Part 16

But I, convicted, broken utterly, With woman’s passion clung about her waist, And kissed her hair and eyes,—‘I have been wrong, Sweet Marian’ ... (weeping in a tender rage) ‘Sweet holy Marian! And now, Marian, now, I’ll use your oath although my lips are hard, And by the child, my Marian, by the child, I’ll swear his mother shall be innocent Before my conscience, as in the open Book Of Him who reads for judgement. Innocent, My sister! let the night be ne’er so dark, The moon is surely somewhere in the sky; So surely is your whiteness to be found Through all dark facts. But pardon, pardon me, And smile a little, Marian,—for the child, If not for me, my sister.’ The poor lip Just motioned for the smile and let it go: And then, with scarce a stirring of the mouth, As if a statue spoke that could not breathe, But spoke on calm between its marble lips,— ‘I’m glad, I’m very glad you clear me so. I should be sorry that you set me down With harlots, or with even a better name Which misbecomes his mother. For the rest, I am not on a level with your love, Nor ever was, you know,—but now am worse, Because that world of yours has dealt with me As when the hard sea bites and chews a stone And changes the first form of it. I’ve marked A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape From all the various life of madrepores; And so, that little stone, called Marian Erle, Picked up and dropped by you and another friend, Was ground and tortured by the incessant sea And bruised from what she was,—changed! death’s a change, And she, I said, was murdered; Marian’s dead. What can you do with people when they are dead, But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and go, Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and go, But go by all means,—and permit the grass To keep its green feud up ’twixt them and you? Then leave me,—let me rest. I’m dead, I say. And if, to save the child from death as well, The mother in me has survived the rest, Why, that’s God’s miracle you must not tax,— I’m not less dead for that: I’m nothing more But just a mother. Only for the child, I’m warm, and cold, and hungry, and afraid, And smell the flowers a little, and see the sun, And speak still, and am silent,—just for him! I pray you therefore to mistake me not, And treat me, haply, as I were alive; For though you ran a pin into my soul, I think it would not hurt nor trouble me. Here’s proof, dear lady,—in the market-place But now, you promised me to say a word About ... a friend, who once, long years ago, Took God’s place toward me, when He draws and loves And does not thunder, ... whom at last I left, As all of us leave God. You thought perhaps, I seemed to care for hearing of that friend? Now, judge me! we have sate here half-an-hour And talked together of the child and me, And I not asked as much as, ‘What’s the thing You had to tell me of the friend ... the friend?’ He’s sad, I think you said,—he’s sick perhaps? It’s nought to Marian if he’s sad or sick. Another would have crawled beside your foot And prayed your words out. Why, a beast, a dog, A starved cat, if he had fed it once with milk, Would show less hardness. But I’m dead, you see, And that explains it.’ Poor, poor thing, she spoke And shook her head, as white and calm as frost On days too cold for raining any more, But still with such a face, so much alive, I could not choose but take it on my arm And stroke the placid patience of its cheeks,— Then told my story out, of Romney Leigh, How, having lost her, sought her, missed her still, He, broken-hearted for himself and her, Had drawn the curtains of the world awhile As if he had done with morning. There I stopped, For when she gasped, and pressed me with her eyes, ‘And now ... how is it with him? tell me now,’— I felt the shame of compensated grief, And chose my words with scruple—slowly stepped Upon the slippery stones set here and there Across the sliding water. ‘Certainly, As evening empties morning into night, Another morning takes the evening up With healthful, providential interchange; And, though he thought still of her,’— ‘Yes, she knew, She understood: she had supposed, indeed, That, as one stops a hole upon a flute, At which a new note comes and shapes the tune, Excluding her would bring a worthier in, And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar He loved so’ ... ‘Loved,’ I started,—‘loved her so! Now tell me’ ... ‘I will tell you,’ she replied: ‘But since we’re taking oaths, you’ll promise first That he, in England, he, shall never learn In what a dreadful trap his creature here, Round whose unworthy neck he had meant to tie The honourable ribbon of his name, Fell unaware, and came to butchery: Because,—I know him,—as he takes to heart The grief of every stranger, he’s not like To banish mine as far as I should choose In wishing him most happy. Now he leaves To think of me, perverse, who went my way, Unkind, and left him,—but if once he knew ... Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel wrong Would fasten me for ever in his sight, Like some poor curious bird, through each spread wing Nailed high up over a fierce hunter’s fire, To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk Come in by chance. Nay, since your Marian’s dead, You shall not hang her up, but dig a hole And bury her in silence! ring no bells.’

