University of Virginia Library

After they left, she sat a little while,
Now brooding thoughtful, now with flickering smile
Playing about her lips, and in her eyes,
As the flame flickered in the fire likewise,
And leaped up in the curling smoke, or lay
Over the coal and purred itself away.
Thus she a while to happy fancies yielding
A willing tribute of sweet castle-building,
Saw in the gleaming coal a hero strong,
And a fond lover, and a blissful throng
Of varied circumstance and generous life,
When maiden blossom fruited into wife;
Till looking up, behold an hour had passed!
And wondering how the time had flown so fast,
She wondered on a little more, to know
If still the happy clock as quick would go
When fancies grew to facts, and she should be
All that the fire had pictured curiously;
Then starting up, went tripping down the stair,
Singing with cheerful heart a lightsome air—
A lightsome air about the gallant lad,
Who fired the heather with his white cockade.

High beauty her's: a face as marble white,
Shaded with glossy braids as black as night,
But full of health, and clear intelligence,
And cultured grace, and woman's delicate sense.
A noble, generous spirit, meet to be
The helpmeet of a noble destiny,
Strong in all duty, in ambition high,
Open in thought, and broad in sympathy,
With nothing little, save the little ways
Which brighten home, and are a woman's praise.

All day she had been teaching in the school,
And still at night, though weary of the rule
Of noisy mirth and sullen dulness, she
Had work to do, and did it cheerfully—
Training deft fingers to the finest chords,
And wedding the flute-voice to liquid words
Of Scottish song, or German lieder good,
Or roundelay of France for gayer mood.
She had the artist soul and artist voice,
And in the gift of song she would rejoice
As doth the skylark trilling forth its lay
At learly dawn and noon and close of day.
Thus giving lessons in the evening, she
Lightened home cares by that loved industry.

A bright young girl, as glad as summer air,
A laughing rosy girl, with sunny hair
That loosely rayed about a joyous face
Like a gold glory, tripped with winsome grace
About her room, when Milly entered singing,
And picked a letter up, and gaily flinging
It to the ceiling, caught it as it fell,
And danced about, and tossed it high and well.

“A letter, a letter, Miss Milly, a letter!
Now don't stiffen up so, as if you knew better
Than to care for a letter that's all about you—
Such a wonderful letter, and every word true!
And it makes you a lady—but you're that, dear, already—
But it makes you out clearly a something that's nearly
As good as a Princess, my own Cinderella,
Who trots every night, with that horrid umbrella,
Through the sleet and the slush to poor me who am nothing
But a commonplace lassie with nought of romance.
But I always felt sure that you went home to dance
With the beautiful Prince who was fuming and frothing
Till you came to the ball: and now it's all true!
And it's all in the letter that's all about you,
Which came to my father this evening, and he
Wished you to read it, and gave it to me.”

And Milly read the letter, all amazed,
Now and then wondering if her wits were dazed,
And if she read aright; then read again,
The double reading doubling all her pain.

It came from Lawyer in a country town
To Lawyer in the city, and set down
The facts in business order, plain and clear;
How in our quiet glens a lady here
Died somewhat suddenly not long agone,
And left estates unto an only son.
They were not hers by right, and yet by law
Her title was most sure, without a flaw;
Freely she might enjoy them while she breathed,
Freely she might bequeath them, as bequeathed.
He knew the facts, for he had drawn the will,
And Austen Lyell's claim was good as skill
Could frame a legal deed to sanction wrong,
And rob the orphan, which had grieved him long;
Yet had he only done as he was bound,
Giving his clients valid law and sound.
Now at the funeral this son went mad,
Insulted kith and kin, was wholly bad;
Mocked at the minister, and laughed at Heaven,
Was barely civil to his lawyer even,
And gathered all the rogues and beggars near
To eat the feast made for his mother's bier:
Inexplicable, unless of reason reft.
Then on the morrow afterwards he left,
No orders given, no charge to anyone,
No single duty of a landlord done;
Nor had they since heard from him. He was seen,
Indeed, that morning on the hillside green
Beside a lonesome tarn, and for some days
Walked with a gipsy poacher in wild ways,
Thigging and sorning. They had dragged the mere
And found enough to make his madness clear—
The Hall-keys in a bunch, rusty and brown,
Also the Will that made the place his own,
Which no sane man could leave in such a place;
But of himself they had not any trace.
Some thought him dead, but most believed him mad,
Some held it a good riddance, others sad;
However that might be, he had to say
The next heir, who was true heir, went away
Twenty odd years ago, and had been wed
To Gerald Gaunt, and both of them were dead,
But there were children; so, at least, 'twas said.
Now, would the city lawyer look about,
And make inquiries, and resolve the doubt?
Were Austen dead, they were the next of kin;
If mad, as he believed, from pride and sin,
They would have rights to see to, and the Trust
Would charge itself with what was right and just:
The lands were good, and free from bond and debt,
And some loose monies too there were to get;
Could he but find the children any way
Of Gerald Gaunt and Borland's “Bonnie May.”

