Aurora Leigh: Book 3

by


    "To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself
    And goest where thou wouldest: presently
    Others shall gird thee," said the Lord, "to go
    Where thou wouldst not." He spoke to Peter thus,
    To signify the death which he should die
    When crucified head downward.


    If He spoke
    To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
    The word suits many different martyrdoms,
    And signifies a multiform of death,
    Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
    And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.


    For 'tis not in mere death that men die most,
    And, after our first girding of the loins
    In youth's fine linen and fair broidery
    To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
    We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
    While others gird us with the violent bands
    Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
    Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
    Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
    Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.
    Yet He can pluck us from that shameful cross.
    God, set our feet low and our forehead high,
    And show us how a man was made to walk!


    Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.
    The room does very well; I have to write
    Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;
    Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,
    Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down
    At once, as I must have them, to be sure,
    Whether I bid you never bring me such
    At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse;
    You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps
    To throw them in the fire. Now get to bed,
    And dream, if possible, I am not cross.


    Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,
    A mere mere woman, a mere flaccid nerve,
    A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
    Turned soft so, overtasked and overstrained
    And overlived in this close London life!
    And yet I should be stronger.


    Never burn
    Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
    With red seals from the table, saying each,
    "Here's something that you know not." Out, alas,
    'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise
    Or even straighter and more consequent
    Since yesterday at this time yet, again,
    If but one angel spoke from Ararat
    I should be very sorry not to hear:
    So open all the letters! let me read.
    Blanche Ord, the writer in the "Lady's Fan,"
    Requests my judgment on . . . that, afterwards.
    Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak,
    And signs "Elisha to you." Pringle Sharpe
    Presents his work on "Social Conduct," craves
    A little money for his pressing debts . .
    From me, who scarce have money for my needs;
    Art's fiery chariot which we journey in
    Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes,
    Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward!
    Here's Rudgely knows it, editor and scribe;
    He's "forced to marry where his heart is not,
    Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart."
    Ah, lost it because no one picked it up;
    That's really loss, (and passable impudence).
    My critic Hammond flatters prettily,
    And wants another volume like the last.
    My critic Belfair wants another book
    Entirely different, which will sell (and live?),
    A striking book, yet not a startling book,
    The public blames originalities
    (You must not pump spring-water unawares
    Upon a gracious public full of nerves):
    Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox,
    As easy reading as the dog-eared page
    That's fingered by said public fifty years,
    Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,
    And yet a revelation in some sort:
    That's hard, my critic Belfair. So what next?
    My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;
    "Call a man John, a woman Joan," says he,
    "And do not prate so of humanities:"
    Whereat I call my critic simply, Stokes.
    My critic Jobson recommends more mirth
    Because a cheerful genius suits the times,
    And all true poets laugh unquenchably
    Like Shakespeare and the gods. That's very hard.
    The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiled
    With such a needy heart on two pale lips,
    We cry "Weep rather, Dante." Poems are
    Men, if true poems: and who dares exclaim
    At any man's door, "Here, 'tis understood
    The thunder fell last week and killed a wife
    And scared a sickly husband what of that?
    Get up, be merry, shout and clap your hands,
    Because a cheerful genius suits the times "?
    None says so to the man, and why indeed
    Should any to the poem? A ninth seal;
    The apocalypse is drawing to a close.
    Ha, this from Vincent Carrington, "Dear friend,
    I want good counsel. Will you lend me wings
    To raise me to the subject, in a sketch
    I'll bring to-morrow may I? at eleven?
    A poet's only born to turn to use:
    So save you! for the world . . . and Carrington."
    "(Writ after.) Have you heard of Romney Leigh,
    Beyond what's said of him in newspapers,
    His phalansteries there, his speeches here,
    His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, everywhere?
    He dropped me long ago, but no one drops
    A golden apple though indeed one day
    You hinted that, but jested. Well, at least
    You know Lord Howe who sees him . . . whom he sees
    And you see and I hate to see, for Howe
    Stands high upon the brink of theories,
    Observes the swimmers and cries 'Very fine,'
    But keeps dry linen equally, unlike
    That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange it is,
    Such sudden madness seizing a young man
    To make earth over again, while I'm content
    To make the pictures. Let me bring the sketch.
    A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot,
    Both arms a-flame to meet her wishing Jove
    Halfway, and burn him faster down; the face
    And breasts upturned and straining, the loose locks
    All glowing with the anticipated gold.
    Or here's another on the self-same theme.
    She lies here flat upon her prison-floor,
    The long hair swathed about her to the heel
    Like wet seaweed. You dimly see her through
    The glittering haze of that prodigious rain,
    Half blotted out of nature by a love
    As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either sketch.
    I think, myself, the second indicates
    More passion."


    Surely. Self is put away,
    And calm with abdication. She is Jove,
    And no more Danae greater thus. Perhaps
    The painter symbolises unaware
    Two states of the recipient artist-soul,
    One, forward, personal, wanting reverence,
    Because aspiring only. We'll be calm,
    And know that, when indeed our Joves come down,
    We all turn stiller than we have ever been.


    Kind Vincent Carrington. I'll let him come.
    He talks of Florence, and may say a word
    Of something as it chanced seven years ago,
    A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird,
    In those green country walks, in that good time
    When certainly I was so miserable . . .
    I seem to have missed a blessing ever since.


    The music soars within the little lark,
    And the lark soars. It is not thus with men
    We do not make our places with our strains,
    Content, while they rise, to remain behind
    Alone on earth instead of so in heaven.
    No matter; I bear on my broken tale.


    When Romney Leigh and I had parted thus,
    I took a chamber up three flights of stairs
    Not far from being as steep as some larks climb,
    And there, in a certain house in Kensington,
    Three years I lived and worked. Get leave to work
    In this world 'tis the best you get at all;
    For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts
    Than men in benediction. God says, "Sweat
    For foreheads," men say "crowns," and so we are crowned,
    Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel
    Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work, get work;
    Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.


