“The three wise men, all looking for the star—
“(I work'd them once in color'd Berlin wool;
“They all wore turbans—dress'd in Eastern dress—
“And in the distance was the hostelrie.)
“Ah, can you doubt? (Her eyes were filled with tears,)
“And then the Virgin, with her lovely face—
“Oh, think upon the glory round that head!
“How many painters lov'd to dwell on it!—
“Much greater men than you—wiser than you—
“Yet they believed it all. Think, too, of those—
“The martyrs—all the early Christian saints
“Thrown to wild beasts; then, Cranmer, it is true
“He died in what I call the civil war
“Of Christianity—but still he died—
“Died at the stake, and let his wrong right hand
“Burn first, and said it had offended him.
“Think of his faith!—ah, how it must have hurt!”
She added, shuddering, and held her hand
Against the light, and stroked it tenderly,
Seeing before her only in her zeal
Archbishop Cranmer's burnt apostate hand.
Thus with her gentle female arguments
She strove to quench the heathen in his heart.
He listen'd for the sake of her sweet voice,
Which murmur'd on and on so childishly,
(So thought he) yet his heart went out to meet
The signs of her soft foolish innocence.
He felt the while as might some cruel hawk,
Beneath the shadow of whose outspread wings
A little bird is chirping her sweet song.
For surely did he deem her child-like mind
Would bend and yield to his, and those soft notes
Become the echo of his stubborn thought;—
Feeling she was his prey, for what he would,
He linger'd still in pity, teaching her,
(He fondly deem'd) and stifling the desires
That would have risen in his lawless heart
Had his poor little pupil seemed more wise.
Thus months pass'd by, and whilst the old man dosed
In the long ev'nings, by the winter fire,
To listen to the sound theology
Of one, the other's sad materialism,
No guardian angel would have shed a tear,
And e'en a crouching Mephistopheles
Had scarcely dared to rub his hands in glee.
Yet in those fire-lit ev'nings, all unknown
To each as yet, the germ of bitter fruit
Was sown. By both more sadly ev'ry night
The soft “good night” was utter'd, when the foes
After their wordy tournament, clasp'd hands.
It seemed that Friendship, banish'd for awhile,
Rush'd with too sudden haste to her old place,
For as these votaries of hostile creeds
Parted reluctantly, (unguess'd by one,)
The Christian lov'd the Heathen, and the sinner
Felt all his heart's blood warm towards the saint.

III.

To those who own the kindling blood of youth,
I would say, “Watch and ward!—beware, beware!—
Look from the topmost tow'r, like ‘Sister Ann,’
But unlike her, 'tis not for coming friend
That I would have you search with shaded eyes
Along the far horizon; 'tis the foe,—
The moral whirlwind I would have you fear!”
Oh, for the peaceful lives we all might lead
If some good angel would but make a sign
At each approaching danger to the soul!
But well-a-day! temptations seem to creep
All shod with silence, and it is as if
In times of feudal warfare, long ago,
An enemy approach'd, conceal'd by night
Towards the fort, whilst at the postern gate
The warder has not time to sound a blast
Ere soemen revel in the citadel—
Thus shamed, surprised, the poor beleaguered soul
Dies or surrenders, mortified and maim'd!
Sir John awoke and cried “God bless my soul!”
And cough'd and sneezed, and then rang all the bells—
The screaming maid-servants press'd down the stairs,
Hurling before them all their worldly goods
As yet unburnt, and which they hoped to save—
For they had all been gossiping below,
Whilst undisturbed the fire was burning on,
Till, going up to bed, with many a joke
Made by the way, and full of “cakes and ale,”
They met the smoke, and heard the crackling beams
And all their laughter turned to piercing cries.
Anon, a cloud of smoke, and flames that seem'd
Half quench'd, fill'd Constance with a ray of hope,
Then with a fiercer glare, high up in heav'n
Again they darted, to be driv'n once more
Towards the kingdom of the quiet moon.
“The roof has fall'n!” anon she heard them cry,
And dreading to behold the fiery foe,
Fed with fresh food, spring forth in horrid glee,
She hasten'd in, as pallid as the forms
Of marble on the narrow terraced stair.
Sir John, with happy smile and beaming eye,
Met her, and grasp'd her hands and kissed her cheek,
Crying, “He's safe! he's safe!” But Constance, stunn'd
And looking like a disembodied ghost,
Ask'd, feebly, “Who? Where is he? Which of them?”
To whom Sir John replied, “The boy! the boy!”
And Roland, with his happy childish face
A little pale, ran to the open arms
Which Constance stretch'd towards him absently.
A horrid fear which clutch'd her by the throat
Threaten'd to suffocate her, till at last
She hurried forward, and as one inspired,
Said, in a firm authoritative voice:
“All are not saved, for Mr. Denzil still
“May be amongst the fiercest of the flames—
“We will reward the one who rescues him.”
“Aye, that we will—he saved my Roland's life!”
Sir John exclaimed, on which the soldier Sands
(The son of that old man whom Constance once
Had so befriended, and who for awhile
Had sought his native village) hearing her,
Leap'd up the stair, and hasten'd to the spot
Where the now half-extinguish'd fire had raged.
Constance was following, when kind Sir John
Restrain'd her, saying, “No, you must not go,
“The falling floors and ceilings are not safe
“Altho' the fire is conquer'd; then, alas,
“He may be burnt or crush'd, or even worse,—
“You must not go.”
So, looking as for Life,
So, praying, could her lips have form'd a pray'r,
So hoping, could her heart have dared to hope,
And longing, with a longing terrible
Intense and breathless; thus she waited on.
But Geoffrey Denzil, though he scarcely breathed,
Was yet alive—beneath some fallen beams
And crumbled brick-work, blacken'd by the smoke
And drenched with water, they at first had deem'd
He had been crushed, for scarcely could they tell
What aspect he would wear when they had freed
His almost buried form. One broken arm
Hung limp and useless; he was stunned, they saw
By a thick beam which struck him on the brow,
But still he lived;—they tended him with care,
Washed from his cheek the trace of smoke and blood,
And saw that it was pale, but still the face
Of one who liv'd. The doctor set his arm,
And watch'd him long, and said some hopeful words.
Thus Constance saw him, when, with new-found strength,
Hearing he liv'd, with Roland by her side,
She asked for tidings, longing once again
To see his face ere it might be too late.
She thought she would not care, so he should live,
E'en if she did not ever see again
The face that seem'd so beautiful to her—
Only to know that somewhere, far away,
He liv'd and breathed, and that there was a hope,
However vague, that she might once again
Dream (only dream!) to look at him on earth!
Kneeling beside the bed she tried to pray,
But her impatient spirit fear'd lest Heav'n
Was too far off to listen to her pray'r,
So, in the madness of her agony,
She call'd to Geoffrey Denzil, praying him
Upon her bended knees that he would live.
“Oh, if you die,” she said, “you break my heart,
“Good-bye to life! oh, let me die with you!
“Think of the three whole years we have been friends,
“Think of the places we have seen together—
“When you are gone my poor dreams crumble down,
“Oh, stay with me! oh, live to be again
“My chosen friend! ah, do not go away!—
“I love you more than life—come back to me!”
She threw her hopeless arms about his neck,
For o'er his face a death-like pallor spread,—
Some change seem'd working in him—all her soul
Look'd out upon him from her haggard eyes.
He did not move, she thought he scarcely breathed—
The pulses of her body seem'd to die—
“Oh, speak to me! Ah, do not leave me thus!
“Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey! you will break my heart!”
She sobb'd, and fainting, fell upon the floor.
I know not how it was some bell was rung,
And by and bye a servant sought the room
Denzil was sitting looking at the wall,
And Constance lay unconscious at his side,
“She fainted,” in the faintest voice he said—
“This shock has been too great”—he waved his hand,
“I'm better now,” he said. “Leave me alone—
‘Take care of her, she needs must want repose.”
They took her to her chamber, where she lay
As one exhausted; ev'ry now and then
She sadly ask'd them, “Is he still alive?”
Or else she wept and said, “He was my all
“On earth, my one companion! Save his life!”
Sir John was touch'd, and watch'd her tenderly,
And told his sister with how true a love
She lov'd his boy, for never did he doubt
That all her trouble came from fears for him—
But Miss L'Estrange compress'd her virgin lips,
Put on a face of Sphinx-like mystery,
And shook her head with a contemptuous look
At good Sir John, who was not one of those
Born to decipher riddles. Thus for days
Prostrate and weak, and wandering at times,
She kept her chamber; sometimes for whole hours
She stared at the gay pattern on the wall,
Forming the tendrils and the leaves and flow'rs
Into unmeaning words and animals,
And human faces, all unknown to her.
The doctor merely echoed Geoffrey's words:
“The fright has been too much, she needs repose;
“She has received a shock, and nervous fear
“Prostrates her mind and body; let her rest.”
Oh, love! thou who shelt'rest some
'Neath thy wings so white and warm,
Wherefore on a bat-like wing
All disguisèd did'st thou come
In so terrible a form?
As a dark forbidden thing,
As a demon of the air—
As a sorrow and a sin,
Wherefore cam'st thou thus to me,
As a tempter and a snare?
When the heart that beats within
This, my bosom, warm'd to thee,
Was it from a love of sinning,—
From a fatal love of wrong,
From a wish to shun the light?
Nay! I swear at the beginning
Had'st thou sung an angel's song,—
Had this wrong thing been the right,
Thou had'st seem'd as worth the winning
And with will as firm and strong
I had lov'd with all my might!