I answered gaily, though my whole voice wept; ‘We’ll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells, Because we have her back, dead or alive.’

She never answered that, but shook her head; Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven, Shall tell a story of his lower life, Unmoved by shame or anger,—so she spoke. She told me she had loved upon her knees, As others pray, more perfectly absorbed In the act and aspiration. She felt his, For just his uses, not her own at all, His stool, to sit on, or put up his foot, His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar, Whichever drink might please him at the chance, For that should please her always: let him write His name upon her ... it seemed natural; It was most precious, standing on his shelf, To wait until he chose to lift his hand. Well, well,—I saw her then, and must have seen How bright her life went, floating on her love, Like wicks the housewives send afloat on oil, Which feeds them to a flame that lasts the night.

To do good seemed so much his business, That, having done it, she was fain to think, Must fill up his capacity for joy. At first she never mooted with herself If _he_ was happy, since he made her so, Or if _he_ loved her, being so much beloved: Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, Observing that it lightens? who’s so bold, To question God of His felicity? Still less. And thus she took for granted first, What first of all she should have put to proof, And sinned against him so, but only so. ‘What could you hope,’ she said, ‘of such as she? You take a kid you like, and turn it out In some fair garden; though the creature’s fond And gentle, it will leap upon the beds And break your tulips, bite your tender trees: The wonder would be if such innocence Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids.’

And, by degrees, when he who had chosen her, Brought in his courteous and benignant friends To spend their goodness on her, which she took So very gladly, as a part of his,— By slow degrees, it broke on her slow sense, That she, too, in that Eden of delight Was out of place, and, like the silly kid, Still did most mischief where she meant most love. A thought enough to make a woman mad, (No beast in this, but she may well go mad) That, saying ‘I am thine to love and use,’ May blow the plague in her protesting breath To the very man for whom she claims to die,— That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down And drowns him,—and that, lavishing her soul, She hales perdition on him. ‘So, being mad,’ Said Marian ... ‘Ah—who stirred such thoughts, you ask? Whose fault it was, that she should have such thoughts? None’s fault, none’s fault. The light comes, and we see: But if it were not truly for our eyes, There would be nothing seen, for all the light; And so with Marian. If she saw at last, The sense was in her,—Lady Waldemar Had spoken all in vain else.’ ‘O my heart, O prophet in my heart,’ I cried aloud, ‘Then Lady Waldemar spoke!’ ‘_Did_ she speak,’ Mused Marian softly—‘or did she only sign? Or did she put a word into her face And look, and so impress you with the word? Or leave it in the foldings of her gown, Like rosemary smells, a movement will shake out When no one’s conscious? who shall say, or guess? One thing alone was certain,—from the day The gracious lady paid a visit first, She, Marian, saw things different,—felt distrust Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance Her hopes were building into with clay nests: Her heart was restless, pacing up and down And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms, Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease.’

