My Beautiful Lady. Nelly Dale Part 7

Pure was the azure over head; Bright was the earth around; While I on resolution fed, And moved, as one called from the dead, In silence on the ground.

Toward my home I walked, elate With hope and settled plan: And reverent to the will of Fate, In every step I trod my weight, A sober-minded man.

PART THE THIRD.

I. YEARS AFTER.

Our world has spun ten circles round the light Since here she vanished. In my helpless gaze, To mark the spot, was fixed this carven stone, Raw, garish, stolidly obtrusive then, Now harmonising kindly with the rest.

A spray of centipedal ivy creeps From death to birth, and reaches to her name; With kisslike touch its tender leaflets feel The letter's edge,--I scarce can think it chance.

Now scene by scene that strange old long-ago, Crowding my opened memory, presents Tumultuous, as in dreams, some dreadful state Wherein I knew not falsehood from the truth; Where hope ascending struck the star of Love, Then fell down headlong grovelling in despair; But rose at length and walked the beaten way.

So dim and far these things; so worn and changed, I scarcely feel that I am he who sought And won her love. And is it true indeed, That I absorbed in tenderest intercourse Of trustful glance, and trustful clasping hands, With her went wandering by the river side; While over head melodious branches sang, Scattering the gold of sunset-dazzled flowers Breathing their perfumed sweetness from our path, That flickering went to where in purple woods The rugged church tower burned a wall of fire!

Did I, when silence awed the winter woods, And giant shadows trenched the frosty ground From bole and limb whose vault held in the night, Love to behold the full-grown magic moon Cast splendour glittering on the silver rime?

Yes; mid the notes and emerald flush of spring, With swollen brooks exulting through the fields, And rainy wind that in an ocean-roar Bore down the forest tops the livelong day, Through straggling gleams, through random wafts of shade, Rejoicingly I trod the glistening paths.

Yes, I it was, in dreamy golden haze, Beheld poor men hard toiling all the hours, And thought them happier than the birds that sang, That sang and trilled in gurgles of delight.

Dallying I loitered in the golden time Long after the loved nightingale had ceased To pour his pa.s.sionate impulse over plains Of shivering corn, now ripened into wealth; When sunset-coloured fruit in orchard crofts Hung slowly mellowing under azure noons; And, hushed in darkened leaves, the dreaming air Swelled gently to a whispering sound, and died.

With joy I wandered on from knoll to knoll And lost in marvel, drank the lisping winds, The fairy winds that lisped me all was good.

Nor marked I when the clogged horizon flew In dusky vapour crowding up the skies; But woke anon when deathlike pallor thrown From wrathful drift laid the whole land in gloom; When war, enormous war, broke through the heavens, In sheets and streaking fire and thunderous clap, With shock on shock, that crushed the ripened corn, And swept the piled up midsummer to ruin.

That wrenched great timbers of a thousand years, Shaking the strong foundations of the land.

And when at last the terrible tempest fell, Wide heaven was emptied of the sun and stars, And void of more than all their light to me.

Like fretted me to hollow weariness When my sweet Dove of Paradise went off, Ascending, glory-guarded, into heaven.

Then feeding on the past, and fondling death, I grew in livid horror: soon had grown, By foul self cankered, to a charnel ghoule, Had not Almighty G.o.d, gracious in love, Permitted her own presence once again, Mysterious as a vision, yet once more To come a shining warning and reveal Athwart my path unfathomable gulfs, And kindle hope wherewith I still might gain The hills that shine for ever to the blessed.

Much striving has been mine since those events Ruled the pulsation of my daily life: And now they are a vulgar chronicle, And gossiped over by the rudest tongues.

A haunting song of old felicities Lured me, scarce consciously, down here to muse Upon my shattered dreams; safe from the roar Of interests in our grim metropolis, The beating heart of England and the world.

Not seen by me, since on that wondrous night Her consolation came into my soul; Yet here again I stand beside her tomb-- And here I muse, more wise and not so sad.

Hers was a gracious and a gentle house!

Rich in obliging nice observances And famed ancestral hospitality.

A cool repose lay grateful through the place; And pleasant duties promptly, truly done, And every service moved by hidden springs Sped with intelligence, went smoothly round.

The steward to that stately country home Looked native there as lichen to the oak.

He first held station, chief in care and trust, That day which gave his baby mistress birth; And her he loved as father loves his own, Bearing her too that reverence which we feel Toward those who, born to loftier state than ours, Sit their high fortune with becoming grace.

