Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK X.

• NOW summer days were swiftly gliding on,
• And o'er the waving grain bright sunbeams shone,
• Each morn revealing to the farmer's view
• Hope's cheering promise, every hour more true.
• page: 208
• How could he doubt the God of nature smiled?
• And Henry too his anxious fears beguiled
• By gazing on the cloudless skies above,
• And counting all his heavenly Father's love.
• Oh, feeblest calculation made by man!
• When rests his faith on what our eyes may scan
• Of bright or fair in that stupendous plan
• Arranged not less in mercy, when the storm
• Rages around, than when the sunbeams warm;
• Not less when rolls destruction o'er our fields,
• Than when its richest store our harvest yields;
• Not less when turns our earthly bliss to woe,
• Than when in sweetest streams life's sparkling currents flow.

• Yet is it good to look abroad, and see
• The noontide joy of nature's revelry,
• To gaze admiring on this glorious world—
• The flag of smiling plenty wide unfurled,
• page: 209
• Floating afar from every verdant height,
• In every valley waving to the sight.

• What floods of life then swell the tide of hope!
• The white flocks grazing on the mountain slope,
• The peaceful herds in the green pastures laid,
• And sweet songs echoing through the leafy glade.
• For all this fulness—this extreme of good,
• What can we render but our gratitude?
• That how withhold? or, while we feel and live,
• Our heart's best incense how refuse to give?

• So felt the farmer ofttimes, when he gazed
• On nature's face, and then he inly praised
• That gracious hand, which freely spread the whole
• Like a perpetual banquet for his soul.
• 'Twas thus he roamed, with Henry by his side,
• From field to field, while yet the flowing tide
• page: 210
• Of hope and joy had scarce attained its height,
• And sunny skies still glowed before their sight.

• But soon dark evenings came, and winds blew loud,
• And the wide heavens were clothed as with a shroud:
• No sunshine pierced the gloom, and yet no rain
• Fell on the earth its ripening bloom to stain.
• There seemed a darkness in the very air—
• Something that bade the boding soul prepare—
• At length it came. Fierce northern gales blew wild,
• And tore the leafy boughs where beauty smiled;
• The floods fell heavily, and bowed the grain
• Beneath the tempest and the sheeted rain.
• It ceased awhile. The reapers had begun
• Their task of hope, though still the clouded sun
• Kept far aloof, and hid his smiling brow;
• Yet they resumed their joyless labour now
• Uncheered, and doubtful how the end would prove,
• So cold the earth, so dark the skies above.
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• Nor waited long the tempest-laden gales.
• Again they come—the hissing shower prevails:
• Low pools arise, and widen into floods;
• Like rushing waves resound the leafy woods;
• While cornfields, beaten level as the plain,
• Lie, lost and hopeless, blackening in the rain.

• And William Herbert saw the ruin spread,
• And oft arose at midnight from his bed,
• To listen if the rushing rains had ceased,
• Or if the wrath of heaven was yet appeased.
• But midnight only seemed to darken o'er
• All that was bleak and desolate before;
• While louder rushed the foaming torrent then,
• And heavier fell the rain-drops on the pane.
• How dreary were those hours of midnight gloom
• To the lone parent in his cheerless room!
• And sorely did he need a hand to smooth
• His restless couch—a gentle voice to soothe.
• page: 212
• But she was gone, who would have stayed his soul
• From sinking, by the silent sweet control
• Of woman's influence, and of woman's love,
• Bearing his spirit this rude world above.

• Sad were the scenes which met the farmer's eye
• When forth he went, his scattered sheaves to tie;
• Thick-matted heaps, o'er which the rank weeds threw
• Their clustering arms, and down the burden drew;
• While sprouting corn in coarse luxuriance lay
• Prone on the ground—embedded in the clay.
• These met his view; and furrows filled with rain
• Soaking and saturating all his grain.
• And then his labourers, dripping with the showers,
• Wasting in idleness their noontide hours,
• Beneath the hawthorn hedge, behind the sheaves,
• Or where the sycamore extends her leaves;
• Yet all expecting payment on the day
• When their full wages he was wont to pay.

• It was a sight to move the farmer's heart—
• Almost to make the unmanly tear-drop start
• In Henry's eye; for he had much at stake,
• His home to lose—his fortune all to make.
• And he was young, and life to him was fair,
• How could he look around, and not despair?
• How could he look around, and see the waste—
• The desolation o'er his prospects cast,
• Nor ask, presumptuous, whence had come the gloom—
• How had he sinned, to merit such a doom?
• Or, worse—why Heaven should blast the generous boon
• So freely given—repented of so soon.