    Serene and unafraid of solitude,
    I worked the short days out, and watched the sun
    On lurid morns or monstrous afternoons
    (Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass
    With fixed unflickering outline of dead heat,
    From which the blood of wretches pent inside
    Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the air)
    Push out through fog with his dilated disk,
    And startle the slant roofs and chimney-pots
    With splashes of fierce colour. Or I saw
    Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog,
    Involve the passive city, strangle it
    Alive, and draw it off into the void,
    Spires, bridges, streets, and squares, as if a sponge
    Had wiped out London, or as noon and night
    Had clapped together and utterly struck out
    The intermediate time, undoing themselves
    In the act. Your city poets see such things
    Not despicable. Mountains of the south,
    When drunk and mad with elemental wines
    They rend the seamless mist and stand up bare,
    Make fewer singers, haply. No one sings,
    Descending Sinai: on Parnassus mount
    You take a mule to climb and not a muse
    Except in fable and figure: forests chant
    Their anthems to themselves, and leave you dumb.
    But sit in London at the day's decline,
    And view the city perish in the mist
    Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep Red Sea,
    The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the host,
    Sucked down and choked to silence then, surprised
    By a sudden sense of vision and of tune,
    You feel as conquerors though you did not fight,
    And you and Israel's other singing girls,
    Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you choose.
    I worked with patience, which means almost power:
    I did some excellent things indifferently,
    Some bad things excellently. Both were praised,
    The latter loudest. And by such a time
    That I myself had set them down as sins
    Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week by week
    Arrived some letter through the sedulous post,
    Like these I've read, and yet dissimilar,
    With pretty maiden seals, initials twined
    Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily
    (Convicting Emily of being all heart);
    Or rarer tokens from young bachelors,
    Who wrote from college with the same goose-quill,
    Suppose, they had just been plucked of, and a snatch
    From Horace, "Collegisse juvat," set
    Upon the first page. Many a letter, signed
    Or unsigned, showing the writers at eighteen
    Had lived too long, although a muse should help
    Their dawn by holding candles, compliments
    To smile or sigh at. Such could pass with me
    No more than coins from Moscow circulate
    At Paris: would ten roubles buy a tag
    Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a sou?
    I smiled that all this youth should love me, sighed
    That such a love could scarcely raise them up
    To love what was more worthy than myself;
    Then sighed again, again, less generously,
    To think the very love they lavished so
    Proved me inferior. The strong loved me not,
    And he . . . my cousin Romney . . . did not write.
    I felt the silent finger of his scorn
    Prick every bubble of my frivolous fame
    As my breath blew it, and resolve it back
    To the air it came from. Oh, I justified
    The measure he had taken of my height:
    The thing was plain he was not wrong a line;
    I played at art, made thrusts with a toy-sword,
    Amused the lads and maidens.


    Came a sigh
    Deep, hoarse with resolution, I would work
    To better ends, or play in earnest. "Heavens,
    I think I should be almost popular
    If this went on!" I ripped my verses up,
    And found no blood upon the rapier's point;
    The heart in them was just an embryo's heart
    Which never yet had beat, that it should die;
    Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life;
    Mere tones, inorganised to any tune.


    And yet I felt it in me where it burnt,
    Like those hot fire-seeds of creation held
    In Jove's clenched palm before the worlds were sown,
    But I I was not Juno even! my hand
    Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's ill,
    And when I yearned to loose a finger lo,
    The nerve revolted. 'Tis the same even now:
    This hand may never, haply, open large,
    Before the spark is quenched, or the palm charred,
    To prove the power not else than by the pain.


    It burnt, it burns my whole life burnt with it,
    And light, not sunlight and not torchlight, flashed
    My steps out through the slow and difficult road.
    I had grown distrustful of too forward Springs,
    The season's books in drear significance
    Of morals, dropping round me. Lively books?
    The ash has livelier verdure than the yew;
    And yet the yew's green longer, and alone
    Found worthy of the holy Christmas time:
    We'll plant more yews if possible, albeit
    We plant the graveyards with them.


    Day and night
    I worked my rhythmic thought, and furrowed up
    Both watch and slumber with long lines of life
    Which did not suit their season. The rose fell
    From either cheek, my eyes globed luminous
    Through orbits of blue shadow, and my pulse
    Would shudder along the purple-veinèd wrist
    Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set face to face
    With youth's ideal: and when people came
    And said "You work too much, you are looking ill,"
    I smiled for pity of them who pitied me,
    And thought I should be better soon perhaps
    For those ill looks. Observe "I," means in youth
    Just I, the conscious and eternal soul
    With all its ends, and not the outside life,
    The parcel-man, the doublet of the flesh,
    The so much liver, lung, integument,
    Which make the sum of "I" hereafter when
    World-talkers talk of doing well or ill.
    I prosper if I gain a step, although
    A nail then pierced my foot: although my brain
    Embracing any truth froze paralysed,
    I prosper: I but change my instrument;
    I break the spade off, digging deep for gold,
    And catch the mattock up.


    I worked on, on.
    Through all the bristling fence of nights and days
    Which hedges time in from the eternities,
    I struggled, never stopped to note the stakes
    Which hurt me in my course. The midnight oil
    Would stink sometimes; there came some vulgar needs:
    I had to live that therefore I might work,
    And, being but poor, I was constrained, for life,
    To work with one hand for the booksellers
    While working with the other for myself
    And art: you swim with feet as well as hands,
    Or make small way. I apprehended this,
    In England no one lives by verse that lives;
    And, apprehending, I resolved by prose
    To make a space to sphere my living verse.
    I wrote for cyclopædias, magazines,
    And weekly papers, holding up my name
    To keep it from the mud. I learnt the use
    Of the editorial "we" in a review
    As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains,
    And swept it grandly through the open doors
    As if one could not pass through doors at all
    Save so encumbered. I wrote tales beside,
    Carved many an article on cherry-stones
    To suit light readers, something in the lines
    Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand,
    But that, I'll never vouch for: what you do
    For bread will taste of common grain, not grapes,
    Although you have a vineyard in Champagne;
    Much less in Nephelococcygia
    As mine was, peradventure.