His love she ever sumptuously returned In bounteous thankfulness for service done: How brightly twinkled then his shrewd grey eyes, And shone the roundness where his honest cheeks Played to the rippling gladness of his mouth!

In childhood rambles, it was mostly he She chose for partner, spite of blandishment; And to her winsome ways he would forego His pompous surveillance of wine and plate, To guard her, lilting, where the summer lay On honeyed murmuring limes, and under elms, August with knotted centuries of strength And rooks sonorous in their shadowy heights.

By thymy slopes, foot-deep in sward they roved, Both lightly garrulous, and she, sweet child, Fusing her whole attention into joy, Until they stood before the lake, that gleamed With water-lilies, sun, and moving cloud.

Then straight the flanking sedge, and reeds remote, Gave clattering ducks and wild outlandish fowl, That tore in stormy scampering and splash To snap with clamour at the crumbled bread, He had provided slyly, bent on fun: The swans meanwhile, majestic, puffed, and slow, Came proudly into action; but alas, To small result; for by mischance the spoil Through dexterous skirmish fell to meaner bills.

"Our bread is all cast on the waters now, And well I'd like to know how many days It must bide there before 'tis found again!"-- Some fool's dull joke repeated: good man, he, Unversed in deep text comment, never dreamed What time its Abyssinian mountain roots Swollen by fresh torrents mixed in Nubian lands, And thundered down from rocky ledge to ledge; How sacred Nilus flooding bank and plain Transformed old Egypt to a shining sea: And slaves in swarthy crowds, despised as dirt, Paddled upon the water scattering corn, While swam to their sad eyes a raking glance Of temple sphinxes, palms, and pyramids, Faint sacrificial fire with dismal cries; And small hard masters, armed with blooded thongs, Jocose and fierce, scourged out their utmost toil.

Long ages ere man heard this promised hope, THE FIRST SHALL BE THE LAST, THE LAST THE FIRST.

But the dear child his vacant prattle heard In wonder, and believed it lore profound: And ever after, when in solemn church, (The very church I have before me now!) Or household prayer, these words were touched upon, Pert visions would intrude of gabbling fowls Mid splashing water, sedge, and lily stars.

In wending home, he filled her lap with flowers; And she, ere yet the house was reached, unloosed His guarding hand, ran forward, glinted through The porch, and with a joyous outcry lit The room, where sat in converse or at books Her parents: then, as she an hour before Had seen those mirrored marvels of the lake All trembling merge to one confused turmoil Of beauty broken into shattered light, When o'er its surface swept the hungry fowls, So blurred with shifting catches, so involved Through eagerness, her babbled narrative To the kind mother, who, embracing her, Felt satisfied her child had been well pleased.

Then the great father, he would lightly lift To knee his darling girl; with fingers cup The tiny chin, and kiss the rosebud mouth; And gently his large tawny hand would stroke That woven sunshine glowing down her back, Which changed to deepest auburn glossed with gold, Calling her tricksy names. But, when at length Appeared the calm inevitable nurse, He laughed; and she in screaming laughter flew By stalwart arm thrust high above his head Immeshed in wild flowers emptied from her lap, Which shaking off, he brought the screamer down, And gaily swung her into willing arms.

She talked these childhood memories while we strolled Among the scenes which bred them; for she loved To dwell on things which some regard as slight: But in her presence, told by her own self, With clear apt words and satisfying voice; The violet poise of her most graceful head Flung forth in lighted gesture to reveal The very fact; her hovering white hand Almost in music warbling with her words, And bounding all the tenderest care to please;-- Now, one by one, these aits of memory glow In hallowed splendour, and have made less dark A life I feel not altogether vain.

So common was her mother's lot, that who Can say "Like is not mine" is blessed indeed: For they are countless that on shades have thrown Their pa.s.sion had been chilled for evermore!

Scarce at her bloom, and years before she met The destined man her husband, girl-like she Adored a youth with sparkling genius graced, Who bound on great adventure spread all sail; But needed ballast, working common sense, And meeting storms, he foundered and was lost.

For long his fate dragged at her heart; it drained Her strength; it left her vague and desolate: Her life became as chill uneasy dreams Wherefrom we cannot break. Yet be it said, Lowly and truly gentle were her ways; She was a tender and obedient wife, And in a sweet and plaintive graciousness Her every act performed. I trust her mind, Subdued by constant sadness unavowed, Grew clear of shadows, and at last could dwell Upon the future, that in one straight path Reached Justice throned in everlasting light, And learned to feel that chastis.e.m.e.nt is love.

