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

                    At his side I watched,
For he had been in Christ a son to me,
Revered as well as loved through many a year
Of steadfast life in God.
                                The long night passed
In stupor: but at morning he awoke,
Painless but near to death.  In peaceful awe
He lay and waited, while I spoke or prayed;
Then came the mystic Feast of Life in Death —
Then his soul passed at noon.
                                      But ere the end
He told me all — the hopes of all his youth,
And how they closed; then, when I asked of him
If he forgave — 'Forgive?' he said; 'O Sir,
I love, I love her! Oh, that she would come
And hear me say I love her: and perchance —
Even if she love me not — because I go
She will forgive my love, and as I go
Will pray God bless me.'
                                Hearing him, I sent
One who might bring her, would she come: but he
Returning said, her father, whom he saw,
Brought answer from his daughter from within —
'The tidings grieved her, but she could not come.'
  And so he died: nor knew her love, nor knew
The answer was not hers, but falsely sent
By that infatuate salve of his own will,
In fear that, if the sick man did not die,
Such pieous meeting at the gates of death
Would make her his for life.
                                      O fool! he lied,
Nor thought he lied, but only held his will.
  And her no tidings reached long past the noon:
And all her thoughts were his, and all were sweet,
And thus in tender musing, as the day
Drew softly on to even, down the path
Beside the orchard wall she wandered on
Alone, and longing for his face again.
  'Tis writ, 'At evening time it shall be light;'
So shall it be, so is it, to the just,
The meek in spirit and the true of soul,
Strong against trouble in the quietness
Of holy trust; but to the froward heart,
Whose peace is idolatrous repose
Of sated pride — Self set on high and crowned,
And fed with worship — at the evening time
Rather God's blasting levin than the light
And glory of His grace, and afterward
Blackness of darkness.  Holy is His Name,
God of all mercies, yet the Jealous God.
  There, as she mused and longed, broke on her dream
The voice of one who, passing, told her all —
One of his kin who loved him, hating her
For what she deemed had been her scorn of him —
Told her of that blind ride away from her,
And of his hurt to death; then cried at last
With passionate speech, which shook as a dart shakes
That through the hissing air goes quivering home:—
'Yes, he is dead! you beautiful bad girl!
I tell you he is dead, and you have done it:
And — oh, your hard heart! — as he lay a-dying
He cried for you, just for one look, one word;
Might he but see you once before he died,
Might he but say once more, "I love you, Kate;
Will you not say, 'God bless you!' since I go
And shall not vex you longer?"  So he cried:
And you, you, you — you send to him and say
You will not!  Oh! I looked upon his face,
And saw it change and ashen as he heard,
And turned him to the wall, and sighed, "My God,
Bless her I love, who loves me not."  I looked,
And thought, for all it is his dying prayer,
And he a godly man, God will not hear it:
What! God send blessing down on you from Heaven!
God let you see him in that other world!
To make perchance a mock again of love
So wasted on your hard hard heart!  Oh, you!
Remorseless — you may laugh beside his grave,
If so you will, one day, but that is all!
For you shall never never see him more.'
  More had she said, but something made her pause
That came upon her from the awful face
Before her — not of words, for it was still
And set, as some grey marble agony —
Something of passion greater than her own
Which paled before it like a lifted torch
Under a burning mountain.  So she turned
And went her way — but afterward she said
That, looking back a moment on the girl,
She saw her lift her arms and make a cry —
A sob, or cry — and turning suddenly
Speed homewards.
                        Home she went, all wildly crazed
With love's despair, and hatred worse than death
Against her father.  With low shuddering sighs,
As one half conscious, of those bitter words
The first and last repeating, 'He is dead,
And you shall never never see him more,'
She went from room to room in the still house,
Nor found him or her brethren; then awhile
Sat, while the evening fell, nor ever ceased
The woeful iteration; till at last,
As one who, hopeless on a hateful way,
Suddenly sees an end and welcomes it,
Nor knows nor cares save that it is an end,
She started, rose, and, where her father's eye
Would surely find them, left these written words,
'I have killed him: I have lost him: he is dead,
And I shall never never see him more.
And you have killed us both, for I must die.
Since I have killed him, I will kill myself:
I have lost him and my soul — for he is dead,
And I shall never never see him more.'
  Then from the house she passed, and took her way,
All slowly now, now madly in all haste,
Through the long meadows that beneath the woods
Slope toward the vale.  Not yet she sought the vale,
Shunning the scattered hamlet, but pressed on
Where, past the Park, there lies an open wold,
Of every dwelling save a sheep-fold bare,
Whence, seen of none, she thought to reach the vale.
But ere she touched the wold she came on one —
Hard by a single cottage 'neath the eaves
Of the last wood below the furthest hill —
No spirit, yet an angel.  God the Lord
Not only once hath set a little child
In midst of His disciples, saying, 'Lo,
The greatest in My kingdom.'
                                      In the lane,
Returning from the shepherd on the wold,
Home ere the night should fall, there met the girl
This heavenly messenger in lowly form,
A little maiden.  Known and loved was she —
'Deare Childe' of our election over all
To the wide hamlet: such a grace was in her,
It needed not her loveliness to win
Our tender homage; and to Kate more dear
For six years memory of a sister dead,
Whose name she bore.