    Having bread
    For just so many days, just breathing-room
    For body and verse, I stood up straight and worked
    My veritable work. And as the soul
    Which grows within a child makes the child grow,
    Or as the fiery sap, the touch from God,
    Careering through a tree, dilates the bark
    And roughs with scale and knob, before it strikes
    The summer foliage out in a green flame
    So life, in deepening with me, deepened all
    The course I took, the work I did. Indeed
    The academic law convinced of sin;
    The critics cried out on the falling off,
    Regretting the first manner. But I felt
    My heart's life throbbing in my verse to show
    It lived, it also certes incomplete,
    Disordered with all Adam in the blood,
    But even its very tumours, warts and wens
    Still organised by and implying life.


    A lady called upon me on such a day.
    She had the low voice of your English dames,
    Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note
    To catch attention, and their quiet mood,
    As if they lived too high above the earth
    For that to put them out in anything:
    So gentle, because verily so proud;
    So wary and afraid of hurting you,
    By no means that you are not really vile,
    But that they would not touch you with their foot
    To push you to your place; so self-possessed
    Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes
    An effort in their presence to speak truth:
    You know the sort of woman, brilliant stuff,
    And out of nature. "Lady Waldemar."
    She said her name quite simply, as if it meant
    Not much indeed, but something, took my hands,
    And smiled as if her smile could help my case,
    And dropped her eyes on me and let them melt.
    "Is this," she said, "the Muse"?


    "No sybil even,"
    I answered, "since she fails to guess the cause
    Which taxed you with this visit, madam."


         "Good,"
    She said; "I value what's sincere at once.
    Perhaps if I had found a literal Muse,
    The visit might have taxed me. As it is,
    You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes,
    My fair Aurora, in a frank good way,
    It comforts me entirely for your fame,
    As well as for the trouble of ascent
    To this Olympus."


    There, a silver laugh
    Ran rippling through her quickened little breaths
    The steep stair somewhat justified.


    "But still
    Your ladyship has left me curious why
    You dared the risk of finding the said Muse?"


    "Ah, keep me, notwithstanding, to the point,
    Like any pedant? Is the blue in eyes
    As awful as in stockings after all,
    I wonder, that you'd have my business out
    Before I breathe exact the epic plunge
    In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you think
    I've come here, as the lion-hunters go
    To deserts, to secure you with a trap
    For exhibition in my drawing-rooms
    On zoologic soirées? Not in the least.
    Roar softly at me; I am frivolous,
    I dare say; I have played at wild-beast shows
    Like other women of my class, but now
    I meet my lion simply as Androcles
    Met his . . . when at his mercy."


    So, she bent
    Her head, as queens may mock, then lifting up
    Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look,
    Which ruled and would not spare, not even herself,
    "I think you have a cousin: Romney Leigh."


    "You bring a word from him?" my eyes leapt up
    To the very height of hers, "a word from him?"


    "I bring a word about him, actually.
    But first" (she pressed me with her urgent eyes),
    "You do not love him, you?"


    "You're frank at least
    In putting questions, madam," I replied;
    "I love my cousin cousinly no more."


    "I guessed as much. I'm ready to be frank
    In answering also, if you'll question me,
    Or even for something less. You stand outside,
    You artist women, of the common sex;
    You share not with us, and exceed us so
    Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, your hearts
    Being starved to make your heads: so run the old
    Traditions of you. I can therefore speak
    Without the natural shame which creatures feel
    When speaking on their level, to their like.
    There's many a papist she, would rather die
    Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on
    To catch the indifferent eye of such a man,
    Who yet would count adulteries on her beads
    At holy Mary's shrine and never blush;
    Because the saints are so far off, we lose
    All modesty before them. Thus, to-day.
    'Tis I, love Romney Leigh."


    "Forbear," I cried.
    "If here's no Muse, still less is any saint;
    Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar
    Should make confessions" . . .


    "That's unkindly said:
    If no friend, what forbids to make a friend
    To join to our confession ere we have done?
    I love your cousin. If it seems unwise
    To say so, it's still foolisher (we're frank)
    To feel so. My first husband left me young,
    And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough,
    To keep my booth in Mayfair with the rest
    To happy issues. There are marquises
    Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know,
    And, after seven, I might consider it,
    For there's some comfort in a marquisate
    When all's said, yes, but after the seven years;
    I, now, love Romney. You put up your lip,
    So like a Leigh! so like him! Pardon me,
    I'm well aware I do not derogate
    In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good,
    The means are excellent, but the man, the man
    Heaven help us both, I am near as mad as he,
    In loving such an one."


    She slowly swung
    Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile,
    As reasonably sorry for herself,
    And thus continued.


    "Of a truth, Miss Leigh,
    I have not, without struggle, come to this.
    I took a master in the German tongue,
    I gamed a little, went to Paris twice;
    But, after all, this love! . . . you eat of love,
    And do as vile a thing as if you ate
    Of garlic which, whatever else you eat,
    Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach
    Reminds you of your onion. Am I coarse?
    Well, love's coarse, nature's coarse ah, there's the rub.
    We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives
    From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows
    From flying over, we're as natural still
    As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly
    In Lyons velvet, we are not, for that,
    Lay-figures, look you: we have hearts within,
    Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts,
    As ready for outrageous ends and acts
    As any distressed sempstress of them all
    That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love,
    And other fevers, in the vulgar way:
    Love will not be outwitted by our wit,
    Nor outrun by our equipages: mine
    Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards
    Turned up but Romney Leigh; my German stopped
    At germane Wertherism; my Paris rounds
    Returned me from the Champs Elysées just
    A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. I came home
    Uncured, convicted rather to myself
    Of being in love . . . in love! That's coarse, you'll say,
    I'm talking garlic."


    Coldly I replied:
    "Apologise for atheism, not love!
    For me, I do believe in love, and God.
    I know my cousin: Lady Waldemar
    I know not: yet I say as much as this,
    Whoever loves him, let her not excuse
    But cleanse herself, that, loving such a man,
    She may not do it with such unworthy love
    He cannot stoop and take it."