IV.

So did the scandal-loving neighbourhood
Gossip and slander; many shook their heads
On hearing Constance had been ill, and much
They whisper'd and surmised when they were told
How she and good Sir John had gone to stay
At Denzil; but this fact, somehow, became
Shorn of all interest when soon they learnt
That Geoffrey Denzil had departed, bound
For foreign lands. It seem'd a cruel thing
That he should go away just at the time
When they foresaw a “thick'ning of the plot!”
But still they did their best, and soon they wove
The fears and tremors which poor Constance felt
Into some sentimental malady
Connected with his absence.—One old man
Who had a wicked twinkle in his eye,
At a dull local dinner, with a leer
Inquired facetiously which fire had caused
Lady L'Estrange's illness? that one lit
By Mr. Denzil, or the lesser one
He help'd extinguish? All his list'ners here
Titter'd convulsively, and one of them
Call'd him a “naughty, odious, funny man.”
But Constance did not hear these calumnies
(Having, alas, a fatal grain of truth!)—
Those envious voices did not penetrate
The tangled brakes of Denzil Park, which rose
Bird-haunted, flower starr'd, a leafy screen
Between the idle whisp'ring world and her.
'Twas early spring-time, all the eager buds
Were pressing into life, as on that day
Three years ago, when Constance, like a child,
Came smiling hither, playing hide and seek—
Thinking to cull the earliest snow-drop flow'r,
Or find the first four blue hedge-sparrow's eggs,—
Seeking for these, she came, and met her Fate,—
Hoping and seeking now (against her will)
To meet some trace of him who was her Fate
She wander'd listlessly, and found but these
The early eggs of happy mated birds
And the first snow-drop, looking like that one
Three years ago; but had it been the same,
And had its hanging head concealed an eye,
That little peeping modest eye had mark'd
The change wrought in those white and trembling hands
That cull'd so tenderly its transient bloom!
Alas, for snow-drop immortality!—
The same to careless eyes, yet not the same,—
Heir to the drooping head and fragile stem,—
Heir to the chaste traditions of the race—
Emblem to trusting hearts of those belov'd
Whose sleeping bodies, wrapp'd in silent clay,
Await the second wakening to life,
To rise like these fair blossoms, from a dark
Mysterious imprisonment! Ah, who
May say if this long-cherish'd metaphor
Which Spring each year renews, is, as a whole,
Perfect, or but a visionary hope
Begot of Faith and Love? Ah, true indeed
The wondrous resurrection of the flow'r,—
The flow'r of kin, the fragrant heir-in-fee,
But not, alas, that flow'r of bygone Spring
Which, brown and faded, lies between the leaves
Of some old book, a soulless scentless thing,
Wither'd as those dear hands, maybe, that cull'd
Its dead forgotton blossom! Ah that flow'r,
That very flow'r! Grant me the grace to know,—
To understand the subtle second life
Which was not crush'd, when on its pearly youth
Closed those dim pages like a living tomb!
But to sad Constance, fill'd with trusting faith,
Came no such wistful musings;—in her eyes
The pointed petals rising from the earth
Were emblems of the pure immortal soul
Aspiring heavenwards; those snowy leaves
Seem'd like the folded wings of patient saints
Waiting the signal of the April show'r
To spread themselves in glorious disproof
Of sophistry, above the empty graves
Of their awaken'd hearts; and thus she watch'd
Sadly, but trustfully, the coming Spring.
But what to Constance seem'd the dearest thing
Was a fair little boy who held a dog,—
Painted some five-and-twenty years ago
In water colours: very badly drawn,
Having a prim white frock and sky-blue sash;
His little hoop and stick were lying near,
And in the distance there was Denzil Place—
This funny little picture had no name,—
The little fair-hair'd boy was like a doll,
Or still more like all other little boys
In any other badly finish'd sketch;
Yet Constance lov'd it—it was small and light,
Easy to move, and so she took it down
From off its nail, and brought that little boy
To dwell where she might see him, in her room.
Her room! it had been Geoffrey Denzil's once,
She had not known it, choosing it by chance
Because from out its windows she could see
So fair a landscape—woods and grassy slopes,
And nearer, when she look'd towards the left,
The arch'd beginning of the avenue,
Dusk with its over-hanging evergreens
E'en in the leafless seasons of the year—
This chamber, on the basement of the house,
Open'd upon a spacious corridor,
And at one end of this, three steps led down
Into the dim, low, silent library
Which Constance lov'd, for here besides the books
(She lov'd to read,) were rang'd upon the floor
Some four or five square cases, made of tin,
Dark-color'd, and on these, in letters white,
Constance devour'd, with eager hungry eyes
The name she lov'd, despite of all the shame
Such love might bring her. She would close the doors
On chilly afternoons and sit alone,
Feasting her eyes on those belovèd words:
This “Geoffrey Henry Denzil, Denzil Place”
Was comfort to her at this dreary time,
And here she used to read and write and dream,
And try forgetting, or in rasher moods
Try to remember ev'ry line and tone
Of vanish'd features or of silent voice.
For she was very lonely in these days
Of early Spring: Sir John and Miss L'Estrange
Went almost daily to inspect the works
At Farleigh Court, where builders, whitewashers,
And painters, all were busied with repairs.
Constance would often watch them as they pass'd
Under her windows o'er the swampy lawn
After the rain; her husband's stalwart form,
Upright and hale, despite his sixty years,
And Miss L'Estrange, who, clinging to his arm,
Trudged with the brisk flat-footed energy
Of wither'd spinsterhood, and keeping step
With his more manly stride, thro' wind and rain
Accompanied Sir John. As in a dream
Constance would watch them, wave a languid hand,
And with a shiver turn towards the fire;—
Time was when she could also breast the storm
And brave the struggles of encroaching Spring
With unrelenting Winter, but those times
Were changed, and now she shudder'd as she gazed
On mist and sleet; so, when the days were cold
She stay'd within the doors of Denzil Place.
Roland had gone to School; she often wrote
And said “Ah, how I miss you dear, dear boy!
“The place is different—it all seems changed—
“Now you are gone”—and even as she wrote
She tried to think it was indeed the loss
Of him, her youthful playmate, made her sad.
One day as she was writing in her room,
And listlessly consid'ring what to say,—
What news she had to tell the absent boy,
To write of which might serve to lure her mind
From one sad thought; and as she dreamily
O'erturn'd the pages of the writing-book,
She started suddenly, and seem'd to wake
To newer life, for she had found a trace—
An unexpected trace of him she lov'd.
There on a scrap of paper, partly torn,
She read these words, in Geoffrey Denzil's hand:
“At last. It almost seems too hard to bear—
“But so it is, and I must go from hence.”
She look'd, and on the scarce used blotting-book
Perceiv'd some straggling and uncertain lines
Illegible, (if she had tried to read,)
Save where her timid, hesitating eye
Espied the curling crescent of a “C,”
And knew her name had once been blotted there.
Why did he go away? What was so “hard”—
“Almost too hard to bear” (she thought,) “for him?”
But whilst she mused, her self-accusing heart
Dared not delude itself with such a doubt.
A hundred trivial unimportant things
Flash'd to her memory, in each of which
She seem'd to read a hidden meaning now,—
She knew, and all her aching lonely heart
Went out to Geoffrey Denzil over-sea.

