The Idylls Of Deare Childe. IV. The Rectory Farm. A Parish Idyll. In Two Parts. Part I.

THE little hamlet lies within the vale
One side the winding river, yet it seems
To hanker for the uplands.  Here and there
A cottage flings its shade upon the stream:
And on the level narrow length, that makes
A sandless emerald shore by saltless waves,
Thatched roofs in clusters at wide intervals
Break up a mile of greensward: but behind
Begins the slop that finds its wooded crown
On lowly hills some half a league away;
And on this slope, in groups of three or four,
Or single, half a hundred cottages,
White walled, dark roofed, and mostly bowered in green,
Seem creeping upwards, higher still and higher,
But in a lessening order, till at last,
Highest of all but yet below the wood,
An ancient church, square-towered and ivy-clad,
Stands in God's Acre.  On its western side,
And near the border wall of mossy stone,
A yew tree planted when the church was young,
Nor now less fair for its five hundred years
Than the old reverend fane, across the wall
Thrusts out one mighty arm which casts a shade
Upon the pathway, by a garden lawn
That runs all edged with barricades of bloom,
And sentinelled with lindens all its length
In broken order, over a broad wall
Of laurels and arbutes.
                              Beyond the lawn
The Rectory, shaded by a group of elms,
Likes like a bower of rest, though not of art
Or splendour.  Quaint and old, its gabled front,
Behind a porch with honey-suckle eaves,
Looks out of depths of ancient ivy here,
And there of jasmine.  Through the elms behind
The higher casements eastward overlook
Far off the parted river's silver sheen
Below the weir, and, past the stream, the hills
Against the morning heavens.  But toward the west
Is meadow-land 'twist leafy lanes; and last
A Farm, beneath a sloping wood that moves
Still further westward till it lies a gloom
Against the autumn sunsets.
                                      Chief of all
That lay dispread at spacious intervals
About the church, and nearest, this was hight
The Rectory Farm.
                        A goodly home was this
Of a long line of yeomen: old and new;
Old — for the mighty timbers and strong walls
Cried shame on the frail work of later thrift;
New — for an ever watchful eye, and hands
That ever wrought amain, had checked decay;
Nor was there lack within of modern art
For grace or comfort, apt appliances
To meet all daily needs of hand or head
For work or leisure.  Not the Squire's great Hall —
For all its costlier splendours and new stores
Of ever-added over-crowded means
Of luxury and ornament — nor yet
The Castle — yonder on the wooded height,
All bare of splendour, but a reverend place
With ancient chambers tapestried and dim,
Half house, half ruin, once the stern Sir Hugh's,
Now 'sad Leonard's,' (so they called his son,
A lonely man)— nor this nor that could boast
More prosperous aspect or securer weal,
A brighter comfort, a more genial board,
Or more of all that serves a ready will
To give good welcome to as many friends
As might deserve to claim it.
                                      Farmer Leigh
Looked down upon the Squire, despite his lands
And all that wealth which fame made ever more;
Was not his house by these three hundred years
More ancient than the Hall? and though he looked
Still with the wonted reverence of his race
Up to the Castle, yet withal he knew
Himself was wealthier than had been Sir Hugh
Or was Sir Leonard.
                          But there came a day
So dark — made all the home he loved so well
So desolate — he sat within a broken man,
Nor could for woe look elsewhere up or down.
  A strange intruder at the Rectory Farm
Was trouble: and because he was so strange
The more unwelcome.  Those who know him best
Look at him with less fear, if they have learnt
Aught of his office, trusting once again
That they may find some love within his eyes,
Which seem at first to wither all the bloom
They rest on — still may find him as of old,
Ever no tyrant though so stern and sad:
A Teacher rather, in whose sombre school
Is surely taught, to hearts that will to learn,
The way of peace but seldom known or found
By Pleasure's pupils.
                          Farmer Leigh was rich:
With many a treasure in his house and field
He held right dear: whereon he fed his pride,
Till it waxed fat and grew beyond control
To an imperious fullness that would brook
Let of his will from none.
                              But one there was
Of all his treasures — house, and lands, and stores,
Laid up for many years, his friends and kin
Who gave him worship, or his five strong sons,
Worthy their name — one was there of them all
A hundred times the dearest.  Had he been
Without another treasure in the world,
Saving this one, fororn — no whit the more
Would she have been within his heart of hearts
His one ewe lamb.