    "That is said
    Austerely, like a youthful prophetess,
    Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes
    To keep them back from following the grey flight
    Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear,
    Be kinder with me; let us two be friends.
    I'm a mere woman, the more weak perhaps
    Through being so proud; you're better; as for him,
    He's best. Indeed he builds his goodness up
    So high, it topples down to the other side
    And makes a sort of badness; there's the worst
    I have to say against your cousin's best!
    And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst
    For his sake, if not mine."


    "I own myself
    Incredulous of confidence like this
    Availing him or you."


    "And I, myself,
    Of being worthy of him with any love:
    In your sense I am not so let it pass.
    And yet I save him if I marry him;
    Let that pass too."


    "Pass, pass! we play police
    Upon my cousin's life, to indicate
    What may or may not pass?" I cried. "He knows
    What's worthy of him; the choice remains with him;
    And what he chooses, act or wife, I think
    I shall not call unworthy, I, for one."


    "'Tis somewhat rashly said," she answered slow;
    "Now let's talk reason, though we talk of love.
    Your cousin Romney Leigh's a monster; there,
    The word's out fairly, let me prove the fact.
    We'll take, say, that most perfect of antiques
    They call the Genius of the Vatican
    (Which seems too beauteous to endure itself
    In this mixed world), and fasten it for once
    Upon the torso of the Dancing Faun
    (Who might limp surely, if he did not dance),
    Instead of Buonarroti's mask: what then?
    We show the sort of monster Romney is,
    With godlike virtues and heroic aims
    Subjoined to limping possibilities
    Of mismade human nature. Grant the man
    Twice godlike, twice heroic, still he limps,
    And here's the point we come to."


    "Pardon me,
    But, Lady Waldemar, the point's the thing
    We never come to."


    "Caustic, insolent
    At need! I like you" (there, she took my hands)
    "And now, my lioness, help Androcles,
    For all your roaring. Help me! for myself
    I would not say so but for him. He limps
    So certainly, he'll fall into the pit
    A week hence, so I lose him so he is lost!
    For when he's fairly married, he a Leigh,
    To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth,
    Starved out in London till her coarse-grained hands
    Are whiter than her morals, even you
    May call his choice unworthy."


    "Married! lost!
    He . . . Romney!"


    "Ah, you're moved at last," she said.
    "These monsters, set out in the open sun,
    Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think
    Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he?
    And who but you can wonder? He has been mad,
    The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man,
    He soured the proctors, tried the gowns-men's wits,
    With equal scorn of triangles and wine,
    And took no honours, yet was honourable.
    They'll tell you he lost count of Homer's ships
    In Melbourne's poor-bills, Ashley's factory bills,
    Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise,
    For other women, dear, we could not name
    Because we're decent. Well, he had some right
    On his side probably; men always have
    Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor
    Who brews your ale exceeds in vital worth
    Dead Cæsar who 'stops bungholes' in the cask;
    And also, to do good is excellent,
    For persons of his income, even to boors:
    I sympathise with all such things. But he
    Went mad upon them . . . madder and more mad
    From college times to these, as, going down hill,
    The faster still, the farther. You must know
    Your Leigh by heart: he has sown his black young curls
    With bleaching cares of half a million men
    Already. If you do not starve, or sin,
    You're nothing to him: pay the income-tax
    And break your heart upon't, he'll scarce be touched;
    But come upon the parish, qualified
    For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there
    To call you brother, sister, or perhaps
    A tenderer name still. Had I any chance
    With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar
    And never committed felony?"


    "You speak
    Too bitterly," I said, "for the literal truth."


    "The truth is bitter. Here's a man who looks
    For ever on the ground! you must be low,
    Or else a pictured ceiling overhead,
    Good painting thrown away. For me, I've done
    What women may we're somewhat limited,
    We modest women but I've done my best.
    How men are perjured when they swear our eyes
    Have meaning in them! they're just blue or brown,
    They just can drop their lids a little. And yet
    Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through,
    Proudhon, Considérant, and Louis Blanc,
    With various others of his socialists,
    And, if I had been a fathom less in love,
    Had cured myself with gaping. As it was,
    I quoted from them prettily enough,
    Perhaps, to make them sound half rational
    To a saner man than he whene'er we talked
    (For which I dodged occasion) learnt by heart
    His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere
    Upon the social question; heaped reports
    Of wicked women and penitentiaries
    On all my tables (with a place for Sue),
    And gave my name to swell subscription lists
    Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven,
    And other possible ends. All things I did,
    Except the impossible . . . such as wearing gowns
    Provided by the Ten Hours' movement: there
    I stopped we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile
    Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'neath the world,
    Let all that noise go on upon his back:
    He would not disconcert or throw me out,
    'Twas well to see a woman of my class
    With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart,
    Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up
    To his face, he merely warmed his feet at it:
    Just deigned to let my carriage stop him short
    In park or street, he leaning on the door
    With news of the committee which sat last
    On pickpockets at suck."


    "You jest you jest."
    "As martyrs jest, dear (if you read their lives),
    Upon the axe which kills them. When all's done
    By me, . . . for him you'll ask him presently
    The colour of my hair he cannot tell,
    Or answers 'dark' at random; while, be sure,
    He's absolute on the figure, five or ten,
    Of my last subscription. Is it bearable,
    And I a woman?"


    "Is it reparable,
    Though I were a man?"


    "I know not. That's to prove.
    But, first, this shameful marriage?"


    "Ay?" I cried.
    "Then really there's a marriage?"


