Chapter 14

Then when the violet opened, she rose up And walked: the tender leaf and tender light Did solace her; but she was white and wan, The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood Who listened to those deadly words. And now Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, And drifted not at all. The lilac spread Odorous essence round her; and full oft, When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, And with a reverent quiet in her soul, Took back--it was His will--her time, and sat Learning again to live. Thus as she sat Upon a day, she was aware of one Who at a distance marked her. This again Another day, and she was vexed, for yet She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. "Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, As if her soul upbraided him, she said, "Why have you done this thing?" He answered her, "I am not always master in the fight: I could not help it." "What!" she sighed, "not yet! O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him As one who looked to live, imploring him,-- "Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; It wearies me to think of this your love. Forget me!"

He made answer, "I will try: The task will take me all my life to learn, Or were it learned, I know not how to live; This pain is part of life and being now,-- It is myself; but yet--but I will try." Then she spoke friendly to him,--of his home, His father, and the old, brave, loving folk; She bade him think of them. And not her words, But having seen her, satisfied his heart. He left her, and went home to live his life, And all the summer heard it said of her, "Yet, she grows stronger"; but when autumn came Again she drooped.

A bitter thing it is To lose at once the lover and the love; For who receiveth not may yet keep life In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, Not only from her present had withdrawn, But from her past, and there was no such man, There never had been.

He was not as one Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, Till, after transient stay, all unaware It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live In memory,--loved till death. He was not vile; For who by choice would part with that pure bird, And lose the exaltation of its song? He had not strength of will to keep it fast, Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life Of thought to make the echo sound for him After the song was done. Pity that man: His music is all flown, and he forgets The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, Only a thing to pity most in man, Weak,--only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul Would fain have hidden him forevermore, Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, So full of household kindness. Ah, so good And true! A little, she had sometimes thought, Despondent for himself, but strong of faith In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed.

Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed, As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, From her small store, money to help her need, With, "Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole Of the cruel tale was told. What more? She died. Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen Her husband; prayed him sore to come. But no. And then she prayed him that he would forgive, Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think He might have let her see, before she died, The words she wanted, but he did not write Till she was gone--'I neither can forgive, Nor would I if I could.'" "Patience, my heart! And this, then, is the man I loved!" But yet He sought a lower level, for he wrote Telling the story with a different hue, Telling of freedom. He desired to come, "For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." And she rose up against it in her soul, For she despised him. And with passionate tears Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,-- "Herbert, I will not see you." Then she drooped Again; it is so bitter to despise; And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought, "I rose up once, I cannot rise up now; here is the end." And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end."

But when that other heard, "It is the end," His heart was sick, and he, as by a power Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. Reason rebelled against it, but his will Required it of him with a craving strong As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.

She, when she saw his face, considered him Full quietly, let all excuses pass Not answered, and considered yet again.

"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" What could he do, indeed?--a weak white girl Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, And not his own.

She looked, and pitied him. Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. Ah, me! that I might get away from it, Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT, And then I could have rest. My time is short, I think, so short." And roused against himself In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her For whom he would have given all his rest, If there were any left to give; he took Her words up bravely, promising once more Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears Dropped quietly upon her cheek.

"Remain," She said, "for there is something to be told, Some words that you must hear.

"And first hear this: God has been good to me; you must not think That I despair. There is a quiet time Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind To listen, and your eyes to look at me. Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is; Look at my hand,--my beauty is all gone." And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked, But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, Far otherwise than she had willed,--they said, "Lovelier than ever."

Yet her words went on, Cold and so quiet, "I have suffered much, And I would fain that none who care for me Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, "I have brought my mind of late to think of this: That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well To give you choice of griefs.

"Were it not best To weep for a dead love, and afterwards Be comforted the sooner, that she died Remote, and left not in your house and life Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. But were it best to weep for a dead wife, And let the sorrow spend and satisfy Itself with all expression, and so end? I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, Then,--do not answer with too sudden words: It matters much to you; not much, not much To me,--then truly I will die your wife; I will marry you."

What was he like to say, But, overcome with love and tears, to choose The keener sorrow,--take it to his heart, Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch Those eyes that were his light till they should close?

He answered her with eager, faltering words, "I choose,--my heart is yours,--die in my arms."

