UC-NRLF 
 
 UNDER THE ASPENS 
 
 LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC 
 
 MRS. PFEIFFER 
 
 
 1 
 
6 EMILY CATHARINE ELLIS 
 

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 2^i^^ r S/~Z**? 
 
UNDER THE ASPENS 
 
EMILY PFEIFFER'S WORKS. 
 
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UNDER THE ASPENS 
 
 LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILY PFEIFFER 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' GERARD'S MONUMENT ' ' GLAN-ALARCH ' ' POEMS ' 
 ' SONNETS AND SONGS ' ' QUARTERMAN'S GRACE ' 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1882 
 
J.OAN STACK 
 
 (The rights of translation and of reproduction arc reserved ) 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 
 J. E. P. 
 
 Our aspens quiver in these pallid rays 
 
 Of mid- September, more than when the red 
 Hearts of their tender leaves were newly wed. 
 
 And grew together through the lengthening days. 
 
 Their first self-centred joys have gone their ways, 
 And now we may behold where overhead 
 Their larger, more responsive leaves outspread, 
 
 Give trembling answer to each breath that plays. 
 
 So is it well for us, if so it be, 
 
 Dear love ; if hearts that still so closely cling, 
 Of Time have learnt large hospitality. 
 
 Yet, dear withal, the best of me I bring 
 And offer first of all the world to thee 
 
 Whose love is still of all my fruit the Spring. 
 
PBEFACE. 
 
 ' THE Wynnes of Wynhavod,' the single work which 
 fills the dramatic portion of this volume, was written 
 in the hope that first attempt as it is at that high 
 prize of a poet's ambition it might, with the kindly 
 aid of some borrowed technical experience, be found 
 proper for representation on the stage. The first 
 attempt, however, to put this first attempt in the way 
 of benefiting by managerial help, induced an experience 
 of so different a nature, that I was fain to make this 
 earliest example of the treatment to which authors are 
 liable at the hands of managers my last, and to con- 
 tent myself with an appeal to the public on literary 
 ground alone. With this view, the purely subjective 
 parts of the play have received additions in places 
 where it has appeared that characters and situations, 
 denied the advantage of scenic illustration, would 
 benefit by further verbal development. 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 In writing a drama of modern life in blank verse 
 throughout, I have faced many difficulties. Whether 
 I have succeeded in giving to the verse so natural a 
 flow that the sense of strain, hard to overcome in the 
 lower-lying portions of this species of composition, is 
 unfelt, I must leave to those critics who are capable 
 of estimating the cost of seeming ease, to decide. 
 
 MAYFIELD. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LYRICAL. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT . , . .. 1 
 
 THE PILLAR OF PRAISE . - . . . . 51 
 
 A LOST EDEN . , ' . * ,. .80 
 
 THE FIGHT AT BORKE'S DRIFT . . . . 98 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 LEARN OF THE DOG . . . . 105 
 
 THE LOST LIGHT . . . . ] . 107 
 
 A PLEA . . . . . .109 
 
 HELLAS . . . . . . . 113 
 
 SHELLEY ... ... . . 115 
 
 INVOCATION : 
 
 To SLEEP . . . i 117 
 
 To MEMORY . . . . . .118 
 
 A KEMINISCENCE . . . . . 119 
 
 THE JOY OF JOYS . . . . . 120 
 
 THE SORROW OF SORROWS . . - 1 131 
 
 To THE MOURNERS OF LOVE . . . 122 
 
 WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?. .'... . 123 
 
 A WIND FROM OFF THE SEA . ]24 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONGS : 
 
 A SONG OF t SPRING . . . . . 125 
 
 THE BOWER AMONG THE BEANS . . .127 
 
 BLACK, LEAFLESS THORN . . . 130 
 
 THE CRUSE OF TEARS . . . . 131 
 
 DRAMATIC. 
 
 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD, A DRAMA OF MODERN 
 
 LIFE. In Five Acts 135 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 LET me look upon the river it is still, and it is deep, 
 And would not mock the wretch who clove the 
 
 silence of its breast ; 
 Eyes that are burning, burning with the tears ye 
 
 cannot weep, 
 Brain that to work me more of woe hast robbed the 
 
 night of sleep, 
 
 Let me look upon the river, let the river give me 
 rest. 
 
 Let me look upon the river ; though the stars are 
 
 overhead, 
 They are far away and strange to me, a creature of 
 
 the dust, 
 
 They may plough their way in light upon their ordered 
 courses sped, 
 
 *B 
 
UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 They may sweep on their long cycles with the patience 
 
 of the dead : 
 
 But they cannot find a cure for grief, a grave for 
 broken trust. 
 
 The bosom of the river is in all the world the one 
 That is open to my sorrow : let me look upon my 
 
 friend ; 
 If you only now would take me to your arms, and all 
 
 were done, 
 Or my heart against the parapet would harden into 
 
 stone, 
 
 Till I sunk upon your bosom all unconscious of the 
 end. 
 
 Hist, there are drowning visions : some have lived 
 
 their lives again, 
 When the waters filled the gates of sense as with a 
 
 lover's kiss ; 
 Some have left upon its surface all the bitter wrong 
 
 and pain, 
 Some have lived and loved once more and thought 
 
 they did not love in vain, 
 As they met the backward stream of life that bore 
 
 them into bliss. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 3 
 
 I shut my weary eyes upon the lamps, and that torn 
 
 wrack 
 Of cloud that mounts and drowns the stars and 
 
 waning moon in night ; 
 I will think that I am drowning, and my willing 
 
 thought send back 
 On the way it knows too surely, on the happy beaten 
 
 track ; 
 I will feed upon the poison of my deadly lost delight. 
 
 Only a look exchanged, a look which might have 
 
 never been, 
 And the world had still gone round, and I had died 
 
 one day in sleep, 
 Never awakened, never having breathed the breath 
 
 too keen 
 Of these mountain joys and sorrows, known the gulf 
 
 they overlean, 
 The blank rock face that looks upon love's awful 
 
 sunless deep. 
 
 Oh river, what am I to you, or what are you to me, 
 That you mix yourself with all my life 1 It was 
 
 upon your breast 
 
 That standing in the crowd upon your bank I came 
 to see 
 
 B 2 
 
4 UNDEK THE ASPENS. 
 
 Him, swaying in the boat that plunged and panted to 
 
 get free 
 
 And bear him from my sight whom I had singled 
 from the rest. 
 
 Stroke oar he was, the calm of gathered power upon 
 
 his face 
 
 Though flushed with coming battle to the shores of 
 yellow hair ; 
 
 It was a lusty day of March, and this should be the 
 race 
 
 Whereto all England's thoughts were set. I know- 
 not by what grace 
 
 We came to be so near I only know that I was 
 there, 
 
 Fluttered with wind and sun, and with the breath 
 
 that seemed to rise 
 From out the crowd and float us as a wave ; that 
 
 one by one 
 We past the crews in gay review, we, feigning to be 
 
 wise, 
 And after that no more my fate had met me in the 
 
 eyes, 
 And thence it was another world, ruled by another 
 
 sun. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. O 
 
 He did not light on me at once ; his gaze just touched 
 
 and past 
 The faces on the crowded bank, until it paused on 
 
 mine 
 Paused, and there rested, and will rest ; my face will 
 
 be the last 
 To leave him ; it will hold him to my love, yes, hold 
 
 him fast 
 Though the river rise between us, drink my life, 
 
 and make no sign. 
 
 Only a look, I know not if of longing or content, 
 Or just a gleam of glad surprise had past between 
 
 us two, 
 But I think that even at the first we both knew what 
 
 it meant ; 
 While my shaded eyes retiring from the light of his 
 
 were bent 
 
 On the knot of azure ribbons that the mocking 
 March winds blew 
 
 And flaunted in my face, till hardly looking I could 
 
 see 
 
 He had caught the foolish symbol and was troubled 
 at the sight ; 
 
 *B3 
 
b UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 What was Cambridge then, its crew, what all the 
 
 alien world to me, 
 That I should stand and vaunt a hope that was not 
 
 his, and be 
 The harbinger of failure to my hero in the fight 1 
 
 Then there came a breathless moment, they were 
 
 waiting for the start, 
 The rival boats in line, at rest, each hand-grip hard 
 
 upon 
 A lifted oar ; through all I feel the beating of one 
 
 heart ; 
 The signal flashes, oars are wings, they fly ; but as we 
 
 part 
 He throws a bright appeal, and finds the lying 
 
 favour gone ! 
 
 I had sent it to the winds of March, scarce knowing 
 
 what I did, 
 Not dreaming that his questing glance would come 
 
 my way again 
 
 Till I saw his smile of triumph, and I fear my lips unbid 
 Must have shaped themselves in answer, for my surg- 
 ing blushes chid 
 
 The gladness of a heart that sought to hide itself in 
 vain. 
 
FEOM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 7 
 
 He went and it was over, it had only been a dream ; 
 But it warned me of a hidden self, a life before un- 
 known, 
 And it thrilled me as a dream can thrill, with now a 
 
 hope supreme, 
 And now a creeping fear, as if in that one lightning 
 
 gleam 
 
 The height of Heaven and depth of hell had suddenly 
 been shown. 
 
 It was AJice who was with me ; we were free for half 
 
 a day ; 
 
 She, the gentlest of my workmates, held me closely 
 by the hand, 
 
 So she surely must have felt the shaft that struck me, 
 if no ray 
 
 Of the sudden morning-glory touched her eyes or came 
 
 her way ; 
 
 Yet she joins my foes and girds at him the bitter- 
 est of the band. 
 
 We watched the rise and fall upon the water of those 
 
 wings 
 
 The oars that flashed on either side the flying boat 
 as one, 
 
8 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And the strength of all my heart that had its own life 
 
 and the springs 
 Was transferred to him, or seemed so, in its fond 
 
 imaginings, 
 As I hung in utter weakness till the doubtful day 
 
 was won. 
 
 Then my life came back, or nearly, it was pulsing in 
 
 the crowd 
 That ebbed and flowed around us, making music 
 
 with his name ; 
 
 It was good to feel it all about, to hear it cry aloud 
 "While I stood in happy silence with my secret un- 
 
 avowed, 
 But smiling at the pity that I dared not yet disclaim. 
 
 Had it then, indeed, been over, had I seen his face no 
 
 more, 
 I had had a harmless vision of the wonders of the 
 
 deep, 
 Just a lifting of the vapour as I crouched upon the 
 
 shore, 
 
 / 
 
 And the clouds had settled down, and all had slum- 
 bered as before, 
 
 While I held a fading image I could hardly hope to 
 keep. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 But the river, yes the river, he has got my life en- 
 twined, 
 
 In his deadly silver meshes he has got my life in fee ; 
 As the flashing wings came beating up the stream 
 
 against the wind, 
 I turned and faced the crowd, and would have fled as 
 
 flies the hind, 
 
 But it held me while the river wrought and brought 
 my fate to me. 
 
 It held me fast, the wanton crowd, it forced me on his 
 
 sight, 
 Feeling all my heart uncovered, with no favour on 
 
 my breast ; 
 To be found where he had left me, and to have to 
 
 meet the light 
 Of his eyes that spoke their knowledge, and their 
 
 triumph in my plight, 
 Knowing well a hidden hope was in my foolish 
 
 fears confessed. 
 
 But the river, whether friend or foe, the river was to 
 
 blame ; 
 
 Had I fallen in the crowd wherein I sought to 
 make retreat, 
 
10 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 It had closed on me unheeding, trampled, left me to 
 
 my shame, 
 But it pressed and threw me forward, when the 
 
 swollen river came 
 And sucked me in, and drew me drenched and 
 
 breathless to his feet. 
 
 It had claimed me as his tribute; was he not the 
 
 river king 
 Standing upright at the stern in all the glory of his 
 
 state? 
 
 I lay trembling as a bird afeard to get upon the wing, 
 As he stepped into the stream and took me up, a 
 
 fluttering thing 
 
 Yes, the river had betrayed me to that baptism of 
 fate. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 11 
 
 To be only alive in the spring, coldly kissed by the 
 
 breeze, 
 When a soul of blind love is astir in the bud and 
 
 the blade, 
 When the fountain of sap rises up from the roots of 
 
 the trees 
 
 To their pendulous boughs, is a summons of joy to 
 a maid. 
 
 But was never a spring that so gladdened the heart 
 
 and the eyes 
 As the spring that is gone, and whose flowers lie 
 
 cold in the earth ; 
 There was never a season that broke with so sweet a 
 
 surprise 
 
 That was loosed from the dark hold of death in so 
 sudden a birth. 
 
12 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 For the rain and the sadness had fallen of summerleas 
 
 years 
 
 On the wood hardly ripened, and leaflets and blos- 
 soms, each one 
 Was as tender and soft as the heart that is nourished 
 
 on tears 
 
 In its season of 'growth, and as freshly unclosed to 
 the sun. 
 
 And / had seen summerless years with the sad seasons 
 
 flown, 
 Fatherless, motherless, having to fight for my 
 
 share, 
 A poor place in the shadow-crossed world which had 
 
 not been my own 
 
 When the heart of a mother had held me from 
 shadow of care. 
 
 And I was abloom with the season when swift by his 
 
 side 
 I was borne with the fast sailing clouds in my 
 
 holiday glee, 
 And we greeted you river as rolling your silvery 
 
 tide, 
 
 You past us and smiled on our joy in your way to 
 the sea. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 13 
 
 The city receding the tasker and task left behind, 
 The babble of many exchanged for the deep words 
 
 of one, 
 The breath-laden air for the kiss of the wandering 
 
 wind, 
 
 And the hard, counted hours for the joy of a day 
 but begun. 
 
 We pass the red roofs, and we look at the clock in the 
 
 tower ; 
 
 ' Only eleven/ he says, ' of this sweet April day ; ' 
 And we gaze on the fair gabled house with the almond 
 
 in flower, 
 
 And the buds of the thorn that are big with the 
 promise of May ; 
 
 The chestnut whose fingers unclosing have let the white 
 
 flame 
 Of the blossom slip through them, the alley of trees, 
 
 and the two 
 Who are walking therein, while the birds on their 
 
 steps linger tame, 
 
 And the buds as they pass seem to open and crowd 
 on their view. 
 
14 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And he whispered me softly : ' Here love is at home, 
 
 the fond tale 
 Is disclosed by the glad living creatures in beauty 
 
 and song, 
 And our love as the love of this twain shall not falter 
 
 or fail 
 
 For the scorn of the years ; they shall touch it and 
 do it no wrong.' 
 
 Then the russet and gold of the poplars was caught as 
 
 with fire 
 Of a sun that had burst on the world and would 
 
 never more set, 
 And straight from the dark grove of ilex there opened 
 
 a quire 
 
 That sung of the love which had barely been spoken 
 as yet. 
 
 For the wonder within us was shy, having grown 
 
 beyond reach 
 Of the thoughts of our hearts in the days love had 
 
 been but a dream, 
 And the joy of it deepened to awe when it first put on 
 
 speech 
 
 And we felt ourselves borne to our doom in the 
 rush of its stream. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 15 
 
 He had dared to make free with my heart, and had 
 
 called by its name 
 The secret which trembling he drew from its 
 
 maidenly hold, 
 And I heard unreproving, filled, thrilled with the joy 
 
 and sweet shame 
 
 Overborne by the stress of the passion which ren- 
 dered him bold. 
 
 But our love was at April, and opened no further that 
 
 day; 
 It was rife as the sap in the immanent leaf, and 
 
 discreet 
 As the yet folded blossom that softly is seeking its 
 
 way 
 
 To the full, rounded life which the sun is at work 
 to complete. 
 
 So we spoke of the birds that unbosomed their full 
 
 hearts in song, 
 Of the gorse on the heath all the wealth of the 
 
 summer foreshown 
 Of the sweet-scented gums which the toils of the season 
 
 prolong, 
 
 Still of love and love's labour, but ventured no 
 nearer our own. 
 
16 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Then the fair day was done, but its joy like a great 
 
 tidal wave 
 Overflowed the low banks of the days and the nights 
 
 that were near, 
 As I sat midst the laughter of work-fellows silent and 
 
 grave, 
 
 And the voice of the task-mistress chiding awakened 
 no fear. 
 
