Chapter 52

Lord Ronald stood up in King James’s court, And his dame by his dauntless side; The barons who came in the hopes of sport Shook with fright when they saw the bride.

The bishop, though armed with his bell and book, Grew as white as if turned to stone; It was only our king who could face that look, But he spoke with a trembling tone.

“Lord Ronald, the knights of thy race and mine Should have mates in their own degree; What parentage, say, hath that bride of thine Who hath come from the far countree?

“And what was her dowry in gold or land, Or what was the charm, I pray, That a comely young gallant should woo the hand Of the ladye we see to-day?”

And the lords would have laughed, but that awful dame Struck them dumb with her thunder-frown: “Saucy king, did I utter my father’s name, Thou wouldst kneel as his liegeman down.

“Though I brought to Lord Ronald nor lands nor gold, Nor the bloom of a fading cheek; Yet, were I a widow, both young and old Would my hand and my dowry seek.

“For the wish that he covets the most below, And would hide from the saints above, Which he dares not to pray for in weal or woe, Is the dowry I bring my love.

“Let every man look in his heart and see What the wish he most lusts to win, And then let him fasten his eyes on me While he thinks of his darling sin.”

And every man--bishop, and lord, and king Thought of what he most wished to win, And, fixing his eye on that grewsome thing, He beheld his own darling sin.

No longer a ghoul in that face he saw; It was fair as a boy’s first love: The voice that had curdled his veins with awe Was the coo of the woodland dove.

Each heart was on flame for the peerless dame At the price of the husband’s life; Bright claymores flash out, and loud voices shout, “In thy widow shall be my wife.”

Then darkness fell over the palace hall, More dark and more dark it fell, And a death-groan boomed hoarse underneath the pall, And was drowned amid roar and yell.

When light through the lattice-pane stole once more, It was gray as a wintry dawn, And the bishop lay cold on the regal floor, With a stain on his robes of lawn.

Lord Ronald was standing beside the dead, In the scabbard he plunged his sword, And with visage as wan as the corpse, he said, “Lo! my ladye hath kept her word.

“Now I leave her to others to woo and win, For no longer I find her fair; Could I look on the face of my darling sin, I should see but a dead man’s there.

“And the dowry she brought me is here returned, For the wish of my heart has died, It is quenched in the blood of the priest who burned My sweet mother, the Saint of Clyde.”

Lord Ronald strode over the stony floor, Not a hand was outstretched to stay; Lord Ronald has passed through the gaping door, Not an eye ever traced the way.

And the ladye, left widowed, was prized above All the maidens in hall and bower, Many bartered their lives for that ladye’s love, And their souls for that ladye’s dower.

God grant that the wish which I dare not pray Be not that which I lust to win, And that ever I look with my first dismay On the face of my darling sin!

As he ceased, Kenelm’s eye fell on Tom’s face upturned to his own, with open lips, an intent stare, and paled cheeks, and a look of that higher sort of terror which belongs to awe. The man, then recovering himself, tried to speak, and attempted a sickly smile, but neither would do. He rose abruptly and walked away, crept under the shadow of a dark beech-tree, and stood there leaning against the trunk.

“What say you to the ballad?” asked Kenelm of the singer.

“It is not without power,” answered he.

“Ay, of a certain kind.”

The minstrel looked hard at Kenelm, and dropped his eyes, with a heightened glow on his cheek.

“The Scotch are a thoughtful race. The Scot who wrote this thing may have thought of a day when he saw beauty in the face of a darling sin; but, if so, it is evident that his sight recovered from that glamoury. Shall we walk on? Come, Tom.”

The minstrel left them at the entrance of the town, saying, “I regret that I cannot see more of either of you, as I quit Luscombe at daybreak. Here, by the by, I forgot to give it before, is the address you wanted.”

KENELM.--“Of the little child. I am glad you remembered her.”

The minstrel again looked hard at Kenelm, this time without dropping his eyes. Kenelm’s expression of face was so simply quiet that it might be almost called vacant.

Kenelm and Tom continued to walk on towards the veterinary surgeon’s house, for some minutes silently. Then Tom said in a whisper, “Did you not mean those rhymes to hit me here--_here_?” and he struck his breast.

“The rhymes were written long before I saw you, Tom; but it is well if their meaning strike us all. Of you, my friend, I have no fear now. Are you not already a changed man?”

“I feel as if I were going through a change,” answered Tom, in slow, dreary accents. “In hearing you and that gentleman talk so much of things that I never thought of, I felt something in me,--you will laugh when I tell you,--something like a bird.”

“Like a bird,--good!--a bird has wings.”

“Just so.”

“And you felt wings that you were unconscious of before, fluttering and beating themselves as against the wires of a cage. You were true to your instincts then, my dear fellow-man,--instincts of space and Heaven. Courage!--the cage-door will open soon. And now, practically speaking, I give you this advice in parting: You have a quick and sensitive mind which you have allowed that strong body of yours to incarcerate and suppress. Give that mind fair play. Attend to the business of your calling diligently; the craving for regular work is the healthful appetite of mind: but in your spare hours cultivate the new ideas which your talk with men who have been accustomed to cultivate the mind more than the body has sown within you. Belong to a book-club, and interest yourself in books. A wise man has said, ‘Books widen the present by adding to it the past and the future.’ Seek the company of educated men and educated women too; and when you are angry with another, reason with him: don’t knock him down; and don’t be knocked down yourself by an enemy much stronger than yourself,--Drink. Do all this, and when I see you again you will be--”

“Stop, sir,--you will see me again?”

“Yes, if we both live, I promise it.”

“When?”

“You see, Tom, we have both of us something in our old selves which we must work off. You will work off your something by repose, and I must work off mine, if I can, by moving about. So I am on my travels. May we both have new selves better than the old selves, when we again shake hands! For your part try your best, dear Tom, and Heaven prosper you.”

“And Heaven bless you!” cried Tom, fervently, with tears rolling unheeded from his bold blue eyes.