‘And still the lady came,’ said Marian Erle, ‘Much oftener than _he_ knew it, Mister Leigh. She bade me never tell him that she had come, She liked to love me better than he knew, So very kind was Lady Waldemar: And every time she brought with her more light, And every light made sorrow clearer ... Well, Ah, well! we cannot give her blame for that; ’Twould be the same thing if an angel came, Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time The lady came, she looked more beautiful, And spoke more like a flute among green trees, Until at last, as one, whose heart being sad On hearing lovely music, suddenly Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in tears Before her ... asked her counsel ... ‘had I erred In being too happy? would she set me straight? For she, being wise and good and born above The flats I had never climbed from, could perceive If such as I, might grow upon the hills; And whether such poor herb sufficed to grow, For Romney Leigh to break his fast upon ’t,— Or would he pine on such, or haply starve?’ She wrapt me in her generous arms at once, And let me dream a moment how it feels To have a real mother, like some girls: But when I looked, her face was younger ... ay, Youth’s too bright not to be a little hard, And beauty keeps itself still uppermost, That’s true!—Though Lady Waldemar was kind, She hurt me, hurt, as if the morning-sun Should smite us on the eyelids when we sleep, And wake us up with headache. Ay, and soon Was light enough to make my heart ache too: She told me truths I asked for ... ’twas my fault ... ‘That Romney could not love me, if he would, As men call loving; there are bloods that flow Together, like some rivers, and not mix, Through contraries of nature. He indeed Was set to wed me, to espouse my class, Act out a rash opinion,—and, once wed, So just a man and gentle, could not choose But make my life as smooth as marriage-ring, Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheerful house, With servants, broaches, all the flowers I liked, And pretty dresses, silk the whole year round’ ... At which I stopped her,—‘This for me. And now ‘For _him_.’—She murmured,—truth grew difficult; She owned, ‘’Twas plain a man like Romney Leigh Required a wife more level to himself. If day by day he had to bend his height To pick up sympathies, opinions, thoughts, And interchange the common talk of life Which helps a man to live as well as talk, His days were heavily taxed. Who buys a staff To fit the hand, that reaches but the knee? He’d feel it bitter to be forced to miss The perfect joy of married suited pairs, Who, bursting through the separating hedge Of personal dues with that sweet eglantine Of equal love, keep saying, ‘So _we_ think, It strikes _us_,—that’s _our_ fancy.’‘—When I asked If earnest will, devoted love, employed In youth like mine, would fail to raise me up,— As two strong arms will always raise a child To a fruit hung overhead? she sighed and sighed ... ‘That could not be,’ she feared. ‘You take a pink, You dig about its roots and water it, And so improve it to a garden-pink, But will not change it to a heliotrope, The kind remains. And then, the harder truth— This Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a pale, So bold for conscience, quick for martyrdom, Would suffer steadily and never flinch, But suffer surely and keenly, when his class Turned shoulder on him for a shameful match, And set him up as nine-pin in their talk, To bowl him down with jestings.’—There, she paused; And when I used the pause in doubting that We wronged him after all in what we feared— ‘Suppose such things should never touch him, more In his high conscience, (if the things should be,) Than, when the queen sits in an upper room, The horses in the street can spatter her!’— A moment, hope came,—but the lady closed That door and nicked the lock, and shut it out, Observing wisely that, ‘the tender heart Which made him over-soft to a lower class, Could scarcely fail to make him sensitive ‘To a higher,—how they thought, and what they felt.’

‘Alas, alas,’ said Marian, rocking slow The pretty baby who was near asleep, The eyelids creeping over the blue balls,— ‘She made it clear, too clear—I saw the whole! And yet who knows if I had seen my way Straight out of it, by looking, though ’twas clear, Unless the generous lady, ’ware of this, Had set her own house all a-fire for me, To light me forwards? Leaning on my face Her heavy agate eyes which crushed my will, She told me tenderly, (as when men come To a bedside to tell people they must die) ‘She knew of knowledge,—ay, of knowledge, knew, That Romney Leigh had loved _her_ formerly; And _she_ loved _him_, she might say, now the chance Was past ... but that, of course, he never guessed,— For something came between them ... something thin As a cobweb ... catching every fly of doubt To hold it buzzing at the window-pane And help to dim the daylight. Ah, man’s pride Or woman’s—which is greatest? most averse To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she and he Remained fast friends; it seemed not more than so, Because he had bound his hands and could not stir: An honourable man, if somewhat rash; And she, not even for Romney, would she spill A blot ... as little even as a tear ... Upon his marriage-contract,—not to gain A better joy for two than came by that! For, though I stood between her heart and heaven, She loved me wholly.’ Did I laugh or curse? I think I sate there silent, hearing all, Ay, hearing double,—Marian’s tale, at once, And Romney’s marriage-vow, ‘_I’ll keep to_ THEE,’ Which means that woman-serpent. Is it time For church now? ‘Lady Waldemar spoke more,’ Continued Marian, ‘but, as when a soul Will pass out through the sweetness of a song Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road,— Even so, mine wandered from the things I heard, To those I suffered. It was afterward I shaped the resolution to the act. For many hours we talked. What need to talk? The fate was clear and close; it touched my eyes; But still the generous lady tried to keep The case afloat, and would not let it go, And argued, struggled upon Marian’s side, Which was not Romney’s! though she little knew What ugly monster would take up the end,— What griping death within the drowning death Was ready to complete my sum of death.’