 And sometimes my joy would seem present and 
 
 suddenly rise, 
 And bear me before it I hardly knew whither or 
 
 why, 
 Till, lo, from the window a vision would gladden my 
 
 eyes 
 
 My love had foreboded aright, that my lover was 
 nigh. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 17 
 
 It is good to be young in the spring, but to breathe, 
 
 but to be, 
 When the woods are tumultuous with song, the 
 
 leaf freshly unfurled, 
 To break into joy as the blossom breaks forth of the 
 
 tree, 
 
 In the on-coming tide which is lightening the heart 
 of the world ; 
 
 It is good to be young in the spring, but 0, rare 
 
 beyond words 
 To love and be loved in the season when love is at 
 
 best, 
 To pair in the youth of your days and the year with 
 
 the birds, 
 
 As wise as the world, if no wiser this is to be 
 blest ! 
 
 c 
 
18 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 O river, that comest from far, you have been, you 
 
 have seen, 
 Where the willows are weeping for sorrow that 
 
 once wept for bliss ; 
 You have past the still cove where the daffodil buds 
 
 overlean 
 Your waters in April as bent their own shadows to 
 
 And you know how the shade of your greenery 
 
 thickens in May, 
 When the trill of the nightingale shakes down the 
 
 sweet summer snows 
 From the boughs of the thorn, and is answered from 
 
 over the way 
 
 By a voice from the heart of the wood where the 
 hyacinth blows. 
 
 bring me, wild waters, the scent of the now buried 
 
 flowers 
 The violets in hiding, whose secret we crushed out 
 
 and gave 
 To the murmuring breezes, and with it bring back the 
 
 dead hours 
 
 The hours that in dying have made of the wide 
 world one grave. 
 ***** 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 19 
 
 Comes a time when the pulse of the season has risen 
 
 still higher 
 When the crown of the year is of May, but not yet 
 
 of the rose, 
 When the trees through a mist of soft leaves seem to 
 
 gladly respire 
 
 The air that is balm, and to drink of the sunshine 
 that glows ; 
 
 When the lilac still blushes, the lilies He folded 
 
 beneath, 
 When the broom and laburnum are tossing or 
 
 shedding their gold, 
 And the hand of the bountiful Giver o'er meadow and 
 
 heath, 
 In gorse and in kingcup is scattering riches untold ; 
 
 When the moist living green of the nethermost boughs 
 
 of the elm 
 Rises up as a verdurous breath, and a robe seems 
 
 to cling 
 Round the boles of the birch, that show fair through 
 
 the tremulous film, 
 
 As the silvery limbs of a Dryad in vesture of spring 
 c2 
 
20 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 When the larch in its youth, and the king of the 
 
 forest discrowned 
 
 The garlanded age of the thorn, and the succu- 
 lent weed 
 Born in yesterday's shower all things that have root 
 
 in the ground 
 
 Are alive and abloom in the sun, from the oak to 
 the reed ; 
 
 When the heaven being open above us, while fair at 
 
 our feet 
 The pride and the joy of the earth spread a carpet 
 
 of flowers, 
 1 went forth again with my love the glad season to 
 
 greet, 
 
 And we rode in the triumph of Nature which 
 seemed to be ours. 
 
 How brightly you beamed on us, river, as if you took 
 
 part 
 In the joy that grew vocal beside you as softly we 
 
 trod, 
 And the voice of the love flowing forth from the deep 
 
 of your heart 
 
 Was more full than the nightingale's own, my 
 young river god ! 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 21 
 
 Yes I see him, I hear him once more, with his 
 
 presence fulfilled, 
 His words through the desolate void of my heart 
 
 seem to ring, 
 As I, beggared of love and of hope, stand here shaken 
 
 and thrilled 
 
 With the full pulsing life of that high day of affluent 
 spring. 
 
 Fill me full with sweet poison, dear river, that mingled 
 
 your voice 
 With the words that he said when he loosened my 
 
 winter of life 
 As the rivers are loosened in spring, when he bade me 
 
 rejoice 
 
 His Queen of the May whom the autumn should 
 crown as his wife. 
 
 Yes, I hear him, he murmurs, ' My fair one,' he calls 
 
 me his queen 
 Of the May, of all Mays, and all months all the 
 
 blessed year through ; 
 But he calls me his wife that shall be, and the word 
 
 is so keen 
 
 That it cuts all my life, the before and thereafter, in 
 two. 
 
22 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 I, poor with the poorest, with none for my sorrow to 
 
 care, 
 More beggared of love's daily need than of silver or 
 
 gold, 
 I, who only of life had hard work and hard words for 
 
 my share, 
 
 With no home but the grave, where the heart of 
 my mother lay cold. 
 
 I, dropped from the hands of the dead on the floor of 
 
 the world, 
 To be lifted again, all my wrongs in a moment 
 
 atoned, 
 Lifted high beyond sight of the place whence I once 
 
 had been hurled, 
 
 To be taken and dowered with all things, to own 
 and be owned ! 
 
 river, they know not how should they ? the rich 
 
 and the proud, 
 Who sit down every day to the feast and make 
 
 light of the best, 
 What some hungry, some starving one chosen from 
 
 out of the crowd 
 
 Can bring to the banquet of life of sharp longing 
 and zest. 
 
FROM OUT OP THE NIGHT. 23 
 
 It was under the greenwood, our seat was the flowery 
 
 sod, 
 There my secret flowed forth and was mixed with 
 
 the violets' breath, 
 There I gave him his name, there first called him my 
 
 young river god, 
 
 There we vowed to be true to each other in life and 
 in death. 
 
 Then no tree of the forest, no herb of the garden or 
 
 field, 
 Not the thrush or the nightingale's self even poet 
 
 of birds 
 
 Was so eager to rush into bloom or melodiously yield 
 All the rapture repressed, as our love was to flower 
 in words. 
 
 It was May-time, within and without us, above and 
 
 beneath, 
 It was May with the lark in the sky and its mate 
 
 on the ground, 
 It was May in our hearts, and the wonder had broken 
 
 its sheath 
 
 With all blossoming things, and flowed forth as the 
 waters unbound. 
 
24 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 But the passionate pause which o'ercame us at whiles 
 
 as a spell, 
 That had more than the tenderest words of love's 
 
 secret to teach ; 
 When he looked in my eyes, and my eyes could not 
 
 bear it, and fell, 
 
 And a touch of the hand held us dumb as despairing 
 of speech. 
 
 When your lips met my lips, beloved, and the 
 
 mystery first, 
 The meaning of life became clear in a moment of 
 
 bliss; 
 There was love at the heart of the world that had once 
 
 seemed accurst, 
 
 And men bore not their burthens in vain if they 
 bore them for this. 
 
 But our kisses were stolen in haste, for the dip of an 
 
 oar, 
 Or the sound of a step on the path, of a voice on 
 
 the green, 
 Made us start from each other to gaze on the opposite 
 
 shore, 
 
 And to look as if kisses between us could never 
 have been. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 25 
 
 Yet once for a moment it seemed that the world had 
 
 been made 
 For us two and no other one moment we came to 
 
 forget 
 That a presence was blotting the light from the 
 
 flickering shade, 
 
 Wherein dusk, as the lips of the dead, showed the 
 white violet. 
 
 'Twas a voice that awakened us rudely and scattered 
 
 our dream, 
 The voice and low laugh of a crone that had power 
 
 to fling 
 Defiance in face of our youth, and to chill with the 
 
 gleam 
 
 Of her dull wintry eyes all the sap in the veins of 
 the spring. 
 
 Yes, she stood there and faced us, a creature so haggard 
 
 and bent, 
 A ruin that seemed of things sad and unholy the 
 
 haunt ; 
 As I looked, the bright veil of the universe seemed to 
 
 be rent, 
 
 As I heard, the shrill joy of the lark seemed an 
 arrogant vaunt. 
 
26 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Not by time had the beldame been withered alone, she 
 
 was crushed, 
 As a scroll that is held of too little account for the 
 
 fire; 
 Yet those lips may have haply known kisses, that cheek 
 
 may have blushed 
 
 Ere they shrank from the light in the shame of an 
 insult so dire. 
 
 Now they muttered but curses, which each to my ear 
 
 was a cry, 
 While her cheek was the map of a country where 
 
 cross-roads of care 
 Had been ploughed through a highway of tears ere 
 
 their fountain was dry, 
 
 And the pity of all was the ways seemed to lead to 
 nowhere ! 
 
 How the palsied hand clutched at the coin that he 
 
 gave, how her eyes, 
 As she fingered the treasure, grew keen with a 
 
 horrible lust ! 
 Does the dross of the earth which our opulent youth 
 
 can despise 
 
 Its mere dust grow so dear to a soul on its way to 
 the dust 1 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 27 
 
 As a dog at the heels of his tyrant, and hailed on a 
 
 road 
 He may never return by, still furtively buries his 
 
 bone, 
 So she tremblingly felt in her tatters, and darkly 
 
 bestowed, 
 
 Tied her wealth up from knowledge and use in some 
 corner unknown. 
 
 Then she chuckled for joy of her cunning and turned 
 
 on her way, 
 And we gazed through the fresh willow shoots on 
 
 the figure forlorn, 
 Until nothing was left of the sight that had saddened 
 
 the May 
 
 But a rag that was tainting the air from the boughs 
 of the thorn. 
 
 Is love then immortal and not to be quenched with the 
 
 breath, 
 Can he strike out the path where the road to all 
 
 other is dim, 
 That he bears with decay, and grows bolder in presence 
 
 of death ; 
 
 That the jaws of the grave are the gates as of 
 heaven to him 1 
 
28 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 I know not, but know he soon lifted his head and 
 
 made light 
 Of the terrors of time; that we wandered, dear 
 
 river, with thee, 
 And we thought that the stream, which was bearing 
 
 us on in its might, 
 
 Was akin to some vast mid-most ocean, as thou to 
 the sea. 
 
 Now the stream bears me only, my love, for to love 
 
 you are lost ! 
 Draws me down to some bottomless deep which will 
 
 suck out my life ; 
 I, in doubting of thee, doubt of all, and my spirit is 
 
 tost 
 
 As a wave that is forming and breaking in im- 
 potent strife. 
 
 Lull, dull my sad senses, O river, that break'st on the 
 
 pier 
 
 With false whispers of peace, let me think never- 
 more, let me dream, 
 Only dream that love reigns over all and my lover is 
 
 near, 
 
 And so turn for a while of the river of fate the cold 
 stream. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 29 
 
 Let me dream in my madness some eye, that is other 
 
 than those 
 Of the pitiless stars, has an answer to give to my 
 
 own; 
 That some heart is awake, some one ear still alive to 
 
 my woes, 
 
 And that love in the breast of a girl lives not wholly 
 alone. 
 
 It is June ; there comes rest with the rose ; the earth's 
 
 crown has been won ; 
 If the hand of the Giver has taken back ought that 
 
 he gave, 
 He has filled up the void with some blossom more dear 
 
 to the sun ; 
 
 So we rock all oblivious of doom on the crest of the 
 wave. 
 
 Yes I see him before me, my river-god, see him afloat 
 Where he found me at first ; we are carried along 
 
 with the tide 
 To the bowers that await us ; his oars do but steady 
 
 the boat, 
 
 As enthroned on my cushions I queen it in indolent 
 pride. 
 
30 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 So we float with the stream till the hum of the city 
 
 grows faint, 
 And we float and we float till the banks of the river 
 
 are green, 
 When we glide, with the swans in our wake, where the 
 
 hanging woods paint 
 
 Cool shades on the smooth-flowing water and temper 
 its sheen. 
 
 And the king of the troop, with white wings and soft 
 
 feathers apart, 
 Overlooking the double of self which he everywhere 
 
 drew, 
 Was an image of pride, but more tenderly proud was 
 
 my heart 
 
 When I saw myself fair in those eyes with all heaven 
 in their blue. 
 
 No, none other can look as I looked there ; my image 
 
 was first 
 In the field of his vision there bides nor will ever 
 
 accord 
 The place to that pallid new comer that woman 
 
 accurst ! 
 
 Nay, river, I asked of thee poison not fire and 
 sword ! 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 31 
 
 Soft, whisper me, falsely, befool me again, let me 
 
 think 
 You are lapping the bows of the boat as your bosom 
 
 we cleave ; 
 One more look at my paradise lost ere I finally 
 
 sink 
 
 In the night of my sorrow O river, one moment's 
 reprieve. 
 
 I tremble, I fail, and I lose of the vision my hold ; 
 Come, clasp me, my love, hold me fast from this 
 
 horror of night ; 
 Make me warm on your heart, or I die in the darkness 
 
 and cold ; 
 
 Sun me through with your smile, ere I fade evermore 
 from the light. 
 
 We are floating again, we are floating, and sundered a 
 
 space 
 I can make up the sum of my wealth. Oh, my love, 
 
 you are fair 
 
 In the stately repose of the strength which makes per- 
 fect your grace, 
 
 With your broad shadowed brows, and the gold of 
 your youth on your hair. 
 
32 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 But tow fair and how stately soever, that day as we 
 
 glide 
 Up the stream with the swans, between banks that 
 
 are sweet with the rose, 
 I seem made for your mate, I am worthy to sit by 
 
 your side, 
 
 I am rich in the beauty that crowns and the grace 
 that bestows, 
 
 In all gifts of the Gods to the woman whereby she 
 
 makes blest 
 The desire of her soul ; I had gathered this truth 
 
 from your eyes, 
 Which the power of my presence to move you at 
 
 moments confest 
 
 In such flashes electric as trouble the midsummer 
 skies. 
 
 When I captured the floating swan-feathers and made 
 
 you a crown, 
 And you twined me a garland of roses which, when 
 
 it was done, 
 You bound me withal, while you trembled yourself 
 
 like the down, 
 
 And I turned from your gaze as a flower that is 
 slain of the sun. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 33 
 
 When I sat with my joy heavy-hearted, too richly 
 
 fulfilled 
 With the folded delight which the days yet to be 
 
 should disclose, 
 And it seemed that through all the enfolding a secret 
 
 distilled 
 
 As the deep central sweetness exhales from the 
 breast of the rose. 
 
 So we float and we float all alone, though the river is 
 
 blithe 
 With the laughter of children and voices of young 
 
 men and maids ; 
 And the woods are still vocal, the mower is there 
 
 with his scythe, 
 
 And the scent of the newly-mown hay all the 
 region pervades. 
 
 Might we float with the stream and the swans, might 
 
 we float evermore 
 In the flush of the rose-time, the youth and the 
 
 pride of our state, 
 We two and no other; not pausing or putting to 
 
 shore 
 
 Till we wearied, or death came to help us, to baffle 
 our fate. 
 
 D 
 
34 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Yet our bowers when we landed were welcome ; the 
 
 light filtered soft 
 
 Through the green leaves translucent; the speed- 
 well lay cool in the grass ; 
 
 The talk of the mowers came dulled from the neigh- 
 bouring croft, 
 
 And the steps on the towing-path near seemed dis- 
 creetly to pass. 
 
 And there went as the sound of a hush through the 
 
 midsummer air, 
 And a shadow would glance, and the tender boughs 
 
 let through a bird 
 That had come in the heat of the noon on his mate 
 
 unaware, 
 
 And the sensitive leaves at the stroke of their hearts 
 would be stirred. 
 
 Still no peal rang forth heavy and sweet with the 
 
 wealth of that hour, 
 When the spirit of Life seemed to consciously hold 
 
 in his breath, 
 Lest a sigh should imperil a leaf of the all-perfect 
 
 flower, 
 
 As if fulness of being had brought with it pre- 
 science of death. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 35 
 
 If the veiled one, whose presence can make sacra- 
 mental life's feast, 
 When its mood is the lightest, had taken me then 
 
 from your side ; 
 
 If the heart that was beating too high had but sud- 
 denly ceased, 
 
 I had lain at your feet as a lily cut off in its 
 pride; 
 
 I had died all undimmed by a doubt, in the sheen of 
 
 my youth, 
 I had dropped and been reaped as a flower in the 
 
 path of the wheat, 
 And gone crowned to my grave as a queen in the rose 
 
 of your truth, 
 
 And been mourned there awhile with salt tears 
 which the years would make sweet. 
 
 But to die as I die, overthrown, dispossessed and for- 
 lorn, 
 And be charged as I may be, a spectre unwelcome 
 
 to stand 
 Betwixt you and that other with whom you to-day 
 
 were forsworn, 
 
 Thus to die, my love, that once loved me, and 
 die by your hand 
 
 D 2 
 
36 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Is to perish past hope, and be drawn to some foul, 
 
 tangled deep, 
 With life's ends all unended and endless for ever to 
 
 dwell; 
 To lie cold amid forms of disorder that hinder from 
 
 sleep, 
 
 Or be hustled by chance through the wastes of some 
 latter-day hell ; 
 
 For I died by your hand in that letter ; it did not 
 
 require 
 Such urgence of proof that the blow was decreed 
 
 and must fall ; 
 Ten pages and written so fairly, and written with 
 
 fire! 
 
 Was that well when a word of your lips had sufficed 
 to it all? 
 
 1 had never contested your will, if your will was to 
 
 part, 
 Neither battled nor yielded with tears as a deer 
 
 brought to bay, 
 I had laid all my life in your hand, had made over 
 
 my heart ; 
 It was easy to win me more easy to cast me away . 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. . 37 
 
 And to score out a record so fair with a pen dipped in 
 
 flame, 
 When a look of your eyes that was strange or the 
 
 faintest cold breath 
 
 Would hare daunted the hope you had kindled, ex- 
 tinguished my claim, 
 
 Till the want at my heart should have dealt me 
 more merciful death ; 
 
 That was cruel but no, it was madness ; you could 
 
 not have known 
 How those charactered devils of fire would grave on 
 
 my brain 
 Through the nights that were endless, the nights when 
 
 they had me alone 
 
 Those ten pages effacing the vows we had whispered 
 in vain. 
 
