Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
 |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
 | Denzil place |  |
153
VIII.
“Quan presto se va el placer,
Como despues de acordado
Da dolor;
Como, al nuestro parecer,
Qualquiera tiempo pasado
Fué mejor.”
Spanish Song.
Como despues de acordado
Da dolor;
Como, al nuestro parecer,
Qualquiera tiempo pasado
Fué mejor.”
Spanish Song.
“Comme on n'est jamais en liberté d'aimer ou de cesser
d'aimer, l'amant ne peut se plaindre avec justice de l'inconstance
de sa maîtresse, ni elle de la légèreté de son amant.”
La Rochefoucauld.
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.
154
Dawn the familiar objects; gradually
The doubtful, semi-dormant mind renews
Its old impressions, by the contrast made
Terribly sharp, expressive and distinct.
To Constance came this slow awakening
As from the past experience of a soul
Toss'd into port from some mysterious sea,
Quick-sanded, and of dangerous ebb and flow—
She look'd around, and saw the well-known room,
Her little bed within its arch'd alcove—
The painted chimney-board, and on a chair
She saw a pray'r book and a rosary
And the blue over-garment of a Nun—
A plate of oranges, some fresh cut flow'rs—
A heap of needle-work she noticed next—
And then the tall geranium-tree that climb'd
Up half the house, look'd thro' the window-pane
And nodded its red head, and seem'd to say
“Good morning! welcome back again to Life
And sunshine!”
As from the past experience of a soul
Toss'd into port from some mysterious sea,
Quick-sanded, and of dangerous ebb and flow—
She look'd around, and saw the well-known room,
Her little bed within its arch'd alcove—
The painted chimney-board, and on a chair
She saw a pray'r book and a rosary
And the blue over-garment of a Nun—
A plate of oranges, some fresh cut flow'rs—
A heap of needle-work she noticed next—
And then the tall geranium-tree that climb'd
Up half the house, look'd thro' the window-pane
And nodded its red head, and seem'd to say
“Good morning! welcome back again to Life
And sunshine!”
Thro' the folding-doors ajar,
Which led into the little sitting-room,
She saw a bending form, and recognised
Sister Theresa's pallid pensive face—
Beside the open window at her work
She sat, her busy needle up and down
Plied without ceasing, whilst a moted beam
Of golden sunshine falling on her head,
Liken'd her to those pale prë-Rafaelite
Pictures of suff'ring saints, which seem to waft
A faint, sad, odour of asceticism
Down to these striving, money-making days
In which we live. Then, when her wand'ring eyes
Had seen the sister, with a gentle sigh
As of contentment, Constance turn'd aside
And fell into a quiet dreamless sleep.
Which led into the little sitting-room,
155
Sister Theresa's pallid pensive face—
Beside the open window at her work
She sat, her busy needle up and down
Plied without ceasing, whilst a moted beam
Of golden sunshine falling on her head,
Liken'd her to those pale prë-Rafaelite
Pictures of suff'ring saints, which seem to waft
A faint, sad, odour of asceticism
Down to these striving, money-making days
In which we live. Then, when her wand'ring eyes
Had seen the sister, with a gentle sigh
As of contentment, Constance turn'd aside
And fell into a quiet dreamless sleep.
Dreamless—yet often did she seem to feel
The vague and half-acknowledged influence
Of fond eyes looking at her whilst she slept,
Shedding on her their kind caressing beams.
And now and then, she saw upon the wall
The shadow of the Sister as she work'd,
Or leaning o'er her, list'ning if she breathed
Calmly and quietly, and once she thought
She heard some whisper'd words in that dear voice
She dared not ever hope to hear again
Save in such waking dreams.
The vague and half-acknowledged influence
Of fond eyes looking at her whilst she slept,
Shedding on her their kind caressing beams.
And now and then, she saw upon the wall
The shadow of the Sister as she work'd,
Or leaning o'er her, list'ning if she breathed
Calmly and quietly, and once she thought
She heard some whisper'd words in that dear voice
156
Save in such waking dreams.