    "Yesterday
    I held him fast upon it. 'Mister Leigh,'
    Said I, 'shut up a thing, it makes more noise.
    'The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I've known
    'Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so:
    'You feel I'm not the woman of the world
    'The world thinks; you have borne with me before
    'And used me in your noble work, our work,
    'And now you shall not cast me off because
    'You're at the difficult point, the join. 'Tis true
    'Even I can scarce admit the cogency
    'Of such a marriage . . . where you do not love
    '(Except the class), yet marry and throw your name
    'Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape
    'To future generations! 'tis sublime,
    'A great example, a true Genesis
    'Of the opening social era. But take heed,
    'This virtuous act must have a patent weight,
    'Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell,
    'Interpret it, and set it in the light,
    'And do not muffle it in a winter-cloak
    'As a vulgar bit of shame, as if, at best,
    'A Leigh had made a misalliance and blushed
    'A Howard should know it.' Then, I pressed him more:
    'He would not choose,' I said, 'that even his kin, . . .
    'Aurora Leigh, even . . . should conceive his act
    'Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At which
    He grew so pale, dear, . . . to the lips, I knew
    I had touched him. 'Do you know her,' he inquired,
    'My cousin Aurora?' 'Yes,' I said, and lied
    (But truly we all know you by your books),
    And so I offered to come straight to you,
    Explain the subject, justify the cause,
    And take you with me to Saint Margaret's Court
    To see this miracle, this Marian Erle,
    This drover's daughter (she's not pretty, he swears),
    Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked
    By a hundred needles, we're to hang the tie
    'Twixt class and class in England, thus indeed
    By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift
    The match up from the doubtful place. At once
    He thanked me sighing, murmured to himself
    'She'll do it perhaps, she's noble,' thanked me twice,
    And promised, as my guerdon, to put off
    His marriage for a month."


    I answered then.
    "I understand your drift imperfectly.
    You wish to lead me to my cousin's betrothed,
    To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand
    If feeble, thus to justify his match.
    So be it then. But how this serves your ends,
    And how the strange confession of your love
    Serves this, I have to learn I cannot see."


    She knit her restless forehead. "Then, despite,
    Aurora, that most radiant morning name,
    You're dull as any London afternoon.
    I wanted time, and gained it, wanted you,
    And gain you! you will come and see the girl
    In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal pearl
    And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs
    Is destined to solution. Authorised
    By sight and knowledge, then, you'll speak your mind,
    And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way,
    He'll wrong the people and posterity
    (Say such a thing is bad for me and you,
    And you fail utterly), by concluding thus
    An execrable marriage. Break it up,
    Disroot it peradventure presently
    We'll plant a better fortune in its place.
    Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less
    For saying the thing I should not. Well I know
    I should not. I have kept, as others have,
    The iron rule of womanly reserve
    In lip and life, till now: I wept a week
    Before I came here." Ending, she was pale;
    The last words, haughtily said, were tremulous.
    This palfrey pranced in harness, arched her neck,
    And, only by the foam upon the bit,
    You saw she champed against it.


    Then I rose.
    "I love love: truth's no cleaner thing than love.
    I comprehend a love so fiery hot
    It burns its natural veil of august shame,
    And stands sublimely in the nude, as chaste
    As Medicean Venus. But I know,
    A love that burns through veils will burn through masks
    And shrivel up treachery. What, love and lie!
    Nay go to the opera! your love's curable."


    "I love and lie?" she said "I lie, forsooth?"
    And beat her taper foot upon the floor,
    And smiled against the shoe, "You're hard, Miss Leigh,
    Unversed in current phrases. Bowling greens
    Of poets are fresher than the world's highways:
    Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust
    Which dims our hedges even, in your eyes,
    And vexed you so much. You find, probably,
    No evil in this marriage, rather good
    Of innocence, to pastoralise in song:
    You'll give the bond your signature, perhaps,
    Beneath the lady's mark, indifferent
    That Romney chose a wife could write her name,
    In witnessing he loved her."


    "Loved!" I cried;
    "Who tells you that he wants a wife to love?
    He gets a horse to use, not love, I think:
    There's work for wives as well, and after, straw,
    When men are liberal. For myself, you err
    Supposing power in me to break this match.
    I could not do it to save Romney's life,
    And would not to save mine."


    "You take it so,"
    She said, "farewell then. Write your books in peace,
    As far as may be for some secret stir
    Now obvious to me, for, most obviously,
    In coming hither I mistook the way."
    Whereat she touched my hand and bent her head,
    And floated from me like a silent cloud
    That leaves the sense of thunder.


    I drew breath,
    Oppressed in my deliverance. After all,
    This woman breaks her social system up
    For love, so counted the love possible
    To such, and lilies are still lilies, pulled
    By smutty hands, though spotted from their white;
    And thus she is better haply, of her kind,
    Than Romney Leigh, who lives by diagrams,
    And crosses out the spontaneities
    Of all his individual, personal life
    With formal universals. As if man
    Were set upon a high stool at a desk
    To keep God's books for Him in red and black,
    And feel by millions! What, if even God
    Were chiefly God by living out Himself
    To an individualism of the Infinite,
    Eterne, intense, profuse, still throwing up
    The golden spray of multitudinous worlds
    In measure to the proclive weight and rush
    Of His inner nature, the spontaneous love
    Still proof and outflow of spontaneous life?
    Then live, Aurora.


    Two hours afterward,
    Within Saint Margaret's Court I stood alone,
    Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague-fit,
    Whose wasted right hand gambled 'gainst his left
    With an old brass button in a blot of sun,
    Jeered weakly at me as I passed across
    The uneven pavement; while a woman, rouged
    Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief torn,
    Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivious mouth,
    Cursed at a window both ways, in and out,
    By turns some bed-rid creature and myself,
    "Lie still there, mother! liker the dead dog
    You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick our way,
    Fine madam, with those damnable small feet!
    We cover up our face from doing good,
    As if it were our purse! What brings you here,
    My lady? Is't to find my gentleman
    Who visits his tame pigeon in the eaves?
    Our cholera catch you with its cramps and spasms,
    And tumble up your good clothes, veil and all,
    And turn your whiteness dead-blue." I looked up;
    I think I could have walked through hell that day,
    And never flinched. "The dear Christ comfort you,"
    I said, "you must have been most miserable
    To be so cruel," and I emptied out
    My purse upon the stones: when, as I had cast
    The last charm in the cauldron, the whole court
    Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its doors
    And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs
    And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps . . . I passed
    Too quickly for distinguishing . . . and pushed
    A little side-door hanging on a hinge,
    And plunged into the dark, and groped and climbed
    The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt broken rail
    And mildewed wall that let the plaster drop
    To startle me in the blackness. Still, up, up!
    So high lived Romney's bride. I paused at last
    Before a low door in the roof, and knocked.
    There came an answer like a hurried dove
    "So soon? can that be Mister Leigh? so soon?"
    And, as I entered, an ineffable face
    Met mine upon the threshold. "Oh, not you,
    Not you!" the dropping of the voice implied;
    "Then, if not you, for me not any one."
    I looked her in the eyes, and held her hands,
    And said "I am his cousin, Romney Leigh's;
    And here I come to see my cousin too."
    She touched me with her face and with her voice,
    This daughter of the people. Such soft flowers
    From such rough roots? The people, under there,
    Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . . faugh!
    Yet have such daughters?