• Thus Henry questioned, but no peace arose,
• Or ever will, from reasoning on the laws
• By which this world is governed, and sustained.
• Enough for us, that God's own end is gained;
• That end beyond the range of human mind,
• Most wise, most just, most merciful and kind.
• page: 214
• The farmer, schooled by discipline to bear
• With brow unchanged, the heaviest weight of care,
• Was sad but silent, and no murmuring word,
• Or sound impatient, from his lips was heard.
• But Henry, restless as a fretful child,
• With dark anticipations almost wild,
• Reckoned his loss, and counted o'er his fears;
• While his fair bride reproached him with her tears,
• For making her the partner of his home,
• Ere he had known what sorrows were to come.

• So passed that gloomy season, and there grew
• From out the general grief contentions new,
• Small, but yet frequent—who should most give up,
• Or most retain—that seems the bitter drop
• That poisons all; when we have made display
• Of casting superfluities away,
• To find that others will not give their share,
• Or learn from us, their luxuries to spare.
• page: 215
• Then shrinks each effort—fails each noble aim,
• If they withhold, we long to do the same;
• Or, while the treasured good remains with them,
• We wish it ours, and envying, still condemn.

• Thus all the farmer's family believed
• Their purpose right, but o'er each other grieved.
• Matilda Herbert, watchful of the rest,
• Her censure oft implied, more than expressed,
• If Emma dressed too well, or looked too fine,
• Or had too weak an appetite to dine.
• While she, retorting in her quiet way,
• The retributive taunt could well convey;
• Or by her servant send an insult down,
• The maiden aunt's antipathy to crown.

• Say not that straitened means bring nought to dread
• Save in the actual want of daily bread.
• page: 216
• They bring the very worst of human ills,
• The bitterest draught our earthly cup that fills.
• They bring domestic strife—contention—spleen—
• And envy, mother of the deadliest sin—
• Injurious thoughts—imbittered words, that burn
• And goad the writhing spirit to return
• The pain it suffers on the offender's head.
• Then say not, poverty brings nought to dread.

• Yet came not these in their most hideous form—
• In their full power to ravage and deform.
• Within the farmer's hospitable home,
• How could such fearful discord ever come?
• 'Twas but the shallow waves of life that stirred
• With the rude breath of some injurious word.
• The tide flowed on more peacefully below,
• Where no deep root of bitterness could grow;
• And love was still the well-spring of the stream,
• Though somewhat troubled did its waters seem.

• 'Twas near the close of that ill-fated year,
• When all things looked most desolate and drear,
• While yet November's scattered foliage lay
• Untrodden o'er the traveller's gloomy way;
• The farmer's landlord in his ancient hall
• Prepared to hold a jocund festival.
• Not for his titled friends; his guests were now
• Those who had learned to speed the rustic plough—
• His tenantry—the yeoman of the land—
• Their wives and daughters—one united hand—
• Servants, and satellites—all asked to come
• And grace his old hereditary home.
• Grace, it might be, or not; for far and wide
• His grooms, delighted, on their errand ride,
• Dropping a note of invitation here,
• Where spreads the man of wealth his courteous cheer:
• Startling the inmates of the cottage there,
• Where hands less delicate the meal prepare.
• From house to house, with clattering hoofs they fly,
• Their thundering knock proclaims their dignity;
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• The maid sets down her pail upon the floor,
• And curious children peep around the door;
• The dame walks forth, with pleasure-sparkling eye,
• Proud to be asked, yet fearful to reply;
• While simpering daughters scarcely deign to come
• To wait in person on their landlord's groom.
• Yet some less bashful bring the foaming cup,
• And to the smiling horseman hold it up;
• While others send their servants, and remain
• Behind the scenes, meet distance to maintain.