                          His daughter: not alone
A present joy, and dear to his proud hope,
But for one memory dearer; to his eyes
Restoring her dead mother.
                                    Ten years back
She was the prettiest child in all the shire,
And now the fairest woman.  Form and face,
If ever such a word befits this world,
Were faultless.  Dark-eyed, like the moonless night
The stars make softly splendid: with such hair
As would itself have made a woman's fame:
Quick-brained, large-hearted, with a poet's soul
Of passionate force: withal being pure and true,
She lacked no pearl of loveliness and grace,
Save one — but 'tis the one white pearl of all,
Drawn from the deep, and therefore of the height,
Priceless, because it is of price in Heaven
Saith the Apostle: Mary's ornament,
'A meek and quiet spirit.'
                                'Twas not Kate's;
Nor was her father's that which makes a man
Greatest: in lack of which, however strong,
No man, when need is sorest, overcomes:
The wisdom that controls the manly will,
The calm and earnest heart that knows itself,
And owns a law, not seeking what it can,
But what it may, and, patient in its strength,
Still in its strong persistence can forbear.
  So was it that between these loving hearts
And noble natures ebbed and flowed a tide
Of discord: he, exacting all his will;
She, unsubmissive, or beneath the yoke
Vexed and impatient.
                            But there came a day
When discord grew to ruin in an hour;
Then died between them in the shadow of death.
  Long had the village marvelled such a maid —
Proud as she was, 'she had a heart,' they said —
Was yet unwon: for many a wooer came
From near and far, of good report, but all
Upon a fruitless quest.  For there was one
Whom she had slowly learned from childish years —
Slowly, but surely, to the height and depth
Of her large nature — learned to love.  But he —
Though else all worthy, for the grace and strength
Of more than all his manly comeliness
Broadened his brow and deepened in his smile —
Was poorer, though of distant kin to them,
And knew himself to be her father's fear,
Who wished a wealthier lover for his maid,
And set his will against him watchfully.
  And so long while he did not tell his love,
So vexing her, whose pride was all aglow.
And when at length he spoke, she put him off
With such a seeming ease, his earnest heart
Made sure she did not love him.
                                              But at last,
Because she had been kinder than her wont,
(Fain and more fain her heart to smile on him,)
And since his love was such, his lonely home
Were he unloved, could be his home no more,
He spoke again — meeting her as he rode
One even by the orchard wall, and there
Dismounting — spoke, and as a man should speak,
With tender grave devotion, honouring her
E'en as he loved her, wholly, but not less
Honouring his word, and speaking once for all.
  Then rose that lurking devil of her pride,
And said within her, 'Test him, let him sue
And serve yet longer, till you give him all.'
And so she checked the angel of her joy
That sang within, and let that imp of hell
Speak falsely for her, with uncertain words
Of trifling.  But he stayed her, and replied:
'Kate, it is once for all: there is my horse;
If you can ever love me, bid me stay;
If not, and you would have me dead to you,
Say "Go," and you shall never see me more.'
  She in her sin made answer, 'You may go;'
And in the moment's madness laughed at him:
Then, the next instant, glancing at his face,
She saw it wan like death, and grew herself
So sick at heart with love and some strange fear,
She could have knelt to stay him, but his woe
Blinded him, and he turned and rode away.
  Blindly he rode — for this was bitter woe,
More than love's loss; 'twas hard indeed to lose,
But not to honour her whom he had lost!
There was a woe in this that wrung his soul,
And dazed him, that he knew not how he rode,
And, ere he reached his home, his headlong horse
Stumbled, and fell, and rolled; then rose again
Without his master.
                        She, when he was gone,
Heart-sick at first, remembering that last look,
Went slowly home, but rallied from her fear;
And then, poor fool! began to soothe her soul
With happy visions — Soon would he return,
And nevermore would she be cold again,
But give him tenderest homage, heart and will;
Sweet would it be to tell him all her love
With joy and reverence — that she only lived
To love and serve him!
                              So she mused, and night
Fell: and her musings passed into her dreams;
And he lay dying.