Thus, half asleep
She floated on the quiet sun-lit hours
Back into life. The Sister rais'd her head
With propping pillows, read to her, and talk'd,
And told her stories of Italian life:
As thus the Nun was tending her one day
She fell asleep, and waking up refresh'd
As with returning strength, she softly rose,
Half dress'd herself, and looking in the glass
Miss'd her long auburn hair, and met a face
Looking like that of some sweet southern boy
With tender dreamy eyes, and curling hair
Cut closely round the little classic head.
She thought Theresa would be glad to see
She floated on the quiet sun-lit hours
Back into life. The Sister rais'd her head
With propping pillows, read to her, and talk'd,
And told her stories of Italian life:
As thus the Nun was tending her one day
She fell asleep, and waking up refresh'd
As with returning strength, she softly rose,
Half dress'd herself, and looking in the glass
Miss'd her long auburn hair, and met a face
Looking like that of some sweet southern boy
With tender dreamy eyes, and curling hair
Cut closely round the little classic head.
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
157
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.
She look'd, and all her re-awaken'd being
Flung to the winds its languid apathy,
Whilst all the blood in her impassive veins
Hasten'd tumultuously once more to warm
Her faded cheeks; for, looking out to sea
And seeming dark against its blue expanse
Framed by the flower-cover'd window-sill,
Sat Geoffrey Denzil, leaning on his hand
As plunged in thought.
Flung to the winds its languid apathy,
Whilst all the blood in her impassive veins
Hasten'd tumultuously once more to warm
Her faded cheeks; for, looking out to sea
And seeming dark against its blue expanse
Framed by the flower-cover'd window-sill,
Sat Geoffrey Denzil, leaning on his hand
As plunged in thought.
With wild impatient eyes
She gazed on him who seem'd the 'live response
To those uncertain visions, which the night
Of Nature and of Reason had reveal'd
To her unquiet mind. Yes, there alone
He waited silently: she thought his face
Look'd older and more haggard than of yore,
Its features somewhat harder, and the lines
Which time or care had traced upon his brow
Seem'd written now in plainer characters.
As Constance look'd, she noted ev'ry turn
Of form and feature; Denzil's proud sad face
(The face she knew, and lov'd, alas, so well!)
Turn'd half aside, away from where she stood,
Showing the outline of his haughty brow,
His sunburnt cheek, and little pointed beard,
Resembled much that portrait of Van Dyke
Which the great master painted of himself,
Or even more those gallant cavaliers
Whose pictures deck'd the walls of Denzil Place.
158
To those uncertain visions, which the night
Of Nature and of Reason had reveal'd
To her unquiet mind. Yes, there alone
He waited silently: she thought his face
Look'd older and more haggard than of yore,
Its features somewhat harder, and the lines
Which time or care had traced upon his brow
Seem'd written now in plainer characters.
As Constance look'd, she noted ev'ry turn
Of form and feature; Denzil's proud sad face
(The face she knew, and lov'd, alas, so well!)
Turn'd half aside, away from where she stood,
Showing the outline of his haughty brow,
His sunburnt cheek, and little pointed beard,
Resembled much that portrait of Van Dyke
Which the great master painted of himself,
Or even more those gallant cavaliers
Whose pictures deck'd the walls of Denzil Place.
Constance, with all a woman's instinct, guess'd
That this was not the first and only time
That Geoffrey Denzil, looking at the sea,
Had watched and waited near her all the day,
Hoping for happy tidings ev'ry morn
And sadly leaving, when the ev'ning light
Flush'd all the changeful Mediterranean,
The house where hover'd on the brink of death
The woman whom he lov'd:
That this was not the first and only time
That Geoffrey Denzil, looking at the sea,
Had watched and waited near her all the day,
159
And sadly leaving, when the ev'ning light
Flush'd all the changeful Mediterranean,
The house where hover'd on the brink of death
The woman whom he lov'd:
She truly guess'd;
The peasants beating with their staves and canes
The purple berries from the olive-boughs,
Had often paus'd and watch'd with curious eyes
The figure of the tall young Englishman,
Who hasten'd ev'ry morning from the town
Towards the painted Villa Belvedere.