She closed the letter with a moan of pain:
His name was there, and burned into her brain,—
His name, who was her secret glory and pride;
And yet she could not say he was belied,
And cast the misery from her, as the Saint
Shook off the poisonous viper; she was faint,
And sick at heart, and rose, and said, “Good-night;
These are strange tidings, and my head seems light.”

“How could he? Oh, how could he?” still she said,
“My dream of life is gone, my hope is dead,
Torn like the honey-bag from humble bee,
Nought left me but a short, sharp agony.
How could he?—And my brother loved him so,
So trusted him in all of weal or woe,
So held him stainless of ignoble thought,
The truest friend that ever true life brought!—
Oh, it is not the loss of heritage
That makes life poor; it is that, stage by stage,
Some leave us with a lessening faith in man,
And less of love than when our life began,
Till one day all our shining heaven shall tell
But how the stars once shone, and how they fell.
How could he?—And I held him hero true,
Trained by the age for what the age must do,
Full of its spirit, loyal to its hopes,
And past the stage in which it only gropes;
A man whom God had ready, when they say,
Where is the Leader who shall guide our way?
I thought that truth and right was all he craved,
And that for truth and right all risks he braved,
And that he had a noble wisdom proved;
And so I loved him—but 'twas this I loved.
How could he? Oh, how could he?” still she said,
“My dream of life is gone, my hope is dead.”

And so when they came jesting up the stair,
And, tickled with quaint fancies, even there
A moment paused to let their mirth explode,
Their laughter jarred on her, and made her load
Press on the sore, till of the sore were born
Some bitter thoughts, and biting words of scorn.

Sure, of a sudden, they were wondrous merry;
She had not thought such grief could be so cheery
In so short space; but 'twas a healthy power
That healed a breaking heart in half an hour;
Easy to break, easy to bind again,
'Twas pity to waste pity on such pain;
So children wept and laughed, and that was good
But men she wist had been of sterner mood:—
She understood not; she was dull, no doubt;
But saw not what there was to jest about;
It looked to her a noble task for one
To chronicle the common life of man,
To tell the daily sorrows of the poor,
To mirror all the ills that they endure,
To watch the tide of mind, and guide its flow,
To speak brave words that made the brave heart glow.
It was the man made service great or small,
For still the noble soul ennobled all
It touched, and little natures made it less.
And a great heart was throbbing in the Press
Which was the prophet's roll of modern man,
And faithful record, he might read who ran.
But then, of course, it was a jest to think
A man of wealth should waste his time and ink
On such mean tasks; and yet she once had hoped—
No matter what her hope was—there she stopped.

Why, Milly, what is wrong? her brother said.
And she uplift again the drooping head
Which had, a moment, sunk at that sad look
That seemed to read her like an open book:
Nothing, of course, is wrong; what could be wrong?
I think that was the burden of the song
Which your friend sung about the Universe.
Of course, it is beneath him to rehearse
The common things of common folk, or right
The wrongs which are not, or which are so light.

Then he:
“Yes, Milly Gaunt, I said all that;
In bitterness of soul I uttered what
You echo now in sharper tones than mine,
Big words of little wisdom; undivine
Because inhuman; yet they were not barbed
To rankle, nor in mockery were garbed;
They were not good words to remember, yet
They were not words to move a deep regret.
No matter — they were foolish; I am well
Rebuked for speech that, like the hot sparks, fell
From burning passion, being fiercely smote,
And sputtering words when all unapt for thought.
But there is more behind this wrath of thine
Than any wild, blind, erring speech of mine.
What is it, Milly? Why this bitter blame?
I came to you in sorrow and broken shame,
And untried poverty, and utter need,
Thinking you would not break the bruised reed;
For there had fallen on me a hapless fate,
A knowledge that has made life desolate,
As when the iceberg drifts on some green shore,
Clasping its wooded bays, and bending o'er
Its sunny meadows, till it lose itself,
Melting on sandy beach, and rocky shelf,
But blighting all the bright flowers with its breath,
And wrapping all the scene in wasteful death.
So had my hope all withered by the fact
Which drifted on me, without will or act
Of mine, and clung to me, and will not part
Till its death-chill has frozen all my heart.
And when my soul was wrung with its sharp pain,
And troubled thoughts were tangling all my brain,
You touched me almost unto hope again.
For that, I thank you: what has changed your mood
I know not, but I owe you only good.
In such a gloom even briefest gleam of light
Is something, though it sink in deeper night:
And what of joy your life has shed on mine
And peace and hope be doubly poured on thine.”