 You are brave ; had you met me in face, love, the 
 
 stroke had been fair j 
 
 You would never have marred me or left me dis- 
 mantled and shorn ; 
 If not crowned with your truth, you had spread out 
 
 the wealth of my hair 
 
 For a winding sheet, knotted and woven, to hide 
 me from scorn. 
 
38 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Had you put out my life on that day, when its light 
 
 was at full, 
 And had set me to float to the sea with the turn of 
 
 the tide, 
 I had let it alone as you laid it my brain had been 
 
 cool, 
 
 With no letters of flame to make light of my woe, 
 or deride. 
 
 Then that month had been spared me which burnt up 
 
 the flowery June, 
 When I sat at my task, as if rooted, and drooped 
 
 and grew white, 
 As we toiled in the gaslight, which flared in the face 
 
 of the moon, 
 
 For the bread which should keep us still toiling for 
 others' delight. 
 
 I had sucked not so bare then of sweetness, while 
 
 there I sat bent, 
 All the hours of my last day of life, till they too 
 
 seemed to pale, 
 As a cup which the bees in their quest and requesting 
 
 have shent, 
 
 Till the best of its nectar grows vapid and threatens 
 to fail. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 39 
 
 And I then of that terror of silence had likewise been 
 
 quit 
 The silence that fell on my life before death was 
 
 decreed, 
 And the stillness had fallen thereafter, where most it 
 
 is fit : 
 
 When the life is gone out of you, peace is the 
 ultimate need. 
 
 But you let in upon me those devils, who would not 
 
 be made 
 To see that the dead must have rest ; and through 
 
 ages of time 
 They kept putting foul words in my mouth yes, they 
 
 were not afraid 
 
 They dared even to call you a coward, and brand 
 you with crime. 
 
 Yet I baffled them ! never a lie that they struggled to 
 
 teach 
 Found a passage from out of these lips, by an iron 
 
 will barred 
 Ay, forbidden to let in a crumb lest the stream of 
 
 their speech 
 
 Should find issue thereon in despite of my vigilant 
 guard. 
 
40 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 We are born to our names, and there are that are 
 
 sterner than Fate ; 
 We own not so much as are owned of them, body 
 
 and soul, 
 Hard creditors, tyrants, nay vampires which nothing 
 
 can sate 
 
 But the best of our blood, which in draining they 
 poison the whole. 
 
 Such a vampire had seized on you you, who were 
 
 brave to deny 
 The claim on your life of a name which in sloth had 
 
 grown old, 
 
 Till it came with an army of duties our love to defy, 
 And you yielded, disarmed love, where only the 
 base had been bold. 
 
 You were summoned to suffer, to strip your life bare, 
 
 so you said, 
 ' Of the hope that was dearest, for one who was only 
 
 less dear ; ' 
 If your part was to live for him, mine was to die in 
 
 his stead ; 
 
 In those pages of fire all the path for us both was 
 made clear. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 41 
 
 Yes, my life for the life of your father, who, sick, 
 
 would have died 
 At the fall of his fortunes, if lacking a son who 
 
 would wed 
 With the wealth which should build them again, only 
 
 setting aside 
 
 The claim of a girl who could urge it no more, being 
 dead. 
 
 Well, a life for a life ; if, when counting my treasure 
 
 for loss, 
 Yielding days that were priceless with love, I had 
 
 seen but the eyes 
 Of the Christ who once suffered for men, as was said 
 
 on the Cross, 
 
 And been lifted in heart and in hope to some high 
 paradise, 
 
 I had died not so hard ; they in asking my life to 
 
 redeem 
 The life of another, had made me partaker with 
 
 Him; 
 Now men sharing Christ's sorrow and death have no 
 
 part in his dream, 
 
 And his God is as lost to their love as the veiled 
 Cherubim. 
 
42 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Had a king only ruled over spirits, those demons of 
 
 flame 
 Who were able to rack and to rend me, to torture, 
 
 and grieve, 
 Would have quailed when I fell on my knees, when I 
 
 called on his name 
 
 But they tremble no longer ; the devils have ceased 
 to believe. 
 
 Has anyone tasted my sorrow and learnt to endure, 
 Bear the curse of a Fate that knows neither design 
 
 nor desert 1 
 But has anyone, tasting my sorrow, had proof of its 
 
 cure 
 
 Stood the test of the fiery furnace and come out 
 unhurt 2 
 
 No, the truest of hearts fare the worst they are 
 
 hardest to cheat ; 
 We are victims, not martyrs, we burn, and are 
 
 calcined to stone ; 
 We grow black in the reek, are made bitter where once 
 
 we were sweet ; 
 
 Would my soul remain fair, it must look to the 
 river alone 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 43 
 
 So the river yes, the river ; I have come to that at 
 
 last; 
 The river is my only friend, though changed with 
 
 all the rest, 
 Dark and sullen, it has known me in the glory of my 
 
 past 
 And has smiled upon me then ; for very shame it could 
 
 not cast 
 Me forth if I should seek the barren haven of its 
 
 breast. 
 
 Give me shelter, sullen river, hide me out of sight and 
 
 ken, 
 Keep your dreams, I have outdreamed them, all 
 
 your golden visions keep ; 
 Though with festering forms you hold me in some 
 
 scooped-out, slimy den, 
 In your loathliest recesses, keep me safe from eyes of 
 
 men, 
 And for all the joy I had of you but give me quiet 
 
44 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 No, that may not be awhile ; I know that I must pass 
 
 again 
 By the ways that I have come, that when the waters 
 
 enter in, 
 They will meet my lingering life and drive it backward 
 
 through the brain ; 
 I shall go to final peace as through a burning lake of 
 
 pain ; 
 Who can say but that the devils of that after-time 
 
 may win 1 
 
 Soft ! the river did not hear them has no knowledge 
 
 of my foes, 
 
 And it may be if it see no sign and hear no word of me, 
 It will pass and leave them sleeping, them and all their 
 
 train of woes, 
 And will only waken tenderly the pleasures that it 
 
 knows, 
 
 And so let me take farewell of love ere I have ceased 
 to be ! 
 
 But the pack of them that came again and found m 
 
 in the church, 
 
 And hunted me from place to place all day, yet never 
 caught, 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 45 
 
 Till I heard the river call, and fled, and left them in 
 
 the lurch, 
 And lay silent in the shadow, while they past me in 
 
 their search 
 No, I think the river never knew that it was me 
 
 they sought. 
 
 How they mocked me, how they scoffed at all, and 
 
 most of all at him, 
 As he knelt before the altar with that woman at his 
 
 side, 
 Dressed in cobwebs spun in cellars where the spinners' 
 
 eyes grow dim ; 
 How the devils in their triumph yelled aloud and 
 
 drowned the hymn, 
 When they lifted up the cobwebs and his mother 
 
 kissed the bride. 
 
 Hush, the river must not know that I had ever seen 
 
 her face, 
 Must not know she came and found me" when my 
 
 torturers had fled ; 
 Hah ! for me she had no kiss, but sat aloof in pride of 
 
 race, 
 
46 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Though I yearned to her his mother till she offered 
 
 me a place 
 
 In the service of the living, never noting I was 
 dead. 
 
 I had yearned to those cold eyes, because I saw his 
 
 eyes look through, 
 And, as out of frozen windows of a prison, gaze at 
 
 me; 
 Had they softened with a tear, I think, my tears had 
 
 fallen too, 
 And perhaps my heart in melting would have brought 
 
 my life anew, 
 But to put to cruel uses no ! forbear my tears, let 
 
 be! 
 
 It was she who kissed the bride, he dared not touch 
 
 her in my sight, 
 For he felt my ghostly presence and my shadow rise 
 
 between ; 
 But they past me by together, and she has him day 
 
 and night, 
 With my shadow growing less and less until it 
 
 dwindles quite, 
 Or is swallowed of her substance, and abides with 
 
 him unseen. 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 47 
 
 And she will be a growing power and potency, the 
 
 years 
 The treacherous years will take her part and ravish 
 
 him from me, 
 And she will make a title out of daily smiles and 
 
 tears, 
 And will pass to fuller blessedness through weakness 
 
 which endears, 
 And I shall be as one forbid before I cease to be. 
 
 thou blessed among women more than all of woman 
 
 born ! 
 Be my sister, be my comforter ; nay, wherefore cold 
 
 and proud 1 
 We are bound as in one web of Fate, the garland that 
 
 was worn 
 Of thee to-day, but yestereen from off my brows was 
 
 torn, 
 And that costly bridal robe of thine must serve me 
 
 for a shroud. 
 
 Be thou high of heart as happy, leave for me a little 
 
 space 
 
 In the silence of his thoughts, that while you pass 
 from change to change, 
 
48 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 I may, balmed with the dead, lie still with dead un- 
 changing face, 
 
 Making fragrant all his seasons be this granted me 
 
 for grace 
 
 With some magic of the morning that might else 
 for him grow strange. 
 
 O my love that loved me truly in the days not long 
 
 ago, 
 I am young to perish wholly, let not all of me be 
 
 lost; 
 Take me in, and never fear me nay, I would not work 
 
 you woe ; 
 Keep for her the cheerful daylight, keep for her the 
 
 firelight glow, 
 Let me wander in the twilight of your thoughts, a 
 
 harmless ghost. 
 
 Let me steal upon your dreams, and make your broken 
 
 life complete, 
 Take me in, no mortal maiden, but the spirit o 
 
 your youth ; 
 I have done with earthly longings, and their memory, 
 
 bitter sweet, 
 
FROM OUT OF THE NIGHT. 49 
 
 And would feed you with an essence you should only 
 
 taste, not eat, 
 
 And so keep your soul undying in its tenderness and 
 truth. 
 
 I may rise from out the shadow, there is none upon 
 
 my track ; 
 One might think the world was dead but for the 
 
 city's ceaseless moan ; 
 Not a foot of man or beast a-near, and for that demon 
 
 pack, 
 They have lost and left me utterly but, hist ! they 
 
 may come back 
 What is done between us, river, must be seen by 
 
 us alone. 
 
 You are watching for me, waiting ; let me be, my flesh 
 
 recoils ; 
 What are you that you should sentence me what 
 
 evil have I done 1 
 You have ever been my fate ; you have and hold me 
 
 in your toils ; 
 Yet, O life, I cannot live you, with your fevers and 
 
 turmoils \ 
 
 Come and take me, lest it find me at the rising of 
 the sun. 
 
 E 
 
50 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Let me look upon you, river soh, how deep and still 
 
 you are ! 
 You will hide me well, for you are dark and secret 
 
 as the night; 
 
 I can see your bosom heave in the reflection of a star, 
 And it does not show so hard in you, and does not 
 
 seem so far ; 
 
 As I drop into the darkness, I shall feel the kiss of 
 light. 
 
 Yet the world is all blurred as with tears ; I am look- 
 ing my last ; 
 
 I can still hear its moan, though the worst of its 
 sorrow is dumb ; 
 
 Farewell to the glimmer of lamps that grow pale in 
 the blast, 
 
 And the clock that will measure the time, when my 
 
 times shall be past ! 
 
 See, he opens his arms my River-God, clasp me, 
 I come ! 
 
51 
 
 THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 
 
 Founded on a tradition attached to the 'Prentice Pillar in 
 Koslyn Chapel. 
 
 A THANKFUL heart as heart of man could be 
 
 Had William, Earl of Roslyn, Lord St. Claire, 
 
 When having long been tossed by land and sea 
 
 And proved of wandering days the foul and fair, 
 He, breathing deep his Scotland's homely air, 
 Oft gave it back again in praise and prayer : 
 
 Praise for that cup of life he held fulfilled, 
 
 Prayer, seeing that so full, it could be spilled. 
 
 No princelier pair held sway beneath the throne 
 Than this same Earl of Iloslyn and his mate 
 
 The daily largess doled from royal Scone 
 
 Was poor to that which flowed from Iloslyn gate. 
 As man and earl this lord was threefold great, 
 Great heart he had, great stature, and estate ; 
 
 And Roslyn's lady, though of beauty rare, 
 
 Was called of men ' the good ' and not ' the fair.' 
 
 E2 
 
52 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And sweetly in the mellow eventide 
 
 From lordly cares and lordly state unbent, 
 
 These lovers on the terrace side by side 
 
 Were wont to hold discourse of their content ; 
 Or else, their married hearts more wholly blent, 
 Would pause from talk with smiling faces leant 
 
 Above the babe who took his fearless rest 
 
 In comfort of his mother's heaving breast. 
 
 And so it fell that once, the day being done, 
 Resting in freedom of the summer air, 
 
 They of the golden setting of the sun 
 
 And silvery voice of Esk, were hardly 'ware ; 
 Nor heeded, if they heard from their repair, 
 The quintaine strokes delivered to the share . 
 Of youthful pages, laughed at by the grooms, 
 
 Or babble of the ladies at their looms. 
 
 The sky was clear as any chrysolite, 
 
 And near the moon's keen edge looked down and 
 
 smiled 
 The evening star, that knows no goodlier sight 
 
 Than such a man and woman, and their child. 
 
 Let blaring heralds tell how he was styled, 
 
 As day wore on to night through evening mild, 
 He was her William, she his Margery, 
 With Oliver, their infant, on her knee. 
 
THE PILLAE OF PRAISE. 53 
 
 And on this eve that was so soft and fair 
 He spoke, as if to ease his joy's excess, 
 
 And said : * This life is sweet beyond compare, 
 
 With Christ, His law in place of Heathenesse, 
 With true heart's love for wandering loneliness, 
 With friends to cherish, and the poor to bless \ 
 
 The 'day is fair and full, too short the night 
 
 For sleep that falleth soft on loves' delight. 
 
 f My heart that for such wealth is all too straight 
 Must overflow ; and truly as a mere 
 
 Makes fat its borders, doth our high estate 
 Give fruit of our great joy to all a-near ; 
 But so joy changeth, passeth, as the year, 
 Till of the heaven it showed us nought appear ; 
 
 I would that blessing it might flow for ever 
 
 Renewed and still abiding, as a river ! 
 
 ' And this because I hold that joy which springs 
 From true life lived, and love thus truly loved, 
 
 Hath might that not belongs to mortal things 
 
 To lift the heart to God ; which hath been proved 
 Of languid souls that deeds of grace have moved, 
 And some reclaimed of love who once had roved. 
 
 So in this faith I fain would build, dear wife, 
 
 A monument to joy of love and life ; 
 
54 UNDER THE ASPEXS. 
 
 ' That when our mortal house so frail and fair 
 With windows of the sense which open wide 
 
 And let in various light and spices rare 
 
 All sweets which are of mother earth the pride 
 Hath fallen back to dust, and side by side 
 Our bones are laid, that men can say "they 
 died," 
 
 The thoughts which moved us may appear alive 
 
 As now in fourteen hundred forty-five.' 
 
 So spoke the Earl outpouring of his heart 
 The overplus, the which his gentle dame 
 
 Cherished as it had been the dearest part 
 
 Of hers ; as oft she pondered on the same, 
 Their blended thought, of life took form and frame, 
 And, as it saw the day, they gave it name, 
 
 And said : ' The joy too great for us alone, 
 
 Shall blossom to all after time in stone ; 
 
 ' We twain will build a house to God, and shrine 
 For Mother Mary ; first to God our King, 
 
 Who is our life, and then for her, in sign 
 
 That she for us hath travailed sorrowing, 
 And felt the burthen of that " holy thing " 
 That for our sore can sole salvation bring : 
 
 The love that feeds on sacrifice, and dies 
 
 That we, partaking too, may also rise.' 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 55 
 
 And hereupon these lovers who before 
 
 Had cheer so great between them, straightway drew 
 A draught of joy so deep, their lips ran o'er 
 
 In happy song, since nothing less would do; 
 
 The ladies at their looms rose up, and threw 
 
 Their shuttles by, and sung rejoicing too, 
 While squire and page, with one sad wounded knight. 
 Shouted incontinent for hearts' delight. 
 
 Then wheresoe'er this Earl had seen a thing, 
 In countries far or near, whose goodliness 
 
 Had wrought on fancy so that it would bring 
 It back to him unasked, he did address 
 Princes or burghers of that place, express 
 To send him craftsmen, skilful more or less 
 
 But fashioned all in habitudes of truth 
 
 Whereto such sights had lessoned them in youth 
 
 So came the Esk to sing its wayward song 
 
 To ears whose cradle-tune had been the beat 
 
 Of ocean waves, or river voices, strong 
 
 To bind the world with music as they greet 
 Strange lands with mother-tongue, or else the 
 
 sweet 
 Lisp of the blue mid-sea ; but though men meet 
 
 Here first from north and south to ply their art, 
 
 One only mind informs each several part. 
 
56 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 It is Earl William's love that warms the stone, 
 His joy that sings in it, his praise that seems 
 
 To mount the shafts like sap, and break full blown 
 From out their crowns ; his generous heart that 
 
 teems 
 
 With life which flowing forth in sunny streams 
 Wakes all who know to feel from sickly dreams J 
 
 Or thoughts fantastical, to understand, 
 
 Love, use the good that springs beneath the hand. 
 