Arrested by no obstacle, he strode
O'er outspread olive-sheets, and often left
His footprints in the drying golden grains
Of Indian corn. Or, Briton-like, he leapt
Each rugged wall or pointed aloe-hedge
Which separated garden-grounds or groves
Of olive and of orange.
The peasants beating with their staves and canes
The purple berries from the olive-boughs,
Had often paus'd and watch'd with curious eyes
The figure of the tall young Englishman,
Who hasten'd ev'ry morning from the town
Towards the painted Villa Belvedere.
Arrested by no obstacle, he strode
O'er outspread olive-sheets, and often left
His footprints in the drying golden grains
Of Indian corn. Or, Briton-like, he leapt
Each rugged wall or pointed aloe-hedge
Which separated garden-grounds or groves
Of olive and of orange.
Well they knew
That either love, or some absorbing grief
Impell'd him thus, and for his handsome face
And careworn look, they smilingly forgave
His indiscriminating disregard
Of property or landmark. Ah, those days
Were days indeed of bitterness to him!
'Twas little wonder if his anxious face
Bore trace of all his spirit underwent
During this cruel time! Amongst his hair
(Had Constance follow'd blindly the advice
Of her impetuous heart, and with her arms
Encircled that dear head,) she would have seen
How many subtle little silver threads
Were coiled and intermingled with the brown,
For love of her!
That either love, or some absorbing grief
Impell'd him thus, and for his handsome face
And careworn look, they smilingly forgave
His indiscriminating disregard
160
Were days indeed of bitterness to him!
'Twas little wonder if his anxious face
Bore trace of all his spirit underwent
During this cruel time! Amongst his hair
(Had Constance follow'd blindly the advice
Of her impetuous heart, and with her arms
Encircled that dear head,) she would have seen
How many subtle little silver threads
Were coiled and intermingled with the brown,
For love of her!
“For her!” Ah, reader, thou
Who with thy chaste and disapproving eye
May'st deign to read this simple history,
“Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove,”
Let not the voice of thine immaculate heart
Go forth to judge my hapless heroine
Who was not fashion'd of that sterner stuff,
Fit to pursue the undeviating path
Of perfect wisdom! Surely to resist
With such an impulse tearing at her heart
Must prove at least she was not always weak;
So, pretty prude, read on, nor skip the page
Whereon no tale of amorous interview
Will cause thy gentle cheek to wear a blush,
For Constance, almost fearful as thyself,
Found strength to close the double folding-doors
As a defence against her guilty heart
And Geoffrey Denzil.
Who with thy chaste and disapproving eye
May'st deign to read this simple history,
“Wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove,”
Let not the voice of thine immaculate heart
Go forth to judge my hapless heroine
Who was not fashion'd of that sterner stuff,
Fit to pursue the undeviating path
Of perfect wisdom! Surely to resist
With such an impulse tearing at her heart
Must prove at least she was not always weak;
So, pretty prude, read on, nor skip the page
Whereon no tale of amorous interview
161
For Constance, almost fearful as thyself,
Found strength to close the double folding-doors
As a defence against her guilty heart
And Geoffrey Denzil.
As he quickly turn'd
He only saw a flutt'ring muslin fold
Which somehow seem'd entangled in the door,
And then a wan white hesitating hand
Withdrew what might have been a flag of truce
To the reluctant warfare he had waged
For many weary days against his heart.
Thus Constance could be strong, and cruel too—
He only saw a flutt'ring muslin fold
Which somehow seem'd entangled in the door,
And then a wan white hesitating hand
Withdrew what might have been a flag of truce
To the reluctant warfare he had waged
For many weary days against his heart.
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.
When the Sister came
She found poor Constance with a flutt'ring heart
And tearful eyes. “When did he come?” she ask'd,
“Ah, what avails to try and do the right
“And flee away from evil! For to me
“The earth contains not two more terrible things
“Than, or to see him or to see him not!
“Oh, tell me! did he come and seek me here
“Or did you guess my heart and send for him?
“He is the very dearest thing to me
“In all the world, and yet we are not wed!
