Victorian Women Writers Project

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THE LADY OF LA GARAYE.

PART I.

• ON Dinan’s walls the morning sunlight plays,
• Gilds the stern fortress with a crown of rays,
• Shines on the children’s heads that troop to school,
• Turns into beryl‐brown the forest pool,
• Sends diamond sparkles over gushing springs,
• And showers down glory on the simplest things.
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• And many a young seigneur and damsel bold
• See with delight those beams of reddening gold,
• For they are bid to join the hunt to‐day
• By Claud Marot, the lord of La Garaye;
• And merry is it in his spacious halls;
• Cheerful the host, whatever sport befalls,
• Cheerful and courteous, full of manly grace,
• His heart’s frank welcome written in his face;
• So eager, that his pleasure never cloys,
• But glad to share whatever he enjoys;
• Rich, liberal, gaily dressed, of noble mien,
• Clear eyes,—full curving mouth,—and brow serene;
• Master of speech in many a foreign tongue,
• And famed for feats of arms, although so young;
• Dexterous in fencing, skilled in horsemanship—
• His voice and hand preferred to spur or whip;
• Quick at a jest and smiling repartee,
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• With a sweet laugh that sounded frank and free,
• But holding Satire an accursèd thing,
• A poisoned javelin or a serpent’s sting;
• Pitiful to the poor; of courage high;
• A soul that could all turns of fate defy
• Gentle to women: reverent to old age:
• What more, young Claud, could men’s esteem engage?
• What more be given to bless thine earthy state,
• Save Love,—which still must crown the happiest fate!
• Love, therefore, came. That sunbeam lit his life
• And where he wooed, he won, a gentle wife
• Born, like himself, of lineage brave and good;
• And, like himself, of warm and eager mood;
• Glad to share gladness, pleasure to impart,
• With dancing spirits and a tender heart.
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• Pleased too to share the manlier sports which made
• The joy of his young hours. No more afraid
• Of danger, than the seabird, used to soar
• From the high rocks above the ocean’s roar,
• Which dips its slant wing in the wave’s white crest,
• And deems the foamy undulations, rest.

• Nor think the feminine beauty of her soul
• Tarnished by yielding to such joy’s control;
• Nor that the form which, like a flexile reed,
• Swayed with the movements of her bounding steed,
• Took from those graceful hours a rougher force,
• Or left her nature masculine and coarse.
• She was not bold from boldness, but from love;
• Bold from gay frolic; glad with him to rove
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• In danger or in safety, weal or woe,
• And where he ventured, still she yearned to go.
• Bold with the courage of his bolder life,
• At home a tender and submissive wife;
• Abroad, a woman, modest,—ay, and proud;
• Not seeking homage from the casual crowd.
• She remained pure, that darling of his sight,
• In spite of boyish feats, and rash delight;
• Still the eyes fell before an insolent look,
• Or flashed their bright and innocent rebuke;
• Still the cheek kept its delicate youthful bloom,
• And the blush reddened through the snow‐white plume.

• He that had seen her, with her courage high,
• First in the chase where all dashed rapid by;
• He that had watched her bright impetuous look
• When she prepared to leap the silver brook,—
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• Fair in her Springtime as a branch of May,—
• Had felt the dull sneer feebly die away,
• And unused kindly smiles upon his cold lips play!

• God made all pleasure innocent; but man
• Turns them to shame, since first our earth began
• To shudder ’neath the stroke of delving tools
• When Eve and Adam lost,—poor tempted fools,—
• The sweet safe shelter of their Eden bowers,
• Its easy wealth of sun‐ripe fruits and flowers,
• For some forbidden zest that was not given,
• Some riotous hope to make a mimic heaven,
• And sank,—from being wingless angels,—low
• Into the depths of mean and abject woe.

• Why should the sweet elastic sense of joy
• Presage a fault? Why should the pleasure cloy,
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• Or turn to blame, which Heaven itself inspires,
• Who gave us health and strength and all desires?
• The children play, and sin not;—let the young
• Still carol songs, as others too have sung;
• Still urge the fiery courser o’er the plain,
• Proud of his glossy sides and flowing mane;
• Still, when they meet in careless hours of mirth,
• Laugh, as if Sorrow were unknown to earth;
• Prattling sweet nothings, which, like buds of flowers,
• May turn to earnest thoughts and vigilant hours.
• What boys can suffer, and weak women dare,
• Let Indian and Crimean wastes declare:
• Perchance in that gay group of laughers stand
• Guides and defenders for our native land;—
• Folly it is to see a wit in woe,
• And hold youth sinful for the spirits’ flow.
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• As thro’ the meadow lands clear rivers run,
• Blue in the shadow—silver in the sun—
• Till, rolling by some pestilential source,
• Some factory work whose wheels with horrid force
• Strike the pure waters with their dripping beams,
• Send poison gushing to the crystal streams,
• And leave the innocent things to whom God gave
• A natural home in that translucent wave
• Gasping strange death, and floating down to show
• The evil working in the depths below,—
• So man can poison pleasure at its source;
• Clog the swift sparkle of its rapid course,
• Mix muddy morbid thoughts in vicious strife,
• Till to the surface floats the death of life;—
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• But not the less the stream itself was pure—
• And not the less may blameless joy endure.