I thought,—Perhaps he’s sliding now the ring Upon that woman’s finger.... She went on: ‘The lady, failing to prevail her way, Upgathered my torn wishes from the ground, And pieced them with her strong benevolence; And, as I thought I could breathe freer air Away from England, going without pause, Without farewell,—just breaking with a jerk The blossomed offshoot from my thorny life,— She promised kindly to provide the means, With instant passage to the colonies And full protection,—‘would commit me straight ‘To one who once had been her waiting-maid And had the customs of the world, intent On changing England for Australia Herself, to carry out her fortune so.’ For which I thanked the Lady Waldemar, As men upon their death-beds thank last friends Who lay the pillow straight: it is not much, And yet ’tis all of which they are capable, This lying smoothly in a bed to die. And so, ’twas fixed;—and so, from day to day, The woman named, came in to visit me.’

Just then, the girl stopped speaking,—sate erect, And stared at me as if I had been a ghost, (Perhaps I looked as white as any ghost) With large-eyed horror. ‘Does God make,’ she said, ‘All sorts of creatures, really, do you think? Or is it that the Devil slavers them So excellently, that we come to doubt Who’s strongest, He who makes, or he who mars? I never liked the woman’s face, or voice, Or ways: it made me blush to look at her; It made me tremble if she touched my hand; And when she spoke a fondling word, I shrank, As if one hated me, who had power to hurt; And, every time she came, my veins ran cold, As somebody were walking on my grave. At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar: ‘Could such an one be good to trust?’ I asked. Whereat the lady stroked my cheek and laughed Her silver-laugh—(one must be born to laugh, To put such music in it) ‘Foolish girl, ‘Your scattered wits are gathering wool beyond The sheep-walk reaches!—leave the thing to me.’ And therefore, half in trust, and half in scorn That I had heart still for another fear In such a safe despair, I left the thing.

‘The rest is short. I was obedient: I wrote my letter which delivered _him_ From Marian, to his own prosperities, And followed that bad guide. The lady?—hush,— I never blame the lady. Ladies who Sit high, however willing to look down, Will scarce see lower than their dainty feet: And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, With what a Devil’s daughter I went forth The swine’s road, headlong over a precipice, In such a curl of hell-foam caught and choked, No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce through To fetch some help. They say there’s help in heaven For all such cries. But if one cries from hell ... What then?—the heavens are deaf upon that side.

‘A woman ... hear me,—let me make it plain,— A woman ... not a monster ... both her breasts Made right to suckle babes ... she took me off, A woman also, young and ignorant, And heavy with my grief, my two poor eyes Near washed away with weeping, till the trees, The blessed unaccustomed trees and fields, Ran either side the train, like stranger dogs Unworthy of any notice,—took me off, So dull, so blind, and only half alive, Not seeing by what road, nor by what ship, Nor toward what place, nor to what end of all.— Men carry a corpse thus,—past the doorway, past The garden-gate, the children’s playground, up The green lane,—then they leave it in the pit, To sleep and find corruption, cheek to cheek With him who stinks since Friday. ‘But suppose; To go down with one’s soul into the grave,— To go down half dead, half alive, I say, And wake up with corruption, ... cheek to cheek With him who stinks since Friday! There it is, And that’s the horror of ’t, Miss Leigh. ‘You feel? You understand?—no, do not look at me, But understand. The blank, blind, weary way Which led ... where’er it led ... away, at least; The shifted ship ... to Sydney or to France ... Still bound, wherever else, to another land; The swooning sickness on the dismal sea, The foreign shore, the shameful house, the night, The feeble blood, the heavy-headed grief, ... No need to bring their damnable drugged cup, And yet they brought it! Hell’s so prodigal Of devil’s gifts ... hunts liberally in packs, Will kill no poor small creature of the wilds But fifty red wide throats must smoke at it,— As HIS at me ... when waking up at last ... I told you that I waked up in the grave.