V.

When she recover'd consciousness, her head
Was resting on his breast—against her own
His cheek was press'd, and on her mouth she felt
The ardent lips of her too well-belov'd
Kissing her back to life, and heard his words
Thrill thro' her being, as he murmur'd thus—
“My love, my life! my love whom I have lov'd
So long, so tenderly, ah, look at me!
Speak to me! say again those blissful words
You said when you believ'd I heard them not!”
(So, he had heard!) “Ah, darling, ere I go
“Leaving behind me all I love so well,
“Oh, let me know that she who is to me
“Far dearer than is aught on earth—in heav'n—
“Has been to me but once my very own!
“Surely the marriage vows we may not break
“Are such as our's had been if God had will'd
“That we had met before, and now could live
“Join'd heart and soul and body, till we died—
“God knows that I have wrestled with my love
“As Jacob with the angel, or as man
“May wrestle with a fiend sent here to tempt
“His soul astray, I tore myself from home
“And only came to it again by stealth
“As would a thief, so that I might not meet
“So sweet a snare as lurks in these dear eyes—
“But now some stronger, some more subtle pow'r
“Than I possess, has will'd that we should meet
“Here in the dead of night, where none can see,
“In this deserted room, now face to face
“I find my love alone—I hold her fast—
“Ah, can I be of earth—of flesh and blood—
“Can I be mortal man, and let her go?”
She saw some flow'rs she gather'd yesterday
Unfaded, tho' it seemed so long ago,
She went towards her glass half absently,
And gazed and started, for her face looked changed—
The air of child-like innocence was gone—
She groan'd aloud, and falling on her knees
She cover'd with her white and trembling hands
What seem'd the fair accomplice of her guilt.
How long she thus remain'd she did not know,
But when she saw the first faint struggling ray
Of morning, dazed, and shivering with cold
She rose from off her knees, look'd out, and saw
A wintry sun rise on her new-born life,
(For so it seem'd). Her flimsy dressing-gown
Was blown aside, and the chill morning air
Breathed on her heart, but still she stood, and look'd
As might a statue. All at once she heard
A sound as of a passing horse's hoofs—
The laurels hid the rider, but she knew
That it was Geoffrey, faithful to his word,
Tearing himself from England and from Love.
Till then she had not analyzed her thoughts,
They all had been so wild with self-reproach,
But now an uncontrollable desire
To follow him who “lov'd and rode away”
Made her outstretch her empty aching arms
Towards the spot wherefrom the dying sound
Was now but faintly echo'd; then to heav'n
She raised them pleadingly, with clasping hands,
And in her desolation cried aloud
“God bless my darling wheresoe'er he goes!”

VI.

Oh, lovers of all ages, kingdoms, climes,
How have you suffer'd! What a motley crew
Would throng the earth could all your buried hordes
Collect from out the scatter'd dust of Time
And re-assume the human shapes you wore!
Yet, could you carry in your wither'd hands
Some record telling of the hopes and fears
That thrill'd you once, I ween that each of these
Would bear a closer semblance to the other
Than would the fashion of your winding-sheets!
The legend 'graven on the scarabee,—
The pictured emblem of the Ninevite,—
The roll of papyrus, held in the grasp
Of the illustrious mummy,—all of these
Translated, doubtless would resemble much
Our modern hist'ries of despairing sighs,
Or those still further from us,—tales of loves
Antediluvian or prë-Adamite,
When, haply, in the groves now fossilized,
Haunted by monster Megatherium
And Plesiosaurus, mortals liv'd and lov'd
And sinn'd, as now they live and love and sin.
Constance had wept when she had read the first—
The kind sad letter of her outraged lord
But now she felt as is supposed to feel
The worm that has been trampled till it turns,—
The malice lurking in each spiteful line,
The pent-up poison flowing from this pen,
Let loose at last, as from the adder's tongue—
The base injustice, the impatient wish
Thus to exaggerate and multiply
Her fault, all this directed at herself
She did not dare resent—it was deserved—
But what she felt she never could forgive
Were those envenom'd arrows aim'd at him
Her love, her life; the angry crimson blood
Rush'd to her cheek as she read o'er again
Each bitter accusation. Well she knew
That he had fallen from his high resolve,
But then her heart would have it that he fell
Fighting against some superhuman pow'r—
A power he had striven with for years—
She would not think that that belovèd form
Concealed a cruel calculating heart
Such as she heard had sometimes lurk'd beneath
A mien deceptive. Yet these lying lines
Then she bethought her how she oft had heard
Wise saws about the fickleness of men,
And how they love to pluck forbidden fruit,
And how, when tasted, they will fling away
What they have striven with such pains to grasp—
Or how a man will often in his heart
Despise the woman who will yield to him,
Loving some other, who is hard and cold
And unrelenting;—how upon the paths
Of men like these, lie many faded flow'rs
Strewn with the years, and trodden under foot,
Loves of all shades and colours—many-voiced,
With song-notes variable as the birds'
By sunny shores, and under alien skies
Beguiled and won. She sadly thought, “Alas!
“I may be such a little thing to him—
“A passing thought—a moment's light caprice,
“Whilst he is, oh, so very much to me!”
Then sadly she prepared her to depart,
An outcast and an exile; first she tore
Into a thousand fragments, which she burnt,
The hated letter. With a sinking heart
She bade a sad farewell to ev'ry spot
She lov'd so well. The garden she explored,
And gather'd from each glossy evergreen
A dear memento—laurel, box, and fir,
Cypress and rosemary, and one dark spray
Of sad funereal yew, to which there clung
A single waxen berry; these she bound
Into a garland, and thereon she wrote
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden;—to be kept for evermore.”
She did not know, who had not seen as yet
The bright luxuriant gardens of the South
How little like the fancied fields of Heav'n
This one would seem in an Italian's eyes,
Accustom'd to behold in his own land
Such blaze of blossom—such a brilliant sun!
But unto her it seemed as tho' the doors
Were closed upon some earthly paradise,
As soon as swung the heavy iron gates
Of Denzil Park, behind the speeding wheels
Of the old-fashion'd carriage, on the morn
She and her maid departed on their way—
So much she lov'd the home that was his home,
The sacred spot where she had seen him first.
Her maid, who watch'd her shyly, wonder'd why
Lady L'Estrange's eyes were fill'd with tears,
When she herself was all too pleas'd to leave
The dull old mansion and the tiresome trees
Of dismal Denzil, and to go to Town,
But Constance felt as if her heart would break,
“Good-bye” she thought, “Dear trees, dear shaded walks,
“Earth that his feet have trod—good-bye, good-bye!
“Good-bye, old house, where he was born and bred,
“Where he may dwell some day, and some day die,
“Home of the buried fathers of my love!”
Thus Constance quitted silent Denzil Place,
To face that stern relentless outer world
Of which she knew so little. Never more
For her those gates unfasten'd;—ne'er again
Fell her light footstep on the polish'd floors,
Nor were the dim old oaken panell'd walls
Flatter'd again by that sweet flitting shade
Caressing them. The old house stands and waits,
And all its windows look like straining eyes
Watching for Constance,—for the fairy thing
That suddenly became identified
With its moth-eaten records of the Past.
Ah, never more! those windows wait in vain,
Thro' all the changing years she will not come,
No more her sunny head and wistful eyes
Will grace the empty open window-frames!
She came and went, as vanishes a dream,
And the old house is waiting her in vain.