Somewhat through lethargy; and partly sense Of duty in forgetfulness of grief; With pleadings due to her own kindliness, She came to take another as her lord; Then came to yield herself in all and wed Her husband's own indomitable will: He having gained her, cherished her, and loved Her mild compliance with the strength of life.

He was a man of thews and goodly frame Made swart in battle. Under Indian suns Our foes had often there been taught to know That weight of arm, resistless when he closed Charging upon them with his sword and eye.

But when his father died, he left the East For England; here to rule his own estate, And reign among the county gentlemen, Who duly came with pride to own him chief.

He had the kingly look of born command, An eagle set of eye and curve of neck; A cutting insight backed by solid sense; Vast knowledge, and the facile use of it, To break obstruction, or direct the force Of will resolved to compa.s.s every end.

Withal a broad and generous natured man Who ever kindly turned the doubtful scale Against himself: no tenant ever mourned The day when the new master came to rule; Nor were old village gossips heard lament The good times fled with their departed lord.

Culture went hand in hand with strength in him: Broad-versed was he in science; rock and soil, Plant, sh.e.l.l, bird, beast, to complex form of man, With something of the stars. Historic works He mostly read; and ofttimes dug for trace Of steps long past in archaeology.

He loved the singers of our native land Who take our souls up to the worth of life; And those deep thinkers whose conclusions show The secret principles that work the world.

He prized laborious Hallam; but declared Carlyle half mad; "A coil of restive thoughts, That touch on nothing sound or practical, Told in outrageous jargon, c.u.mbersome As any Laplander's costume!" Which I In ruffled pride would always straight oppose, "Sound or unsound, his word is daylight truth, That breeding heroes once was England's boast, And now we brag of making millionaires.

Your 'practical' means shortest cut to wealth: But far too frequently purse robs the heart; One growing heavy drains the other dry.

His style, poetically pregnant, oft By note of admiration merely, hints More than crammed Pro Con of your favourite's page."

At this he shouts a scornful roaring laugh, The table shaking, and the vessels c.h.i.n.ked As fell his weighty arm: with ma.s.sive gaze In hurly-burly sort he bantered me: "Young bubble-dreamer, plotting stanza rhymes, What can you know of laws: what know of plans Which bound these varied interests of ours, Through crossing currents, fixed for certain ends, To frame this state we call society, The full outcome of immemorial time?

Know, here on earth wealth must not be despised, For we are as we are. While men subsist By interchanging goods and service, gold Will be the grease that smooths the whole machine.

I grant a few, the greatest, live content To give forth what has ripened in their minds; But greed alone brings each result to grow And spread its uses through the ma.s.s. Beside Where honour, reason, or instinctive life, Quite fails, there gold will p.r.i.c.k the sluggard loon.

It wakes the drowsy lounger of the East, Who lolls in sunshine idle as a gourd, To toil like Irish hodmen. Roused, he hears Coin ringing lively music; falls to work, And digs, and hews, and grinds: he sees, not far, Himself, a chief of hors.e.m.e.n richly clad, Armed with long spears and silver-halted blades, Seizing pachalic power by a swift blow.

But labour, having brought him gold, brings fears.

The weight of wealth has made his footfall staid; He longs for order, settled government, And stands, a stern upholder, by the law.

"I know you flout this 'gold materialism,'

For what you call the 'gold of evening skies:'

But let me tell you, boy, for you 'tis well My lands are broad and bankers true, or else Your maiden, she, poor girl, I often think, Would want a crust to eat and shoes to wear."

Thus he, in what I call his 'copper-gilt,'

For which I paid him tinsel; "She want shoes!

Her feet will press the flowers of paradise, And, being angel, she will need no food."

"Eugh! Get your tackle, let us catch some trout."

She never stayed a long while from her home, But lived a quiet life; contentedly Taking the continent and many things On trust; feeling our landscapes satisfied Her love for scenes. When from a visit she Returned, no lovelier picture ever blessed My sight than when she swam into his arms, And stood in beauty, frail, against his strength Supporting her, and kissed his lips and cheeks And brow. He then, as if his daughter yet Were but a child, would press the upturned head Between his hands, where peered the innocent face Rosy with smile and blush, like a sweet flower Bursting its tawny sheath: whereon he gazed A father's gaze immeasurably kind; And long, in tenderness akin to pity, There held her, who was beautiful and good.