    Nowise beautiful
    Was Marian Erle. She was not white nor brown,
    But could look either, like a mist that changed
    According to being shone on more or less:
    The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls
    In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear
    To name the colour. Too much hair perhaps
    (I'll name a fault here) for so small a head,
    Which seemed to droop on that side and on this,
    As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight
    Though not a wind should trouble it. Again,
    The dimple in the cheek had better gone
    With redder, fuller rounds; and somewhat large
    The mouth was, though the milky little teeth
    Dissolved it to so infantine a smile.
    For soon it smiled at me; the eyes smiled too,
    But 'twas as if remembering they had wept,
    And knowing they should, some day, weep again.


    We talked. She told me all her story out,
    Which I'll re-tell with fuller utterance,
    As coloured and confirmed in after times
    By others and herself too. Marian Erle
    Was born upon the ledge of Malvern Hill,
    To eastward, in a hut built up at night,
    To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and turf,
    Still liable, if once he looked that way,
    To being straight levelled, scattered by his foot,
    Like any other anthill. Born, I say;
    God sent her to His world, commissioned right,
    Her human testimonials fully signed,
    Not scant in soul complete in lineaments;
    But others had to swindle her a place
    To wail in when she had come. No place for her,
    By man's law! born an outlaw was this babe;
    Her first cry in our strange and strangling air,
    When cast in spasms out by the shuddering womb,
    Was wrong against the social code, forced wrong:
    What business had the baby to cry there?


    I tell her story and grow passionate.
    She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used
    Meek words that made no wonder of herself
    For being so sad a creature. "Mister Leigh
    "Considered truly that such things should change.
    "They will, in heaven but meantime, on the earth,
    "There's none can like a nettle as a pink,
    "Except himself. We're nettles, some of us,
    "And give offence by the act of springing up;
    "And, if we leave the damp side of the wall,
    "The hoes, of course, are on us." So she said.
    Her father earned his life by random jobs
    Despised by steadier workmen keeping swine
    On commons, picking hops, or hurrying on
    The harvest at wet seasons, or, at need,
    Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a drove
    Of startled horses plunged into the mist
    Below the mountain-road, and sowed the wind
    With wandering neighings. In between the gaps
    Of such irregular work he drank and slept,
    And cursed his wife because, the pence being out,
    She could not buy more drink. At which she turned
    (The worm), and beat her baby in revenge
    For her own broken heart. There's not a crime
    But takes its proper change out still in crime
    If once rung on the counter of this world:
    Let sinners look to it.


    Yet the outcast child,
    For whom the very mother's face forwent
    The mother's special patience, lived and grew;
    Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone,
    With that pathetic vacillating roll
    Of the infant body on the uncertain feet
    (The earth being felt unstable ground so soon),
    At which most women's arms unclose at once
    With irrepressive instinct. Thus, at three,
    This poor weaned kid would run off from the fold,
    This babe would steal off from the mother's chair,
    And, creeping through the golden walls of gorse,
    Would find some keyhole toward the secresy
    Of Heaven's high blue, and, nestling down, peer out
    Oh, not to catch the angels at their games,
    She had never heard of angels, but to gaze
    She knew not why, to see she knew not what,
    A-hungering outward from the barren earth
    For something like a joy. She liked, she said,
    To dazzle black her sight against the sky,
    For then, it seemed, some grand blind Love came down,
    And groped her out, and clasped her with a kiss;
    She learnt God that way, and was beat for it
    Whenever she went home, yet came again,
    As surely as the trapped hare, getting free,
    Returns to his form. This grand blind Love, she said,
    This skyey father and mother both in one,
    Instructed her and civilised her more
    Than even Sunday-school did afterward,
    To which a lady sent her to learn books
    And sit upon a long bench in a row
    With other children. Well, she laughed sometimes
    To see them laugh and laugh and maul their texts;
    But ofter she was sorrowful with noise
    And wondered if their mothers beat them hard
    That ever they should laugh so. There was one
    She loved indeed, Rose Bell, a seven years' child,
    So pretty and clever, who read syllables
    When Marian was at letters; she would laugh
    At nothing hold your finger up, she laughed,
    Then shook her curls down over eyes and mouth
    To hide her make-mirth from the school-master:
    And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain
    On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian too,
    To see another merry whom she loved.
    She whispered once (the children side by side,
    With mutual arms entwined about their necks)
    "Your mother lets you laugh so?" "Ay," said Rose,
    "She lets me. She was dug into the ground
    Six years since, I being but a yearling wean.
    Such mothers let us play and lose our time,
    And never scold nor beat us! Don't you wish
    You had one like that?" There, Marian breaking off
    Looked suddenly in my face. "Poor Rose," said she,
    "I heard her laugh last night in Oxford Street.
    I'd pour out half my blood to stop that laugh.
    Poor Rose, poor Rose!" said Marian.


    She resumed.
    It tried her, when she had learnt at Sunday-school
    What God was, what He wanted from us all,
    And how in choosing sin we vexed the Christ,
    To go straight home and hear her father pull
    The Name down on us from the thunder-shelf,
    Then drink away his soul into the dark
    From seeing judgment. Father, mother, home,
    Were God and heaven reversed to her: the more
    She knew of Right, the more she guessed their wrong:
    Her price paid down for knowledge, was to know
    The vileness of her kindred: through her heart,
    Her filial and tormented heart, henceforth,
    They struck their blows at virtue. Oh, 'tis hard
    To learn you have a father up in heaven
    By a gathering certain sense of being, on earth,
    Still worse than orphaned: 'tis too heavy a grief,
    The having to thank God for such a joy!


