Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  To keep the night air from her wasted frame;

  And, though his vow was broken, somehow knew

  That he was doing what was right to do,

  Yet felt a weight of unacknowledged blame.

  And many a day he tended her and fed;

  But ever after that first night’s surprise

  With earnest vigilance he held his head

  Averted, and downcast he kept his eyes.

  His vow, though broken once, was still his law;

  He looked upon her face no more, nor saw

  Her whom he cared for in such kindly wise.

  She never spoke to him, nor he to her —

  That she was sick and sad was all he knew;

  He never asked her what her past days were,

  Nor of the future, what she meant to do.

  So dwelt they, till the full moon’s yellow light

  Flooded the world once more. Then came the night

  Which all his life had been a prelude to.

  The stone was moved a little from the door,

  And near it he was kneeling rapt in prayer

  Upon the cold uneven earthen floor;

  The moonbeams passed him by, and rested where

  The woman slept — her breathing soft and slow,

  With rhythmic cadence even, restful, low,

  Stirring the stillness of the cool night air

  His prayer being ended, as he turned to rest,

  He chanced to let his eyes fall carelessly

  Upon the figure that the moon caressed,

  The woman that his care had not let die.

  And now no more he turned his face aside,

  But gazed, and gazed, and still unsatisfied

  His eager look fed on her, hungrily.

  On her? On whom? The suppliant he had saved,

  Thin, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed had been,

  With shrunken brow whereon care-lines were graved,

  With withered arms, dull hair, and fingers lean.

  ‘Has my blind care transformed her so?’ he said;

  For she was gone, and there lay in her stead

  The loveliest woman he had ever seen.

  The rags she wore but made her seem more sweet,

  Since in despite of them she was so fair;

  The rough brown leaves quite covered up her feet,

  But left one ivory arm and shoulder bare,

  The other lay beneath the little head,

  And over all the moonlit couch was spread

  The sunlight-coloured wonder of her hair.

  He could not move, nor turn away his gaze:

  How long he stood and looked he could not guess.

  At last she faintly sighed, and in her face

  Trembled the dawn of coming consciousness;

  The eyelids quivered, and the red lips stirred,

  As if they tried to find some sweet lost wo

  And then her eyelids lifted, and he met

  Full in his dazzled eyes the glorious light

  Of eyes that he had struggled to forget

  Since he had broken from their spells of might —

  The Eastern eyes that from the painted wall

  Had lightened down upon him, to enthral

  Senses and soul with fetters of delight.

  He knew her now, his love without a name,

  Who in his dreams had looked on him and smiled,

  And almost back to his old world of shame

  His unconsenting manhood had beguiled!

  There was no world now any more. At last

  He knew that all — his future, present, past —

  In her sole self was fused and reconciled.

  The moments fled as in a dream divine:

  Fire filled his veins — there beat within his brain

  The madness that is born of love or wine;

  And her eyes gleamed — softened and gleamed again,

  And in those stormy seas he gazed, until

  Her beauty seemed the whole vast night to fill,

  And all, save her, seemed valueless and vain.

  Then, with her eyes still deep in his, she rose

  And moved towards him, and a wave of bliss

  Flooded his sense with the wild joy that goes

  Before a longed-for, almost granted kiss,

  And slowly she drew nearer to his side —

  Then, with a smile like mid-June’s dawn, she sighed,

  And turned to him, and laid her hand on his.

  And at the touch, all he had deemed effaced —

  All the heart-searing passions of his past —

  Surged up, and their destroying wave laid waste

  The ordered garden of his soul. At last

  The spell of silence broke, and suddenly

  The man’s whole heart found voice in one low cry,

  As round her perfect head his arms he cast —

  And did not clasp her, for his foiled arms crossed

  Only upon his own tumultuous breast!

  His wrecked heart, tempest driven, passion tossed,

  Beat fierce against his own hand on it pressed.

  As on June fields might fall December frost,

  In one cold breath he knew that she was lost —

  Eternally foregone and unpossessed.

  For even as he clasped she had seemed to melt,

  And fade into the misty moonlit air;

  His arms were empty, yet his hand still felt

  The touch of her hand that had rested there:

  But she was gone, with all her maddening grace —

  The solitude and silence, in her place,

  Like a chill searching wind crept everywhere.

  Silence — at first. Then suddenly outbroke

  A little laugh. And then, above, around,

  A hideous peal of laughter, shout on shout,

  Re-echoing from sky, and air, and ground;

  And in his devastated soul had birth

  A horrid echo of that demon mirth,

  And with his human voice he swelled its sound.

  ‘Tricked, fooled!’ he laughed. ‘We laugh, the fiends and I,

  They for their triumph, I to feel my fall!