But was it well? Truly, at first, for him It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried, "When may this be?" She answered, "When you will," And cared not much, for very faint she grew, Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, "If I could slip away before the ring Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot For both,--a blessed thing for him, and me."

But it was not so; for the day had come,-- Was over: days and months had come, and Death,-- Within whose shadow she had lain, which made Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, Indifferent,--Death withdrew himself, and life Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, Drawn to another life forevermore. O, what a waking! After it there came Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. She thought within herself, "What have I done? How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. "What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, When she began to look him in the face, Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," For she had never thought on them before, She read their grave repose aright. She knew That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, Hidden reserves of measureless content Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute.

Most patient Muriel! when he brought her home, She took the place they gave her,--strove to please His kin, and did not fail; but yet thought on, "What have I done? how shall I do the rest? Ah! so contented, Laurance, with this wife That loves you not, for all the stateliness And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps In your blue eyes." And after that awhile She rested from such thinking, put it by And waited. She had thought on death before: But no, this Muriel was not yet to die; And when she saw her little tender babe, She felt how much the happy days of life Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed And wondered at, and lost herself in long Rapture of watching, and contentment deep.

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, Her husband and his father standing nigh, About to ride, the grandmother, all pride And consequence, so deep in learned talk Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, Broke off to say, "I never saw a babe So like its father." And the thought was new To Muriel; she looked up, and when she looked, Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know; Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, With "Goody, you are left in charge, take care "-- "As if I needed telling," quoth the dame; And they were gone.

Then Muriel, lost in thought, Gazed; and the grandmother, with open pride, Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel said, "Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now The picture that his father has"; and soon The old woman put it in her hand.

The wife, Considering it with deep and strange delight, Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned.

A mouth for mastery and manful work, A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair Saxon of hue. She conned; then blushed again, Remembering now, when she had looked on him, The sudden radiance of her husband's smile.

But Muriel did not send the picture back; She kept it; while her beauty and her babe Flourished together, and in health and peace She lived.

Her husband never said to her, "Love, are you happy?" never said to her, "Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er They rode together in the lanes, and paused, Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks That topped the mountains,--when she sat by him, Withdrawn at even while the summer stars Came starting out of nothing, as new made, She felt a little trouble, and a wish That he would yet keep silence, and he did. That one reserve he would not touch, but still Respected.

Muriel grew more brave in time, And talked at ease, and felt disquietude Fade. And another child was given to her.

"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, "For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," Quoth the good dame; "but never heed you, love, He thinks them both as right as right can be."

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, But still he said, "I must": and she was left Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care Was like a mother's; and the two could talk Sweetly, for all the difference in their years.

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish That she had known why Laurance left her thus. "Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, 'Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask No question, tell her naught; but if she let Any disquietude appear to you, Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and laughed, "I ask, then."

"Child, it is that your old love, Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start: He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near; He said that he was going over seas, 'And might I see your wife this only once, And get her pardon?'"

"Mercy!" Muriel cried, "But Laurance does not wish it?"

"Nay, now, nay," Quoth the good dame. "I cannot," Muriel cried; "He does not, surely, think I should."

"Not he," The kind old woman said, right soothingly. "Does not he ever know, love, ever do What you like best?"

And Muriel, trembling yet, Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, "For I was with him when they met that day, 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'"

Then Muriel, pondering,--"And he said no more? You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame Unruffled answered, "No, sweet heart, not he: What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, He knows, love, very well": with that she smiled. "Bless your fair face, you have not really thought He did not know you loved him?"

Muriel said, "He never told me, goody, that he knew." "Well," quoth the dame, "but it may chance, my dear, That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep: Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? But if one asks, 'Art happy?' why, it sets The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, Let peace and happy folk alone.

"He said, 'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' And he went on to add, in course of time That he would ask you, when it suited you, To write a few kind words."

"Yes," Muriel said, "I can do that."

"So Laurance went, you see," The soft voice added, "to take down that child. Laurance had written oft about the child, And now, at last, the father made it known He could not take him. He has lost, they say, His money, with much gambling; now he wants To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, And let this so be seen, that Laurance went And took the child, and took the money down To pay."

And Muriel found her talking sweet, And asked once more, the rather that she longed To speak again of Laurance, "And you think He knows I love him?"

