"I am afraid you are right," said Charlie Lloyd. "So many of our best women--I mean the women who are likely to make most impression on the age--are going that way now."
"But what horrid things you say, Ideala," one of the ladies chimed in, "and you make everybody else say horrid things. That "Pa.s.sion of Delysle" is not a bit worse than Tennyson"s "Fatima"--and there"s a lot more in it--that part about "the roll of worlds," you know, is quite grand."
"I always liked that idea," Ideala observed.
"And--and--" the lady continued, "where she looks at everything, you know. She was very properly seeking distraction, and found it for a moment in the contemplation of nature, and that softened her mood, so that when the inevitable rush of recollection comes and forces the thought of him back upon her, her feeling finds expression in a prayer --instead of--instead of--"
"A blasphemous remonstrance," Ideala put in. "Oh, I don"t deny that there is just enough to be said in favour of all these things to make them sell--and this one has two unusual points of interest. It opens with a riddle, and the lady"s lover is a priest, which gives an additional zest to the charm of wrong-doing, a _sauce piquante_ for jaded appet.i.tes."
"Why do you call the opening verses a riddle?" said Charlie Lloyd.
"Because I fancy no one will ever guess what kind of a place it was--
This mountain island, This saintly shrine, this fort--
I forget how it goes on."
"Oh, the description of the place is not bad," Charlie answered, after reading it over again to himself. "It would do for the Mont St. Michael in Normandy."
"Well, let that pa.s.s, then," said Ideala; "also the dear familiar "subtle scents abroad upon the night." But what does she mean by "On with rush and ring"?"
"She means the train, obviously."
"What an outlandish periphrasis! And how about
The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and h.o.a.ry, Are quivering in their grim surprise?"
"That is a "pathetic fallacy." She is not speaking of the things as they were, but as they appeared to her excited fancy. She chronicles her own death, though----"
"So did Moses," said Ideala. "If you really want to justify "The Pa.s.sion of Delysle" I can help you. You see she was dreadfully badly treated by her friends, poor thing! and her marriage after all was no marriage, because she loved another man all the time; and your husband isn"t properly your husband if you don"t love him, love being the only possible sanctification--in fact, the only true marriage. And then her lover, thinking he had lost her, became a priest, and vows made under a misapprehension like that cannot be binding--it would be too much to expect us to suffer always for such mistakes. And then the world--but we all know how cruel the world is! And appearances were sadly against them, poor things! No one would ever have believed that they had stayed out all night to discuss their religious experiences. Suicide is shocking, of course; but still, when people are driven to it like that, we can only be sorry for them, and hope they will never do it again!"
She nestled back more comfortably on her couch, and then continued in an altered tone: "But it is appalling to think of the quant.i.ty of machine-made verses like those that are imposed on the public year by year, verses the mere result of much reading and writing, without a sc.r.a.p of inspiration in them, and as far removed from even schoolboy efforts of genius, as an oleograph is from an oil painting. Poets are as rare now as prophets, and inspiration has left us for our sins. I think any fairly educated one of us, with a tolerable memory and the habit of composition, could write that "Pa.s.sion of Delysle" again in half-an-hour."
"Oh, could they, though!" said Ralph, the son of the house. "I dare bet anything you couldn"t do it yourself in twice the time."
"Dare you?" she answered, with a little smile. "Well, to adopt your elegant phraseology, Master Ralph, I bet I will produce the same story, with the same conclusion, but a different moral, in an hour--since you allow me twice the time I named--if I may be permitted to write it in blank verse, that is, and of course, with the understanding that what I write is not intended to be anything but mere versified prose."
"Done with you!" cried Ralph.
"Hush--h--h!" his mother exclaimed, deprecatingly. "Betting, and before the Bishop, too!"
"What the Bishop don"t know will do him no harm, Ma," said the youth in a stage whisper. "Sit down, Ideala, and begin. It"s ten minutes to ten now."
The Bishop slept serenely; conversation flagged; and Ideala wrote steadily for about three-quarters of an hour; then she gathered up the ma.n.u.script, rose from the table, and returned to her old seat.
""The Pa.s.sion of Delysle" has become "The Choice,"" she said. "Will you read it for me, Mr. Lloyd? I think it should have that advantage, at least."
Charlie took the ma.n.u.script, and read:
Once on a time, not very long gone by, A n.o.ble lady had a n.o.ble choice.
The daughter of an ancient house was she, Beauty, and wealth, and highest rank were hers, But love was not, for of a proud, cold race Her people were, caring for nought but lands, Riches, and power; holding all tender thoughts As weakly folly, only fit for babes.
The lady learnt their creed; her heart seem"d hard-- She thought it so; and when the moment came To choose "twixt love, young love, and pride of place, She still"d an unwonted feeling that would rise, And saying calmly: "I have got no heart, And love is vain!" she chose to be the wife Of sinful age, corruption, and untruth, Scorning the steadfast love of one who yearn"d To win her from the crooked paths she trod, And break the sordid chains that bound her soul, And sweep the defiling dust of common thoughts From out her mind, until it shone at last With large imaginings of G.o.d and good.
She chose: no more they met: her life was pa.s.s"d In constant round of pomp and proud display.
