Part 23

I felt it hard to breathe, much less to speak. Nor word of mine was needed. Some one else Was there for answering. ‘Romney,’ she began, ‘My great good angel, Romney.’ Then at first, I knew that Marian Erle was beautiful. She stood there, still and pallid as a saint, Dilated, like a saint in ecstasy, As if the floating moonshine interposed Betwixt her foot and the earth, and raised her up To float upon it. ‘I had left my child, Who sleeps,’ she said, ‘and, having drawn this way, I heard you speaking, ... friend!—Confirm me now. You take this Marian, such as wicked men Have made her, for your honourable wife?’

The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice. He stretched his arms out toward the thrilling voice, As if to draw it on to his embrace. —‘I take her as God made her, and as men Must fail to unmake her, for my honoured wife.’

She never raised her eyes, nor took a step, But stood there in her place, and spoke again. —‘You take this Marian’s child, which is her shame In sight of men and women, for your child, Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed?’

The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic voice. He stepped on toward it, still with outstretched arms, As if to quench upon his breast that voice. —‘May God so father me, as I do him, And so forsake me as I let him feel He’s orphaned haply. Here I take the child To share my cup, to slumber on my knee, To play his loudest gambol at my foot, To hold my finger in the public ways, Till none shall need inquire, ‘Whose child is this,’ The gesture saying so tenderly, ‘My own’.’

She stood a moment silent in her place; Then, turning toward me, very slow and cold— —‘And you,—what say you?—will you blame me much, If, careful for that outcast child of mine, I catch this hand that’s stretched to me and him, Nor dare to leave him friendless in the world Where men have stoned me? Have I not the right To take so mere an aftermath from life, Else found so wholly bare? Or is it wrong To let your cousin, for a generous bent, Put out his ungloved fingers among briars To set a tumbling bird’s-nest somewhat straight? You will not tell him, though we’re innocent We are not harmless?... and that both our harms Will stick to his good smooth noble life like burrs, Never to drop off though you shake the cloak? You’ve been my friend: you will not now be his? You’ve known him, that he’s worthy of a friend; And you’re his cousin, lady, after all, And therefore more than free to take his part, Explaining, since the nest is surely spoilt, And Marian what you know her,—though a wife, The world would hardly understand her case Of being just hurt and honest; while for him, ’Twould ever twit him with his bastard child And married harlot. Speak, while yet there’s time: You would not stand and let a good man’s dog Turn round and rend him, because his, and reared Of a generous breed,—and will you let his act, Because it’s generous? Speak. I’m bound to you, And I’ll be bound by only you, in this.’ The thrilling, solemn voice, so passionless, Sustained, yet low, without a rise or fall, As one who had authority to speak, And not as Marian. I looked up to feel If God stood near me, and beheld his heaven As blue as Aaron’s priestly robe appeared To Aaron when he took it off to die. And then I spoke—‘Accept the gift, I say, My sister Marian, and be satisfied. The hand that gives, has still a soul behind Which will not let it quail for having given, Though foolish worldlings talk they know not what, Of what they know not. Romney’s strong enough For this: do you be strong to know he’s strong: He stands on Right’s side; never flinch for him, As if he stood on the other. You’ll be bound By me? I am a woman of repute; No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life; My name is clean and open as this hand, Whose glove there’s not a man dares blab about, As if he had touched it freely:—here’s my hand To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned as pure! As pure,—as I’m a woman and a Leigh!— And, as I’m both, I’ll witness to the world That Romney Leigh is honoured in his choice, Who chooses Marian for his honoured wife.’

Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a light; Her smile was wonderful for rapture. ‘Thanks, My great Aurora.’ Forward then she sprang, And dropping her impassioned spaniel head With all its brown abandonment of curls On Romney’s feet, we heard the kisses drawn Through sobs upon the foot, upon the ground— O Romney! O my angel! O unchanged, Though, since we’ve parted, I have past the grave! But Death itself could only better _thee_, Not change thee!—_Thee_ I do not thank at all: I but thank God who made thee what thou art, So wholly godlike.’ When he tried in vain To raise her to his embrace, escaping thence As any leaping fawn from a huntsman’s grasp, She bounded off and ‘lighted beyond reach, Before him, with a staglike majesty Of soft, serene defiance,—as she knew He could not touch her, so was tolerant He had cared to try. She stood there with her great Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and strange sweet smile That lived through all, as if one held a light Across a waste of waters,—shook her head To keep some thoughts down deeper in her soul,— Then, white and tranquil as a summer-cloud Which, having rained itself to a tardy peace, Stands still in heaven as if it ruled the day, Spoke out again—‘Although, my generous friend, Since last we met and parted, you’re unchanged, And, having promised faith to Marian Erle, Maintain it, as she were not changed at all; And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm To any conscious spirit of a girl Who once has loved you as I loved you once,— Yet still it will not make her ... if she’s dead, And gone away where none can give or take In marriage,—able to revive, return And wed you,—will it, Romney? Here’s the point; O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I Must never, never, never join hands so. Nay, let me say it,—for I said it first To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath, Far, far above the moon there, at His feet, As surely as I wept just now at yours,— We never, never, never join hands so. And now, be patient with me; do not think I’m speaking from a false humility. The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief, And He has said so often through his nights And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still, Thou foolish Marian, because women must, But do not blush at all except for sin,’— That I, who felt myself unworthy once Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race, Have come to learn, ... a woman, poor or rich, Despised or honoured, is a human soul; And what her soul is,—that, she is herself, Although she should be spit upon of men, As is the pavement of the churches here, Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste And honest, and inclined to do the right, And love the truth, and live my life out green And smooth beneath his steps, I should not fear To make him, thus, a less uneasy time Than many a happier woman. Very proud You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap To hear a confirmation in your voice ... Both yours and yours. It is so good to know ’Twas really God who said the same before: For thus it is in heaven, that first God speaks, And then his angels. Oh, it does me good, It wipes me clean and sweet from devil’s dirt, That Romney Leigh should think me worthy still Of being his true and honourable wife! Henceforth I need not say, on leaving earth, I had no glory in it. For the rest, The reason’s ready (master, angel, friend, Be patient with me) wherefore you and I Can never, never, never join hands so. I know you’ll not be angry like a man (For _you_ are none) when I shall tell the truth,— Which is, I do not love you, Romney Leigh, I do not love you. Ah well! catch my hands, Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with yours,— I swear I do not love him. Did I once? ’Tis said that women have been bruised to death, And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs Could never be drained out with all their blood: I’ve heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed Love once? or did I only worship? Yes, Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high Above all actual good or hope of good, Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, I haply set you above love itself, And out of reach of these poor woman’s arms, Angelic Romney. What was in my thought? To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool. To be your love ... I never thought of that. To give you love ... still less. I gave you love? I think I did not give you anything; I was but only yours,—upon my knees, All yours, in soul and body, in head and heart,— A creature you had taken from the ground, Still crumbling through your fingers to your feet To join the dust she came from. Did I love, Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh! But, if indeed I loved, ’twas long ago,— So long! before the sun and moon were made, Before the hells were open,—ah, before I heard my child cry in the desert night, And knew he had no father. It may be, I’m not as strong as other women are, Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love. It may be, I am colder than the dead, Who, being dead, love always. But for me Once killed, ... this ghost of Marian loves no more, No more ... except the child!... no more at all. I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead; And now, she thinks I’ll get up from my grave, And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding-veil, And glide along the churchyard like a bride, While all the dead keep whispering through the withes, ‘You would be better in your place with us, You pitiful corruption!’ At the thought, The damps break out on me like leprosy, Although I’m clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erle: As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not clean: I have not so much life that I should love, ... Except the child. Ah God! I could not bear To see my darling on a good man’s knees, And know by such a look, or such a sigh, Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes, ‘This child was fathered by some cursed wretch’ ... For, Romney,—angels are less tender-wise Than God and mothers: even _you_ would think What _we_ think never. He is ours, the child; And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven By coupling with it the dead body’s thought, It left behind it in a last month’s grave, Than, in my child, see other than ... my child. We only, never call him fatherless Who has God and his mother. O my babe, My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind Once blew upon my breast! can any think I’d have another,—one called happier, A fathered child, with father’s love and race That’s worn as bold and open as a smile, To vex my darling when he’s asked his name And has no answer? What! a happier child Than mine, my best,—who laughed so loud to-night He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, I swear By life and love, that, if I lived like some, And loved like ... _some_ ... ay, loved you, Romney Leigh, As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear), I’ve room for no more children in my arms; My kisses are all melted on one mouth; I would not push my darling to a stool To dandle babies. Here’s a hand, shall keep For ever clean without a marriage-ring, To tend my boy, until he cease to need One steadying finger of it, and desert (Not miss) his mother’s lap, to sit with men. And when I miss him (not he me) I’ll come And say, ‘Now give me some of Romney’s work, To help your outcast orphans of the world, And comfort grief with grief.’ For you, meantime, Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, And open on each other your great souls,— I need not farther bless you. If I dared But strain and touch her in her upper sphere, And say, ‘Come down to Romney—pay my debt!’ I should be joyful with the stream of joy Sent through me. But the moon is in my face ... I dare not,—though I guess the name he loves; I’m learned with my studies of old days, Remembering how he crushed his under-lip When some one came and spoke, or did not come: Aurora, I could touch her with my hand, And fly, because I dare not.’ She was gone. He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. ‘Forgive her—she sees clearly for herself: Her instinct’s holy,’ ‘_I_ forgive?’ he said, ‘I only marvel how she sees so sure, While others’ ... there he paused,—then hoarse, abrupt,— Aurora! you forgive us, her and me? For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child, If once corrected by the thing I know, Had been unspoken; since she loves you well, Has leave to love you:—while for me, alas, If once or twice I let my heart escape This night, ... remember, where hearts slip and fall They break beside: we’re parting,—parting,—ah, You do not love, that you should surely know What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant; It had not been, but that I felt myself So safe in impuissance and despair, I could not hurt you though I tossed my arms And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch Will choose his postures when he comes to die, However in the presence of a queen; And you’ll forgive me some unseemly spasms Which meant no more than dying. Do you think I had ever come here in my perfect mind, Unless I had come here, in my settled mind, Bound Marian’s, bound to keep the bond, and give My name, my house, my hand, the things I could, To Marian? For even _I_ could give as much; Even I, affronting her exalted soul By a supposition that she wanted these, Could act the husband’s coat and hat set up To creak i’ the wind and drive the world-crows off From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last, I own heaven’s angels round her life suffice To fight the rats of our society, Without this Romney: I can see it at last; And here is ended my pretension which The most pretended. Over-proud of course, Even so!—but not so stupid ... blind ... that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall Throughout man’s natural lifetime,—could pretend Or wish ... O love, I have loved you! O my soul, I have lost you!—but I swear by all yourself, And all you might have been to me these years, If that June-morning had not failed my hope,— I’m not so bestial, to regret that day This night,—this night, which still to you is fair; Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest Those stars above us, which I cannot see ...’