Deep toned his voice and trembling as he spoke,
And its great sorrow answering chords awoke,
And almost all her angry purpose broke;
For it was ringing with the truth sincere,
And deep humility, and she could hear
Her heart beat with the beat of perfect faith
In all he said, which made her pale as death,
And sick at heart, to think that she perchance
Wronged the true soul by misjudged circumstance.
So she:
“This sorrow that you may not tell,
Did it concern my brother who loves you well?”
“Nay, surely not; nor part nor lot has he
In my life, saving in the best of me:
Dear Paul! was never sunshine to a scene
More than his fellowship to me has been.
But if you care to hear, perhaps 'twere well
The story of a broken life to tell;
For broken it is, like foam upon the sea
Caught by the wind, and scattered aimlessly.”
Knitting his brows, and gathering up his thought,
With lips compressed to hide the pain that wrought
And quivered in them, for a while he gazed
In brooding silence where the faggot blazed.
Then in low tones: “I know not how to speak—
If I say little you will deem me weak;
If I say more, the more will only blight
Another name to set my own name right.
Sometimes the half is better than the whole,
And sometimes worse than none; the dubious soul
Suspects the secret there in what is hid,
And holds the rest but trash. I am forbid,
By that which is more sacred than my right,
To tell you much—to tell you all I might.
There are some sorrows cannot be subjected
To man's construction, — howsoe'er suspected.”
And here he paused a while, and, brooding, gazed
Again in silence where the faggot blazed.
But Paul said, Never mind, now; let it be;
Milly was wrong; I never doubted thee;
She will be sorry ere to-morrow come.
But she apart, biting her lip, and dumb,
With vehement finger crushed a harmless crumb.

Then he again:
“You hold me rich and proud,
Miss Gaunt, and scornful of the common crowd,
Which never was a common crowd to me,
And now less so than ever, for I see
No hope for me except in hope for those
Who stir your pity with their unvoiced woes.
I too am poor—once reckoned heir of all
A goodly pastoral land, a pleasant Hall,
And the respects and honours which they bring;
But think not I for these am sorrowing.
I had no peace until I cast away
A claim that could not bear the light of day,
The deed of law that was a deed of sin,
Which now is gone to pulp and blotches in
The water-lilied haunt of tern and coot,
Or folds its slush around the brown sedge-root.
But life is poor when its old faiths are gone,
Poorest when man can trust himself alone.”—
She started, for it was her own sad thought
He echoed, though he touched a deeper note;
But silence kept, as he went on to tell
How he had sworn to one who loved him well
An oath he feared to break, and dared not keep,
Which haunted him by day, and banished sleep
With stony horrors from his nights, till he
Was nigh distraught with his great misery.
Enough; what Milly said was just and true;
There was a noble work which one might do,
Wielding a truthful pen with heart sincere,
In days whose change was big with hope and fear;
But he must find the heirs of Borland's May;
And then no doubt but Heaven would guide his way.
Then she rose pale and trembling, and her eyes
Quailed at his glance of questioning surprise;
“Can you forgive me?” piteously she pled,
“I wronged you in my heart, yet my heart bled
To wrong you; and it was not with my will:
Yet my heart wronged you—Oh I have done ill.
Our mother was May Borland; and I feared”—
He heard no more; for never sky was cleared
Of close-piled clouds by April wind and sun,
Unravelling swift what they before had spun,
So suddenly as he from utter sadness,
Sodden and dreary, passed into a gladness
Of joyous gratulation, that forgot
All but the whole relief her words had brought.