 For this each fellow-creature of the field, 
 
 Pleasaunce, or garden, thistle, kale, or vine, 
 
 Each humblest life-companion, had to yield 
 Service of homely beauty, and combine 
 As best it might, to make complete the sign 
 Whereto this house was builded, and this shrine, 
 
 To wit : that in these happy morning days 
 
 Man's daily life seemed good enough for praise. 
 
 Before the leaves were sere the house was planned, 
 Before they fell to earth the grave was made 
 
 Wherein the lord and lady of the land 
 
 Beheld the stones deep-rooted and inlaid, 
 As seed whose bed we hollow by the spade 
 Or ere the bower can comfort us with shade ; 
 
 Then waited, longing for their sacred grove 
 
 To rise and stand forth vocal with their love. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 57 
 
 That day was one to live in thought alone 
 Whereon the lord and lady standing by 
 
 The Master-builder, saw him break the stone 
 First into leaf. A downward look and shy 
 That Builder had, some said an ' evil eye.' 
 But answering to his call, for ever nigh, 
 
 Bound by that crooked gaze, a Highland boy 
 
 Wrought, singing as the robin sings, for joy. 
 
 The soul of things is strong as is well shown : 
 The hyssop finds firm foot-hold in the wall 
 
 A seedling's heaving heart hath moved a stone, 
 Bare rock maintains the stately pines and tall 
 All life is other than the crumbs that fall 
 To feed it ; so this 'Prentice lad withal 
 
 Lived, laboured, flourished in the Builder's sight 
 
 As blithe as honey-bees in summer light. 
 
 The Countess Margaret early left her bed 
 
 One mid-September morn, and from her bower 
 
 Noting the gaze unwinking, and the head 
 
 Uplifted to the sun, of that proud flower 
 Which bears his name, she in that dewy hour 
 Called forth her train from turret and from tower, 
 
 And took her children and the sunflower too, 
 
 And forth the gate they went in order due. 
 
58 ' UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 The Earl was on a journey, and his dame 
 Must holy keep for both the holy day ; 
 
 And, for their house of God bore Matthew's name, 
 They went on Matthew's festival to pay 
 Him thanks with psalmody and garlands gay, 
 With songs of happy heart, and bright array ; 
 
 And when the wreaths were laid and service done, 
 
 They sparkled out again into the sun, 
 
 And made a goodly crescent as they stood 
 
 And gazed upon the roof now rising high, 
 
 And saw and said that all was fair and good, 
 Yet spoke in reverent undertones and shy, 
 For sight was none beneath that morning sky 
 Serenely fair as Countess Margery 
 
 "When the white signal of her jewelled hand 
 
 Summoned the Master-builder to command. 
 
 Her gown was all of baudekyn, the weft 
 
 Of golden and the woof of silken thread, 
 
 And sewn it was with pearls wherever cleft, 
 And diapered with roses white and red ; 
 The golden sun played with her hair outspread, 
 A golden chaplet bound her golden head, 
 
 And if in heraldry this triple use 
 
 Be counted false, here beauty made excuse. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 59 
 
 The air was soft as summer's breath might be ; 
 
 As for St. Agnes'-day the finches sung ; 
 The lady wore alone her coat-hardie, 
 
 Whereto her little three-years maiden clung ; 
 
 While high above the crisped head and young 
 
 Of Oliver the whilome baby, hung 
 The drooping sun-flower withering in the blaze 
 It might no longer meet with fearless gaze. 
 
 The Builder bent before that lady bright 
 His dark Italian face and crooked eyes, 
 
 As they were overborne of too much light, 
 
 Or to such height of splendour dared not rise, 
 And gathering up her words in humble wise 
 Seemed in the dust to lay his low replies : 
 
 * This flower I bring to grace St. Matthew's day ; 
 
 Let it be carved in stone for him I pray ' 
 
 Quoth Countess Margaret : ' Set it then on high 
 In midmost of the midmost buttress there, 
 
 Where it will burn for ever in the eye 
 Of day, and its undying love declare.' 
 On which the Master-builder turned to where 
 His workmen stood, and eagerly, or ere 
 
 His lips had stirred, a youth sprung forth alone, 
 
 Within his hands a chisel and a stone. 
 
60 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And kneeling down before them in that place 
 This lusty stripling laid about him so 
 
 That scarce you might discern his hands or face 
 For dust and splinters that at every blow 
 Went whirling round about him high and low, 
 Whereof one chip as if to work him woe 
 
 Flew up and struck the Master standing by, 
 
 And struck him in the sinister dark eye. 
 
 No blood was drawn, and little scathe was done ; 
 
 The 'Prentice all unwitting in his cloud 
 Of fiery motes that figured in the sun 
 
 Rung out his hammer music low or loud. 
 
 But when his work was finished, and the crowd 
 
 Of gentle faces all above it bowed 
 Looked up at him, that evil eye askance 
 Had seemed to pierce him like a poisoned lance. 
 
 One sudden gasp as he had met his death 
 
 The 'Prentice gave, and for a little space 
 
 The light was quenched for him, and stopped his 
 
 breath ; 
 
 But light and breath came back to him apace, 
 And, life and health new flushing in his face, 
 He saw his fault and prayed the Master's grace, 
 
 Then laid his carving at the lady's feet, 
 
 But at her bidding spared to make retreat. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 61 
 
 As mountain streams that flow through peaty sod 
 
 That Highland laddie's eyes were clear and brown, 
 And bright as chestnuts fresh from out the pod 
 
 His hair that stood on end like thistle-down 
 
 Or dandelion in its starry crown ; 
 
 And well set up, well clad and eke well grown 
 And full of life he was as birds that preen 
 Their new-come feathers on the April green. 
 
 The Countess was of what was done full fain, 
 
 And from the neck of happy Oliver 
 She with her white hand loosed the silver chain 
 
 And gave it with the silver Christofre 
 
 To him whose cunning had so pleasured her ; 
 
 Then asked his name, and hearing ' Christopher ' 
 She smiled withal, then turned in high content, 
 And so to Roslyn Castle home they went. 
 
 And never from this time that noble dame 
 
 Or any of her ladies came him near 
 But they would say ' Good den ' to him by name, 
 
 And ask him of his work or of his cheer ; 
 
 But sometimes though their words were sweet 
 and clear, 
 
 Like hourly chimes they fell beside his ear 
 Unnoted ; so his heart was hotly set 
 Upon the stone it was his work to fret. 
 
62 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And often as Earl William would bestow 
 A look upon those pinnacles on high 
 
 Crowning the buttress shafts, five of a row, 
 
 That 'Prentice Christopher he would descry, 
 Perched up aloft against the windy sky, 
 As small, and eke as fearless as a fly ; 
 
 Then laughing he would swear : ' By sword and fire 
 
 That 'Prentice lad had made a doughty squire ! ' 
 
 Old years brought in the new, and with each round 
 The bounteous earth Earl William found so fair, 
 
 And vowed to leave still fairer than he found, 
 
 Showed some new token of the love he bare, 
 Some gift to sight which poorer men might share ; 
 For this, O Earth, lie light on Lord St. Clair ! 
 
 And wiien his work was ended out of door, 
 
 Quoth he : ' Within we'll better do, and more.' 
 
 And richer than the rich he said must be 
 The Lady Chapel, as the heart of all ; 
 
 So bade the Master-builder, Nicoli, 
 
 To trace him out each feature great and small, 
 Each architrave, each niche within the wall, 
 Each cantilever, moulding, tooth, or ball, 
 
 And pausing oft to make his judgment good, 
 
 He had the doubtful detail carved in wood. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 63 
 
 And each tall arch which spanned that Chapel fair 
 Had buds upon it like a branch in spring, 
 
 And all about, beside it, everywhere, 
 
 The breaking waves of life kept gathering, 
 Till flowering fancies seemed to climb and cling 
 And stone to blossom like a growing thing ; 
 
 While all sweet benedictions from the dome 
 
 Dropped thick as virgin honey from the comb. 
 
 When of three mighty pillars that upbore 
 
 These blooming arches, twain in crowned pride 
 
 Were so complete that hand could do no more, 
 Earl William called the Master to his side ; 
 He praised his craft, and what it signified : 
 ' This basket-work, so interlaced and tied, 
 
 Means toil ingenious, all this fine pierie, 
 
 The riches of the land and of the sea. 
 
 ' And truly I of such would freely give; 
 
 But on this shaft that stands uncarven here, 
 
 The tribute must be other ; as I live 
 
 I hold that life is of all things most dear ; 
 A humble weed the outcast of the year 
 Is more than purest gem to God a-near ; 
 
 So carve me still the signs of some new birth 
 
 Fresh from the deep, rejoicing heart of earth.' 
 
64 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 The 'Prentice Christopher who wrought on high 
 In earshot of the Earl, now held his hand 
 
 And gathered in those words at ear and eye ; 
 So, leaning forward from his giddy stand 
 They seem to call on him with high command : 
 To fire his blood as with a burning brand ; 
 
 And this albeit they flowed in gentle stream 
 
 Bearing as if the fragments of a dream : 
 
 ' 'Twas somewhere in the land of Italy 
 
 That once meseems I saw a thing most fair, 
 
 Which now in twilight dim of memory 
 I try to steady where it floats in air : 
 A column wreathed about with garlands rare, 
 Which feigned to be in parts compact with care, 
 
 And held in thongs of ivy or of vine 
 
 Which made them more effectively combine. 
 
 ' Each several rib was planted in its place 
 
 As all we know of life has root in soil 
 Of humble earth, and carven round its base 
 
 Dark creeping things were made to writhe and 
 coil, 
 
 Foul dragons for the nobler will to foil ; 
 
 While sweetly, as the crown of knightly toil, 
 The capital broke forth in floral mirth 
 And laughed as at the triumph of the earth. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 65 
 
 ' And here where stands this formless block of stone, 
 I would that such a history were told ; 
 
 The story of a life, not mine alone, 
 A tale of human progress manifold ; 
 Of chosen bonds that keep our powers controlled, 
 Fast bonds which break in blessing where they 
 hold; 
 
 Go, seek that pillar, work this work of grace, 
 
 And I will make my Bethel of this place.' 
 
 So said the Earl ; and now that Nicoli 
 
 Is gone upon his bidding ; high and low 
 
 He searches all the land of Italy, 
 
 And paces all its cities to and fro, 
 Praying its people and its monks to show 
 Their shrines, or tell of others they may know ; 
 
 And still he peers about with gaze oblique 
 
 And nothing finds of what he came to seek. 
 
 But otherwise it fared with Christopher ; 
 
 For him Earl William's words were sparks of fire 
 Which lit up fragments whence he could infer 
 
 A perfect whole. That night o'er brake and briar 
 
 He chased the vision, coming ever nigher ; 
 
 He hunted it with passionate desire 
 To have it 'neath his shaping hand, his own, 
 And goodlier than in dream it had been shown. 
 
 * F 
 
66 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And from this time that 'Prentice lad could find 
 No mirth in laughter, and no woman fair ; 
 
 Nor bending bonnetless against the wind 
 
 Knew that the tooth of March made keen the 
 
 air; 
 
 But of the waking time of night grew 'ware, 
 And early song of birds upon the bare 
 
 Boughs of the thorn, all calling on his name 
 
 And telling of achievement crowned with fame. 
 
 And through the day, whatever work his hand 
 Was set to, still that pillar waxed more clear 
 
 To inward vision as he saw it stand 
 
 In stony patience waiting ever near, 
 In perfect beauty moving white and sheer 
 Upon his path-, a thing of joy and fear ; 
 
 So, overborne of it, when day grew dim 
 
 He tried to put the vision forth of him. 
 
 He drew it if to peace he might attain, 
 
 Transfixed it to the wall ; all night he wrought, 
 
 The moon attending him ; nor wrought in vain ; 
 
 The 'Prentice-hand which thus in twilight fought 
 Compelled the flashes of his feverish thought 
 To guide its motions, wavering and half-taught, 
 
 Till, paling with the moon, he knew that still 
 
 He held it fast, subservient to his will. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 67 
 
 And so he ' laid ' the spectral thought, and slept 
 Dreamless, to wake at inorn and find it there ; 
 
 But from his mind, the work of some adept 
 
 Unknown, the same pale column grown more fair- 
 Arose and stood beside it, everywhere 
 His eye might turn ; and voices filled the air : 
 
 ' Make fast in clay the thing you would possess 
 
 More wholly, and more utterly express * 
 
 Then who that wooed a princess in the dark 
 So secret was as Christopher, or blest. 
 
 Who, joyous and aspiring as a lark, 
 
 And silent as an owl on midnight quest, 
 Waked with the stars while meaner things had 
 
 rest, 
 And in the fervour of young love caressed 
 
 The fair idea that trembling to the birth 
 
 Thrilled to his touch from out th' encumbent earth. 
 
 The castle stood forsaken of the great ; 
 
 The better chance for Edinboro' town 
 Whereto the princely rout had gone in state, 
 
 Which eighty torches flaming pennons blown 
 
 Upon the winds of March had fitly shown ; 
 
 And ever Nicoli went up and down 
 Italian plains and cities, still pursuing 
 What Christopher had won with faithful wooing. 
 
 F2 
 
68 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 What, having won, he worshipped as he stood 
 Before it in the dawn, at noon, at night, 
 
 With praises that to him it had been good, 
 
 With thanks for what it yielded of delight ; 
 
 And seeing it so fair, unmeetly dight 
 
 In humble clay, he vowed he would requite 
 
 The favours that his lowly love had known, 
 
 And robe it for the Virgin's shrine in stone. 
 
 And, for his heart was eager and unspent, 
 
 He, waking, gave up all his nights to love, 
 
 And rising with the rising moon, he went 
 As silently by silent copse and grove, 
 And came unto the silent church, and hove 
 His slender body with his hands, and clove 
 
 A passage for it through the timbers closed 
 
 To guard the windows while the works reposed. 
 
 And as he woke the echoes of the place 
 
 And saw his pillar sheeted all in white, 
 
 A. bat, moon-blinded, struck him in the face, 
 
 And faintly shrieking, wheeled into the night. 
 Then he with sanction of the fair moon light 
 Was left alone to keep his heart's troth-plight ; 
 
 &nd, seeing that the wounds of love are sore, 
 
 That striking deeper, love still woundeth more, 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 69 
 
 He knelt as to a maid, with fluttering breath, 
 And felt an awful presence stir the air, 
 
 The soul of love that is at one with death ; 
 
 Till, urged by passion that will greatly dare, 
 He laid his 'Prentice-hand upon the fair 
 Unstoried smoothness of the column there, 
 
 And fell to breaking it in leaf and flower, 
 
 Fair forms the stone is bearing to this hour. 
 
 Then warily, at peep of day, he stole 
 
 Forth from the church, and, watchful eye and ear, 
 
 Met the lank fox returning to his hole, 
 
 And from the shivering grasses of the mere 
 Heard the night- wandering moor-hen's cry of fear, 
 And lurking in the mantling ivy near 
 
 His lowly door, escaped the noisy raid 
 
 Of out or home bound milkers, man and maid. 
 
 And mounting straightway to his loft, he crept 
 Noiseless to bed, where, far into the day, 
 
 Oblivious of his nightly toil, he slept. 
 
 But ere moist April melted into May, 
 When silent in the sun the village lay, 
 Its busy hands in far-off fields away, 
 
 He bold with custom took his -rest by night, 
 
 And wrought rejoicing in the full day-light. 
 
70 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Rejoicing, as the strong man in his strength ; 
 
 Rejoicing, as the happier birds that skim 
 The clouds, or as the hare that lays his length 
 
 Low to the ground his haunches spurn from him ; 
 
 Rejoicing as the lissome fish that swim 
 
 Or leap from out the stream in wilder whim ; 
 For of all things that knew the prick and stir 
 Of life, the most alive was Christopher. 
 
 So much alive at whiles, that he would deem 
 His glowing touches had the gift to bring 
 
 Forth motion answering to a call supreme, 
 
 When in his veins the passion of the spring 
 Poured out unmeasured on the stony thing 
 He seemed to feel it malleable, and cling, 
 
 Lend, yield itself to him as in a kiss, 
 
 Of utter love, and all-transfusing bliss. 
 
 Betwixt them, then, a miracle was done : 
 
 A simple truth, conceived in sheer delight, 
 
 Had shaped itself anew beneath the sun, 
 
 And he who shaped it knew that never quite 
 Henceforth his name would perish in the night 
 Of time, but live, a witness in the sight 
 
 Of men that once a man had felt the touch 
 
 Of beauty for his soul's peace overmuch. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 71 
 
 And wandering by the Esk at eventide 
 
 Its flattering voice grew voluble, and told 
 
 Of joys upon the way to him, untried, 
 
 Mysterious as the stars, and manifold ; 
 
 Of youthful hope, new-blown and over-bold, 
 
 And coming fame, no cold complaisance doled 
 
 From grudging lips, but a quick kindly spark 
 
 To show him to his brethren in the dark. 
 