II. PART II.

Oh, lost and lov'd, and gone before!
I look and long with tearful eyes
For what will come to me no more,
The summer warmth of southern skies,
The sunny waves that rise and swell
And seem to me at times as near
As those that echo in a shell
Held to a child's attentive ear,
Oh, lost and lov'd! The magic thread
That binds my heart to scenes like these
Shines not alone from radiance shed
Thro' golden fruited orange-trees,
The murmur of that tideless sea,
The odour of those thousand flow'rs
Alone, had never lent to me
This day-dream of delicious hours!
Ah, thou wert there . . . ! Dear sunny clime
In which we lived our happy day,
No changes wrought by tide or time
Can steal thy borrow'd charms away!
For, turning back to Love and thee
These dismal hours reflect again
The radiance of that summer-sea
And dull the anguish of my pain.
Dear Land of Love! I sometimes dream
That I, unlov'd, am wand'ring there,
And wonder if its groves would seem
As fragrant, or its skies as fair—
I wonder too, if this dim light
This mock'ry of a summer sun,
Might not appear to me more bright
If shared by that belovèd one?
I know not, but at eventide,
After this faded sun has set,
When thro' the window, open wide,
I breathe the scented mignionette
And all the flow'rs thou loved'st so well,
The clematis and violet,
And drooping yellow asphodel,
Then mem'ry whispers to my heart
Of all the joys denied to me,
And wheresoever love, thou art
I fain would go and dwell with thee!

VII.

Constance had sought this land which, like herself,
Was bless'd (or cursed) by Heaven with the dow'r—
‘The fatal dow'r of Beauty,’ but alas
For her, altho' resembling Italy
In being born to this fair heritage—
E'en more unfortunate than that sweet land
She groan'd in faster fetters;—all in vain
For her Italia's liberators rose,
Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour,
Breaking a bondage less inveterate
Than was her own; weighing upon the heart
The burden of a fatal servitude
Defies emancipation;—thus she sigh'd
A lovely slave in chains—(those chains that seem
To some like brittle bands of summer flow'rs,
As Love, descending airily on them
With the soft 'lighting of a butterfly,
Leaves no sad trace behind to mark the place
Where his white wings have press'd, whilst on another
More keenly sensitive, he burns a scar
Searing and withering unto the core
The hapless heart that never more is whole.)
How could she free herself from all the host
Of newly waken'd torments? How subdue
The multitude of restless enemies
Besieging her, and harassing her soul?
Love and Despair, and vascillating Hope,
And Self-reproach, and Jealousy, and Doubt?
How put to flight these fierce invading foes—
These tyrants—these Tedeschi of the heart?
The town near which sad Constance made a home
Was by the shores of that delightful sea
Tideless, and often bluer than the sky
Kissing its utmost edge; towards the hills
Which bounded it to westward, gardens grew
And olive-grounds, where nestling in the shade
Of orange-groves, and dim with treliss'd ways
O'errun with creepers, painted villas rose
With cool low rooms, paved with their octagons
Of shining crimson tiles, whilst on their walls
The cunning artist had depicted scenes
Repeating those the gay Venetian blinds
Shut out from view—long line of sunny sea
And orange-gardens, sombre cypress trees
And sparkling fountains; all the ceilings too
Seem'd mimic vaults of heav'n, altho' the art
Of mortal painter could not imitate
The cloudless blue of the Italian sky.
Ah, all the storms they ponder'd on were those
Braved on that beautiful capricious sea
Which Constance lov'd; of these they often talk'd
With holy brethren—brethren once who shared
Their ocean perils and their finny spoil.
Within the cloisters of the nunnery
Which stood still further hidden in the hills,
There may, perchance, have throbb'd some heavy hearts
Stricken by arrows with a sharper point,
Inflicting pangs far more incurable
Than those of hunger, thirst, or rheumatism,
But yet the placid features of the nuns
Seem'd to belie this pitying surmise,
As Constance heard them, in their modest tones,
Give her a smiling blessing as they pass'd.
Of one of these, the sympathetic voice,
And dreamy eyes, made Constance feel for her
As for a friend. This sister show'd her o'er
The convent garden, gave her flow'rs and fruit,
And praised the while the peaceful pray'rful life
Led by herself and all the sisterhood.
'Twas thus she lay for many weary days
Peop'ling an almost perfect solitude
With phantoms from the unforgotten past,
And seeming oftentimes to see in dreams
Her absent lover, with his earnest eyes
Gazing at her with anxious, loving looks,
And reading all the secrets of her soul.
When in our lives some evil change
Fills our sad eyes with transient tears,
If not from piety, we turn
From habit, to those stars that burn
With quiet sympathetic light
Up in the blue ethereal spheres—
Those far star-lands, where comets range
From time to time, and whence the sight
Uplifted, seems to meet the eyes
Of God, assuming planet guise,
Tho' heav'n-abiding, earthward bent
Towards our heavy eyes that weep:
Ah, little stars, your vigils keep
High in the distant firmament!
Visible witnesses to prove
That 'tis not only Death and Love
Which mortals may not comprehend,
For what you are, and whither tend
Your constellations, clustering
And clinging to the vault of heav'n
We know not, sadly wondering
All veil'd and blinded as we are,
Thoughtlessly worshipping that star
Maybe the omen of our end!
How dare we, till the clouds are riven
Shrouding our dull intelligence
Hope for encouragement from thence,
When e'en we know not what is best
For our own welfare day by day,
Obeying blindly the behest
Of hearts as changing as the waves,
Fickle and ignorant as they—
Mere puppets in some mighty hand
Luring us on to shoal or strand,
Or to mysterious ocean-caves,
Where our dead hearts may be the food
Of cruel syrens of the flood.
In vain I lift my tearful eyes
Towards th' impenetrable skies,
The careless stars vouchsafe no light
To show which path is wrong or right,
Without a hope, without a guide,
I seem a straw upon the tide
Of Life's inevitable stream;
All helpless to resist the flow
Of such a cataract, I seem
Without a will—would I could know
If it were best to trust my boat
Upon this mystic wave and float
Towards the ocean-gates, and be
Borne to the unfathomable sea?