"Ay, good sooth, he knows No fear; but he is like his father, love. His father never asked my pretty child One prying question; took her as she was; Trusted her; she has told me so: he knew A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. He knows you love him; but he will not speak; No, never. Some men are such gentlemen!"

SONGS

OF

THE NIGHT WATCHES.

SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES,

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY.

INTRODUCTORY.

(_Old English Manner._)

APPRENTICED.

Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass; Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!"

"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with thee, O?"

"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong; And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O! And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in white, And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O."

THE FIRST WATCH.

TIRED.

I.

O, I would tell you more, but I am tired; For I have longed, and I have had my will; I pleaded in my spirit, I desired: "Ah! let me only see him, and be still All my days after." Rock, and rock, and rock, Over the falling, rising watery world, Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main; The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock To light on a warmer plain. White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, Fall over in harmless play, As these do far away; Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee.

II.

I am so tired, If I would comfort me, I know not how, For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, And I have nothing left to long for now.

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, Often and often, while the light grew dim, And through the lilac branches I could see, Under a saffron sky, the purple rim O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would float Up from behind as it were a golden boat, Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, Love--such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. Most beautiful crescent moon, Ship of the sky! Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. Methought that it would come my way full soon, Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,-- A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife.

III.

All over! the celestial sign hath failed; The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed, And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. The love that fed on daily kisses dieth; The love kept warm by nearness, lieth Wounded and wan; The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, And faints with naught to feed upon. Only there stirreth very deep below The hidden beating slow, And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath Of the love that conquers death.

IV.

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, My ever, my only dear? Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way, So sure that we should meet Upon our trysting-day. And even absence then to me was sweet, Because it brought me time to brood Upon thy dearness in the solitude. But ah! to stay, and stay, And let that moon of April wane itself away, And let the lovely May Make ready all her buds for June; And let the glossy finch forego her tune That she brought with her in the spring, And never more, I think, to me can sing; And then to lead thee home another bride, In the sultry summer tide, And all forget me save for shame full sore, That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more."

V.

O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heart Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, Sobbed to itself apart, Ached to itself in vain, One came who loveth me As I love thee.... And let my God remember him for this, As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, Nor visit on thy stately head Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said.... He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed Because he knew the sorrow,--whispering low, And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote: "The vessel lieth in the river reach, A mile above the beach, And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." He said, "I have a boat, And were it good to go, And unbeholden in the vessel's wake Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. Come, then, with me."

VI.

O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink, And it was very dark. I gave my hand,-- He led me out across the pasture land, And through the narrow croft, Down to the river's brink. When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand Up to their chins in water, and full oft WE pulled them and the other shining flowers, That all are gone to-day: WE two, that had so many things to say, So many hopes to render clear: And they are all gone after thee, my dear,-- Gone after those sweet hours, That tender light, that balmy rain; Gone "as a wind that passeth away, And cometh not again."

VII.

I only saw the stars,--I could not see The river,--and they seemed to lie As far below as the other stars were high. I trembled like a thing about to die: It was so awful 'neath the majesty Of that great crystal height, that overhung The blackness at our feet, Unseen to fleet and fleet The flocking stars among, And only hear the dipping of the oar, And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore.

VIII.

Less real it was than any dream. Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver, As we shot quickly from the silent river, And felt the swaying and the flow That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, Whereto its nameless waters go: O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, See that weird sight again; The lights from anchored vessels hung; The phantom moon, that sprung Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, From the rim o' the moaning main, And touched with elfin light The two long oars whereby we made our flight, Along the reaches of the night; Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, Went in, and left us darker than before, To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed, That should receive and bear with her away The brightest portion of my sunniest day,-- The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore.

IX.

And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flash Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride That followed; both a little sad, Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, That once did bear thee on, That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rash Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. O, what a little moment, what a crumb Of comfort for a heart to feed upon! And that was all its sum; A glimpse, and not a meeting,-- A drawing near by night, To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, And all between the flashing of a light And its retreating.

X.

Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, The ship,--and weighed her anchor to depart, We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things; And there was silence in my heart, And silence in the upper and the nether deep. O sleep! O sleep! Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, Thou kind, thou comforting one: For I have seen his face, as I desired, And all my story is done. O, I am tired!

THE MIDDLE WATCH.

I.