    And so passed Marian's life from year to year.
    Her parents took her with them when they tramped,
    Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented towns and fairs,
    And once went farther and saw Manchester,
    And once the sea, that blue end of the world,
    That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book,
    And twice a prison, back at intervals,
    Returning to the hills. Hills draw like heaven,
    And stronger sometimes, holding out their hands
    To pull you from the vile flats up to them.
    And though perhaps these strollers still strolled back,
    As sheep do, simply that they knew the way,
    They certainly felt bettered unaware
    Emerging from the social smut of towns
    To wipe their feet clean on the mountain turf.
    In which long wanderings, Marian lived and learned,
    Endured and learned. The people on the roads
    Would stop and ask her why her eyes outgrew
    Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge the birds
    In all that hair; and then they lifted her,
    The miller in his cart, a mile or twain,
    The butcher's boy on horseback. Often too
    The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on the head
    With absolute forefinger, brown and ringed,
    And asked if peradventure she could read,
    And when she answered "ay," would toss her down
    Some stray odd volume from his heavy pack,
    A Thomson's Seasons, mulcted of the Spring,
    Or half a play of Shakespeare's, torn across
    (She had to guess the bottom of a page
    By just the top sometimes, as difficult,
    As, sitting on the moon, to guess the earth!),
    Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small Ruth's
    Small gleanings) torn out from the heart of books,
    From Churchyard Elegies and Edens Lost,
    From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and Tom Jones,
    'Twas somewhat hard to keep the things distinct,
    And oft the jangling influence jarred the child
    Like looking at a sunset full of grace
    Through a pothouse window while the drunken oaths
    Went on behind her. But she weeded out
    Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves that hurt
    (First tore them small, that none should find a word),
    And made a nosegay of the sweet and good
    To fold within her breast, and pore upon
    At broken moments of the noontide glare,
    When leave was given her to untie her cloak
    And rest upon the dusty highway's bank
    From the road's dust: or oft, the journey done,
    Some city friend would lead her by the hand
    To hear a lecture at an institute.
    And thus she had grown, this Marian Erle of ours,
    To no book-learning, she was ignorant
    Of authors, not in earshot of the things
    Outspoken o'er the heads of common men
    By men who are uncommon, but within
    The cadenced hum of such, and capable
    Of catching from the fringes of the wing
    Some fragmentary phrases, here and there,
    Of that fine music, which, being carried in
    To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh
    In finer motions of the lips and lids.


    She said, in speaking of it, "If a flower
    Were thrown you out of heaven at intervals,
    You'd soon attain to a trick of looking up,
    And so with her." She counted me her years,
    Till I felt old; and then she counted me
    Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt ashamed.
    She told me she was fortunate and calm
    On such and such a season, sat and sewed,
    With no one to break up her crystal thoughts,
    While rhymes from lovely poems span around
    Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune,
    Beneath the moistened finger of the Hour.
    Her parents called her a strange, sickly child,
    Not good for much, and given to sulk and stare,
    And smile into the hedges and the clouds,
    And tremble if one shook her from her fit
    By any blow, or word even. Out-door jobs
    Went ill with her, and household quiet work
    She was not born to. Had they kept the north,
    They might have had their pennyworth out of her,
    Like other parents, in the factories
    (Your children work for you, not you for them,
    Or else they better had been choked with air
    The first breath drawn); but, in this tramping life,
    Was nothing to be done with such a child
    But tramp and tramp. And yet she knitted hose
    Not ill, and was not dull at needlework;
    And all the country people gave her pence
    For darning stockings past their natural age,
    And patching petticoats from old to new,
    And other light work done for thrifty wives.


    One day, said Marian the sun shone that day
    Her mother had been badly beat, and felt
    The bruises sore about her wretched soul
    (That must have been): she came in suddenly,
    And snatching in a sort of breathless rage
    Her daughter's headgear comb, let down the hair
    Upon her like a sudden waterfall,
    Then drew her drenched and passive by the arm
    Outside the hut they lived in. When the child
    Could clear her blinded face from all that stream
    Of tresses . . . there, a man stood, with beast's eyes
    That seemed as they would swallow her alive
    Complete in body and spirit, hair and all,
    And burning stertorous breath that hurt her cheek,
    He breathed so near. The mother held her tight,
    Saying hard between her teeth "Why wench, why wench,
    The squire speaks to you now the squire's too good:
    He means to set you up, and comfort us.
    Be mannerly at least." The child turned round
    And looked up piteous in the mother's face
    (Be sure that mother's death-bed will not want
    Another devil to damn, than such a look),
    "Oh, mother!" then, with desperate glance to heaven,
    "God, free me from my mother," she shrieked out,
    "These mothers are too dreadful." And, with force
    As passionate as fear, she tore her hands,
    Like lilies from the rocks, from hers and his,
    And sprang down, bounded headlong down the steep,
    Away from both away, if possible,
    As far as God, away! They yelled at her,
    As famished hounds at a hare. She heard them yell;
    She felt her name hiss after her from the hills,
    Like shot from guns. On, on. And now she had cast
    The voices off with the uplands. On. Mad fear
    Was running in her feet and killing the ground;
    The white roads curled as if she burnt them up,
    The green fields melted, wayside trees fell back
    To make room for her. Then her head grew vexed;
    Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after her;
    She heard the quick pants of the hills behind,
    Their keen air pricked her neck: she had lost her feet,
    Could run no more, yet somehow went as fast,
    The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the east
    So sucked her forward, forward, while her heart
    Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so big
    It seemed to fill her body, when it burst
    And overflowed the world and swamped the light;
    "And now I am dead and safe," thought Marian Erle
    She had dropped, she had fainted.