 And when the flower was forming in the wheat, 
 
 When birds had ceased to chaunt their tender 
 pain, 
 
 The drowsy days so silent and replete 
 
 Still summoned Christopher to rest in vain ; 
 He touched his finished work and touched again, 
 For very love his hand could not refrain, 
 
 While ever in his heart some great or small 
 
 Love gift he found to dower it withal. 
 
 Till on a day O fair the summer sun 
 
 That lit the leafy crown and bands of vine 
 
 He looked on it and knew the goal was won ; 
 Full-plenished as the season, every line 
 Distinct and perfect in the broad sun-shine, 
 He saw the loveliness he must resign, 
 
 Fulfilled, o'erflowing with his ardent youth, 
 
 And clasping it he wept for joy and ruth. 
 
72 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 A cordial touch, a hand upon his hand, 
 
 And Christopher looks up to see the eyes 
 
 Of him who is the lord of all the land 
 
 Fast fixed upon his work in such a wise 
 As one who in a desert finds a prize 
 May look in dumb amaze, and feel it rise 
 
 In estimation till his joy breaks forth 
 
 In sudden proclamation of its worth. 
 
 So to the ear of Christopher there came, 
 
 Fresh as the opening anthem of the spring, 
 
 The sweet up-heaving of the breath of fame, 
 
 Which seemed to sweep the universe, and bring 
 A sound as from forgotten worlds, to ring 
 A moment ere it past, on some tense string 
 
 Of wakened memory, then go before 
 
 To wreck its music on some unknown shore. 
 
 But ere it past, it swept aside the veil 
 
 Which winds all human hearts as in a shroud, 
 
 And from these twain broke forth the rare 'All hail ! ' 
 Of human brotherhood, the unavowed 
 Desire of every soul of man, how proud 
 Soever, cold, or heedless of the crowd, 
 
 ' For,' said the Earl, ' your heart my heart bespeaketh, 
 
 Telleth the good it knows, and that it seeketh ; 
 
[THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 73 
 
 ' Showeth how light from soul to soul is caught, 
 My soul the torch to that fair lamp of thine, 
 
 Which flourishing upon my flickering thought, 
 And finding of its hint the countersign, 
 We know not what of this is yours, what mine, 
 But know some vital part of both will shine 
 
 Together through the years, and save from scorn 
 
 Of life perchance less affluent souls unborn. 
 'f 
 
 1 For we who glory in our life to-day 
 
 Are haply children of a world still young ; 
 Not long our native thought hath found a way 
 
 Of rhythmic utterance in our native tongue ; 
 
 The life we live is that our Chaucer sung ; 
 
 To moodier music may all harps be strung, 
 Hereafter, when the old earth's sinking fire 
 Moves fainter hearts of men to faint desire ; 
 
 1 Then may two souls that thus can love and praise, 
 As jewels with the stored-up light replete 
 
 Of younger suns, flash back on elder days 
 
 From out this " pillar of a stone," and greet 
 Some who may languish still, with hearts that beat 
 Too swift a measure for an age effete, 
 
 And help to keener vision, stronger hold 
 
 On life, those younglings of a world too old. 
 
74 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 ' I see that of such words of life as trees, 
 
 And humbler herbs of garden, hill, or heath, 
 
 Our dearest as our dayliest you seize 
 
 For signs of the unspeakable beneath ; 
 
 I find my yew-bough blown as by the breath 
 
 Of morning from our Pentlands, in this wreath ,- 
 
 My yew whose long-enduring soul will last 
 
 To bind the coming seasons with the past. 
 
 ' So have you taken of our common speech 
 
 And made it rare again ; your keener light 
 
 Of poet- vision hath sufficed to reach 
 
 Its hidden heart, whose scriptures you indite 
 
 Anew for denser hearing, feebler sight, 
 
 Both dulled by custom ; may my heart requite 
 
 Your heart for that it hath so nobly done : 
 
 The work wherein our souls must live as one.' 
 
 Then 'Prentice Christopher is left alone, 
 Alone with present joy and joy to be, 
 
 Bidden to wait his lord who now is gone 
 
 To bring the Countess and her train to see 
 His wonder-work, he wondering if a fee 
 More sweet than new-found immortality 
 
 May fall to him from fair eyes skilled to read 
 
 In power of high achievement, deeper need ; 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 75 
 
 If haply to the hollow of his heart, 
 
 Aching in silence of the toil foregone, 
 
 A presence more prevailing than of art 
 
 Should enter in and mount the vacant throne, 
 
 Thrilling the void with tumult all its own 
 
 Till grief should swoon for sweetness of its moan, 
 
 Fate weave a garment for his proud despair 
 
 Too knightly for a villain hope to wear. 
 
 If haply from the far-off milky way 
 
 Of noble maidens tending on his queen 
 
 One brightest star should shoot on him a ray, 
 
 Crown him as man and maker in her sheen, 
 He so uplift of art's high toil and teen, 
 That no sweet condescendence could demean 
 
 The gentle soul which shining in its place 
 
 Should find, reach, touch him once in scorn of space 
 
 A moving shadow creeping black and fell, 
 And lo ! the Master-builder at his side ; 
 
 Pale cheek and lip with the white hate of hell, 
 One shrunken eye fixed, feigning to deride 
 The work whose mastery his own defied, 
 The other on the youth whose wealth supplied 
 
 His want, who had achieved this living whole, 
 
 While up and down in thievish search he stole. 
 
76 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Dear God ! that shadow quenched so the light, 
 
 The 'Prentice looked upon his work dismayed ; 
 
 On leaf and flower had come a sickening blight, 
 He saw each fault accused, each beauty fade, 
 He saw his thought, his fair idea betrayed 
 To common shame. ' Can love so far degrade 
 
 The well-beloved ? ' He said no more aloud, 
 
 But trembling at the pillar's foot he bowed 
 
 One soul-sick moment ; then within the stone 
 There seemed to vibrate sweetly, tenderly, 
 
 An answering voice : ' The love, not thine alone, 
 But that which dwelleth in all things which be, 
 Sufiereth no shame young Christopher of thee, 
 Thus adding to the signs whereby men see 
 
 For ever, that no force within, above, 
 
 Below, can call to life, but only Love.' 
 
 A swift keen stroke, a messenger of peace, 
 
 To still the beating heart and throbbing head ; 
 
 Blind envy serves the order of release 
 
 Ere yet a leaf of life's young rose is shed. 
 
 His first work finished, and his last word said, 
 
 Healed of all sickness, Christopher falls dead, 
 
 Pierced through the back by that yet deedless hand 
 
 That now for ever with his blood is* banned. 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 77 
 
 Dead in the summer time, dead ere the noon, 
 Dead with the cup of life full, at his lip, 
 
 Dead, as the weeping ladies moaned, too soon, 
 Dead ere the critic's scorn had time to nip 
 His venturous off-shoots, while he felt the grip 
 Warm on his hand of true heart-fellowship, 
 
 Dead early, late to live in tender ruth 
 
 A fair fame shadowless, embalmed in youth. 
 
 Base hand whose cunning but avails to deal 
 
 Forth death; hard hand that hath the skill to 
 break 
 
 But not to build ; that hast the art to steal 
 Yet never may possess what it may take ; 
 Hand that can mar what only God can make, 
 Deadly, but dropping life-blood on your wake, 
 
 Go, leave your work half done, its final term 
 
 And triumph can be reached but by the worm. 
 
 Still as the noon-day, as the noon-day fair, 
 
 Pale as the stone whereto his soul was wed, 
 
 The living light at play within his hair, 
 
 His eyes wide open, to its glories dead ; 
 With carven face uplifted from a bed 
 Of costlier dye than Tyrean, the red 
 
 Stream of his ebbing blood, thus Christopher 
 
 Waited the coming train, the joyous stir 
 
78 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Of life, the advent at the open door 
 
 Of that gay throng betwixt whose lips the sweet 
 
 Warm breath of praise was gathering, to pour 
 Forth thriftless in a storm of cries, and beat 
 Vainly each empty cave and vacant seat 
 Of sense which from its haunts had made retreat 
 
 Leaving all dumb to question as some lone 
 
 Shore to the waves' unanswerable moan. 
 
 Rain, rain on him those quick tempestuous tears, 
 Proud damozel, kneel, crown him with a kiss ; 
 
 Death at a stroke wins that which life-long years 
 
 Had craved in vain; he would have died for this. 
 
 O heart of man ! Is it not well to miss 
 
 The waking time that waits all dreams of bliss, 
 
 ;^ or . S een the harsh conditions of the strife 
 
 Play to the end the losing game of life ? 
 
 Were it not well if April souls could fling 
 A husk away for growth too obdurate, 
 
 For joy too dull, and in eternal spring 
 
 Unfold new life for ever state on state, 
 Mounting in swift ascent to morning's gate 
 Unknowing of that curse of time : ' Too late ? ' 
 
 If any grace like this be held in fee, 
 
 Such grace is owned, young Christopher, of thee ! 
 
THE PILLAR OF PRAISE. 79 
 
 No eye had seen the Builder come or go ; 
 His secret lay betwixt him .and the sun, 
 
 Where never seed of life for him would grow 
 For shadow of it ; all his work begun 
 Rotted and fell to dust again undone, 
 Whilst among men he crept as he were none ; 
 
 Most strange and most aloof from those most near, 
 
 But hated with the adder-hate of fear. 
 
 So came Earl William's work of praise to cease ; 
 
 Its cost had been too great in blood and tears ; 
 And though the seasons brought their fair increase, 
 
 Though married love struck deeper root- with 
 years, 
 
 And stronger for that doom of love which seres 
 
 His blossoms ere his seeded fruit appears, 
 He drew his life within in later days 
 As outworn singers chaunt their virelays. 
 
 That house of God which was to music built 
 Of hearts in full accord, so, dedicate 
 
 To love, was shaken by that deed of guilt, 
 Torn by the blast of that discordant hate ; 
 But music still prevailed, when in the late 
 Evening of life, the Founder and his mate 
 
 Were here inearthed, and Oliver their son 
 
 Finished for love what love had left undone. 
 
80 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 A LOST EDEN. 
 
 [AS IT WAS TOLD TO ME.] 
 
 You, dear, have heard me vaunt a memory 
 The which by trodden paths will carry me 
 Back into Eden, and you bid me tell 
 How from its first blind innocence I fell ; 
 Give me your hand if now you care to see 
 That twilight world whereof I keep the key, 
 With leave to loiter where I may not dwell ; 
 Lend me your ear if by my ministry 
 You would of Eden once more hear the old 
 Sad tale retold. 
 
 A cottage garden in the summer time, 
 The summer one fair moment past its prime 
 Fragrance of apples ripening to the core 
 Or dropped untimely in the crinkling kale, 
 The rarer fragrance of the rose no more, 
 The song of birds beginning just to fail ; 
 The bees at work to hive their winter store, 
 
A LOST EDEN. 81 
 
 With deep behind the lated notes, and hum 
 
 Of whirring wings, a sense of sleep to come ; 
 A whisper in the air of something strange 
 The foretaste of an underlying change ; 
 
 As if the year, surcharged with its content, 
 
 Just overflowed the brim incontinent. 
 
 Xo homelier field for joy my native heart 
 Can image forth than this my English heart 
 
 That grows more loyal with the lessening days ; 
 No classic Vale of Tempe", where the part 
 Of nature hardly holds her own with art, 
 So takes its phantasy and tunes to praise. 
 And if among the sounds and silences, 
 The robin's song full-grown 
 Shaking his breast new blown, 
 The folded rapture of the diving bees, 
 The pauses in the kissings of the trees, 
 The intermitting sigh 
 Drawn in the wood near by, 
 Of island air which, burthened by the sea, 
 Holds, folds us to its heart so utterly 
 
 That, wandering lightlier in a sunnier land, 
 We miss the clasp as of a tender hand 
 If over, under all is heard the ring 
 Of children's voices that recall the spring 
 G 
 
82 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 The sound of pattering feet in careless play 
 
 Trampling on fair decay, 
 
 Helping the season's unregarded woes, 
 Faint lily and fallen rose, 
 Their pallid, still unburied shames to hide 
 I think that then among the haunts of pride 
 
 'Twere hard to find a spot so sweet as this, 
 
 So rare a nook as such a garden is, 
 For taking rest, and drawing quiet breath, 
 So meet a halting-place 'twixt life and death. 
 
 A garden once, and for one moment seen, 
 Lives yet within my memory ever green ; 
 A lake of Time, whose broken waves are years 
 
 Long vanished, parts that moment from this hour, 
 But in that moment, fed by plenteous tears, 
 
 A seed grew quick, and threw a fatal flower 
 Which spread a flag as of devouring strife 
 And ultimate defeat o'er all of life : 
 
 Wherefor that once-seen garden grew to be 
 
 One with my thought, and very part of me. 
 
 It was as now, the matron summer-time, 
 The season paler than in early prime ; 
 But oh, the apples seething on those trees 
 Were laughing fruits of the Hesperides f 
 
A LOST EDEN. 83 
 
 And as they globed themselves against the sky, 
 The laden boughs they bent were yet too high 
 For hope of one who stood too near the earth, 
 The child but five years severed from her birth, 
 Who plucking from the ground with eager haste 
 The fairest of the windfalls dropped beneath 
 The boughs, which to her eyes 
 Were boughs of paradise, 
 
 Tapped their dull juices with her sharp milk teeth, 
 And finding nothing sweet enough to taste, 
 Let each one from her hands in wanton waste ; 
 Alack, that childish sybarite was I. 
 
 Yes, it was I, and looking o'er that sea 
 
 Which parts the moment and the child from me, 
 
 Here as I stand and watch the shortening days 
 
 Melt from my gaze, 
 
 Now as the fair time glides from out my hands 
 
 Like sun-dried sands, 
 
 Through all the loss of years and all their gain 
 Life links me still in one unbroken chain 
 Of being with that five years' sybarite, 
 
 Seeking among the windfalls as they lay 
 Beneath the beckoning boughs, that from their height 
 Mocked her with unattainable delight, 
 
 G 2 
 
84 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Some fallen good not spotted overmuch, 
 Some apple tempting to the taste and touch, 
 And finding all unripeness or decay, 
 Casting them from impatient hands away. 
 Yes, looking now as from a far-off shore 
 Worn by the waves of years that are no more, 
 Launching my thought upon a widening sea, 
 That baffled seeker turns and looks with me : 
 I feel that child is I know I am she. 
 
 In those young years 
 
 I had, in childish wont, within my breast, 
 Beating with many fears, 
 
 A heart and for it such a home of rest, 
 So safe and sweet a place for hiding tears, 
 That grief forgot itself, and fear was drowsed, 
 In such a tender home securely housed. 
 I have found comfort since for many a grief, 
 And hiding places for the sweet relief 
 Of tears, and have appeased a singer's zest 
 Of life and joy in no unfruitful quest ; 
 Strong arms still hold me to a heart as true 
 Whereof love's fountain springs for ever new ; 
 And yet the wide world through 
 For me there can be never found again 
 A fortress so impregnable to pain 
 
A LOST EDEN. 85 
 
 So sovereign a seat, 
 
 So sweet, and soft, and balmy a retreat 
 
 Against all harms, 
 
 All influence malign and vague alarms, 
 Mother, as that which, when a child I knew, 
 Rapt, shielded from the alien world by you. 
 
 For me you were immortal in those days, 
 Too high for question, and too good for praise ; 
 I think, indeed, a being uncreate, 
 Beyond the touch of time or reach of fate. 
 I in the congregation at your side 
 Have sate at church, with stolen looks of pride 
 Wandering about you, travelling from your face 
 Along some 'broidered frill or end of lace, 
 And lo ! the thing became immortal too, 
 And lives within me still as part of you ! 
 Then scrutinising other mothers there, 
 I pitied other children that they were 
 Unlike to you ; but all in furtive wise, 
 Fearing to vex those poorer children's eyes, 
 If following mine they lighted on my prize, 
 And seeing wealth they were not meant to share, 
 Of loss and want would suddenly be 'ware. 
 
86 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 It was a morning world wherein I stood 
 With empty hands before the laden tree 
 Midmost that garden ever green for me. 
 A morning world, and this a morning hour, 
 When all had turned to fruit that was not flower, 
 Where every face was young, and most were fair, 
 Untouched by time, and lightly touched by care : 
 Parents and nurses, and the sweet remainder 
 Of fledglings in the nest with me, all tender 
 And soft ; with honied breath, and the clear rose 
 Of morning's kiss upon the Alpine snows 
 Flushing their cheeks, and in their wide blue eyes 
 As in my own, a serious surprise 
 At all the pranks the big grown world was playing- 
 New mummeries for evermore essaying ; 
 Now suited in a livery most discreet 
 All stuck with flowers to make it gay and sweet, 
 Then lying naked on the glistering strand 
 With cowrie- shells that dimpled the sea sand; 
 Or hiding ghostlike 'neath a snowy sheet ; 
 
 Or like some elder, kinder far than wise, 
 Who thinks to cheat 
 Our livelier sense with solemn counterfeit, 
 
 Feigning to rain down comfits from the skies ! 
 