Oft in their childhood had their mother told,
In the long winter evenings dark and cold,
Of Borland nestling in its bosk of trees,
Of the great lime filled with the hum of bees,
Of the tall orchard wall with ivy clad,
Where dainty nests the merle and throstle had,
Of the three waters blending in the river
Near where the red-roofed mill was clacking ever,
Of the long windings of the narrow glen
The water-lilied pool and water-hen;
And how the Borlands had been lairds of all
Since the wild Scots drave at the Roman Wall;
And how her joyous girlhood had been there,
Honoured and petted still as Borland's heir;
And how the goodly heritage was lost
All for her love, nor did she grudge the cost,
Or only for her children sometimes grieved,
And for her father's love, which was deceived.
These tales the children heard with ear intent;
Children are fain to know how mothers spent
Their childhood, and to chatter of the day
When the grave matron was as blithe as they,
And went a-nutting through the autumn woods,
Or twined her daisy chain, or sought the nestling broods.
And Milly, in her secret thoughts, would dream
That some day she should look on hill and stream,
And trace her mother's footsteps o'er again,
With Paul as Laird of all the long green glen.
But he, impatient, called her little fool!
To set her heart on sleepy hill and pool,
Where life is always only half awake;
And dreams, he said, are fetters hard to break;
Though they be only shadows you have made,
The life seems passing when the shadows fade.
As for myself, could any man of sense
Abide a dull laird's easy indolence,
Whose talk is all of cattle, turnip field,
And what the hay crop, what the oats will yield,
And how to keep the rabbits and the hares
From midnight poacher cunning with his snares?
I will be lord of nothing but my mind,
I will be held of nothing that can bind
To vacant drowsiness the busy brain,
Or dull the sense of pleasure or of pain.
My days must be where thought has stedfast rule.
And skilful fingers deftly ply the tool,
And life is growing to a higher sense
Of God's design and man's omnipotence.
So would he silence her: but all the more
She cherished in her heart a secret store
Of hopes; and now the time had come when she
Saw all she fondly dreamt about to be;
But the bright cloud which gleamed, afar, like gold,
Felt now as mist about her dim and cold,
Or draggled robes that round her limbs enfold.
Silent she sat, and humbled and ashamed,
And much herself she questioned, much she blamed,
More than was meet, for woman's penitent course
Is prone to low prostrations of remorse.
Close in her bosom that hard letter lay,
And seemed to burn, and waste her life away:
O cursèd letter! O unhappy day!
“What should I do?” thus in her heart she said;
“For what love hides is raised as from the dead
Some day, and kills the love which covered it,
And frankest truth is more than subtle wit:—
But it will pain him knowing that I know;
And oh the shame! that I should judge him so!
But Paul, you will be noble still, and true
To the high thought that always guided you?”—
Then Paul, unconscious of a great intent,
But simply natural, following the bent
Of a true heart, and fine instinct of skill,
Said: “Milly, you may go now if you will,
Turn a fine lady, eat and drink the best,
Drive in your carriage, lord it like the rest;
You've always had a leaning that way; I
Would rather live till nature bids me die,
Would rather die than thrive upon the wreck
Of one I loved.” Here falling on his neck,
She hugged and kissed him, vowing ne'er to part,
He had so true a soul, so brave a heart.

But Austen: “You must do, Paul, as you will;
The land is yours, with duties to fulfil—
An heritage which, being lost, implies
Loss of high opportunity likewise,
Loss of ancestral love which clings to you,
Loss of a work which only he can do
Who has men's heart, already on his side,
Looking to him, and willing to confide.
Think, Paul, your heritage is more than fields
Of grass and corn, and what the woodland yields,
'Tis something which could never have been mine.
The love of all the people which will twine
The closer round you from the sense of wrong,
Righted at last, which you have suffered long.
And there is something in the love our folk
Bear to the scion of an ancient stock,
May be, unreasonable, may be, more
Worthy than things there are good reasons for,
But beautiful, at least, and in its trust
Nobler than money-bargaining and lust.
What of your commune, with its spade and hoe
To till the field, where every man should grow
Enough for simple life, and still the loud,
Gaunt clamours of the swarming city's crowd?
Have I not heard you wisely eloquent
On lonely glens which only deer frequent,
Once filled with homesteads, furrowed by the plough,
And clothed with rustling grain and fruitful bough,
And how the men whose fathers owned it went,
With breaking hearts, to far-off banishment:
And bore to rolling prairies in the West
A rankling sense of wrong in many a breast,
Which made our nation's foes the men who loved it best?
Surely you will not cast from you the power
To test your cherished thought, and nip the flower
When it is at the fruiting. As for me,
I have thrown off a load of misery.
You call it wreck—I call it haven at last,
Where, bruised and battered, but the danger past,
I am at peace. Paul, I have felt the strain
Of sharp temptation, and the aching pain
Of cold and hunger, and of discontent
With all myself had done, or God had sent;
I have not known the sleep of a right mind,
Or ate or drank with honest human kind,
Or felt as if I dared, until this night;
And you, Paul, would you quench the dawning light
That tips my cloud with silver, and breaks in
With better hope on this dark world of sin?
Now I have found my work, good work and true,
And I have found the heart good work to do,
Milly was right; it is the man who makes
Noble or mean the task he undertakes,
Who breathes a godlike spirit into that
He has to do, or makes it stale and flat.
I see my work before me, and my way
Free from embarrassment, and clear as day,
Bright with a throng of hopeful services
That stir within me with a sense of bliss,
Needing but righting of this wrong to be
The tide of a new life of joy in me.”
He looked at Milly here, and she at him,
And as she looked, she felt her eyes grow dim
With something gathering in them, then looked down,
Conscious that he was conscious of the crown
With which her love had crowned him in that look
Which dimmed with pride and gladness. Then he took
Her hand, and said, “One day, when I have done
Good work, Paul, work which you can look upon
And say, This true man truly played his part—
You'll give me this soft hand; I have her heart
I think, already; even as she has mine,—
Worth little, but hers to take or to decline.”