VIII.

After long days of fever and of pain
There comes a lull, which almost mimics death,
When the weak frame, which a false energy
Has fired with transient force, revives to find
The languid level of that listless life
Which surely follows on the fever's track.
Then one by one upon the wak'ning sight
Dawn the familiar objects; gradually
The doubtful, semi-dormant mind renews
Its old impressions, by the contrast made
Terribly sharp, expressive and distinct.
She thought Theresa would be glad to see
How strong she was, and how her tender care
Had nurs'd her back to life. An exile here
She lifted up her grateful heart to God
Who thus had will'd that she should find a friend,
For in her desolation she had thought
That all the world abhorred and hated her.
Ah, when we deem we are deserted thus
What double tenderness and gratitude
We feel for those who even by mistake
Have thrown to us some little random word,
Some crumb of comfort! How the ready tears
Which would not rise to plead nor to resent,
Will flood our eyes when some kind stranger thus
Has heart to pity all the wounds of ours!
Much more did Constance feel indebted now
To this devoted woman, who had thus
Nursed her from Christian charity and love;—
She gently push'd the folding doors aside
And thinking but to see that placid face
She look'd into the sun-lit sitting-room.
Thus Constance could be strong, and cruel too—
So Denzil thought, as fearing to pursue
The trembling fugitive who thus in haste
Regain'd the precints of the sanctuary,
He made one stride towards the closing door
And there remain'd discomfited and sad
With disappointment.
I said “Ah, give me this! I shall not care
“What after-storms may beat, come blast and hail—
“Come all the ills that make the rest despair
I shall not care!”
I said “There is no good that can compare
“With this, that makes all other blessings pale,
“And if I lose e'en Heav'n, yet gain my pray'r
I shall not care!”

IX.

Good-bye, good-bye! ah, easy little word
When two fond, foolish, lovers, say it o'er,
And make it but the plausible excuse
To meet once more to say it once again!
Ah, sweet indeed those make-believe farewells,
With that dear head on our too happy breast,
And those sweet eyes the brighter for their tears,
And that fond, flutt'ring, heart, that starts and throbs,
But will not break at any rate to-night!
Good-bye, good-bye! and once again good-bye!
She had indeed, in agitated tones,
(With many timid glances at the door,
As tho' she fear'd the eye of Miss L'Estrange,)
Implor'd of Geoffrey Denzil to depart—
And she had held his hand, and said ‘goodbye’
And sad ‘God-bless-yous,’ and her eyes were wet,
Yet Denzil did not leave her, for he said
(Making his conscience readily his dupe,
And almost in a voice of indignation,)
“How can I leave you in a foreign land,
“Deserted, ill, and suff'ring, and for me
“Bearing humiliation and disgrace?
“The common laws of cold civility—
“Humanity,—the merest loosest bond
“Of careless passing friendship, would demand
“That having met you here, by accident,
“I stay at least till you are strong and well.”
And Constance, loving, temporising, weak,
Had felt a burden lifted from her heart,
And echo'd softly Geoffrey Denzil's words,
“When I am well . . .” and thus it was he stay'd.
How had they met? Was Constance cold and stern,
And Geoffrey like the Spartan youth of old
Who nursed without complaint his gnawing fox?
I do not know exactly how they met—
Perchance as mortals made of moulded ice,
Without emotion, or as you or I
Had met again, after suspense and doubt
Our own true love, on an Italian eve,
Alone, save for a little crescent moon
No thicker than an eye-lash, or a “C”—
(A waning moon, for when she first appears
She forms a sulky “C” that turns its back
And will not be a letter, come what may,
Whilst Denzil on this happy ev'ning saw
On looking up, for very joy, to heav'n,
Her dear initial shining in the sky
Seeming to bid him hope!) . . . . .
Constance was working, and she did not speak,
And Geoffrey, stretch'd full length upon the grass,
Had just been reading, now he paused, and propped
His small uplifted head upon his hand,
And Constance felt his eloquent grey eyes
Fix'd on her own, which droop'd upon her work.
He spoke at length, but did not speak of love,
For it is possible to love, and lie
Upon the sward at the Belovèd's feet,
And yet give utt'rance but to careless talk
Of bird, or tree or flow'r, or even things
Seemingly more removed than these from love.
Thus Denzil spoke, for by a mutual bond
These two had bound themselves that whilst they stay'd
Together in the South, (he at the town,
And she amongst the olives,) they would shun
That fatal subject, and that they would be
Dear and united friends and nothing more.
They watch'd each other keenly, fearing lest
One or the other should o'erpass the bounds,
And proving himself (or herself) too weak,
Should break the compact,—slave to mem'ries past
Or to some dream of futures false and fair.
He told her how a distant relative
Had died, and he was summon'd to return
To England, which he had but lately left;
How, on arriving there, he found some chance,
(Some wish to spite the kinsman who till then
Had hoped to be his heir,) had made him leave
To Geoffrey Denzil half his property—
How he, too sad to be rejoiced at this,
(Since now he had surprised his fatal love,
And made a vow that he would never harm
But keep as pure as is the driven snow
The mem'ry of his idol)—had resolved
That, as he needs must visit Denzil Place,
To take some papers from an iron safe,
Relating to his new inheritance,
He would not do so till the silent night—
So, saying as a pretext, at the inn,
That he desired they would not tell Sir John
Of his arrival, lest the good old man
Should deem he trespass'd, staying at the Hall
When Denzil was in England; he arranged
To ride there when the household were in bed,
Awaited only by his ancient nurse,
Who, telling him the house was plunged in sleep,
Had led him to the silent library
And left him to his search; the rest we know.
His letter was a lover's rhapsody,
To be deliver'd if his love surviv'd
Her husband and himself; for in his heart
Had lurk'd a wish that she might some day know
How he had lov'd her once. Therein he told
The guilty reason of his sudden flight,
And after telling how he strove in vain
To school his wayward heart, he wrote these words,
Which Constance partly read at Denzil Place—
“That you should be another's—you who seem
“Created to be mine in ev'ry sense
“In which a woman may belong to man—
“Whom, after all these waiting years, I meet
“At last; it almost seems too hard to bear,
“But so it is, and I must go from hence!”

X.