“He liv'd quite near us in our country home—
“We used to wander in the summer woods
“And walk together thro' the rustling leaves
“Of Autumn; in the dismal winter days
“I long'd for light and warmth, and turn'd to him
“And seem'd to find them both;—he made the Spring
“Seem greener, fresher, and more full of hope—
“With him, each thing in nature grew to be
“More beautiful, and guessing not the cause,
“I let the days go by as in a dream—
“My husband was the kindest of old men—
“He trusted me too well, and then at last
“One day I found myself a guilty thing
“And so it happen'd.” . . . .
She found poor Constance with a flutt'ring heart
And tearful eyes. “When did he come?” she ask'd,
162
“And flee away from evil! For to me
“The earth contains not two more terrible things
“Than, or to see him or to see him not!
“Oh, tell me! did he come and seek me here
“Or did you guess my heart and send for him?
“He is the very dearest thing to me
“In all the world, and yet we are not wed!
“He liv'd quite near us in our country home—
“We used to wander in the summer woods
“And walk together thro' the rustling leaves
“Of Autumn; in the dismal winter days
“I long'd for light and warmth, and turn'd to him
“And seem'd to find them both;—he made the Spring
“Seem greener, fresher, and more full of hope—
“With him, each thing in nature grew to be
“More beautiful, and guessing not the cause,
“I let the days go by as in a dream—
“My husband was the kindest of old men—
“He trusted me too well, and then at last
“One day I found myself a guilty thing
“And so it happen'd.” . . . .
Then Theresa sigh'd
And said that often in the wicked world
Like tragedies occurred. “You are so help'd
“By ev'rything around you, to incline
“To Folly and to Sin; e'en you yourself
“Half charge the fields and flowers with your fault
“And hold the forest trees responsible,—
“But what of laughter, song, and merriment,
“The blaze of lights,—and music and the dance—
“The dress invented but to charm the eye?”
“It may be often thus,” Constance replied,
“But not with us, dear Sister; true we lov'd—
“But our's no mushroom-fancy in one night
“Forced into life; nor was our's sudden love
“Dancing to pleasant sound of pandean pipes
“And dying with the music;—when I die
“And not till then, will die in me this beam
“Off-shot from heav'n—this music of the spheres!
“Nay—I, alas, can plead no such excuse,
“For in almost as pure an atmosphere
“As that wherein you say your daily pray'rs,
“And summon'd by no more seductive strain
“Than the clear tolling of your convent bell,
“Sprang into life my fatal love for him.
“You are so good—you cannot understand—
“Ah, Sister, Love—than all the seven sins,
“Is surely far more difficult to quell!”
And said that often in the wicked world
163
“By ev'rything around you, to incline
“To Folly and to Sin; e'en you yourself
“Half charge the fields and flowers with your fault
“And hold the forest trees responsible,—
“But what of laughter, song, and merriment,
“The blaze of lights,—and music and the dance—
“The dress invented but to charm the eye?”
“It may be often thus,” Constance replied,
“But not with us, dear Sister; true we lov'd—
“But our's no mushroom-fancy in one night
“Forced into life; nor was our's sudden love
“Dancing to pleasant sound of pandean pipes
“And dying with the music;—when I die
“And not till then, will die in me this beam
“Off-shot from heav'n—this music of the spheres!
“Nay—I, alas, can plead no such excuse,
“For in almost as pure an atmosphere
“As that wherein you say your daily pray'rs,
“And summon'd by no more seductive strain
“Than the clear tolling of your convent bell,
“Sprang into life my fatal love for him.
“You are so good—you cannot understand—
164
“Is surely far more difficult to quell!”
Theresa answer'd that she was not good
But a mere erring woman like herself—
Who had at last been led into the fold
Of the Good Shepherd.
But a mere erring woman like herself—
Who had at last been led into the fold
Of the Good Shepherd.
“Women deem they love,”
She added, “But their love is writ on sand,
“To fade before the first encroaching wave
“Which sweeps away the letters, and the place
“Once fair and smooth again, they trace straightway
“Another name, which still another wave
“Will kiss to death.”
She added, “But their love is writ on sand,
“To fade before the first encroaching wave
“Which sweeps away the letters, and the place
“Once fair and smooth again, they trace straightway
“Another name, which still another wave
“Will kiss to death.”