But when he went, and never more there came The love-sad eyes to question and entreat, The voice of music praising n.o.ble deeds, The graceful presence and the golden hair, She miss"d the boy; but scoff"d at first and said: "One misses all things, common pets one spurn"d, Good slaves and bad alike when both are gone,-- A small thing makes the habit of a life!"
But days wore on, and adulation palled.
She knew not what she lack"d, nor that she loath"d The hollow semblance, the dull mockery, Which she had gain"d for joy by choosing rank, And money"s worth, instead of peace and love.
Yet ever as the long days grew to months More heavy hung the time, moved slower by.
And all things troubled her and gave her pain, And morning, noon, and night the thought would rise, And grew insistent when she would not hear: "One loved me! out of all this crowd but one!
And he is gone, and I have driven him forth!"
Then in the silent solitude of night An old weird story that she once had heard Tormented her; a story speaking much Of a rock-island on the Norman coast, A mountain peak rising from barren sand, Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns, And beaten by the winds on ev"ry side, With wall"d-in town, and castle on the height, And high above the castle, strangely placed, A grey cathedral with its summit tipp"d By a gold figure of St. Michael crown"d, With burnished wings and flashing sword that shone A beacon in the sunset, seen for miles, As tho" the Archangel floated in the air.
The castle and the church a sanctuary And refuge were, to which men often fled For rest or safety, finding what they sought.
And as the lady thought about the place, A notion came that she would like to kneel And pray for peace at that far lonely shrine.
The longing grew: she rested not nor slept.
And should she fly and leave her wretched wealth?
And if she fled she never could return; Yet if she stay"d she felt that she should die.
So go or stay meant misery for her-- But misery is lessened when we move.
Yes, she would go! and then she laugh"d to think Of the wild fury of her harsh old Lord When he should wake one day and find her gone-- Laugh"d! the first time for long and weary months.
By Mont St. Michael, on the Norman coast, A restless river, changing oft its course, Flows sullenly; and racehorse-like the tide, Which, going, leaves a wilderness of sand.
Comes rushing back, a foam-topp"d, wat"ry wall; And those who, wand"ring, "scape the quicksand"s grip, Are often caught and drown"d ere help can come.
But fair the prospect from the Mount when bright The sunshine falls on Avranches far away, A white town straggling o"er a verdant hill; And on the tree-clad country toward the west, On apple orchards, and the fairy bloom Of feath"ry tam"risk bushes on the sh.o.r.e; Whilst high above in silent majesty Of hue and form the floating clouds support The far-extending vault of azure sky
Such was the shrine the lady sought, and there In mute appeal for what she lack"d she knelt, Not knowing what she lack"d; but finding peace Steal o"er her soul there as she faintly heard The slow and solemn chanting of the priests, The mild monotony of murmured prayers, And hush of pauses when she seemed to feel The heart she deem"d so hard was melting fast, And listen"d to a voice within her say-- "Love is not vain! Love all things and rejoice!"
And found warm tears were stealing down her cheeks.
The mystery of love, of love, of love, Of hope, of joy, of life itself, she felt; The crown of life, which she had sacrificed In scornful pride for l.u.s.t of power and place.
The lady bow"d her head, and o"er her swept A wave of anguish, and she knew despair.
"Could I but see him once again!" she moan"d, "See him, and beg forgiveness, and then die!"
Did the Archangel Michael, standing there Upon her left, in shining silver, hear?
Who knows? Her prayer was answer"d like a flash; For at that moment, clear and sweet o"er all The mingled music of the chanting choir, There rose a voice that thrill"d her inmost soul: It breathed a blessing; utter"d soft a prayer.
No need to look: and yet she look"d, and saw A hooded monk before the altar kneel, A graceful presence, tho" in sordid dress.
And as she gazed the cowl slipp"d back and show"d (But dimly thro" the incense-perfumed cloud) A pure pale face, a golden tonsured head, And blue eyes raised to heaven. Then the truth Was there reveal"d to her that he had left The world to watch and pray for such as she.
Out of the castled-gate she hurried forth: What matter"d where she went, to east or west?
What matter"d peasant"s warning that the sand Was shifting ever, and the rushing tide Gave them no quarter whom it overtook?
"Twas death she courted, and with heedless step Onward to meet it swift the lady fled.
Death is so beautiful at such a time, When all the land in summer sunshine lies, And lapse of distant waves breaks pleasantly The silence with a soothing dreamy sound, And danger seems no nearer than the sky, He tempts us from afar with hope of rest.
She hurried on in search of death, nor heard That eager footsteps followed where she went.
The voice that call"d her was not real, she thought, But a sweet portion of a strange sweet dream-- For now the terrible anguish quickly pa.s.s"d, And sense of peace at hand was all she felt.
"O stop!"
Ah! that was real. She turn"d and saw, Nor saw a moment till she felt his grasp Strong and determined on her rounded arm.
"Thou shalt not die!" he cried. "What madness this?"
"Madness!" she echoed: "nay, my love, "tis bliss-- The first my life has known--to stand here still With thee beside me, and to wait for death.
I know my heart at last, but all too late!
I may not love thee, I another"s wife; Thou mayst not love me, thou hast wedded heaven.