At length arrived those last unwelcome days
Which heralded that last sad day of all,
When those who, haply, never should have met,
Felt bound in honor, or, to say farewell,
Or else to let the angry world go by
And cling together; she to bear the shame,
And he the keen reproach of having caused
Such shame in her. For Constance, who was weak,
And influenced above all influence
By him she lov'd, had deem'd it would be best
(Now she could never more on bended knee
Appeal to God but as a guilty thing,)
That she should honestly avow her love,
And live to be his wife, at least in heart,
Who vow'd to her his life's fidelity.
Often in vain she look'd across the sea
When Denzil left her at the ev'ning hour,
Hoping to read upon the pink expanse
Some sign or symbol telling how to act.
She often long'd to open wide her arms
And say to Denzil, “Geoffrey, I am your's
“In life—in death!” if it were but to see
The cloud uplift which shrouded that dear brow!
But, as he left those happy olive-grounds,
And ere he vaulted o'er the boundary
Dividing town from country, 'neath the shade
Sister Theresa, in her quiet dress
Would glide in silence thro' the garden gate,
And seeking Constance, in an earnest voice
Would strive to exorcise the sinful thought,
And seem to treat the sacred name of Love
As a mere thing of naught—a childish thing.
“There are some moments in our lives” she said
“When we can almost see (both seem so plain!)
“The fair good angels pointing out one way,
“And on the other side the pow'rs of hell
“Who strive to drag us trembling to the brink
“Of some abyss! Not that I deem your friend,”
(She added, in a calm prosaic tone,)
“Poor Mr. Denzil, who seems kind at heart,
“A demon in disguise, but lawless love
“Must needs assume to all discerning eyes
“A shape of dread, a form to be abhorred.”
For, all went wrong, he said, now she was gone—
The servants left—his Aunt was, oh, so cross!
She finally had quarrell'd with Sir John
And left him all alone to grief and gout—
His father said all luck had left the house
Since she was taken ill and went abroad!
“I swear if any child were born of you,”
He said to her one balmy afternoon,
“I would not press you, Constance, but you leave—
“In leaving home for me, what do you leave?
“A kind old man, but he can be replaced—
“You cannot even know the pleasant pang
“A bride may feel, who leaves the loving breast
“Of her fond mother for the folding arms
“Of her Belov'd;—you are not kith or kin,
“But mated by mischance, who might have been
“Father and daughter, child and grandfather—
“The long, dull years that seem your married days,
“To him are but a little speck of time—
“A fleeting moment in an old man's life
“Who liv'd and lov'd long, long ere you were born!
“Ah, he may miss you, as those fathers miss
“Or as those grandfathers, a two years' child,
“But think of what we are! Friends—friends till death,
“And lovers—loving till this heart of mine
“Ceases to beat, and husband, dear, and wife,
“If you will let me call you by that name
“And wear my ring upon your little hand.
“I say again, if round about your knees
“Were rosy faces grouped, and tiny hands
“And piping voices, ever and anon
“Clasping and calling you to stay at home,
“I had been base indeed to bid you stray
“And leave for me those sunny little heads
“But now—!”
(Here Constance press'd against her brow
A trembling hand, whilst with the other one
She gently push'd away her tempter's lips,
And tried to think he was a “Pow'r of Hell.”)
“Nay, I would rather,” Denzil wildly cried,
“Much as I loathe the superstitious creed
“That dooms a woman to a life unlov'd
“Of penance and seclusion, that you went
“And prison'd your sweet youth within the walls
“Of yonder convent, than that you should go
“Seeking yourself, and of your own free will
“The hateful life you used to live before!”
Then soften'd by her scared bewilder'd look,
He added, “I am mad, and seem to you
“To utter foolish words;—do what is best
“For you, my darling; should you feel one day
“The bitterness of parting with all joy,
“(Such as I feel to-day), come back to me
“And we will try to make, despite the World,
“A new fair life together; I shall wait.”
Thus torn and tortured with conflicting doubts
Did Constance travel thro' these latter days
(For such she deem'd they were,) in Italy.
Her lover's passionate entreaties now
Tearing her gentle heart; and then the Nun's,
Who seemed to see to ev'ry complication
One only answer, one sure remedy
Against the Future's perils, and implored
That she would forthwith give herself to God,
And “'prison her sweet youth” (as Denzil said)
Within the quiet convent in the hills.
Sad and remorseful, Constance mark'd the change
Her resolution wrought in Denzil's face
And voice and bearing, and she wonder'd much
How any one so weak and frail as she
Could thus subdue and conquer one so strong,
Who ne'er had seem'd disturb'd by greater things.
Thus wand'ring listlessly, they reach'd at last
A garden they had often sought before,
Where Constance used to sketch, for here it seem'd
That Nature, Art, and Past and Present join'd
To make an earthly Eden;—it had been
Long years ago, a Roman residence
Of some importance, and tho' ruin'd now
And desolate, its beauty still survived
To lure all lovers of the picturesque.
(Deem it not strange that they should roam so late
Fair reader, who hast never left thy home
After the few first flittings of the bat!
For, where the sun is lavish with his beams
As in these southern lands, this is the hour
When those who dread his fierce meridian heat,
Go forth, approved by custom, 'neath the rays
Of a more temperate planet; hence they stay'd.)
Upon the terrace, like a row of ghosts,
They saw the moonlit glories of the past
Silv'ry and silent, and from time to time
Some echo reach'd them wafted from the town
Of song or music, but these died away
At last, in silence, and the croaking frogs,
And now and then a falling leaf or fruit,
Or the clear piping of a nightingale,
Alone recall'd their spirits back to earth.
For both seem'd lost in some absorbing dream
Impossible to utter or translate
Into material language; thus for hours
They scarcely spoke, until they heard the chimes
Of midnight, echo from the noisy spires
Of all the many churches of the town.
Then Constance, frighten'd at the flight of time,
Would fain have hurried to her quiet home,
But ere she rose, the ghastly haunting dread
That this might be her last and only hope
Of playing truant thus, induced her still
A little while to linger: Denzil then
Awaking from his mournful reverie,
Held fast her hands, as one in shipwreck clings
To spar or mast, or as a miser grasps
Some cherish'd treasure he is soon to lose,
Whilst all the pent-up anguish in his heart
He strove to ease by his impassion'd words
Of love and mad reproach, for by those chimes
He knew how soon they needs must say farewell.

XI.