• Careless,—but not impure,—the joyous days
• Passed in a rapturous whirl; a giddy maze,
• Where the young Count and lovely Countess drew
• A new delight from every pleasure new.
• They woke to gladness as the morning broke;
• Their very voices kept, whene’er they spoke,
• A ring of joy, a harmony of life,
• That made you bless the husband and the wife.
• And every day the careless festal throng,
• And every night the dance and feast and song,
• Shared with young boon companions, marked the time
• As with a carillon’s exulting chime;
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• Where those two entered, gloom passed out of sight,
• Chased by the glow of their intense delight.

• So, till the day when over Dinan’s walls
• The Autumn sunshine of my story falls;
• And the guests bidden, gather for the chase,
• And the smile brightens on the lovely face
• That greets them in succession as they come
• Into that high and hospitable home.

• Like a sweet picture doth the Lady stand,
• Still blushing as she bows; one tiny hand,
• Hid by a pearl‐embroidered gauntlet, holds
• Her whip, and her long robe’s exuberant folds.
• The other hand is bare, and from her eyes
• Shades now and then the sun, or softly lies,
• With a caressing touch, upon the neck
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• Of the dear glossy steed she loves to deck
• With saddle‐housings worked in golden thread,
• And golden bands upon his noble head.
• White is the little hand whose taper fingers
• Smooth his fine coat,—and still the lady lingers,
• Leaning against his side; nor lifts her head,
• But gently turns as gathering footsteps tread;
• Reminding you of doves with shifting throats,
• Brooding in sunshine by their sheltering cotes.
• Under her plumèd hat her wealth of curls
• Falls down in golden links among her pearls,
• And the rich purple of her velvet vest
• Slims the young waist, and rounds the graceful breast.

• So, till the latest joins the happy Meet;
• Then springs she gladly to her eager feet;
• And, while the white hand from her courser’s side
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• Slips like a snow‐flake, stands prepared to ride.
• Then lightly vaulting to her seat, she seems
• Queen of some fair procession seen in dreams;
• Queen of herself, and of the world; sweet Queen!
• Her crown the plume above her brow serene,
• Her jewelled whip a sceptre, and her dress
• The regal mantle worn by loveliness.

• And well she wears such mantle: swift the he horse,
• But firm her seat throughout the rapid course;
• No rash unsteadiness, no shifting pose
• Disturbs that line of beauty as she goes:
• She wears her robe as some fair sloop her sails,
• Which swell and flutter to the rising gales,
• But never from the cordage taut and trim
• Slacken or swerve away. The evening dim
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• Sees her return, unwearied and unbent,
• The fair folds falling smooth as when she went;
• The little foot no clasping buckle keeps,
• She frees it, and to earth untrammelled leaps.

• Alas! look well upon that picture fair!
• The face—the form—the smile—the golden hair;
• The agile beauty of each movement made,—
• The loving softness of her eyes’ sweet shade,
• The bloom and pliant grace of youthful days,
• The gladness and the glory of her gaze.
• If we knew when the last time was the last,
• Visions so dear to straining eyes went past;
• If we knew when the horror and the gloom
• Should overcast the pride of beauty’s bloom;
• If we knew when affection nursed in vain
• Should grow to be but bitterness and pain;
• It were a curse to blight all living hours
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• With a hot dust, like dark volcano showers.
• Give thanks to God who blinded us with Hope;
• Denied man skill to draw his horoscope;
• And, to keep mortals of the present fond,
• Forbid the keenest sight to pierce beyond!