“Ah, cruel metaphor!”
Sigh'd Constance with a shudder. “Waves may come
“And men may come and go with changing forms,
“But in the world, to all eternity
“There lives one man—one only name to me!”
Sigh'd Constance with a shudder. “Waves may come
“And men may come and go with changing forms,
“But in the world, to all eternity
“There lives one man—one only name to me!”
“Ah, ‘souvent femme varie,’” replied the Nun,
“But in this happy household where I dwell,
“(Where you may dwell if God vouchsafes you grace,)
“We serve one Master only, and admit
“Of no allegiance which is split in two—
“(You know the text—and how we may not serve
“Both God and Mammon.) What is earthly love?
“How can a passing passion take the guise
“And ape the majesty of higher things?
“We men and women are but floating straws
“On the inevitable stream of Destiny—
“We love not whom we would, and oft the heart
“Resists its fetters, but of what avail?
“Some secret current, such as will impel
“Two of these said poor straws to cling together,
“(United by the circlet of a bubble
“Which breaks and frees them lower down the stream)
“Inclines our human hearts to him or her,
“Or all as surely breaks the brittle bands
“Binding our fickle natures! Ere I sought
“This happy solitude, I knew the world,
“I heard Love spoken of, and did not shun
“The mention of his name; but I have liv'd
“And learnt, and I am older far than you,
“Ah, Love is bitterness! I had a friend . . . .
“One I knew well when I was of the world—
“And could I prove to you by her sad fate
“The little worth of all our human loves—
“The heart's unparalleled inconstancy—
“I would relate to you her history.”
“I wait to hear it,” Constance sadly said,
“And wish, indeed, you could invent some tale
“To teach me fickleness!”
“But in this happy household where I dwell,
“(Where you may dwell if God vouchsafes you grace,)
“We serve one Master only, and admit
165
“(You know the text—and how we may not serve
“Both God and Mammon.) What is earthly love?
“How can a passing passion take the guise
“And ape the majesty of higher things?
“We men and women are but floating straws
“On the inevitable stream of Destiny—
“We love not whom we would, and oft the heart
“Resists its fetters, but of what avail?
“Some secret current, such as will impel
“Two of these said poor straws to cling together,
“(United by the circlet of a bubble
“Which breaks and frees them lower down the stream)
“Inclines our human hearts to him or her,
“Or all as surely breaks the brittle bands
“Binding our fickle natures! Ere I sought
“This happy solitude, I knew the world,
“I heard Love spoken of, and did not shun
“The mention of his name; but I have liv'd
“And learnt, and I am older far than you,
“Ah, Love is bitterness! I had a friend . . . .
“One I knew well when I was of the world—
“And could I prove to you by her sad fate
“The little worth of all our human loves—
166
“I would relate to you her history.”
“I wait to hear it,” Constance sadly said,
“And wish, indeed, you could invent some tale
“To teach me fickleness!”
Then said the Nun—
“A lady lov'd, and oftentimes she sigh'd
“To one who courted her on English soil,
“‘Alas, maybe I could have lov'd you once—
“‘But now too late! too late! it cannot be!
“‘My heart is far away in Hindostan
“‘Where braving for my sake the double ills
“‘Of heat and cold (the cold is at his heart
“‘For loss of me!) my lover toils to gain
“‘The gold with which to win me from the hands
“‘Of sordid parents,’ as she spoke one day,
“Open'd the door, and with a startled cry
“She fell upon the Anglo-Indian's breast
“Before that other man who lov'd her well—
“Then all her friends rejoiced, and she was wed,
“And he who lov'd her fled across the seas
“Unknown to her, in grief and bitterness;
“And she, too hurried almost, to reflect,
“Prepared to journey to that distant land
“To which her husband ow'd his growing wealth.
“Then all went well at first—amused she watch'd
“The curious elements of Indian life—
“And whilst she moved and journey'd all went well
“For at her heart there was an aching pain
“She sought to kill by constant restlessness
“And change of scene—and so the days went by;
“But when she came to Trichinopoly
“(One short day's journey from her future home,)
“She said to him (her husband,) ‘Leave me here,
“‘My sad, sad heart is broken—let me die—
“‘I lov'd the man I would not own I lov'd—
“‘You were so long away—I pray'd for you—
“‘I said so often that I lov'd you well
“‘I ended by believing what I said—
“‘Oh, curse me! put me from you! let me go!