And he was right, for never written words
Sent such a thrill thro' Geoffrey Denzil's heart
As these few lines which flutter'd to the ground
Dropp'd from poor Constance's wan, nerveless hand.
The message was from Roland, and ran thus—
“My father's horse, on Monday afternoon,
“Stumbled and threw him, and he died to-day.”
They did not speak—but thro' each startled brain
Rush'd an unutterable flood of thoughts
Conflicting—unexpected, love, remorse,
Astonishment, and the delirious hope
Of an unhoped-for Future! . . . . . .
In two short years from that eventful day,
Beneath the shade of scented orange boughs
And flow'ring myrtles, near a cypress tree
Clung round with roses, Constance sat and mused
In a fair garden. Her's were blissful dreams,
And from her heart a never-ending hymn
Of gratitude and praise rose up to heav'n—
Above the feath'ry palms and calm blue sky
Reflected in the glitt'ring tideless sea.
For time had made her Geoffrey Denzil's wife,
And she was once again in Italy—
Nor did this sacred second marriage-ring
Encircling her slight finger, exorcise
(As rings, alas! have oft been known to do!)
Aught of the tenderness she felt before
When it was bitterness and shame to love.
And Denzil, with his independent heart
Scorning the laws and customs of the world,
Learnt it was not alone the guilty zest
With which some natures seek forbidden fruit
That heretofore had made him deem he lov'd.
For now that they were lawful man and wife
The love he felt for her intensified
And deepen'd with the days—the happy days!
And with these days were blended happy nights—
Oh, bless'd experience, but to few vouchsafed!
The treble unity of heart and mind
And all those pulses of material life,
Which throb in harmony to one great end—
The sweet, perpetual, intermingling
Of sense and soul,—the mutual interchange
Of all that each can render—each receive!
Oh, for but half a year of such a dream
How willingly would I exchange the rest—
Those future years of loveless solitude
Which Heaven may predestine me to live!
For days which darken into blissful nights
When, heart to heart, in one another's arms
We sink not into blank forgetfulness,
Since e'en in sleep the senses realize
The sacred presence of our best belov'd!
For nights that fade into the happy dawn
When, after this sweet half-unconsciousness,
We wake to know we were not duped by dreams,
But that we hold against our grateful heart
Our dearest treasure! oh, for days and nights
Such as I sometimes dream of, give me grief
And after-pangs of bitter suffering,
But let me glory in the unknown joy
Of some such days and nights before I die!
“Ah, unregenerate! will you always doubt?
“And yet,” she added, grasping at a straw,
“You know at any rate, pray'r does no harm—
“If wasted, it is wasted, but the air
“Is all the purer for our purer thought—
“It is no superstition that degrades
“Like some that men have follow'd long ago—
“I feel so grateful when I see the sun
“Shining as now, on such a lovely scene—
“My inward intimate existence yearns
“To give some proof of gratitude to God
“And so to Him I lift my heart in pray'r.”
And thus the days went on, until at last
One of the little pray'rs that Constance pray'd
Was granted to her, and her grateful heart
Began to realize the long'd-for bliss
Of knowing that some soul-begotten ray
Of light and life, intense—intangible—
Meeting with Denzil's warm impatient lips
In those dear days and those mysterious nights,
Had wrought in her that wond'rous miracle,
Ever recurring, yet for ever new,
Incomprehensible and beautiful,—
That inexplicable, sweet, incarnation
Of two-fold love, first-felt, a flutt'ring hope
Faint as the plash of muffled elfin oars
In some unfathomable mystic lake,
Or as the fancied murmur of the waves
To one who has been dreaming of the sea.
Ah, my own love! The years may pass,
The Winter and the Summer days,
The city's fog, the dreamy haze
That hovers o'er the country grass
Hanging betwixt the earth and sky
When black against its pink and gold
At eventide, the trees enroll'd
Stand like some dark conspiracy;
Sable accomplices of Night
In the forced murder she has done,
Helping to hide the dying sun
Dragg'd down from his imperial height
And sinking in his gory bed—
My love! all hours and days may go
And leave no trace, yet in the glow
Of dying suns, and moons that shed
A calmer light; and in the stars
And indefatigable waves,
And in the faint gold streak that laves
The last forsaken ocean bars—
There art thou ever; all in vain
I ask some sign of life from thee
Yet I believe thou liv'st to me
In all I love in life, again,
And somewhere, in land, sky or sea,
I have a hope I cannot kill
That there my loving or my will
May give thee back again to me!

XII.

Alas, I would in this uncertain world
All prosper'd where it seem'd that all went well!
I would that never without urgent cause,
Those who are bless'd and loving, wronging none,
Should, as it were, be cheated of their dues
And robb'd by Fate of their hard-earn'd content.
There are some good and worthy on the earth
But who seem destin'd for some hidden end
To be for ever spokes in ev'ry wheel—
Encumbrances in ev'rybody's path—
The millstones of the world, of sterling stuff
But wearisome to wear around the neck—
That these the great tho' too impatient gods
Should sometimes prematurely set aside
I do not wonder, knowing it is hard
In this vast varying community
To be alike benevolent to all
Or satisfy the cravings of all hearts.
Now, when this worthy man was sacrificed,
I was ashamed I could not sorrow more,
But, feeling as it were ‘behind the scenes’
I thought “Well, well, since some one must have died
(For Death intrudes in fiction as in fact,)
I almost think he can be spared the best—
So now they will be happy all their lives!
And I may tell of how they liv'd and lov'd,
And how they henceforth kept the decalogue
And died respected at a ripe old age!
But she had rashly said “Ah, let me live
“Only to know this blessèd hope is true,
“Then come what may,” and her unthinking words
Were register'd by the relentless Fates.—
The day she long'd and pray'd for dawn'd at last,
And Constance kiss'd the cheek of Geoffrey's child,
And he was near her, but no time was given
Him to rejoice in what she deem'd a joy,
For in her struggle with this second life
His little wife pass'd from him into death.
Half stupified he watch'd her lying there
So calm and still, who but some hours ago
Was warm with life;—so sudden it all seem'd,—
The words we say at parting left unsaid,
And round about him all the many things
Inanimate, yet seeming now to cry
With eager voices, “No, she is not dead!”
All in a row the little high-heel'd shoes
Those fairy feet would never wear again,—
Upon a chair her hat and parasol,
Whilst the white dress she wore but yesterday
Was flutt'ring in the flower-scented air
From where it hung upon the looking-glass—
The glass that never more would mirror back
That well-known earnest face, for she was dead!
Sooner than here in England, dawn'd that day
Of desolation, when upon the stair
Sounded the grating footsteps of strange men,
The sable-suited myrmidons of Death,
Coming to bear away that silent form
And hide it from the watching of wet eyes.
Geoffrey was sitting in the shrouded room,
Gazing with haggard eyes and bloodless lips
On the sweet face of what was Constance once—
As one entranced, he scarcely realized
This new and terrible calamity;
But when he heard strange voices in the house,
Guessing their ghastly meaning, from his breast
Escaped a stifled groan of agony,
And all his soul in startled consciousness
Awoke to know the greatest of all griefs
Had fall'n upon him; then he wildly cried—
He look'd towards the cradle, where the babe
With upturn'd face of lily fairness, slept
The sleep of innocence; in vain he strove
To trace some likeness to his buried love
In those impassive features, scarcely yet
Deserving such a name;—the fast closed eyes
Wanting as yet the mother's silken fringe
Of curling eyelashes on either lid—
The open mouth, a tiny triangle,
He bent to kiss, but tho' he seem'd to breathe
The perfume of the blue starch-hyacinth,
Yet nothing met the longing of his lips
Of her—his wife—the mother of his child!
Then, half in anger with the helpless cause
Of his chang'd life, and wholly in despair,
He cover'd with his hands his haggard face
And knew the bitterest of human griefs.
And so they buried Constance out of sight,
And Geoffrey Denzil never saw again
His darling's face; but he remembers her
As last he saw her; scatter'd all around
Her sleeping form, the scented southern flow'rs,
The single rose, and double violet,
And mignionette, and bright anemone,
And in her hand she held a faded wreath
Of English evergreens—box, laurel, fir,
And one dark spray of sad funereal yew
To which a single shrivell'd berry clung,—
These were the leaves that Constance gather'd once
Before she quitted silent Denzil Place,
Whereon her husband read her written words—
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden; to be kept for evermore.”
And so he laid them there, that, if indeed
That sleeping form should ever rise from death
(As she believ'd,) and soar triumphantly
To other brighter realms, she then should find
On waking into glorious second life,
This little faded memory of earth
Still clinging to her pale unfolding hand,
And like her, maybe, re-awakening
To life and freshness; so that, 'midst the flow'rs
Of Heaven's garden, some soft falling seed,
(Perchance the little shrivell'd yew-berry,)
From these sad sprays of Earth, translated thus,
Might, taking root, uprise and bloom again,
Reminding one amongst the seraph-band
Of those faint, fleeting moments pass'd and gone,
When she had lov'd, and wander'd 'neath the shade
Amongst the haunted groves of Denzil Place.
Thus, a faint spark, if left at liberty
To nestle in the hollow of an oak,
May gently light a beacon in its heart,
Or leave a mark upon the glowing wood—
Whilst up towards heav'n the evanescent flame
Will die in smoke, so soft, and blue, and vague,
It seems beyond belief so faint a thing
Could leave so deep a trace upon the tree!
Thus thro' the years, the father looking back,
The little daughter full of child-like hope,—
Strangers in thought, yet by a mutual love
Uniting hearts, together hand in hand,
These two walked on towards the hoped-for Heaven.