  From snares like these is no security,

  In desert wild or close-built city wall:

  And since I must be tempted, let me go

  And brave the old temptations that I know;

  Not these, that are but phantoms after all —

  ‘Phantoms, not living women, warm and real,

  As the fair Roman women were. And yet

  The phantom only is my soul’s ideal,

  Longed for through all the years and never met

  Till now; and only now to make hell worse —

  To fan my fires of infinite remorse

  With the cold wind of infinite regret.

  ‘Back to the world, the world of love and sin!

  For since my soul is lost, I claim its price!

  Prayers are not heard. The God I trusted in

  Has failed me once — He shall not fail me twice!

  No more of that wild striving and intense

  For irrecoverable innocence —

  No more of useless, vain self-sacrifice!

  ‘Life is too potent and too passionate,

  Against whose force I all these years have striven

  In vain, in vain! Our own lives make our Fate;

  And by our Fate our lives are blindly driven!

  There is no refuge in the hermit’s cell

  From memories enough to make a hell —

  Of chances lost that might have made a heaven!’

  Back to his world he went, and plunged anew

  Into the old foul life’s polluted tide;

  But ever in his sweetest feast he knew

  A longing never to be satisfied:

  This strange wild wickedness, that new mad sin,

  Might be the frame to find her picture in;

  And if that failed, some o
ther must be tried.

  And in the search, soul, body, heart, and brain

  Were blasted and destroyed, and still his prize,

  Ever untouched, seemed always just to gain,

  And just beyond his reach shone Paradise.

  So followed he, too faithfully, too well,

  Through death, into the very gate of hell,

  The love-light of those unforgotten eyes!

  THE MOAT HOUSE

  PART I

  I

  UNDER the shade of convent towers,

  Where fast and vigil mark the hours,

  From childhood into youth there grew

  A maid as fresh as April dew,

  And sweet as May’s ideal flowers,

  Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies,

  Like children’s dreams most pure, unwise,

  Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too,

  That sometimes shone a moment through

  Her wondrous unawakened eyes.

  The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant

  The twig should grow as it was bent;

  That she, like them, should watch youth’s bier,

  Should watch her day-dreams disappear,

  And go the loveless way they went.

  The convent walls were high and grey;

  How could Love hope to find a way

  Into that citadel forlorn,

  Where his dear name was put to scorn,

  Or called a sinful thing to say?

  Yet Love did come; what need to tell

  Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell

  Across her feet when dreamily

  She paced, with unused breviary,

  Down paths made still with August’s spell —

  Of looks cast through the chapel grate,

  Of letters helped by Love and Fate,

  That to cold fingers did not come

  But lay within a warmer home,

  Upon her heart inviolate?

  Somehow he loved her — she loved him:

  Then filled her soul’s cup to the brim,

  And all her daily life grew bright

  With such a flood of rosy light

  As turned the altar candles dim.

  But love that lights is love that leads,

  And lives upon the heart it feeds;

  Soon grew she pale though not less fair,

  And sighed his name instead of prayer,

  And told her heart-throbs, not her beads.

  How could she find the sunlight fair,

  A sunlight that he did not share?

  How could a rose smell sweet within

  The cruel bars that shut her in,

  And shut him out while she was there?

  He vowed her fealty firm and fast,

  Then to the winds her fears she cast;

  They found a way to cheat the bars,

  And in free air, beneath free stars,

  Free, and with him, she stood at last.

  ‘Now to some priest,’ he said, ‘that he

  May give thee — blessing us — to me.’

  ‘No priest,’ she cried in doubt and fear,

  ‘He would divide, not join us, dear.

  I am mine — I give myself to thee.

  ‘Since thou and I are mine and thine,

  What need to swear it at a shrine?

  Would love last longer if we swore

  That we would love for evermore?

  God gives me thee — and thou art mine.’

  ‘God weds us now,’ he said, ‘yet still

  Some day shall we all forms fulfil.

  Eternal truth affords to smile

  At laws wherewith man marks his guile,

  Yet law shall join us — when you will.

  ‘So look your last, my love, on these

  Forbidding walls and wooing trees.

  Farewell to grief and gloom,’ said he;

  ‘Farewell to childhood’s joy,’ said she;

  But neither said, ‘Farewell to peace.’

  SONG: MY SWEET, MY SWEET

  My sweet, my sweet,

  She is complete

  From dainty head to darling feet;

  So warm and white,

  So brown and bright,

  So made for love and love’s delight.

  God could but spare

  One flower so fair,

  There is none like her anywhere;

  Beneath wide skies

  The whole earth lies,

  But not two other such brown eyes.

  The world we’re in,

  If one might win?