• Thus spread the summons, far and wide it flew;
• While many a matron wondered what to do:
• Refuse she dared not, and she scarcely would,
• Even if her prudent spouse had thought she could.
• Yet how to dress, to curtsy, or to go
• Into those splendid rooms, she ne'er should know.
• It seemed as if her foot perforce must slip,
• Just as the words of greeting passed her lip;
• page: 219
• Or that some dire calamity must fall
• Upon her head-dress, ere she reached the hall.
• Yet, with this train of suppositions, came
• A secret pleasure to the rustic dame;
• And if profusion ne'er was seen before,
• She would not spare—she must be garnished o'er
• With lace, and ribbons yellow, green, and blue,
• And deepest red, that seemed as if it grew
• From the rich crimson of her glowing face,
• So much alike their beauty, and their grace.

• Strange were the different scenes which then arose,
• Breaking the peaceful hamlet's long repose.
• Fashions consulted—carriers charged to bear
• Each precious burden from the town with care,
• Things brought to light long hidden from the view,
• Old dresses manufactured into new,
• Clothes made to fit for that illustrious night
• That for all others had been deemed too tight.
• page: 220
• Some felt themselves arrayed for any court,
• While others thought their utmost power fell short
• Of what they wished, 'mid such a scene, to wear,
• And still, to all, the appointed hour drew near.

• How fared it then in William Herbert's home?
• It seemed as if no summons there had come—
• No preparation—no consulting there—
• Could they not mean that festival to share?
• Truth was, they were prepared for such a scene,
• And only wished their family had been
• Passed by—forgotten—anything but asked.
• How should their hatred of the thing be masked?
• To go, a vassal rather than a guest,
• And sit with hungry boors at that great feast!—
• It was too humbling to their secret pride;
• And yet their landlord's bidding they must bide.

• “And since it must be,” William Herbert said,
• “Let us all hope some good may yet be made
• Of this strange meeting. Such there used to be
• Between the landlords and their tenantry
• In days of yore; and we may go to hear
• Of rents being lessened for the coming year.”

• Matilda Herbert recollected then
• That other well-bred ladies—nine or ten—
• Must needs be there; while Emma thought aside
• Henry would like to show his lovely bride.

• It had been difficult for Helen's mind
• To yield a point like this; but there combined
• Against her pride hope's glimmering of faint joy,
• Which still she strove by reasoning to destroy.
• page: 222
• Yet watchful eyes deceived, or there had been
• Amongst those grooms Lord William's servant seen,
• So she resolved, more complaisance to show,
• Her father's wishes to consult, and go.

• Lucy was held excused: she had no heart
• To grace a pageant, or to act a part;
• And thus she lent her willing hand to all,
• To braid the hair, and fold the graceful shawl.
• Her aunt she decked, magnificently gay,
• And proud the latest fashions to display;
• Emma, adorned in colours pure and chaste,
• And round her brow a wreath of roses placed,
• Whose silvery sprays above her temples twined,
• Pale as her beauty, simple as her mind.
• But long did Lucy linger o'er that scene
• Where Helen stood, more like a stately queen,
• Than form familiar, gifted but with powers
• To live as we do, in this world of ours.
• page: 223
• No gorgeous trappings clothed her graceful form,
• No mimic flowers outvied her blushes warm;
• Smooth lay the folds of her deep raven hair,
• One band of purest pearls alone was there.

• At length the vision fades from Lucy's sight:
• The hour arrives; she bids them all good-night
• With looks of kindness—almost looks of joy,
• Why should her grief their happiness destroy?
• Now are they gone, the sheltering curtains drawn,
• And closed the gate that echoes o'er the lawn.
• She turns to her lone hearth, and vacant chair:
• Oh, hour of deepest luxury for despair!
• When all are gone, no loiterer left to see
• The gushing tears of pent-up misery;
• No word to answer, and no smile to meet,
• The silent embers brightening at our feet;
• Alone—secure—no intercourse to dread,
• No step to startle with approaching tread;
• page: 224
• Deep night around us, with her sable gloom,
• Soft beams of mellow light within the room,
• Hour after hour to nurse our anguish there,
• And taste the genuine luxury of despair.

• Meantime the lights within the landlord's hall
• Were glancing brightly, and the tapestried wall
• Displayed its curious colouring to the view,
• And o'er the scene mysterious splendour threw:
• While smiling servants hasten to and fro,
• Pleased with the frolic, dazzled with the show.
• Now to the door strange equipages come,
• And trembling fair ones seek the tiring room;
• While wondering farmers stand and stroke their hair,
• With hat in hand, afraid to venture where
• They see the richly liveried footmen run,
• And where they hope the feasting has begun.
• Alas! what hours had they to wish and wait,
• Ere by the genial board at last they sate!
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• Rich fragrant coffee first must touch the lip
• In gilded cups, from which they taste and sip,
• And deem it well as prelude to the rest,
• Though scarcely worth presenting to a guest.