One eve full late in balmy summer time We feared the wind breathing of night had chilled Her tranquil mother, as we paced a walk Leading espalier-trellised to the house; She ever heedful parted silently, And flushed with sunset vanished from our gaze; But we beheld her soon dawn from the porch In haste bringing her mother's mantle. When, As comes the tide-wave up an easy beach, Played with a billowy sound and look of foam The thousand folds round her advancing feet, Her shape divine looking as great as ocean's Light beyond: yet no sea bird that gleams From the blue-arched illimitable heaven Could glide with lightness airier than she To hang the garment round her mother's neck; And then strike, womanlike, the folds in place; Kissing the thankful lips, and deftly fix The fastening at her throat. While pondering thus And patching these rich fragments, strange it seems What little things obtrude on my regard!

I now remember every sculptured group, And painted scene, and portrait, figured vase, Each print unique, and gem, we once beheld When visiting a mansion near, enriched By generations of collected Art: The masters, by whose hands the works were wrought, Long mouldered into dust. Ah, well I know Why some have burned their symbols in my brain And rise before me now!

Stone-bound, Narcissus Droops melting in himself; and Echo by, In shrunk despair, hangs envying what he wastes.

Through smouldering morning mists a glorious sun The mountain-shoulder burns; above, trans.m.u.tes The zenith cloudlets into airy gold; And deep down, seen through pure crystalline blue, Glimmer the village, lake, and mountain range.

Superb at ease a Lady stands and smiles Sweet welcome to the world: though centuries Have lapsed since she approved her painter's work, Her smile has such sincerity, all feel They must have known her some time in their lives.

Here bossed on silver vase, a marriage train Moves round to music: lookers-on cast flowers Before the timid bending bride: meanwhile, Stalwart and proud, her bridegroom smiles abroad As at a dazzling sun: the pipers blow, The harpers tw.a.n.g, the cymbals clash, youths sing; Six maidens walk behind to hold her veil, One pair are sad, the next look vain, and two Prettily whisper secrets to themselves.

Here from old paper stands, and looks of men The manliest, and king of English kings, The lion Cromwell, in his dress of war: Beneath him coils a monster welling blood, Whose severed heads stretch round in scattered gleam Of mitre jewelled, coronet and crown.

Sharp cut on gem, set in a thick gold ring, The size and roundness of a lady's nail, Love bleeding on the dart himself doth point; Who thus had died, had not with tenderest touch Immortal Psyche held the anguished heart Fast to her own, and purified the pain, And fanned him with her wings.

And now, as then, Along those hushed rich corridors we moved, Poring each masterpiece we favoured most, And would no longer stay, but felt some chance Must serve us for the rest: musing, I pa.s.s From scene to scene of My Dear Lady's life, And leave my other memories undisturbed.

Beneath this airy sapphire's brooding rest, Its shadows overcast me with a chill Like coming storm, that black calamity Which struck and took our Darling from their charge And mine. Grief stupefied us all. At once The childless mother lost her wavering strength, And lay prostrated; never tasting life On earth again! Beside her husband sat And watched her fading; saw the last poor smile Wane from her features; till the closing eyes Lit into tearful rapture; when he knew Love's immortality to her revealed.

With both her own she mutely clasped his hand, And held it in most gentle pressures fixed: But when the tender grasp relaxed and fell, The world closed round him to a stony blank.

And now was stricken down the mighty man; As the ripe harvest levelled by a storm At morningtide; which, ere sun warmth anew Can flatter into strength, a second storm O'erwhelms and scattereth to waste at even.

When that torpidity which follows pain Through strangeness pa.s.sed to natural regard For daily wants; his vacant home he loathed: His s.p.a.cious garden grounds; his lake; his woods; The breezy air; the overhanging heaven, He loathed: he loathed them all. When spring aroused The amorous songsters of the copse and field To seasonable joy, their music mocked His sadness with its echoes, babbling tales Of what had been: and he, in bitterness, Resolved to quit a place where every turn Stood like a foe, whose settled leering eye In silence gloared with hope to mark his fall; He left our country. Far, in Eastern climes, His nation serving well, he fought and died: And never had a n.o.bler man upheld The majesty of England's worth and name.