A LOST EDEN. 87 
 
 Ah, for a little moment might I stand 
 
 In that enchanted world with that lost band, 
 
 Fulfilled with love that was at peace with pride, 
 
 Soul-satisfied, 
 
 And find the darkness melt, the night grow clear, 
 
 If only I might hear 
 
 One voice and feel the touch of one soft hand ! 
 But since that may not be, and I must grope 
 
 Among the ruins and the overthrow 
 
 Of all that was so fair and seemed so fast 
 In that removed but unforgotten past, 
 Still, love, who holdest hands with faith and hope, 
 
 I hold by thee and will not let thee go ; 
 For see, I am, and shall be to the last 
 A child of charity, 
 
 Clasping her skirts and clinging to her knee, 
 Trusting that she with her free hand will reach 
 
 One day and put in mine 
 
 A fruit divine 
 
 That shall inform my soul beyond all speech. 
 And waiting to be fed and taught of thee, 
 I, love, in happy dream have seemed to see 
 That not the twilight world, the paradise 
 That stands revealed to little children's eyes 
 So surely is enchanted as the maze 
 Wherein we lose ourselves in latter days, 
 
88 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And that, when thou hast found and led us through, 
 
 love, the vision that will meet our view, 
 Will break with something dearer than surprise 
 On those who recognise 
 
 In that lost world the symbol of the true 
 The old as something dearer than the new. 
 
 But I must forth, I may no longer stay, 
 Must take my burthen up and go my way. 
 Well, as I stood so low and looked so high 
 At fair freaked apples painted on the sky, 
 
 1 felt that in the open palm of me 
 Fruit of that tree, 
 
 Plucked from some ripest bough, 
 
 I knew not how, 
 
 Was laid ; a perfect apple, sound and sweet, 
 
 Whereof I made essay, 
 
 But ere the teeth which pierced the rind could meet, 
 A vision came between me and the light 
 And set upon all things the mortal blight 
 
 Which never since has left them night or day. 
 
 It was a vision not of sin, but sorrow, 
 
 Which darkened all that morn and every morrow 
 
 For that child sybarite, 
 
 Gifted too young to read the weird aright. 
 
A LOST EDEN. 89 
 
 No snake with cunning wile, 
 
 With subtle strength and beauty to beguile, 
 Had put within her grasp the longed-for prize, 
 The fruit whereof in tasting she grew wise 
 
 And sad for evermore ; 
 
 Only a worn, uncomely face of eld 
 
 By those young eyes too suddenly beheld, 
 And keenly if not all unlovingly, 
 
 Only the broken voice, the toothless smile 
 
 Of her who was the owner of the tree, 
 
 Bending to offer hospitality, 
 Had shown the child the door 
 
 Of that first paradise, wherefrom expelled, 
 Nothing that had its root upon this shore 
 Of time, could be as it had been before. 
 
 That night the child, awake upon her bed, 
 Lay shaken, struggling with a nameless dread. 
 The spectre that had hailed her forth alone 
 From that green garden, to a world unknown, 
 
 The shape of horror she divined beneath 
 Those faded rags and tatters of decay, 
 Grim tokens that had frightened joy away, 
 
 The child had seen, I know not how, was Death. 
 
 Alas ! the spectre seemed to pass her by, 
 To strike her to the heart and let her lie 
 
90 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 In deadly pangs undying, while it sped 
 
 Unheard, with doomful tread, 
 
 To fling its shadow on a life more dear. 
 
 Then rose upon the night a cry of fear 
 
 Sharp as the brooding bird's that sees draw near 
 
 The terror of its kind a hopeless cry, 
 
 Which woke it and the twain who slept a-nigh j 
 
 The child from whom the spectre frightened sleep 
 As it had frightened joy, in this dark hour 
 
 Content upon a hireling heart to weep. 
 
 The mother, deemed omniscient heretofore, 
 Appeared forlorn of help for evermore ; 
 Clothed with immortal deamess, but no power 
 To awe that shadow beckoning to the grave 
 With heart to suffer but no hand to save ; 
 And thus that rath rebellious soul was hurled, 
 Thrust out from Eden on the dying world. 
 
 You think that fresh from happy fields above 
 
 I should have known and been upheld by love. 
 
 Not so ; I saw a tyrannous cold Fate 
 
 Whose might no tears could move, no force abate ; 
 
 And finding God's vicegerent dispossest, 
 
 That loved-one sent adrift with all the rest, 
 
 I hated the inexorable will 
 
 Which made hers nil. 
 
A LOST EDEN. 91 
 
 Poor vagrant heart, whose hunger quelled the tide 
 Of tears, and forced the choking sobs aside, 
 When from imploring lips the question burst, 
 And of the blind you craved for guidance first. 
 Faint heart to-day as then unsatisfied, 
 Frail thought which flutters still with no sure guide, 
 How often some dull watchman of the night, 
 
 With bootless question have you sought to press, 
 Praying for hint or hope of morning light, 
 
 Well knowing night and darkness measureless. 
 
 One thought possessed me, but I could not give 
 The cruel revelation shape and live : 
 
 The mother dear beyond all thought must die ; 
 Love could not hold his own, 
 
 Or summon help with his despairing cry, 
 But bleeding, overthrown, 
 
 Must under foot of Death for ever lie 
 And make his moan. 
 
 Withal I would not speak the word, give breath 
 In sign of my allegiance unto Death ; 
 
 I was and am a rebel to his reign ; 
 I would not own 
 The tyrant, though I saw him on his throne, 
 
 Foresaw my mutinous refusal vain, 
 And knew the cold clasp of the drowsy nurse 
 No shelter from his curse. 
 
92 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 I would not let him forth, I barred the way. 
 
 Shut him within my heart as in a grave, 
 And only wailed a question of decay. 
 Her hair, would that too fade, must that go grey ? 
 
 Was there no power in earth or heaven to save 1 
 The hireling heart I pressed, in cruel play 
 Bandied my words, and through the void world ' grey ' 
 Went forth in dismal echo ; that rude breath 
 Tearing the silence from the face of Death. 
 
 Then grief grew wholly inarticulate, 
 
 And only kept the night awake with cries ; 
 
 Whereat the other hireling joined her mate, 
 
 And both looked on awhile with wondering eyes 
 
 Impatient of their interrupted sleep ; 
 
 Until my passion seeming to abate 
 
 And spend its failing strength in tears and sighs, 
 
 I saw the hireling, barefoot women creep 
 
 Back to their rest, and leave me there to weep. 
 
 Where long I lay, and ofttimes cried in vain 
 
 To feel the beat of living heart again ; 
 
 Till sleep, that gentlest nurse, of me took heed, 
 
 And hid me from the terrors of the night ; 
 Sleep, ever slow to answer to my need 
 
A LOST EDEN. 93 
 
 Or hear my call, what wandering love then sent 
 Comfort of thee for my abandonment 
 Compelling from thee in thine own despite 
 Reluctant service till the morning light ? 
 
 A new sun rose, and lit another day ; 
 
 The child awoke, but not in paradise ; 
 She saw in some strange, dark, and wordless way 
 
 Each soul built up in penitential wise, 
 A loijesome prisoner in a house of clay, 
 
 Severed from help of every other soul, 
 And day as night seemed dreadful in her eyes. 
 
 O love that liveth, love that maketh whole, 
 Rise, thou, within our hearts that we may rise ; 
 
 But if no spark 
 
 Of thee for many days may cleave the dark, 
 Give us to look upon the naked skies 
 That lie beyond our reeking blasphemies, 
 And on the wastes of night 
 To see the stars thick-sown as seeds of light, 
 And from the circling heavens infer the One 
 Sole Sun 
 
 Whose centre burns within each point of space 
 Here, and in what to us, as slaves of place 
 Spirits of nether air 
 Must yet seem otherwhere. 
 
94 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And further, love, I charge thee, I who stand 
 
 A lonely voice upon a stormy strand, 
 
 Hustled by those who crowd the wreck- strewn shore, 
 
 And only heard of thee above the roar, 
 
 Forbid, great love, forbid that hearts of stone 
 
 Should deal with hearts of flesh as by their own ! 
 
 Then through the morning silence of the house 
 
 The little feet, moved by a new unrest, 
 Went wandering, but ever one closed door 
 The vagrant childish step grew slack before, 
 Reluctant, yet half hoping to arouse 
 
 The mortal mother still by dreams possessed. 
 
 The mists of morning hang on childish thought ; 
 
 I held no lucid image of the past, 
 
 I only felt ihe day was overcast, 
 Till from a shelf on high the apple caught 
 
 My listless gaze ; there glowing, still intact, 
 Save for the delving teeth which had inwraught 
 Their signature upon the tender rind, 
 
 When, seized by that new terror in the act, 
 The sweet temptation I thenceforth resigned, 
 That fatal fruit, stamped by those crescets twain, 
 Revived the meaning of the heart's dull pain. 
 
 Then went the little wandering feet once more 
 And paused again beside the still closed door, 
 
A LOST EDEN, 95 
 
 A moment paused and listened, then, unbid, 
 The bar which cut her heart in twain undid. 
 
 Before a table, by a mirror tall 
 
 Cleft in the midst, a slender shape and small 
 
 (Though of the Gods her stature seemed to me !) 
 With golden-crested waves on waves of hair, 
 Which, falling from her, overflowed the chair 
 And hid her from my sight in silken pall, 
 
 There sate in smiling, sweet serenity 
 The mother who must die, heart of mine ! 
 
 The mother who has died so many years 
 Agone, that almost thou art grown supine, 
 
 And, long bereft, art now forlorn of tears. 
 
 The picture of a woman young and fair 
 
 Gleamed in the mirror, but I saw not that ; 
 
 Meseems I held the finest silken hair 
 That had its root in her, worth gazing at 
 More than her surface image, cold and flat ; 
 For, pressing to her knees, I watched, large-eyed, 
 
 The while she combed and shook out strand by strand, 
 Smiled at and spread abroad in careless pride 
 The fading glory ; then I made my nest 
 Within it, to her side more closely prest, 
 
 And thence, with gentle touch on one smooth band, 
 
 I laid the blessing of a child's soft hand. 
 
96 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 My heart that in its day, I think, had beat 
 A timely cradle- tune, has never known 
 
 The claim which tender pity makes so sweet, 
 When all the wants and weaknesses in one 
 
 Wake it, and keep it waking with the cry 
 
 Which parts the speechless lips of infancy. 
 My part in love has been to take his fee, 
 He came full-handed, and so bides with me ; 
 
 And yet I know that mute, without a word 
 
 Wherewith to give it shape in secret thought, 
 
 A love that was a mother's in me stirred 
 That morning as I stood beside her chair, 
 Stroking with tender touch my mother's hair, 
 
 Striving with thoughts I had no wit to tell, 
 
 Stilling the cry of grief incurable, 
 
 Because I feared for her, serene and fair, 
 
 To wake the dormant woe I knew too well 
 Had home within her heart as everywhere. 
 
 Yea verily, unto the five-years' child, 
 
 After the midnight anguish, came the first 
 
 Throb of that vital love, that undefiled, 
 
 Which lights, or leads us darkly through the worst 
 Beguilements of a wilderness accurst ; 
 
 Not that which sucks at life and still cries ' Give ! ' 
 
 But love whereby the worlds and all things live : 
 
A LOST EDEN. 97 
 
 That which our being feels alone to be : 
 My mother's love that was alive in me 
 
 Drew me that day a step towards the sun 
 
 Wherein our lonely lives arise as one. 
 
 So was I lifted from my first despair 
 Out of the fleeting shadow of her hair, 
 
 And from a passing glimpse of love's own peace 
 Given to know that it has power to bless 
 All sorrows, and to flood the wilderness. 
 
 God give our fainting hearts its sweet increase 
 
98 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 THE FIGHT AT RORKE'S DRIFT. 
 
 January 23rd, 1879. 
 
 IT was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done, 
 And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at 
 
 the sun ; 
 Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with 
 
 blood the story 
 Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted 
 
 e'en of glory. 
 
 Steuart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before 
 
 he died ; 
 But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to 
 
 ride 
 
 A race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo, 
 To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the 
 
 foe. 
 
THE FIGHT AT RORKE's DRIFT. 99 
 
 That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile 
 
 land 
 Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to 
 
 command ; 
 An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely 
 
 won, 
 But in it all that men could do those British lads had 
 
 done. 
 
 And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky 
 
 host, 
 They found our gallant English boys' ' pale faces ' at 
 
 their post ; 
 
 But paler faces were behind, within the barricade 
 The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers 
 
 aid. 
 
 Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, 
 
 it bore 
 Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast 
 
 as the shore ; 
 Behind the slender barricade, half hidden, on their 
 
 knees, 
 They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the 
 
 orchard-trees. 
 
 *H2 
 
100 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek 
 
 of war ; 
 The dusky ranks were thinned ; the chieftain, slain by 
 
 young Dunbar, 
 Rolled headlong, and their phalanx broke, but formed 
 
 as soon as broke, 
 And with a yell the Furies that avenge man's blood 
 
 awoke. 
 
 The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by 
 
 the tide, 
 Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the 
 
 bleak hill-side ; 
 
 It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its base, 
 Closed house and barricade within its murderous 
 
 embrace. 
 
 With savage faces girt, the lads' frail fortress seemed 
 
 to be 
 An island all abloom within a black and howling 
 
 sea; 
 And only that the savages shot wide, and held the 
 
 noise 
 As deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the 
 
 boys. 
 
THE FIGHT AT RORKE's DRIFT. 101 
 
 Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept 
 
 about 
 The bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with a 
 
 shout, 
 To step, as in a war-dance, all together, and to 
 
 fling 
 Their weight against the sick-house till they made its 
 
 timbers spring. 
 
 When beaten back, they struck their shields, and 
 
 thought to strike with fear 
 Those British hearts, their answer came, a ringing 
 
 British cheer ! 
 And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to 
 
 their cost 
 The coolness of our temper, scarce an ounce of shot 
 
 was lost. 
 
 And the sick men from their vantage at the windows 
 
 singled out 
 From among the valiant savages the bravest of the 
 
 rout ; 
 
 A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the ground 
 By the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to 
 
 the mound 
 
102 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman's line of 
 
 fire, 
 Ere he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled 
 
 in their ire ; 
 But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the 
 
 soul, 
 And his name is writ in fire upon our nation's long 
 
 bead-roll. 
 
 Yet, let no name of any name be set above the rest, 
 Where all were braver than the brave, each better than 
 
 the best, 
 Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had 
 
 hearts for those 
 Who, in madness of their fever, were contending as 
 
 with foes. 
 
 For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in its 
 
 light 
 The Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew the 
 
 fight 
 That they cowered into cover, and one moment all was 
 
 still, 
 When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders 
 
 from the hill. 
 
THE FIGHT AT RORKE's DRIFT. 103 
 
 Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and 
 
 hand to hand 
 We fought above the barricade ; determined was the 
 
 stand; 
 Our fellows backed each other up, no wavering and 
 
 no haste, 
 But loading in the Kaffir's teeth, and not a shot to 
 
 waste. 
 
 We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on 
 
 in the light 
 Of the burning house, and later, in the dimness of the 
 
 night; 
 They could see our fairer faces ; we could find them by 
 
 their cries, 
 By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage 
 
 eyes. 
 
 With the midnight came a change that angry sea at 
 
 length was cowed, 
 Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less 
 
 loud; 
 When the * pale face 'of the dawn rose glimmering 
 
 from his bed 
 The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away 
 
 the dead. 
 
104 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 That island all abloom with English youth, and forti- 
 fied 
 
 With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating 
 tide; 
 
 Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson 
 that he read, 
 
 For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling 
 ocean fled. 
 
 Britannia, rule Britannia I while thy sons resemble 
 
 thee, 
 And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may 
 
 be; 
 Islands fortified like this, manned with islanders like 
 
 Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all 
 Seas. 
 
105 
 
 LEARN OF THE DOG. 
 
 1 Stern law of every mortal lot 
 Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 
 
 And builds himself I know not what 
 Of second life I know not where.' 
 
 I. 
 O HEART of man ! be humble, nor disdain 
 
 The latest gospel preached beneath the sun ; 
 
 Learn of the brute how thou, when life is done, 
 May loose its bonds, and cease, and know no pain : 
 Learn of the dog to die, nay, that were vain ; 
 
 Death followeth in the steps of life, and none 
 
 Win more of Death, the Shadow, than they won 
 Of Life in years of travail and of strain. 
 
 Learn of the dog to live, if thou wouldst find 
 His peace in death ; for him, the silent spheres 
 
 Keep their long watch unchallenged overhead ; 
 Know as he knows ; love as he loves his kind, 
 Unweave the web of human toil and tears ; 
 
 Die like a dog, when thought and love are dead. 
 
106 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise, 
 Away ! Thou standest to his heart too near, 
 Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer ; 
 
 Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies. 
 
 Go, scour the open fields in wild emprise, 
 
 Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, 
 Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, 
 
 Seeking thy law and gospel in man's eyes. 
 
 He cannot go ; love holds him fast to thee 
 More than the voices of his kind thy word 
 
 Lives in his heart ; for him, thy very rod 
 Has flowered ; he only in thy will is free ; 
 Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd 
 Would turn and rend him, pining for his God. 
 
