The petty marestail forest, fairy pines,
Or from the tiny pitted target blew
What look’d a flight of fairy arrows aim’d
All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes
For Edith and himself: or else he forged,
But that was later, boyish histories
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck,
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love
Crown’d after trial; sketches rude and faint,
But where a passion yet unborn perhaps
Lay hidden as the music of the moon
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.
And thus together, save for college-times
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair
As ever painter painted, poet sang,
Or Heav’n in lavish bounty moulded, grew.
And more and more, the maiden woman-grown,
He wasted hours with Averill; there, when first
The tented winter-field was broken up
Into that phalanx of the summer spears
That soon should wear the garland; there again
When burr and bine were gather’d; lastly there
At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall,
On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even
My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid
No bar between them: dull and self-involved,
Tall and erect, but bending from his height
With half-allowing smiles for all the world,
And mighty courteous in the main — his pride
Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring —
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism,
Would care no more for Leolin’s walking with her
Than for his old Newfoundland’s, when they ran
To loose him at the stables, for he rose
Twofooted at the limit of his chain,
Roaring to make a third: and how should Love,
Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes
Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow
Such dear familiarities of dawn?
Seldom, but when he does, Master of all.
So these young hearts not knowing that they loved,
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy,
Wander’d at will, but oft accompanied
By Averill: his, a brother’s love, that hung
With wings of brooding shelter o’er her peace,
Might have been other, save for Leolin’s —
Who knows? but so they wander’d, hour by hour
Gather’d the blossom that rebloom’d, and drank
The magic cup that fill’d itself anew.
A whisper half reveal’d her to herself.
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers’ homes,
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls
That dimpling died into each other, huts
At random scatter’d, each a nest in bloom.
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought
About them: here was one that, summer-blanch’d,
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller’s-joy
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth
Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle:
One look’d all rosetree, and another wore
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars:
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers
About it; this, a milky-way on earth,
Like visions in the Northern dreamer’s heavens,
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors;
One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks;
Each, its own charm; and Edith’s everywhere;
And Edith ever visitant with him,
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor:
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving,
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand
Rose from the clay it work’d in as she past,
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by,
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice
Of comfort and an open hand of help,
A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves
To ailing wife or wailing infancy
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored;
He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart,
A childly way with children, and a laugh
Ringing like proved golden coinage true,
Were no false passport to that easy realm,
Where once with Leolin at her side the girl,
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles,
Heard the good mother softly whisper ‘Bless,
God bless ‘em; marriages are made in Heaven.’
A flash of semi-jealousy clear’d it to her.
My Lady’s Indian kinsman unannounced
With half a score of swarthy faces came.
His own, tho’ keen and bold and soldierly,
Sear’d by the close ecliptic, was not fair;
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour,
Tho’ seeming boastful: so when first he dash’d
Into the chronicle of a deedful day,
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile
Of patron ‘Good! my lady’s kinsman! good!’
My lady with her fingers interlock’d,
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees,
Call’d all her vital spirits into each ear
To listen: unawares they flitted off,
Busying themselves about the flowerage
That stood from our a stiff brocade in which,
The meteor of a splendid season, she,
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago,
Stept thro’ the stately minuet of those days:
But Edith’s eager fancy hurried with him
Snatch’d thro’ the perilous passes of his life:
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye
Hated him with a momentary hate.
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he:
I know not, for he spoke not, only shower’d
His oriental gifts on everyone
And most on Edith: like a storm he came,
And shook the house, and like a storm he went.
Among the gifts he left her (possibly
He flow’d and ebb’d uncertain, to return
When others had been tested) there was one,
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it
Sprinkled about in gold that branch’d itself
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes
Made by a breath. I know not whence at first,
Nor of what race, the work; but as he told
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves
He got it; for their captain after fight,
His comrades having fought their last below,
Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot:
Down from the beetling crag to which he clung
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet,
This dagger with him, which when now admired
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please,
At once the costly Sahib yielded it to her.
And Leolin, coming after he was gone,
Tost over all her presents petulantly:
And when she show’d the wealthy scabbard, saying
‘Look what a lovely piece of
workmanship!’
Slight was his answer ‘Well — I care not for it:’
Then playing with the blade he prick’d his hand,
‘A gracious gift to give a lady, this!’
‘But would it be more gracious’ ask’d the girl
‘Were I to give this gift of his to one
That is no lady?’ ‘Gracious? No’ said he.
‘Me? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me,
I seem to be ungraciousness itself.’
‘Take it’ she added sweetly ‘tho’ his gift;
For I am more ungracious ev’n than you,
I care not for it either;’ and he said
‘Why then I love it:’ but Sir Aylmer past,
And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard.
The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds
They talk’d of: blues were sure of it, he thought:
Then of the latest fox — where started — kill’d
In such a bottom: ‘Peter had the brush,
My Peter, first:’ and did Sir Aylmer know
That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught?
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand,
And rolling as it were the substance of it
Between his palms a moment up and down —
‘The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him;
We have him now:’ and had Sir Aylmer heard —
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of it —
This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew —
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a child?
That cursed France with her egalities!
