IX.

“Well then, we parted,— to make brief the tale,

I take my orders, and my leave, set sail;

For weeks, for months, fond letters, long nor few,

Keep hope alive with love for ever new:

If she had suffer'd, she betray'd it not;

All save one sweetness —‘ that we loved’ forgot.

She never named her father;— once indeed

The name was writ, but blurr'd;— it was decreed

That she should fill the martyr-measure,— hide

Not the dart only, but the bleeding side,

And, wholly generous in the offering made,

Veil even sorrow, lest it should upbraid.

“At length one letter came — the last; more blest

In faith, in love, false hope, than all the rest;

But at the close some hastier lines appear,

Tremblingly writ, and stain'd with many a tear,

In which, less said than timorously implied

( The maid still blushing through the secret bride ),

I heard her heart through that far distance beat:

The hour Eve's happiest daughter dreads to meet,—

The hour of Nature's agony was nigh,—

Husband and father, false one, where was I?

“Slow day on slow day, unrevealing, crept,

And still its ice the freezing silence kept:

Fear seized my soul, I could no longer brook

The voiceless darkness which the daylight took.

I feign'd excuse for absence;— left the shore:

Fair blow the winds;— behold her home once more!

“Her home! a desert! Still, though rank and wild,

On the rank grass the heedless floweret smiled;

Still by the porch you heard the ungrateful bee;

Still brawl'd the brooklet's unremembering glee;

But they — the souls of the sweet pastoral ground?

Green o'er the father rose the sullen mound!

Amidst his poor he slept; his end was known,—

Life's record rounded with the funeral stone:

But she?— but Mary?— but my child?— what dews

Fall on their graves?— what herbs which heaven renews

Pall their pure clay?— Oh! were it mine at least

To weep, beloved, where your relics rest!—

Bear with me, Morvale,— pity if you can —

These thoughts unman me — no, they prove me man!”

“Man of the cities,” with a mutter'd scorn,

Groan'd the stern Nomad from the lands of Morn,—

“Man of the sleek, far-looking prudence, which

Beggars life's May, life's Autumn to enrich;

Which, the deed doing, halts not in its course,

But, the deed done, finds comfort in remorse.

Man, in whom sentiment, the bloodless shade

Of noble passion, alternates with trade,—

Hard in his error — feeble in his tears,

And huckstering love, yet prattling of the spheres!”

So mused the sombre savage, till the pale

And self-gnaw'd worldling nerved him to his tale:—

“The hireling watch'd the bed where Mary lay,

In stranger arms my first-born saw the day.

Below,— unseen his travail, all unknown

His war with Nature, sate the sire alone:

He had not thrust the one he still believed,

If silent, sinless, or in sin deceived —

He had not thrust her from a father's door;

So Shame came in, and cower'd upon the floor,

And face to face with Shame, he sate to hear

The groan above bring torture to his ear.

In that sad night, when the young mother slept,

Forth from his door the elder mourner crept;

Absent for days, none knowing whither bent,

Till back return'd abruptly as he went.

With a swift tremulous stride he climb'd the stair, }

Through the closed chamber gleam'd his silver hair, }

And Mary heard his voice soft — pitying — as in prayer! }

‘ Child, child, I was too hard!— But woe is wild;

Now I know all!— again I clasp my child!’

Within his arms, upon his heart again

His Mary lay, and strove for words in vain;

She strove for words, but better spoke through tears

The love the heart through silence vents and hears.

“All this I gather'd from the nurse, who saw

The scene, which dews from hireling eyes could draw;

So far;— her sob the pastor heard, and turn'd,

Waved his wan hand, nor what more chanced she learn'd.

“Next morn in death the happier father lay,

From sleep to Heaven his soul had pass'd away;

He had but lived to pardon and to bless

His child;— emotion kills in its excess,

And that task done, why longer on the rack

Stretch the worn frame?— God's mercy call'd him back.

The day they buried him, while yet the strife

Of sense and memory raged for death and life

In Mary's shatter'd brain, her father's friend,

Whose hand, perchance, had sped him to his end,

Whose zeal officious had explored, reveal'd

My name, the half, worse half, of all conceal'd,

Sought her, and saw alone: When gone, a change

Came o'er the victim, terrible and strange;

All grief seem'd hush'd — a stern tranquillity

Calm'd the wan brow and fix'd the glassy eye;

She spoke not, moved not, wept not,— on her breast

Slept Earth's new stranger — not more deep its rest.

They fear'd her in that mood — with noiseless tread

Stole from the room; and, ere the morn, she fled.