    As the sense returned,
    The night had passed not life's night. She was 'ware
    Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking wheels,
    The driver shouting to the lazy team
    That swung their rankling bells against her brain,
    While, through the waggon's coverture and chinks,
    The cruel yellow morning pecked at her
    Alive or dead upon the straw inside,
    At which her soul ached back into the dark
    And prayed, "no more of that." A waggoner
    Had found her in a ditch beneath the moon,
    As white as moonshine save for the oozing blood.
    At first he thought her dead; but when he had wiped
    The mouth and heard it sigh, he raised her up,
    And laid her in his waggon in the straw,
    And so conveyed her to the distant town
    To which his business called himself, and left
    That heap of misery at the hospital.


    She stirred; the place seemed new and strange as death.
    The white strait bed, with others strait and white,
    Like graves dug side by side at measured lengths,
    And quiet people walking in and out
    With wonderful low voices and soft steps
    And apparitional equal care for each,
    Astonished her with order, silence, law.
    And when a gentle hand held out a cup,
    She took it, as you do at sacrament,
    Half awed, half melted, not being used, indeed,
    To so much love as makes the form of love
    And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks
    And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes
    Were turned in observation. O my God,
    How sick we must be, ere we make men just!
    I think it frets the saints in heaven to see
    How many desolate creatures on the earth
    Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
    And social comfort, in a hospital,
    As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, half tranced,
    And wished, at intervals of growing sense,
    She might be sicker yet, if sickness made
    The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed,
    And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep;
    For now she understood (as such things were)
    How sickness ended very oft in heaven
    Among the unspoken raptures: yet more sick,
    And surelier happy. Then she dropped her lids,
    And, folding up her hands as flowers at night,
    Would lose no moment of the blessed time.


    She lay and seethed in fever many weeks,
    But youth was strong and overcame the test;
    Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled
    And fetched back to the necessary day
    And daylight duties. She could creep about
    The long bare rooms, and stare out drearily
    From any narrow window on the street,
    Till some one who had nursed her as a friend
    Said coldly to her, as an enemy,
    "She had leave to go next week, being well enough,"
    (While only her heart ached). "Go next week," thought she:
    "Next week! how would it be with her next week,
    Let out into that terrible street alone
    Among the pushing people, . . . to go . . . where?"


    One day, the last before the dreaded last,
    Among the convalescents, like herself
    Prepared to go next morning, she sat dumb,
    And heard half absently the women talk,
    How one was famished for her baby's cheeks,
    "The little wretch would know her! a year old
    And lively, like his father!" one was keen
    To get to work, and fill some clamorous mouths;
    And one was tender for her dear goodman
    Who had missed her sorely, and one, querulous . . .
    "Would pay backbiting neighbours who had dared
    To talk about her as already dead,"
    And one was proud . . . "and if her sweetheart Luke
    Had left her for a ruddier face than hers
    (The gossip would be seen through at a glance),
    Sweet riddance of such sweethearts let him hang!
    'Twere good to have been sick for such an end."


    And while they talked, and Marian felt the worse
    For having missed the worst of all their wrongs,
    A visitor was ushered through the wards
    And paused among the talkers. "When he looked
    It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke
    He sang perhaps," said Marian; "could she tell?
    She only knew" (so much she had chronicled,
    As seraphs might the making of the sun)
    "That he who came and spake was Romney Leigh,
    And then and there she saw and heard him first."


    And when it was her turn to have the face
    Upon her, all those buzzing pallid lips
    Being satisfied with comfort when he changed
    To Marian, saying "And you? you're going, where?"
    She, moveless as a worm beneath a stone
    Which some one's stumbling foot has spurned aside,
    Writhed suddenly, astonished with the light,
    And, breaking into sobs, cried "Where I go?
    None asked me till this moment. Can I say
    Where I go, when it has not seemed worth while
    To God Himself, who thinks of every one,
    To think of me and fix where I shall go?"


    "So young," he gently asked her, "you have lost
    Your father and your mother?"


    "Both," she said,
    "Both lost! my father was burnt up with gin
    Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost.
    My mother sold me to a man last month,
    And so my mother's lost, 'tis manifest.
    And I, who fled from her for miles and miles,
    As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell
    Through some wild gap (she was my mother, sir),
    It seems I shall be lost too, presently,
    And so we end, all three of us."


    "Poor child,"
    He said, with such a pity in his voice,
    It soothed her more than her own tears, "poor child!
    'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's love
    Should bring despair of God's too. Yet be taught,
    He's better to us than many mothers are,
    And children cannot wander beyond reach
    Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold!
    And if you weep still, weep where John was laid
    While Jesus loved him."


    "She could say the words,"
    She told me, "exactly as he uttered them
    A year back, since in any doubt or dark
    They came out like the stars, and shone on her
    With just their comfort. Common words, perhaps;
    The ministers in church might say the same;
    But he, he made the church with what he spoke,
    The difference was the miracle," said she.


    Then catching up her smile to ravishment,
    She added quickly, "I repeat his words,
    But not his tones: can any one repeat
    The music of an organ, out of church?
    And when he said 'poor child,' I shut my eyes
    To feel how tenderly his voice broke through,
    As the ointment-box broke on the Holy feet
    To let out the rich medicative nard."


    She told me how he had raised and rescued her
    With reverent pity, as, in touching grief,
    He touched the wounds of Christ, and made her feel
    More self-respecting. Hope he called belief
    In God, work, worship, therefore let us pray!
    And thus, to snatch her soul from atheism,
    And keep it stainless from her mother's face,
    He sent her to a famous sempstress-house
    Far off in London, there to work and hope.


    With that, they parted. She kept sight of Heaven,
    But not of Romney. He had good to do
    To others: through the days and through the nights
    She sewed and sewed and sewed. She drooped sometimes,
    And wondered, while along the tawny light
    She struck the new thread into her needle's eye,
    How people without mothers on the hills
    Could choose the town to live in! then she drew
    The stitch, and mused how Romney's face would look,
    And if 'twere likely he'd remember hers
    When they two had their meeting after death.

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