“‘I cannot lie at night so near your heart
“‘When I am dreaming of that other man!’
“Her husband heard her—he was stern and cold,
“An Indian judge, (tho' in his secret heart
“Methinks he was in favour of Suttee,
“So firmly did he deem the marriage-tie
“Bound women to their lords in life and death!)
“He did as she desired—for, cursing her,
“He put her from him, and he let her go
“Back to the land where last she saw the man
“She really lov'd. Prepared to weather storms
“And bear for him disgrace and poverty—
“Prepared for him to live a life of sin
“So she might see his face and make it glad—
“She thus return'd; but with her reach'd the shore
“The tidings of an English victory,
“And then she heard how on Crimean heights
“This man she lov'd, and came to seek, had fall'n
“Fighting at Alma. Naught to her remain'd,
“The heart within her bosom seem'd to die—
“She forthwith said good-bye to all the world
“And took the vows of a poor Sisterhood
“As I have done.”
“A lady lov'd, and oftentimes she sigh'd
“To one who courted her on English soil,
“‘Alas, maybe I could have lov'd you once—
“‘But now too late! too late! it cannot be!
“‘My heart is far away in Hindostan
“‘Where braving for my sake the double ills
“‘Of heat and cold (the cold is at his heart
“‘For loss of me!) my lover toils to gain
“‘The gold with which to win me from the hands
“‘Of sordid parents,’ as she spoke one day,
“Open'd the door, and with a startled cry
“She fell upon the Anglo-Indian's breast
“Before that other man who lov'd her well—
“Then all her friends rejoiced, and she was wed,
“And he who lov'd her fled across the seas
“Unknown to her, in grief and bitterness;
“And she, too hurried almost, to reflect,
“Prepared to journey to that distant land
167
“Then all went well at first—amused she watch'd
“The curious elements of Indian life—
“And whilst she moved and journey'd all went well
“For at her heart there was an aching pain
“She sought to kill by constant restlessness
“And change of scene—and so the days went by;
“But when she came to Trichinopoly
“(One short day's journey from her future home,)
“She said to him (her husband,) ‘Leave me here,
“‘My sad, sad heart is broken—let me die—
“‘I lov'd the man I would not own I lov'd—
“‘You were so long away—I pray'd for you—
“‘I said so often that I lov'd you well
“‘I ended by believing what I said—
“‘Oh, curse me! put me from you! let me go!
“‘I cannot lie at night so near your heart
“‘When I am dreaming of that other man!’
“Her husband heard her—he was stern and cold,
“An Indian judge, (tho' in his secret heart
“Methinks he was in favour of Suttee,
“So firmly did he deem the marriage-tie
“Bound women to their lords in life and death!)
“He did as she desired—for, cursing her,
168
“Back to the land where last she saw the man
“She really lov'd. Prepared to weather storms
“And bear for him disgrace and poverty—
“Prepared for him to live a life of sin
“So she might see his face and make it glad—
“She thus return'd; but with her reach'd the shore
“The tidings of an English victory,
“And then she heard how on Crimean heights
“This man she lov'd, and came to seek, had fall'n
“Fighting at Alma. Naught to her remain'd,
“The heart within her bosom seem'd to die—
“She forthwith said good-bye to all the world
“And took the vows of a poor Sisterhood
“As I have done.”
The tears were in her eyes
And Constance turn'd away to hide her own,
“So now she is a Nun,” she said, “like you—
“I pity her—and almost understand
“Her history—yet fear this heart of mine
“Is floating on a less uncertain sea—
“I dread that I shall love him till I die.”
And Constance turn'd away to hide her own,
“So now she is a Nun,” she said, “like you—
“I pity her—and almost understand
“Her history—yet fear this heart of mine
“Is floating on a less uncertain sea—
“I dread that I shall love him till I die.”
| Denzil place | |