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially
With nearing chair and lower’d accent) think —
For people talk’d — that it was wholly wise
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk
So freely with his daughter? people talk’d —
The boy might get a notion into him;
The girl might be entangled ere she knew.
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke:
‘The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences!’
‘Good’ said his friend ‘but watch!’ and he ‘enough,
More than enough, Sir! I can guard my own.’
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch’d.
Pale, for on her the thunders of the house
Had fallen first, was Edith that same night;
Pale as the Jeptha’s daughter, a rough piece
Of early rigid color, under which
Withdrawing by the counter door to that
Which Leolin open’d, she cast back upon him
A piteous glance, and vanish’d. He, as one
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm,
And pelted with outrageous epithets,
Turning beheld the Powers of the House
On either side the hearth, indignant; her,
Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan,
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr’d,
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard.
‘Ungenerous, dishonorable, base,
Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her,
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands,
The last remaining pillar of their house,
The one transmitter of their ancient name,
Their child.’ ‘Our child!’ ‘Our heiress!’ ‘Ours!’ for still,
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said
‘Boy, mark me! for your fortunes are to make.
I swear you shall not make them out of mine.
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her,
Perplext her, made her half forget herself,
Swerve from her duty to herself and us —
Things in an Aylmer deem’d impossible,
Far as we track ourselves — I say that this, —
Else I withdraw favor and countenance
From you and yours for ever — shall you do.
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her —
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me:
And you shall say that having spoken with me,
And after look’d into yourself, you find
That you meant nothing — as indeed you know
That you meant nothing. Such as match as this!
Impossible, prodigious!’ These were words,
As meted by his measure of himself,
Arguing boundless forbearance: after which,
And Leolin’s horror-stricken answer, ‘I
So foul a traitor to myself and her,
Never oh never,’ for about as long
As the wind-hover hangs in the balance, paused
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within,
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying
‘Boy, should I find you by my doors again,
My men shall lash you from the like a dog;
Hence!’ with a sudden execration drove
The footstool from before him, and arose;
So, stammering ‘scoundrel’ out of teeth that ground
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man
Follow’d, and under his own lintel stood
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now,
Beneath a pale and unimpassion’d moon,
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform’d.
Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye
That watch’d him, till he heard the ponderous door
Close, crashing with long echoes thro’ the land,
Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood
And masters of his motion, furiously
Down thro’ the bright lawns to his brother’s ran,
And foam’d away his heart at Averill’s ear:
Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed:
The man was his, had been his father’s, friend:
He must have seen, himself had seen it long;
He must have known, himself had known: besides,
He never yet had set his daughter forth
Here in the woman-markets of the west,
Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold.
Some one, he thought, had slander’d Leolin to him.
‘Brother, for I have loved you more as a son
Than brother, let me tell you: I myself —
What is their pretty saying? jilted is it?
Jilted I was: I say it for your peace.
Pain’d, and, as bearing in myself the shame
The woman should have borne, humiliated,
I lived for years a stunted sunless life;
Till after our good parents past away
Watching your growth, I seem’d again to grow.
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you:
The very whitest lamb in all my fold
Loves you: I know her: the worst thought she has
Is whiter even than her pretty hand:
She must prove true: for, brother, where two fight
The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength,
And you are happy: let her parents be.’
But Leolin cried out the more upon them —
Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, wealth,
Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough was theirs
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this,
Why, twenty boys and girls should marry on it,
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made
The harlot of the cities: nature crost
Was mother of the foul adulteries
That saturate soul with body. Name, too! name,
Their ancien
t name! they might be proud; its worth
Was being Edith’s. Ah, how pale she had look’d
Darling, to-night! they must have rated her
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords,
These partridge-breeders of a thousand years,
Who had mildew’d in their thousands, doing nothing
Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace!
Fall back upon a name! rest, rot in that!
Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools,
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness!
He had known a man, a quintessence of man,
The life of all — who madly loved — and he,
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools,
Had rioted his life out, and made an end.
He would not do it! her sweet face and faith
Held him from that: but he had powers, he knew it:
Back would he to his studies, make a name,
Name, fortune too: the world should ring of him
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves:
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be —
‘O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief —
Give me my fling, and let me say my say.’
At which, like one that sees his own excess,
And easily forgives it as his own,
He laugh’d; and then was mute; but presently
Wept like a storm: and honest Averill seeing
How low his brother’s mood had fallen, fetch’d
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved
For banquets, praised the waning red, and told
The vintage — when this Aylmer came of age —
Then drank and past it; till at length the two,
Tho’ Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed
That much allowance must be made for men.
After an angry dream this kindlier glow
Faded with morning, but his purpose held.
Yet once by night again the lovers met,
A perilous meeting under the tall pines
That darken’d all the northward of her Hall.
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest
In agony, she promised that no force,
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her:
He, passionately hopefuller, would go,
Labor for his own Edith, and return
In such a sunlight of prosperity
He should not be rejected. ‘Write to me!
They loved me, and because I love their child
They hate me: there is war between us, dear,
Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must remain
Sacred to one another.’ So they talk’d,
Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew;
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears,
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt
Upon their faces, as they kiss’d each other
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 105