• Falsehood from those we trusted; cruel sneers
• From those whose voice was music to our ears;
• Lonely old age; oppressed and orphaned youth;
• Yearning appeals to hearts that know no ruth;
• Ruin, that starves pale mouths we loved to feed;
• A friend’s forsaking in our utmost need;
• These come,—and sting,—and madden; ay, and slay;
• But not the less our joy hath had its day;
• No little cloud first flecked our tranquil skies,
• Presaging shipwreck to the prophet eyes;
• No hand came forth upon the walls of home
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• With vanishing radiance writing darkest doom;
• No child‐soul called us in the dead of night,
• Thrilled with a message from a God of might;
• No shrouded Seer, by some enforcing spell,
• Rose from Death’s rest, Life’s restless chance to tell;
• The lightning smote us—shivering stem and bough:
• All was so green: all lies so blighted now!

• They ride together all that sunny day,
• Claud and the lovely Lady of Garaye;
• O’er hill and dale,—through fields of late reaped corn,
• Through woods,—wherever sounds the hunting horn,
• Wherever scour the fleet hounds, fast they follow,
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• Through tufted thickets and the leaf‐strewn hollow;
• And thrice,—the game secured,—they rest awhile,
• And slacken bridle with a breathless smile:
• And thrice, with joyous speed, off, off they go,—
• Like a fresh arrow from a new‐strung bow!

• But now the ground is rough with boulder stones,
• Where, wild beneath, the prisoned streamlet moans,
• The prisoned streamlet strugggling to be free,
• Baring the roots of many a toppling tree,
• Breaking the line where smooth‐barked saplings rank,
• And undermining all the creviced bank;
• Till gushing out at length to open space,
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• Mad with the effort of its desperate race,
• It pauses, swelling o’er the narrow ridge
• Where fallen branches make a natural bridge,
• Leaps to the next desent, and, balked no more,
• Foams to a waterfall, whose ceaseless roar
• Echoes far down the banks, and through the forest hoar!

• Across the water full of peakèd stones—
• Across the water where it chafes and moans—
• Across the water at its widest part—
• Which wilt thou leap,—oh, lady of brave heart?

• Their smiling eyes have met—those eager two:
• She looks at Claud, as questioning which to do:
• He rides—reins in —looks down the torrent’s course,—
• Pats the sleek neck of his sure‐footed horse,—
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• Stops,—measures spaces with his eagle eye,
• Tries a new track, and yet returns to try.
• Sudden, while pausing at the very brink,
• The damp leaf‐covered ground appears to sink,
• And the keen instinct of the wise dumb brute
• Escapes the yielding earth, the slippery root;
• With a wild effort as if taking wing
• The monstrous gap he clears with one safe spring;
• Reaches—(and barely reaches)—past the roar
• Of the wild stream, the further lower shore,—
• Scrambles—recovers,—rears—and panting stands
• Safe ’neath his master’s nerveless trembling hands.

• Oh! even while he leapt, his horrid thought
• Was of the peril to that lady brought;
• Oh! even while he leapt, her Claud looked back,
• And shook his hand to warn her from the track.
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• In vain: the pleasant voice she loved so well
• Feebly re‐echoed through that dreadful dell,
• The voice that was the music of her home
• Shouted in vain across that torrent’s foam.

• He saw her, pausing on the bank above;
• Saw,—like a dreadful vision of his love,—
• That dazzling dream stand on the edge of death:
• Saw it—and stared—and prayed—and held his breath.
• Bright shone the Autumn sun on wood and plain;
• On the steed’s glossy flanks and flowing mane;
• On the wild silver of the rushing brook;
• On his wife’s smiling and triumphant look;
• Bright waved against the sky her wind‐tost plume,
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• Bright on her freshened cheek the healthy bloom,—
• Oh! all bright things, how could ye end in doom?

• Forward they leaped! They leaped—a coloured flash
• Of life and beauty. Hark! a sudden crash,—
• Blent with that dreadful sound, a man’s sharp cry,—
• Prone,—’neath the crumbling bank,—the horse and lady lie!

• The heart grows humble in an awe‐struck grief;
• Claud thinks not, dreams not, plans not her relief.
• Strengthen him but, O God! to reach the place,
• And let him look upon her dying face!
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• Let him but say farewell! farewell, sweet love!
• And once more hear her speak, and see her move,—
• And ask her if she suffers where she lies,—
• And kiss the lids down on her closing eyes,—
• And he will be content.
• He climbs and strives:
• The strength is in his heart of twenty lives;
• Across the leaf‐strewn gaps he madly springs;
• From branch to branch like some wild ape he swings;
• Breasts, with hot effort, that cold rushing source
• Of death and danger. With a giant’s force
• His bleeding hands and broken nails have clung
• Round the gnarled slippery roots above him hung,
• And now he’s near,—he sees her through the leaves;
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• But a new horrid fear his mind receives:
• The steed! his hoofs may crush that angel head!
• No, Claud,—her favourite is already dead,
• One shivering gasp thro’ limbs that now stretch out like lead.