CONCLUSION.

The other day, in somewhat pensive mood,
I saunter'd down a dusty Sussex lane
Late in the afternoon; the sun was hot,
And tho' the road was shaded by the oaks
In the off-lying hedgerows near the park,
Yet still I long'd for those intenser shades
I saw afar, between the iron gates
Of Denzil Place, (for I had sought the scene
Of this sad simple story, and could see
The woods of Denzil Place and Farleigh Court,)
But ere I reach'd the tempting tangled shade
I heard the clattering of coming steeds,
And round the tufted angle of the lane
A youth and maiden suddenly appear'd
Beaming with life and laughter. As they pass'd
I watch'd them curiously, for both of them
Were beautiful, and something made me feel
A deeper interest than e'er inspired
The sight of any other youth or maid.
So this fair being with the golden hair
Was Violet Denzil, born in Italy,
The child of Love and Beauty! and the youth
Was that brave handsome boy who used to romp
And ramble with his lovely stepmother
Thro' fields and woodlands in the years gone by;
And they would marry, (so the parson thought,
And who should be so good a judge as he,
Who doubtless had wise reasons for such thought?)
Ah, here, if marriage of the young and fair,—
If blooming cheeks and lovely sunny head,
Wedding with brave brown eyes and stalwart frame
And manly heart, e'er promised happiness,
Then should these two, who like some glowing dream
Of Prince and Princess in a fairy-tale,
So gaily gallopp'd past me, on the road
To Life and Love; then should these two be bless'd
With ev'ry earthly good;—around their knees
May happy children laugh and sport in glee,
And children's children, in the after years—
Good little Geoffreys and fair Constances,
Who must not sin like naughty grandpapa,
Or pretty grandmama, who died so young,
And whose sweet picture, in a muslin dress
“With coral-color'd sash and shady hat,
And looking like an angel,” they will see
Hanging within the walls of Denzil Place.

EPILOGUE.

I lay aside my pen,—my story ends,
“Of some few years in some few English lives;”
Warning of evils wrought by bosom friends
To some few English husbands and their wives,—
A simple story—unimprov'd by rhymes,
And unembellish'd with that mystic glow
Which hovers o'er the tales of olden times,
The chivalresque romaunts of long ago.
Yet I would say, to compensate for this,
(Had but my Constance lov'd the man she ought,
And had my Geoffrey's been a lawful kiss,)
That I had felt and understood each thought
Portray'd in them; and that they liv'd and mov'd
And had their being outside the gilded rim
Of this poor book, and that they sinn'd and lov'd,
And that in truth I knew both her and him.—
Or wholly in the flesh, or as, may be,
A sculptor recognises, blent in one
From many models borrow'd, arm or knee
Or rounded throat or bosom;—and the sun
Has shone in very truth on ev'ry scene
My humble pen has striven to portray,
And Denzil Place and Farleigh Court have been
With all their inmates, and I know the day
When Constance first saw Geoffrey Denzil ride
Thro' long arcades of evergreens, and when
She knelt in love and anguish by his side
And told him all her aching heart knew then.
Not by these names were known this erring pair,
(Nor yet that injured husband, kind and old)—
But he was human, she alas, was fair—
And ‘good Sir Johns’ are always manifold.
You search in vain for moral or advice—
For flow'ry language,—complicated plot,—
Or cunning metaphor, or neat and nice
And pointed epigram,—you find them not
I tremble for my reader's kind good will,
And hang a bashful head, yet seem to see
(No doubt with partial eyes,) a moral still
Which lingers here, if only seen by me.
Poor Constance was not born so bad and base
As needs must seem a guilty faithless wife,
And had her heart been harder, or her face
Less fair, she might have liv'd a blameless life.
She was the eager champion of the poor,
And Denzil was her helper in the cause,
High were their motives, and their conduct pure,
And if his soul despised our human laws
It was because they seem'd less just and true
Than those that he had fashion'd as his own,—
He would have form'd a new religion, too,
E'en better,—broader,—than this present one.
He did not forge, as weapon to obtain
His evil purpose, any cunning scheme
Such as some men have form'd, who wish'd to gain
The love of other women,—for his dream
Had been to veil his idol in the shrine
His love and reverence had rais'd on high,
And worship her as tho' a thing divine
Almost too sacred for the human eye
To light upon;—whilst she had seen with grief
In him the signs of a persistent will
To war against all orthodox belief,
Yet hoped, with patience, to convert him still,
So sought his side, nor ever miss'd the chance
Of tender word of counsel, wise and strong
Beyond her years, or sweet reproachful glance
At any word or action seeming wrong.
No naughty novels did my Geoffrey lend,—
No Ernest Feydeaus, and no Paul de Kocks,
He was the “working man of England's friend”
And talk'd of Progress whilst she knitted socks,
'Twas thus they fell . . . . . ! E'en as they sagely plann'd
The reformation of the human kind,
They saw their boasted bulwarks blown as sand
At the remorseless mercy of the wind!
“Captain or Colonel, Knight, or man-at-arms”
So may you fall, whilst gazing at the sky,
Blind to the many dangers and alarms
Which close beside you in your pathway lie!
And you, fair lady, who could never err
Save from your beauty, or your ‘melting mood’
Which dreads all cruelty,—be warn'd by her
And be a little cruel to be good!
She did not fall from love of deadly sin,
Nor did her breast for guilty pleasures glow,
And pure had been the heart that beat within,
Save for her fatal fear of saying “no.”
But ah, forgive her! in the coming years
She cannot cross your path, or cause your cheek
To blush for her delinquencies,—her tears
Are dried for ever, and her voice will speak
To Geoffrey Denzil not one loving word
Of all the many he remembers yet,
Nor is her fairy footfall ever heard
Now or for ever;—so forgive, forget
Her many faults and failings, she is dead,
And many miss her, and would fain recall
Her and her frailties, and would e'en, instead,
Exaggerate her virtues:—faults and all
Some foolish people lov'd her. She is gone
Like this sad autumn day, of which the hue
Suits well this landscape;—all the sculptured stone
Of these two Denzil dragons, wet with dew
Is glist'ning from a newly risen moon
Charming the hazy distance 'neath her reign
Of silv'ry sad enchantment. Very soon
Thro' ev'ry quaint Elizabethan pane
Glimmers a twinkling light. Farewell old home!
Old house with windows looking like the eyes
Of some old friend, who smiles at those who come
And sighs for those who go;—but mostly sighs
For her who never more will come or go,
And never more may look upon thy face!
Farewell sad witness of her shame and woe,
Farewell to Constance and to Denzil Place.