107 
 
 THE LOST LIGHT. 
 
 I NEVER touched thy royal hand, dead queen, 
 But from afar have looked upon thy face, 
 Which, calm with conquest, carried still the trace 
 
 Of many a hard-fought battle that had been. 
 
 Since thou hast done with life, its toil and teen, 
 Its pains and gains, and that no further grace 
 Can come to us of thee, a poorer place 
 
 Shows the lorn world, a dimlier lighted scene. 
 
 Lost queen and captain, Pallas of our band, 
 Who late upon the height of glory stood, 
 
 Guarding from scorn the segis in thy hand 
 The banner of insurgent womanhood ; 
 
 Who of our cause may take the high command 1 
 Who make with shining front our victory good ? 
 
108 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Great student of the schools, who grew to be 
 The greater teacher, having wandered wide 
 In lonely strength of purity and pride 
 
 Through pathless sands, unfruitful as the sea. 
 
 Now warning words and one clear act of thee, 
 Bold pioneer who shouldst have been our guide 
 Affirm the track which Wisdom must abide ; 
 
 For man is bond, the beast alone is free. 
 
 So hast thou sought a larger good, so won 
 Thy way to higher law, that by thy grave 
 
 We, thanking thee for lavish gifts, for none 
 
 May owe thee more than that in quest so brave 
 
 True to a light our onward feet may shun 
 
 Thou gavest nobler strength our strength to save. 
 
 December 29, 1880. 
 
109 
 
 A PLEA 
 
 YE in all the world who love true Song, 
 Be gentle to the singers who uplift 
 In innocent delight a cradle gift 
 
 So often found to work them fatal wrong. 
 
 Judge them not wholly as the tuneless throng, 
 But if within their instrument a rift 
 Be found to mar not music, give it shrift 
 
 Song justifies itself, if sweet and strong. 
 
 Song justifies itself, but they who sing, 
 Raining ethereal music from a height 
 
 Lonely and pure, grow strong upon the wing, 
 And more and more enamoured of the light ; 
 
 But faint for any earthly journeying, 
 And fain to seek a lowly bed at night. 
 
110 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And oh ! be tenderest to the seers who lack 
 
 The wild-bird's song, the wild-bird's wing to rise, 
 And bathe their souls in light of summer skies 
 
 Poets who gather truth with bended back, 
 
 And give forth speech of it as on the rack ; 
 Speech urgent as the blood of grapes that dyes 
 His garments who must tread it out with sighs, 
 
 And ceaseless feet that follow no fair track. 
 
 Think of the manful work of those who bruise 
 The grape in setting free its life divine ; 
 
 And if some favour they should thereby lose, 
 Count it no marvel that a soul should pine, 
 
 Which often for its sustenance must use 
 
 But dregs of that it pours thee forth as wine. 
 
A PLEA. Ill 
 
 III. 
 
 Words that are idle with the songless crowd 
 Are as the poet's ripest deed, the fruit 
 And flower of all his working days, the suit 
 
 He weaves about his soul, which, if endowed 
 
 Too richly, and so called to ends more proud, 
 Builds with his breath a house of high repute, 
 Wherein he chants the office for the mute, 
 
 Appealing ones, who at his feet are bowed. 
 
 Yet let the Maker mould them as he will, 
 A spirit that he knows not to control 
 
 Works in his words beyond his utmost skill, 
 Making them yield his measure, and the whole 
 
 Form of his being, be it good or ill, 
 
 For no man's work is greater than his soul. 
 
112 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Love is the Man. EMANUBL SWEDENBORG. 
 
 Dear soul, that cannot see thyself, nor measure 
 
 Thy fitness for the mould of Art, thy right 
 To cast thy dubious image, and invite 
 
 The eyes of men to take of thee their pleasure 
 Mark where thy love disports herself at leisure ; 
 
 Glassed in the fountain of her own delight, 
 Your soul will stand revealed ; be sure her height 
 
 Surpasseth not the radius of her treasure. 
 
 Not Art its sovereign self claims foremost place 
 With those who can command the richest store 
 
 Wherewith to build a palace in its praise. 
 
 He loves Art best that loves like him of yore, 
 
 Who could not, as his song divinely says, 
 So love, if that he ' loved not honour more.' 
 
 June 1881. 
 
113 
 
 HELLAS. 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 HAIL Goddess of the heaven-reflecting eyes, 
 
 Divine Athena ! thou whose sweet breath blew 
 The message of the Gods the wide world through 
 
 And showed us sovereign Reason in the guise 
 
 Of all-unearthly beauty ; wake, arise 
 
 With fresh revealings; where the plant first grew 
 The fallen seed its life may still renew, 
 
 And yield young offshoots, strange to denser skies. 
 
 Fair sleeper ! Long ago a lordly bard, 
 
 Errant from England, to thy wakening gave 
 A fiery kiss ; and still thy forehead, starred, 
 
 Nay sunned, and burning with the hopes that 
 
 save, 
 
 Lies low ; great Goddess, hath the world debarred 
 Thee room to rise, and made thy bed thy grave 1 
 I 
 
114 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes, soul of Greece, they mock who call it sleep 
 
 That holds thee ; by the questing of thine eyes, 
 By thy heart-beatings, and thy struggling cries 
 
 Thou wakest, and O Gods ! we see thee weep. 
 
 We see thee, we, whose boast it is to keep 
 Thy sacred flame alive, and we pass by 
 Unaiding as unmoved, or hovering nigh 
 
 Make strong the bars thy strength would overleap. 
 
 England ! by all great memories that abide, 
 
 By kindling hopes of that which yet may be, 
 
 By the dead tongue, for thee which never died 
 And is not dead, be bold as thou art free, 
 
 Let not the hoof of that barbarian pride 
 
 Crush Hellas ! Stretch thy hand across the sea. 
 
 December 1880 
 
115 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 i. 
 
 It will be remembered that Pisa, associated as it is with 
 Shelley, was the scene of the life and labours of Galileo. 
 
 THERE lies betwixt dead Pisa and the sea 
 A haunted forest, with a heart so deep, 
 That none could sit beneath its pines to weep, 
 
 But it would throb for them mysteriously. 
 
 Here, in this place I dreamed there met with me 
 The spirit who his part in it doth keep, 
 Albeit his starry orbit now hath sweep 
 
 As vast as Galileo's, if more free. 
 
 He drew me on to where the hollow beat 
 
 Of waves upon a shore seemed to my mind 
 
 The moan of a remorseful soul, to weet 
 
 The homicidal Sea, whose passion blind 
 
 Had slain him ; as it writhed about my feet 
 Methought his spirit past me on the wind. 
 i2 
 
116 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Wild Sea, that drank his life to quench the thirst 
 Thou had'st of him ; and all devouring Fire 
 Who made his body thine with love as dire ; 
 
 Air pregnate with his breath, and thou accurst, 
 
 Mother of Sorrows, Earth, whose claim is first 
 Upon thy children dead, who from the pyre 
 Received his dust, what did his soul require 
 
 Wring from ye ere your Protean bonds he burst 1 
 
 Perchance ye failed to reach him, and he hath 
 
 O'er-leapt the rounds of change the earthlier dead 
 
 May weary through, nor needing Lethean bath 
 To speed anew his soul's etherial tread, 
 
 Hath left the elements, spurned from his path, 
 To challenge grosser spirits in his stead. 
 
117 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 COME, weight mine eyelids with thy kiss, but creep 
 
 Upon me unaware, for I so long 
 
 Have trod the hills, fulfilled with life and song, 
 I cannot loose them for thy sake, O sleep. 
 Yet be my Fairy Godmother, and keep 
 
 Thy gift to countervail the spells too strong, 
 
 Which crown my days and do my nights this 
 
 wrong ; 
 Draw me unwitting to thy friendly deep. 
 
 Pluck from my clasping thought its cherished store, 
 That so disburthened, I may lie at ease ; 
 
 Give me oblivion, let me see no more, 
 
 But feel awhile the rocking of the trees, 
 
 Hear the sea-mother singing to the shore, 
 
 And think I leave my bounteous life with these. 
 
118 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 O DIM sweet Memory, if thou couldest dower 
 My latter day with snatches of such rest 
 As that wherewith my twilight thoughts were 
 blest, 
 
 When life for me was yet a folded flower ; 
 
 Could I but feel again for one soft hour 
 
 All hope, all fears annulled upon that breast, 
 Whereto when I a weary child was pressed, 
 
 God was made flesh for me and dwelt in power ! 
 
 Could she, my mother lay me down at even, 
 
 Soft, warm, with glow of merry flames that leapt, 
 And babble of her ministers, who kept 
 
 Watch when she went to shine in some near heaven, 
 While over me the very dreams that crept, 
 Whispered of love still waking while I slept ! 
 
119 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 IF I might save from out the wreck of years 
 Some loveliest moment to eternalise, 
 I would not seek it where the fervid eyes 
 
 Of passion long ago were dulled with tears. 
 
 Nay, liefer I would look where nature nears 
 The cloudy confines of her mysteries, 
 Where Sleep prepares his balmy ministries, 
 
 And almost so his brother Death endears. 
 
 Yes, I would lie and drowse as in my bed 
 
 A four-years' child with, through the open door 
 
 The nurses' voices, merry in my stead, 
 
 And sounds of music wafted through the floor 
 
 Such idling best contents my wearihead 
 
 To-night ; to-morrow I may ask for more. 
 
 * i 4 
 
120 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 THE JOY OF JOYS. 
 
 In face of the picture of the radiant Madonna and Child, 
 by Fra Angelico, in his cell at San Marco. 
 
 THOU standest within thy tabernacle, crowned, 
 
 .Hapt from the world's vain pleasures and turmoil, 
 While, filled with blessing, and sweet hourly toil, 
 
 In lasting service thy meek hands are bound ; 
 
 Nor on thy hands alone love's chains are wound, 
 They bind thy soul, whose airier flight they foil, 
 And bring thee home again with fond recoil, 
 
 When thou too far wouldest leave familiar ground. 
 
 But thou who givest the nectar of thy veins 
 In self-surrender, what were costliest toys 
 
 Of man's creation, to the heaven-sent gains, 
 
 Which, holding spirit and flesh in equipoise, 
 
 Keep thee suspended in thy flower-soft chains, 
 And yield to thee alone the joy of joys ! 
 
121 
 
 THE SORROW OF SORROWS. 
 
 In face of the Mater Dolorosa in the fresco of the Crucifixion, 
 in the Chapter room, by the same. 
 
 WOMAN, those hands are bare that were love's throne, 
 On alien props thy helpless arms are spread ; 
 Thy hope is mocked at, and thy glory fled, 
 
 Thy labour nought ; love could not make thine own 
 
 Him, who was of thy flesh and of thy bone ; 
 
 By woman's tears is no man's doom withstead, 
 Prayers could not ransom that devoted head ; 
 
 Grief cannot pierce death's silence with its moan. 
 
 Thou, sainted mother of a son divine 
 
 Whose lips are guarded by thy chastened will, 
 
 The blind, brute anguish marked thee with its sign 
 Before love crucified beheld thee still 
 
 Indrawn as one who travails with a birth, 
 
 Vast as the shadow which o'erwhelms the earth. 
 
122 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 TO THE MOURNERS OF LOVE. 
 
 COME, sit thee down and rest at Death's pale feet, 
 Learn of his silence, in his shadow lie, 
 And never shade more false will come thee nigh ; 
 
 Nay, think no shame of sorrow, it is meet, 
 
 Think shame of idle love that words can cheat, 
 So love who looks on death and cannot die, 
 Will bear Death's message with his parting sigh, 
 
 And find for thee erewhile a loftier seat. 
 
 fire of love that makes the soul athirst 
 For life, eternal as thou seemest to be ! 
 
 Or thou art deathless in us, or the worst 
 
 Fiend of a hell that but exists by thee, 
 
 And thou wilt die from off the earth accurst, 
 
 Or, newly armed, from death will set us free. 
 
123 
 
 WATCHMAN, WHAT OF TEE NIGHT1 
 
 AH me, I am a singer, and no seer ! 
 
 I cannot pierce the clouds which gather chill, 
 
 I can but lift a voice too faint to fill 
 The darkness, or to cheat my lonely fear. 
 Is the night wearing 1 Is the morning near 1 
 
 Lives any hope of help or comfort still ? 
 
 Hath any strength of heart to scale the hill 
 And tell us of the signs which thence appear 1 
 
 The battle is for ever ; Life and Death, 
 
 Darkness and Light, and nowhere settled peace, 
 But all who live must breathe unquiet breath, 
 
 Hunger and agonise, or wholly cease ; 
 And for the hour, the soothest watchman saith 
 
 He knoweth not if day or night increase. 
 
124 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 A WIND FROM OFF THE SEA. 
 
 THE blue above, the sheep-shorn grass beneath, 
 Over the shoulder of the Down we sped, 
 And saw the picture of the world outspread 
 
 Where Solent winds beyond the purple heath. 
 
 And sudden, waked as by the salt sea breath, 
 I felt the earth forlorn, because the tread 
 Of one who taught my earliest steps had fled, 
 
 And he in cold attainder lay of death. 
 
 Then with my tears a kindling triumph strove, 
 It was such joy to this poor heart of mine 
 
 To be so shrewdly stung of long lost love ; 
 To know it living by a bleeding sign, 
 
 And, in the hungry, shaping tooth thereof, 
 Feel it at work to make my soul divine. 
 
125 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 WITH the flying scud, with the birds on the wing, 
 
 We wandered out at the close of day ; 
 Our faint hearts swelled with the life of the spring, 
 
 As the young buds burgeon on branch and spray. 
 As we heard the sheltering coppice ring 
 
 With a burst of joy too full for words, 
 Our hearts sung too, but of what strange thing. 
 
 We knew no more than the singing birds. 
 
 We stood 'mid the gorse on the golden hill 
 
 While the sun went down in a sea of mist ; 
 Though its glory was lingering around us still, 
 
 We were sad at heart, for the end we wist. 
 A homeless breath that was wandering chill 
 
 Had found a voice in the evening breeze, 
 And the silent birds that had sung their fill 
 
 Were asleep in the shade of the feathery trees. 
 
126 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 I 
 
 ' Soul of the younger springs gone by, 
 
 Why haunt us with that breath forlorn, 
 
 Avenging with a ghostly sigh, 
 
 Too sad for words, the words we scorn 1 '- 
 
 We said, when lo, the coppice nigh 
 
 Gave forth a voice, and we had done, 
 
 It seemed to touch the stars on high, 
 It almost might recall the sun. 
 
 Dear bird of love, fond nightingale, 
 
 That firest all the grove with song, 
 Till we who catch the fervid tale, 
 
 Forget the years that do us wrong ; 
 Glad birds that no lost springs bewail, 
 
 Sweethearts that are not sad and wise, 
 Wake the spring night, young nightingale, 
 
 And we will see it with thine eyes ! 
 
127 
 
 THE BOWER AMONG THE BEANS. 
 
 WE had a bower among the beans, 
 
 My little love and I, 
 Where by his side as kings set queens 
 
 He throned me graciously ; 
 The branching stalks made honied screens 
 
 For two who were but half as high ; 
 We had a bower among the beans, 
 
 My little love and I. 
 
 We sate and toyed there hour by hour, 
 
 My little love and I, 
 Above our heads the beans in flower, 
 
 Above the beans the sky. 
 How softly fell the summer shower, 
 
 How softly rose the sea-wind's sigh, 
 As there we dallied hour by hour, 
 
 My little love and I. 
 
128 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 And up that flowery avenue 
 
 At whiles my love and I 
 Would see, enlarging on our view 
 
 A subject train draw nigh. 
 Each brought for tribute something new, 
 
 A cowrie-shell, a butterfly, 
 Or starfish, which we took as due, 
 
 My little love and I. 
 
 The bean-flowers velvet-black, and white, 
 
 My little love and I 
 Found sweet to scent, and fair to sight 
 
 Beneath the morning's eye ; 
 But oft with fallen blossoms dight 
 
 At eve, my love and I 
 Would pine, as sick with long delight, 
 
 And weep, we knew not why. 
 
 And later, in the golden gloom, 
 
 My little love and I 
 Would hear the sea-waves sadly boom, 
 
 And, gazing up on high, 
 Would see that parti-coloured bloom 
 
 Grow dusk upon the molten sky, 
 And feel it charactered with doom, 
 
 My little love and I. 
 
THE BOWER AMONG THE BEANS. 129 
 
 The sea has made our realm his own 
 
 Since then ; my love and I 
 Have seen the barren sands, our throne 
 
 And kingdom, overlie. 
 For me alone the waves long moan, 
 
 For me the sea- winds idle sigh ; 
 My love is only dead and gone : 
 
 I live and I am I ! 
 