Gone the young Mother with her babe!— no trace;

As the wind goes, she vanish'd from the place;

They search'd the darkness of the wood, they pried

Into the secrets of the tempting tide,

In vain,— unseen on earth as in the wave,

Where life found refuge or despair a grave.”

“And is this all?” said Morvale —

“No, my thought

Guess'd at the clue; her father's friend I sought,

A stern hard man, of Calvin's iron mould,

And yet I moved him, and his tale he told.

It seem'd ( by me unmark'd ), amidst the rest,

My uncle's board had known this homely guest.

Our evil star had led the guest, one day,

Where through the lone glade wound our lovers’ way,

To view, with Age's hard, suspecting eyes,

The high-born courtier in the student's guise.

Thus, when the father, startled to vague fears,

By his child's waning cheek and unrevealing tears,

First to his brother priest for counsel came,

He urged stern question — track'd the grief to shame,

Guess'd the undoer, and disclosed the name.

“Time went — the priest had still a steady trust

In Mary's honour; but, to mine unjust,

Divined some fraud — explored, and found a clue,

There had been marriage, if the rites were due;

Had learn'd Clanalbin's name, as one whose eye

Had seen, whose witness might attest the tie.

This news to Mary's father was convey'd

The eve her infant on her heart was laid.

“That night he left his home, he did not rest

Till found Clanalbin —‘ Well, and he confess'd?’

I cried impatient;— my informer's eye

Flash'd fire —‘ Confess'd the fraud,’ was his reply.

‘ The fraud!’ —‘ The impious form, the vile disguise!

Mock priest, false marriage, hell's whole woof of lies!’

‘ Lies!— had the sound earth open'd its abyss

Beneath my feet, my soul had shudder'd less.

Lies!— but not mine!— his own!— not mine such ill.

O wife, I fly — to right, avenge, and claim thee still!’”

“Thy hand — I wrong'd thee,” Morvale falter'd, while

His strong heart heaved — “Thou didst avenge the guile?

Thou found'st thy friend — thy witness — well! and he?” —

“Had spoken truth, the truth of perfidy.

This man had loved me in his own dark way,

Loved for past kindness in our wilder day,

Loved for the future, which, obscure for him,

Link'd with my fate, with that grew bright or dim.

I told thee how he warr'd with my intent,

The strong dissuasion, and the slow consent:

The slow consent but veil'd the labour'd wile;

That I might yet be great, he grovell'd to be vile.

‘ Twas a false Hymen — a mock priest — and she

The pure, dishonour'd — the dishonourer free!

“This then the tale that, while it snapp'd the chord,

Still to the father's heart the child restored;

This told to her by the hard zealot's tongue,

Had the last hope from spoil'd existence wrung;

Had driven the outcast through the waste to roam,

And with the altar shatter'd ev'n the home.

No! trust ev'n then,— ev'n then, hope, was not o'er:

One morn the wanderer reach'd Clanalbin's door.

O steadfast saint! amidst the lightning's scathe,

Still to the anchor clung the lingerer Faith;

Still through the tempest of a darken'd brain,

Where misery gnaw'd and memory rack'd in vain,

The last lone angel that deserts the grief

Of noble souls, survived and smiled,— BELIEF!

There had she come, herself myself to know,

And bow'd the head, and waited for the blow!

What matter how the villain soothed, or sought

To mask the crime?— enough that it was wrought;

She heard in silence,— when all said, all learn'd,

Still silent linger'd; then a flush return'd

To the pale cheek,— the Woman and the Wrong

Rear'd the light form,— the voice came clear and strong.

‘ Tell him my father's grave is closed; the dread

Of shame sleeps with him — dying with the dead:

Tell him on earth we meet no more;— in vain

Would he redress the wrong, and clear the stain,

His child is nameless; and his bride — what now

To her, too late, the mockery of the vow?

I was his wife — his equal;— to endure

Earth's slander? Yes!— because my soul was pure!

Now, were he kneeling here,— fame, fortune won,—

My pride would bar him from the fallen one.

Say this; if more he seek my fate, reply —

‘ Once stain the ermine, and its fate — to die!’

I need not tell thee if my fury burst

Against the wretch — the accurser — the accurst!

I need not tell thee if I sought each trace

That lured false hope to woe's lorn resting-place;

If, when all vain,— gold, toil, and art essay'd,

Still in my sunlight stalk'd the avenging shade,

Lost to my life for ever;— on the ground

Where dwell the spectres,— Conscience — ever found!”