• He’s with her! is he dying too? his blood
• Beats no more to and fro; his abstract mood
• Weighs like a nightmare; something, well he knows,
• Is horrible,—and still the horror grows;
• But what it is, or how it came to pass,
• Or why he lies half fainting on the grass,
• Or what he strove to clutch at in his fall,
• Or why he had no power for help to call,
• This is confused and lost.
• But Claud has heard
• A sound like breathings from a sleeping bird
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• New‐caged that day,—a weak distrubing sigh,
• The whisper of a grief that cannot cry,—
• Repeated, and then still; and then again
• Repeated,—and a long low moan of pain.

• The hunt is passing; through the arching glade
• The hounds sweep on in flickering light and shade,
• The cheery huntsman winds his rallying horn,
• And voices shouting from his guests that morn
• Keep calling, calling, “Claud, the hunt is o’er,
• Return we to the merry halls once more!”
• Claud hears not; heeds not;—all is like a dream
• Except that lady lying by the stream;
• Above all tumult of uproarious sound
• Comes the faint sigh that breathes along the ground,
• Where pale as death in her returning life
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• Writhes the sweet angel whom he still calls wife.

• He parts the masses of her golden hair,
• He lifts her, helpless, with a shudderng care,
• He looks into her face with awe‐struck eyes;—
• She dies—the darling of his soul—she dies!

• You might have heard, through that thought’s fearful shock,
• The beating of his heart like some huge clock;
• And then the strong pulse falter and stand still,
• When lifted from that fear with sudden thrill
• He bent to catch faint murmurs of his name,
• Which from those blanched lips low and trembling came:
• “Oh! Claud!” she said: no more—
• But never yet,
• Through all the loving days since first they met,
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• Leaped his heart’s blood with such a yearning vow
• That she was all in all to him, as now.
• “Oh! Claud—the pain!”
• “Oh! Gertrude, my beloved!”
• Then faintly o’er her lips a wan smile moved,
• Which dumbly spoke of comfort from his tone,
• As though she felt half saved, not so to die alone.

• Ah! happy they who in their grief or pain
• Yearn not for some familiar face in vain;
• Who in the sheltering arms of love can lie
• Till human passion breathes its latest sigh;
• Who, when words fail to enter the dull ear,
• And when eyes cease from seeing forms most dear,
• Still the fond clasping touch can understand,—
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• And sink to death from that detaining hand!

• He sits and watches; and she lies and moans;
• The wild stream rushes over broken stones;
• The dead leaves flutter to the mossy earth;
• Far‐away echoes bring the hunters’ mirth;
• And the long hour creeps by—too long—too long;
• Till the chance music of a peasant’ song
• Breaks the hard silence with a human hope,
• And Claud starts up and gazes down the slope;
• And from a wandering herdsman he obtains
• The help whose want has chilled his anxious veins.
• Into a simple litter then they bind
• Thin cradling branches deftly intertwined;
• And there they lay the lady as they found her,
• With all her bright hair streaming sadly round her;
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• Her white lips parted o’er the pearly teeth
• Like pictured saints’, who die a martyr’s death,—
• And slowly bear her, like a corse of clay,
• Back to the home she left so blithe to‐day.

• The starry lights shine forth from tower and hall,
• Stream through the gateway, glimmer on the wall,
• And the loud pleasant stir of busy men
• In courtyard and in stable sounds again.
• And through the windows, as that death‐bier passes,
• They see the shining of the ruby glasses
• Set at brief intervals for many a guest
• Prepared to share the laugh, the song, the jest;
• Prepared to drink, with many a courtly phrase,
• Their host and hostess—‘Health to the Garayes!’
• Health to the slender, lithe, yet stalwart frame
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• Of Claud Marot—Count of that noble name;
• Health to his lovely Countess: health—to her!
• Scarce seems she now with faintest breath to stir:
• Oh! half‐shut eyes—oh! brow with torture damp,—
• Will life’s oil rise in that expiring lamp?
• Are there yet days to come, or does he bend
• Over a hope of which this is the end?

• He shivers, and hot tears shut out the sight
• Of that dear home for feasting made so bright;
• The golden evening light is round him dying,
• The dark rooks to their nests are slowly flying,
• As underneath the portal, faint with fear,
• He sees her carried, now so doubly dear;
• “Save her!” is written in his anxious glances,
• As the quick‐summoned leech in haste advances.
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• “Save her!”—and through the gloom of midnight hours,
• And through the hot noon, shut from air and flowers,
• Young Claud sits patient—waiting day by day
• For health for that sweet lady of Garaye.