  Not worth that dimple in her chin

  A heaven to know?

  I’ll let that go

  But once to see her lids droop low

  Over her eyes,

  By love made wise:

  To see her bosom fall and rise

  Is more than worth

  The angels’ mirth,

  And all the heaven-joys of earth.

  This is the hour

  Which gives me power

  To win and wear earth’s whitest flower.

  Oh, Love, give grace,

  Through all life’s ways

  Keep pure this heart, her dwelling place.

  II

  The fields were reaped and the pastures bare,

  And the nights grown windy and chill,

  When the lovers passed through the beech woods fair,

  And climbed the brow of the hill.

  In the hill’s spread arm the Moat House lies

  With elm and willow tree;

  ‘And is that your home at last?’ she sighs.

  ‘Our home at last,’ laughs he.

  Across the bridge and into the hall

  Where the waiting housefolk were.

  ‘This is my lady,’ he said to them all,

  And she looked so sweet and fair

  That every maid and serving-boy

  God-blessed them then and there,

  And wished them luck, and gave them joy,

  For a happy, handsome pair.

  And only the old nurse shook her head:

  ‘Too young,’ she said, ‘too young.’

  She noted that no prayers were read,

  No marriage bells were rung;

  No guests were called, no feast was spread,

  As was meet for a marriage tide;

  The young lord in the banquet hall broke bread

  Alone with his little bride.

  Yet her old heart warmed to the two, and blessed,

  They were both so glad and gay,

  By to-morrow and yesterday unoppressed,

  Fulfilled of the joy of to-day;

  Like two young birds in that dull old nest,

  So careless of coming care,

  So rapt in the other that each possessed,

  The two young lovers were.

  He was heir to a stern hard-natured race,

  That had held the Moat House long,

  But the gloom of his formal dwelling place

  Dissolved at her voice and song;

  So bright, so sweet, to the house she came,

  So winning of way and word,

  The household knew her by one pet name,

  ‘My Lady Ladybird.’

  First love so rarely gets leave to bring,

  In our world where money is might,

  Its tender buds to blossoming

  With the sun of its own delight.

  We love at rose or at vintage prime,

  In the glare and heat of the day,

  Forgetting the dawn and the violet time,

  And the wild sweet scent of the may.

  These loved like children, like children played,

  The old house laughed with delight

  At her song of a voice, at the radiance made

  By her dress’s flashing flight.

  Up the dark oak stair, through the gallery’s gloom,

  She ran like a fairy fleet,

  And ever her lover from room to roo
m

  Fast followed her flying feet.

  They gathered the buds of the late-lived rose

  In the ordered garden ways,

  They walked through the sombre yew-walled close

  And threaded the pine woods maze,

  They rode through woods where their horses came

  Knee-deep through the rustling leaves,

  Through fields forlorn of the poppies’ flame

  And bereft of their golden sheaves.

  In the mellow hush of October noon

  They rowed in the flat broad boat,

  Through the lily leaves so thickly strewn

  On the sunny side of the moat.

  They were glad of the fire of the beech-crowned hill,

  And glad of the pale deep sky,

  And the shifting shade that the willows made

  On the boat as she glided by.

  They roamed each room of the Moat House through

  And questioned the wraiths of the past,

  What legends rare the old dresses knew,

  And the swords, what had wet them last?

  What faces had looked through the lozenge panes,

  What shadows darkened the door,

  What feet had walked in the jewelled stains

  That the rich glass cast on the floor?

  She dressed her beauty in old brocade

  That breathed of loss and regret,

  In laces that broken hearts had swayed,

  In the days when the swords were wet;

  And the rubies and pearls laughed out and said,

  ‘Though the lovers for whom we were set,

  And the women who loved us, have long been dead,

  Yet beauty and we live yet.’

  When the wild white winter’s spectral hand

  Effaced the green and the red,

  And crushed the fingers brown of the land

  Till they grew death-white instead,

  The two found cheer in their dark oak room,

  And their dreams of a coming spring,

  For a brighter sun shone through winter’s gloom

  Than ever a summer could bring.

  They sat where the great fires blazed in the hall,

  Where the wolf-skins lay outspread,

  The pictured faces looked down from the wall

  To hear his praise of the dead.

  He told her ghostly tales of the past,

  And legends rare of his house,

  Till she held her breath at the shade fire-cast,

  And the scamper-rush of the mouse,

  Till she dared not turn her head to see

  What shape might stand by her chair —

  Till she cried his name, and fled to his knee,

  And safely nestled there.

  Then they talked of their journey, the city’s crowd,

  Of the convent’s faint joy and pain,

  Till the ghosts of the past were laid in the shroud

  Of commonplace things again.

  So the winter died, and the baby spring,