                              Yet now she had not stayed
For even a word or glance, save that the child
Ran to her gladly, looking in her face
For the familiar greeting, and saw there
So wild a horror, that she hid her own
In the girl's dress, and clasped her with her arms,
And cried, 'O Kate, O Kate!' — but she, all dazed,
Still to herself repeating, 'He is dead,
And I shall never never see him more,'
Gave her no heed, till once again the child
Lifting her face, but clinging closer, cried —
Scarce knowing what she said, but saying that
The childly instinct taught her — 'Kate, O Kate,
I love you!'
              At the words, since they had been
His words, the girl, starting as one who hears
Or seems to hear an utterance of the dead,
Tore herself from the child, and thrust her back,
Then turned as if for flight; but turned again,
And took her in her arms all terrified,
Kissing her wildly; then without a word,
Loosing her strange embrace and leaving her,
Fled down the wold.
                          A mile, like one pursued,
She swiftly sped: then at the borders fell,
And lay upon her face among the ferns,
Scarce conscious, but not ceasing still to cry,
'Dead, dead: and I shall never see him more:'
But now upon the cry — as on a curse
Follows remission — in her ears the words,
By grace of God remembered, 'Kate, O Kate,
I love you!' followed.  Then she rose again
And staggered through the vale beside the stream,
And reached the house where her dead lover lay.
O then the curse revived! and since she knew
He lay within, and could not speak to her,
And could not say he loved her, or forgave,
But lay there dead — for ever dead to her —
She straight had died — beat out her hateful life
Against those funeral walls, or cast herself
Into the still deep stream — save that again,
Upon that iteration, 'Nevermore,'
Fell, charm-like still, the blessing, 'Kate, O Kate,
I love you — love you;' and she paused to hear.
  So did she stand, as one beside a tomb:
Near, and so far: near, not a rood from her,
Lay all her world; so far, between them spread
Eternal distance! Then once more her heart,
Heaving in throes of tearless agony,
Drove her to flight. 'Away from him,' she thought,
'And I may die.' And down the darkling stream
She sped, nor paused till on the bridge she heard
The ceaseless ominous murmur of the fall
Plunging in the abysmal pool.
                                        She stood
Over the middle arch: listened and stood;
The night wind moaning round her, and the weir
Calling before her 'neath its ghostly veil:
Listened, as one who listens for a sign.
  Terrible night — it wore a look more fell
Because it was not wild: there were no shrieks
Of wrathful or tormented winds to seem
In sympathy with her despairing soul,
And so to soothe her; no impetuous floods,
Like the great deep of passion broken up,
Forcing relief; not even a few still tears
Of rain, to whisper her poor heart that heaven
Was weeping for her.  No, the face of night
Was coldly scornful, like the face of one
Who neither loves nor hates; who sees and knows,
But cares not: the wide gulphs between the clouds,
That moved in rugged masses o'er the sky,
Were sprinkled thick with stars that stared on her
Lifelessly, pitilessly clear and cold;
And deep beneath, the rolling river sped
Under the arches, past the gloomy piles,
Toward the sullen weir, cruel and strong,
Bright-black like liquid steel, and its low sound
Seemed to her morbid ear the utterance
Of a disdainful fate, that, passing on,
All careless yet relentless called to her,
'Come, for the time is come, and thou canst die.'
  Then on a sudden shrieking, 'I can die:
I have lost him and my soul, for he is dead,
And I shall never never see him more;
But I can die —' she raised her arms and ran
Down the dim path, and came upon the weir.
Then had she surely cast her life away,
Upon the seething hissing shroud that spread
Over that grave of waters — but again
Upon her ear, imperiously sweet,
Pathetic, more than human out of Heaven,
And yet with all the nearness of the world,
Fell the child's cry, his utterance, 'Kate, O Kate,
I love you — love you!'
                                      And beside the shore
She stayed her steps, and turned, and swooned, and fell,
And lay all night 'twixt swoon and sleep: and there
Her father, a despairing broken man,
Aged in a night, found her at early dawn.
  *      *      *      *      *      *      *
That summer died: and soon the year was dead:
And round the Rectory Farm, from out the snows
That like a mantle of atonement lay
Over the penitent earth, a fair new year
Rose with the crocus; then the violet
Smiled here and there: a sign, a touch of heaven
In lowly earthly places — like a hope
Lovely in meekness, yet so purely strong
It made the live air fragrant all around.
Then one and one, like stars at early night
In the wide heav'n, o'er the wide earth the flowers
Glimmered and beamed and broadened into bloom;
And the year grew beneath the light and warmth
And benison of summer.  Summer came,
And on its earliest loveliest day there stood,
Within God's Acre by the ancient church,
Nigh all the hamlet.  'Twas a funeral day:
But spring and summer, joining hand in hand,
Sang, shone, about us and the open grave —
And there we laid 'Deare Childe.'
                                            And round the grave
We sang that 'Jesus lives,' and from His Love
Henceforth 'nor life, nor death, nor powers of hell,
Can tear us ever.'
                    And of those who sang
Were two: a man, on whom might all men see
Written in reverent peace the fear of God —
In peace, yet as it had been taught by pain.
And at his side, and close as love to him,
A beautiful sad woman: sad the face,
For it was grave and set beyond her years,
And 'as by fire' was writ upon its calm,
But sweet and steadfast was the calm; and Hope
Through all its sacred sadness smiled and sang.
  And my heart sang too, though it wept the while.