• Still swells the moving pageant on the sight,
• Dames from the dairy, milkmaids red and white,
• These clad in russet, those in silken sheen,
• Jockeys in boots, and clowns in coats of green,
• While gliding here and there, amongst the rest,
• Were statelier matrons fashionably dressed,
• With silent daughters just returned from school,
• Beating the air with fans, to keep it cool.

• There too was seen that noblest form of man,
• Built upon nature's most majestic plan;
• Firm, tall, and free, his shoulders broad, and bold,
• His sturdy hand well used to grasp, and hold:
• page: 226
• His mien erect, his foot placed on the ground
• With purpose fixed, and dignity profound;
• His temples wreathed with natural waves of hair,
• His manly forehead smooth, and calm, and fair,
• Contrasting well with the deep bronze below,
• And sunny tints upon his cheek that glow.
• Such were the men that Britain once could boast,
• Whose homes adorned her land, from coast to coast;
• Untaught in Attic lore, unskilled, perchance,
• To tread the mazes of the graceful dance;
• Yet firm to sanction, and defend her laws;
• Shepherds at home, but soldiers in her cause;
• And proud at heart to bear her honoured name,
• Yet still more proud of her unsullied fame.
• Where are they now? Go ask the western waves—
• The southern billows, where they find their graves?
• Search the wild prairie, trace them o'er the plain
• Where the log-cabin shields them from the rain;
• Or track the wide Australian wastes, and say,
• How fare the sons that England sends away?

• But to our story. Such had Henry been,
• A perfect model of the man we mean;
• Save that his hand was fairer, and his eye
• Had more of beauty, less of energy.
• And he looked on, amid the glittering scene
• Unmoved, as if his daily path had been
• With flitting forms and brilliant lights adorned;
• All rude amazement his proud spirit scorned.
• Enough for him, one form so slight and fair
• Leaned on his arm, and looked the loveliest there;
• His honoured father too, well pleased, he saw
• Close to his side the graceful Helen draw,
• Lest vulgar freedom should provoke her frown,
• Or hands familiar dare to touch her own.

• Now changed the scene, wide doors were thrown aside,
• And forth there issued such a sparkling tide
• page: 228
• Of flowers, and gems, and beauty decked for show,
• That scarce the wondering farmers seemed to know
• Whether from earth or heaven the vision came;
• Yet silent every social group became:
• And those who most had deemed themselves adorned
• Their own poor vestments now beheld, and scorned.
• It was the landlord, and his noble friends,
• And o'er the widening space his train extends,
• Breathing around, where'er they turn their eyes,
• That tone of welcome that in utterance dies.

• What form is that clad in a soldier's dress,
• Whose smiles the glow of happiness express?
• A radiant beauty leans upon his arm,
• He sees no other; not a single form,
• Nor eye, nor look, in all that moving mass
• Before his faithless memory seems to pass.
• At length the farmer meets him, face to face;
• His brow assumes the very faintest trace
• page: 229
• Of recognition, and he slightly bends
• As if in greeting; while his ear attends
• Still undiverted, to the foreign tongue
• Of her who looks so beautiful and young,
• Of noble birth, though distant lands must claim
• The honour of her lineage, and her name.

• They passed, and mingled with the dancing throng,
• And William Herbert led his child along,
• Both silent, though he thought her gentle hand
• Shook on his arm; and he could understand,
• Though not for worlds could he have then explained
• His mingled feelings, or the pang that pained.
• One thought alone distinctly touched his heart,
• And almost made the burning tear-drop start.
• His daughter Helen ne'er had been so dear,
• Nor to his kindly sympathies so near,
• As in this hour of her insulted pride;
• And thus he pressed her closer to his side.
• page: 230
• She felt the pressure. Woman quickly feels
• The touch that secret sympathy reveals.
• 'Tis her mute witness that she is not left
• Alone on earth, of every friend bereft;
• And thus she hoards the memory in her soul,
• When o'er her head life's troubled waters roll.

• Why linger we amid this festal throng;
• To graver scenes our sympathies belong.
• Enough to know the feast and frolic grew
• Not to their height, till morn her veil withdrew,
• And o'er the world her purple radiance threw.
• Afraid to meet even pity's tenderest touch,
• Long ere that hour had Helen sought her couch,
• Put out her light, and laid her head to rest,
• Hoping to shroud the anguish of her breast
• Even from herself; but darkness only brought
• More perfect torture with each burning thought.
• No tear had yet bedewed her feverish cheek,
• No word of sorrow had she deigned to speak;
• page: 231
• But through the silent night, when none are near,
• A wounded spirit is too hard to bear
• Without some natural overflow of grief—
• And tears were surely given to bring relief.
• Lucy was sleeping, or appeared to sleep,
• So Helen fearlessly began to weep.
• With such excess the tide of sorrow grew,
• She heard not the soft step that near her drew,
• Nor saw the gentle form beside her bed,
• That bent with deepest feeling o'er her head.

• “Helen, dear Helen.”

• It was Lucy's voice,
• Sweet as an angels, and she had no choice
• But to disclose the secret of her woes,
• While darkness hid her blushes as they rose.
• For there was shame—deep-burning shame, with all
• That else had pained; but this was mingling gall
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• With bitterest wormwood. Yet she told the whole,
• And meekly asked for comfort to her soul.
• She told how Douglas had appeared that night
• Like some bright vision, dazzling to her sight;
• How he no sign of memory betrayed,
• How, with another pleased, he scorned the rustic maid.

• Yet this was nothing. “Can I tell the rest?
• Yes; and for ever tear him from my breast.
• The titled guests had joined the merry dance,
• Ladies, and lords, and waiting-maids from France;
• All blending in one many-coloured maze,
• While those who could not dance stood round to gaze.
• At length the ladies of the hall retired,
• When louder grew the glee, and more inspired
• Each booted jockey, and each turbaned dame,
• That forth from out their hiding-places came.
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• I would have left, but heard my father say
• We must not be the first to turn away.
• Thus came my punishment. Oh, Lucy, hide
• Thy searching eyes, and spare thy sister's pride!
• Douglas returned, and now he came alone,
• All the proud revellers but him were gone.
• He came with smiles upon his altered brow,
• And the poor farmer's daughter he could know;
• Could touch her hand familiarly, and say
• How well she looked, how happy was that day.
• I fear there was a blush upon my cheek
• As he drew near; and when I tried to speak,
• I could not quite my trembling voice control;
• For something came like gladness to my soul,
• After long grief. But, oh! it passed away,
• And left such blackness! Lucy, never say
• One word of this to any human ear.
• Keep it, dear Lucy, and be more than dear.
• I thought his words were somewhat strange, and free,
• And when I looked into his face to see
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• His real meaning, there I read the whole!
• His brow was flushed—his eye-balls seemed to roll—
• Wine was the secret of his gallantry,
• And I, amid those dancing grooms, might be
• His village belle—his plaything for an hour,
• Till pride, or prudence, should resume its power.

• “Oh, Lucy! and he once did seem so kind,
• And pure, and noble, that I gave my mind
• To his smooth flatteries, which deceived me so.
• Spurn me not, dearest Lucy, if I show
• To thee the weakness of a woman's heart.
• Thine is, I know, a more exalted part,
• A calmer course along life's path to trace,
• With less disquietude, and less disgrace.”

• “Helen,” said Lucy, “sorrow sometimes lies
• Hid in the heart, and veiled from human eyes;
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• While deepest shame may burn beneath a cheek
• Whose tell-tale blushes never more shall speak.
• But let that pass. Come to thy sister's breast,
• Meet place for sorrow and for shame to rest.
• Cheer thee, beloved one. 'Twas but a dream,
• 'Twill pass away, and life will fairer seem,
• And thou wilt live to love and hope again,
• With less of confidence, yet less of pain.
• Lean on this breast; my heart is beating sore—
• Its burning throb will surely soon be o'er;
• Yet let us take sweet counsel while we may.
• I feel, dear Helen, that I shall not stay
• Long to be near thee; and I fain would say
• Something to strengthen thee, as well as soothe—
• Would stretch my hand thy thorny path to smooth.
• 'Tis an old story, that this world is fair
• In seeming only—all its joys a snare;
• And we will leave this melancholy strain
• For themes more cheering, and for truths more plain,
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• Will ask our heavenly Father, in his love,
• To send us light and healing from above,
• And guide our footsteps through the days of youth,
• By his own Spirit, in the paths of truth.”