130 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BLACK, leafless thorn, that once hast borne the rose, 
 Long is the year, but short the time of flowers ; 
 
 Dreams the sad life that hides beneath the snows 
 Of joys that sped those all too-fleeting hours, 
 
 When sunbeams kissed your roses lips apart, 
 When sighs still hovered near, and healing dew 
 
 Stole in where love had laid too bare the heart, 
 
 And all things seemed more glad and sweet for you 1 
 
 Gone is the gracious morn that knew no morrow, 
 Long seems the winter day, long is the night ; 
 
 And yet who would not brave the life-long sorrow 
 That expiates such moments of delight ! 
 
131 
 
 TEE CRUSE OF TEARS. 
 
 A RUSSIAN LEGEND. 
 
 THERE went a widow woman from the outskirts of the 
 
 city, 
 Whose lonely sorrow might have moved the stones she 
 
 trod to pity. 
 
 She wandered, weeping through the fields, by God and 
 
 man forsaken, 
 Still calling on a little child, the reaper Death had 
 
 taken. 
 
 When, lo ! upon a day she met a white-robed train 
 
 advancing, 
 And brightly on their golden heads their golden crowns 
 
 were glancing ; 
 
 Child Jesus led a happy band of little ones a-maying, 
 With flowers of spring, and gems of dew, all inno- 
 cently playing. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 UNDER THE ASPENS. 
 
 Far from the rest the widow sees, and flies to clasp, 
 
 her treasure ; 
 'What ails thee, darling, that thou must not take 
 
 with these thy pleasure ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, mother, little mother mine, behind the rest I 
 
 tarry, 
 For see, how heavy with your tears the pitcher I must 
 
 carry; 
 
 ' If you had ceased to weep for me, when Jesus went 
 
 a-maying, 
 I should have been among the blest, with little Jesus 
 
 playing.' 
 
THE 
 
 WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD 
 
 A DEAMA OF MODERN LIFE. 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 SIR PIERCE THORNE, a wealthy brewer. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH, a banker. 
 
 MOSTYN WYNNE, the dispossessed heir of Wynhavod. 
 
 NORMAN, a poet, son to Sir Pierce, who has assumed the name o) 
 
 1 Dray ton.' 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK, son of the banker. 
 
 CARTERET, a young man of family, confederate of Robert Murdoch. 
 CROSS -\ j- riends f Robert Murdoch. 
 PAYNE/ : 
 
 TOM PRICE, the young husband of Mrs. Price. 
 OWEN Owv,y, foster-brother of Mostyn Wynne. 
 DAFYTH, a Welsh harper. 
 Footmen, Waiters. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK, wife of the banker Murdoch. 
 AMANDA, their daughter. 
 WINIFRED WYNNE, sister of Mostyn Wynne. 
 JENNY OWEN, servant to the Wynnes. 
 MRS. PRICE, housekeeper to Robert Murdoch. 
 
135 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Dining-room in the Star-and-Garter 
 Hotel at Richmond, with French window open to 
 the garden. SIR PIERCE THORNE, ROBERT MUR- 
 DOCH, CARTERET, MRS. MURDOCK, and AMANDA 
 discovered seated at a table covered with fruit 
 and flowers, the remains of a rich repast. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Your three friends, Robert, who see fit to mulct us 
 Thus of their company, without excuse, 
 Have won a place of honour in our thoughts, 
 Which might have failed them had they shown their 
 faces. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I think not, mother. Drayton that's the poet 
 Is one of those whose presence would be felt 
 If met with in the dark. I do not say 
 The shock of such a personality 
 
136 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Is always pleasant, mind you. That depends 
 On right relation. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 An electric eel ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Not that. This fellow would not bend or budge 
 For man or mountain. He's a thunder-cloud, 
 That sits and weighs on you, then blazes forth, 
 And scathes you, as with lightning. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Your relation 
 With Mr. I>rayton would not seem the right one. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I hate his Jovian airs, but take some pleasure 
 In picking up and tossing back his bolts, 
 As if I thought them plums. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Fair game ; and yet 
 
 Such clouds are needed in our social sky ; 
 They change the stagnant air. If Social Science 
 Could only find their law ! 
 
THE \VYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 137 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, rule the hour 
 Of their appearance, and compel them to it. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 The rules that serve their betters, should be made 
 To serve for them. One law for Peers and Poets, 
 No demagogue could ask for more. These artists 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Are outlaws ; they defy the world's police. 
 Amanda peels a peach, and offers you 
 The sunny side. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 And sunnier for her smile. [They bow. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Well, you have urged on us some sense of loss 
 
 In Mr. Drayton ; but the boy and girl 
 
 You wished mamma to see and take to heart. 
 
 Confess that by their absence they have gained 
 
 Consideration. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 No, I can confess 
 To no such heresy. Wynne is a youth 
 
138 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Who shakes you out his heart, as children shake 
 Their laps of buttercups ; and he has eyes, 
 Dark, lingering eyes, just such as women love, 
 I leave him to them gladly ; but for her, 
 His sister, Winifred, I think her eyes 
 Might almost win a woman to forget 
 The wrong they did her own. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Wonderful eyes. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, truly wonderful ! 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. [rising.] 
 
 Well, all the same 
 
 Her eyes not being at hand to look me down 
 She might have told us in a civil word 
 That she withheld their light. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 That was my fault. 
 Miss Wynne 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 We'll hear your plea when we return, 
 
 Booted and bonnetted. Amanda, come. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Murdoch and Amanda. Carter et, 
 having opened the door for them, saunters 
 moodily from the window into the garden. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 139 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Did you say Wynne "? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, I said Wynne, Sir Pierce ; 
 The name is Welsh. I need not tell you that. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No, truly. Welshmen have not many names, 
 And this one heads the list. My place in Flintshire 
 Is called Wynhavod, and was once the seat 
 Of some of them. I bought it for a song. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A song that was a threnody to them. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Aye, aye, I think it was. I got the homestead 
 And some few hundred acres, as I say, 
 For nothing nearly ; paid the mortgage off, 
 And bought up all the land that used of old 
 To go with it. Three parishes it covered, 
 And had not been in one man's hand before, 
 For near two hundred years. That was a chance, 
 Seemly, and safe, and seasonable. There, 
 
140 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 You have my motto, it is worth a thought, 
 My fortune and repute are based on it. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A good foundation, doubtless, deep and broad 
 
 [^M*c?e] (as Hell), and safe, I take it, in proportion. 
 
 [To Sir P.] And truly it were well it should be so, 
 
 For this young dove-eyed Wynne, son of that colonel, 
 
 Who lost for him his dwindled heritage, 
 
 Is eager as a hawk to find a flaw . 
 
 In any deed or title which might give him 
 
 The hope, that with a life of patient drudging, 
 
 He, having scraped enough to buy the purchase, 
 
 May wring it back from you. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 The boy is mad. 
 
 Re-enter MRS. MURDOCK and AMANDA. 
 'Twas likely, since he had a fool for father. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 [To Robert .] Now say, my son, what was this fault of 
 
 yours 
 Which seemed to me Miss Wynne's ? 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 141 
 
 EGBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Miss Wynne is shy, 
 Shy as the wild Welsh ponies of her hills 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 So shied at us ? Misdoubting we were tame. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 The girl is country- bred, there are good houses 
 About Wynhavod, but their indigence 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 No, not at all ; I said Miss Wynne was shy, 
 As shy as are the ponies of her hills ; 
 I might have said as shy as nightingales, 
 That seek out quiet haunts to fill with song. 
 But still it strikes me, if she were that bird 
 She'd sing oblivious of our listening ears. 
 I've seen her take her way amid the throng 
 Of London streets, as if St. Paul's were Snowdon, 
 As unconstrained by the rude gaze of men 
 As is a mountain brook. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 I wonder whether, 
 
 In hearing you speak thus, it perhaps might strike her 
 That you grew lyrical. 
 
142 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 EGBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Bitterly.] I hardly think so. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Now speak, I pray, in your accustomed prose, 
 And let us know, at last, why we must blame 
 You for her failure. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Well, I thought it best, 
 She being 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Wild, not shy 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Wild, if you like, 
 
 To try to get the noose of an engagement 
 Over her head, before she was aware; 
 So bade her brother, who is in our bank, 
 To hasten back to Fulham, tell his sister 
 That they were looked for here, then take the boat, 
 And so 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 Still scheming, Robert. [To Sir P.] 'Tis a pity 
 The door to fortune was not closed to him, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 143 
 
 He would so soon have found some magic word 
 To cozen it. In years too long ago 
 When he was little and when I was young, 
 I used to hide his physic in a fig, 
 And, seemingly impartial, give another, 
 Undoctored, to his sister. How it happened, 
 We never could make out ; but while we watched, 
 Amanda got the pill. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 And suffered doubly, 
 
 For she grew sick, as I grew well. So much 
 For justice not poetical ! But pray, 
 Discount my mother's story ; 'tis her way 
 Of boasting of my parts. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 She has a right ; 
 You get them in direct descent from her. 
 
 [Sows to Mrs. M. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [^4sic?e.] She did me, though, scant justice; one so 
 
 keen 
 
 To guard his life from what it loathed would show 
 His finished art in grappling what he loved. 
 
144 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside to Amanda.] I owe Sir Pierce's compliment to 
 
 you. 
 
 You leave the lead to me, and quite forget 
 The game is won by tricks. Look to your cards. 
 
 Enter Waiter, with a telegram. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A telegraphic message from the "Wynnes, [Reading. 
 1 From Wynne to Murdock.' Pithy ! ' We regret 
 The shortness of your summons, which prevents 
 Our forced refusal reaching you, to spare 
 Expectancy.' A very dainty note 
 To send by wire. But seventeen words in all, 
 Bearing her stamp as if they had been signed. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Miss Wynne regrets the shortness of your bidding ; 
 Not that she cannot answer it. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 How keen ! 
 You read between these telegraphic lines. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Not keen at all. I quite believe you now, 
 This lady is not shy as starlings are. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 145 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Rising.] 
 By Jove, no ; cool as one of Juno's peacocks ! 
 
 SIR PIERCE. [Rising.'] 
 I grieve to be the one to give the signal, 
 But if we would not drive into the night 
 We should be gone. My horses champ their bits. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. {Rising.} 
 
 Make short farewells, you know Sir Pierce respects 
 The feelings of his horses. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 When such dear ones ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I'll see you to the carriage. [To Mrs. M.] Tell my 
 
 father 
 
 His absence made our cup of sorrows full. 
 Carteret and I will dream away an hour 
 Here on the terrace, then return by rail. [Exeunt all. 
 
 Re-enter ROBERT MURDOCK, and CARTERET,/rom the 
 garden. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Taking up a peach, cutting, and 
 
 throwing it down.] 
 
 [Aside.] Soh, she ' regrets the shortness of my sum- 
 mons ; ' 
 
146 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 This girl's slight foot is on my neck ; but patience ! 
 [To Carteret.] How stands the game betwixt you and 
 
 your foes, 
 The Israelites 1 Have they quite spoiled you ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Quite. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Shutting the window.] 
 What devilry is up now with those birds ? 
 One cannot hear one's voice; they cry one down. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 And so they may, for me. I know of nothing 
 That you or I am like to say worth half 
 The fuss they make. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] Young beggar, he is sulky ; 
 Since I denied him help to keep him floating 
 Until those cormorants had picked him clean, 
 He thinks there's nothing to be got from me. 
 What does your father say ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 His vocables 
 
 Are mostly interjections ; he does little 
 On my behalf but groan and shake his head. 
 He had a stroke last April. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 147 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Who, Sir Digby ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Sir Digby. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Have you told him that you kept 
 Those dealings with the Jews unknown to him, 
 When he 'believed he'd set you free, and found 
 A stool for your repentance in our bank ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Not I. 
 
 ROBERT MURDCCK. 
 
 I gave you that advice. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You did. 
 
 Perhaps I might have thought more of your present, 
 If it had cost you more. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Aha ! that's likely. 
 
 The world's a mart, and we, its chapmen, know 
 That what we get for nought is nothing worth ; 
 All serviceable stock is kept for sale. 
 
 L2 
 
148 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Now, if one day you did me counter-service 
 I, should not be behind-hand with the price. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 What do you mean 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I scarcely know, as yet. 
 I only feel that life is out of tune 
 For me, as well as you ; if of our fault, 
 It may be that our fault can set it right. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 If good should come to me of my own earning, 
 It must be by default. I hate the collar, 
 And like the trace as little as the whip. 
 This life is only jolly through misdoing. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Vices are savage masters, though, and nature 
 An unrelenting usher. [-4me.] Humph ! a man 
 Might tempt this tender youth, and hardly fear 
 To find a cloven hoof beneath his stocking ! 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Nature has got her price ; she may be bought. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 149 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Bought off, perhaps ; but only for a time ; 
 She's down upon the drunkard in the end, 
 Whether he's soaked in beer or Burgundy ; 
 And so with all the rest. 
 [Aside.] I think I'll sound him. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 It isn't beer and Burgundy that make 
 The odds to us, but Beaune and Chambertin, 
 Their better cellarage, and sunnier seasons ; 
 Malt, eaten or drunk, is only fit for pigs. 
 I say you fellows that are born to banks 
 And mines and such like, have the pull on us 
 Poor beggars who inherit worn-out names ; 
 The poisons you may entertain your lives with 
 Kill slowly. How can yours be out of tune 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 There is a poison that can fire the blood, 
 
 You, perhaps, may never learn it, but I have ; 
 
 No pleasant vice, that you may buy of higher 
 
 Or lower quality, as suits your means, 
 
 But something elemental that breaks out, 
 
 That strikes you down, and robs you of your reason, 
 
150 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 A lurking venom that one face alone, 
 
 Of all that throng the paths of men, has power 
 
 To vitalise for you, while not the gold 
 
 Of all the mines that ever probed the earth 
 
 Can buy its antidote. Carteret, I love 
 
 As if the whole world held one woman only. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You love ? The devil 1 Why not marry, then, 
 Your case -being so especial 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 That, by Heaven, 
 
 I will ; but you must help me. Only help me, 
 As I will tell you how, and I will start you 
 As free a Gentile as if every Jew 
 Were gone to meet the eldest-born of Egypt. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Well, tell me what you want. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I must explain. 
 
 [Aside.] This thing is just as hard to clothe in speech 
 As it must be to dress an ugly woman ! 
 [To C.~\ You know the lady ; it is she who failed 
 Our party here to-day. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 151 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Miss Wynne 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 The same. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 What more is there to do but just to ask her 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I'm not faint-hearted ; but 
 
 CARTEIIET. 
 
 You're given to shy 
 At objects overbright. You should wear blinkers. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 An ass's head might serve ; so under cover 
 
 A fool might bray into Titania's face. 
 
 Still, * naked ' to your ' laughter ' as you see me, 
 
 I've got fair change from women as a rule ; 
 
 But this one Have you read the ' Faerie Queene V 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 No. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Then you can't well tell what you might feel, 
 On meeting Britomart in any skin 
 
152 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 But that of Arthegal. If I'm to win, 
 'Twill be by strategy. 
 
 CARTEKET. 
 
 This love would seem 
 All on one side. a sort of a moral cripple. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 May be. If so, in these aesthetic days, 
 Fine art, not luck or strength, may serve the turn 
 Of men who know their minds as I know mine, 
 In winning what they lust for. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 There may be 
 The devil to pay for that 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 The devil a doit. 
 
 Good bad Mere relatives ! What's true on earth- 
 A shabby lump of clay, not even a sphere 
 But for the sea which puts a gloss on it 
 Helps it to make a figure and to shine ; 
 I say what's true on earth may well be false 
 In Sirius ; so then, not * true ' and ' false,' 
 Adept and bungler are the terms which mark 
 Our quality as men. Adepts are vessels 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 153 
 
 Of honour good alembics, that can stand 
 The furnace, whatsoever broth they cook. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Save me from fire ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Ah, you're a half-baked pipkin, 
 Good for the dust-heap ! All the world is cumbered 
 With such cracked pottery, the non-successes 
 Of Chance. Your breeding should have served you 
 better. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Not worth a curse ! What are you driving at 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Rising, and speaking as to 
 himself ,] 
 
 Only success succeeds. Pah ! shall I suffer 
 
 My will, however come by, still the highest 
 
 Of all the forces, streams, or counter- streams, 
 
 Of what I call my life, to own constraint 
 
 Of blind, unmeaning elements, or worse, 
 
 Of some inherent hate which skill might conquer ? 
 
 Not I. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 What is to do ? 
 
154 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Look here ; this pair, 
 
 The sister, and the brother whom you know 
 As well as I do, live their two young lives 
 With but one thought between them, which is this, 
 To win that old owls' nest they call Wynhavod 
 Back from Sir Pierce. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 It seems you don't want me ; 
 Her price is settled. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Once I thought that, too ; 
 
 But no, she knows or she is less than woman 
 And I'm mistaken if she be not more, 
 That I would help her as no other could, 
 Knowing Sir Pierce ; the day that saw her mine 
 Should see Wynhavod hers, and free to give it 
 In transfer to her brother. I have tried 
 All this upon her just by inference 
 And never won a smile to give me hope. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 What could I do, old fellow, when that fails 1 
 Give me my cue. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 155 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Her armour is her pride ; 
 Help me to break that down, and I shall win her. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 I shouldn't mind her armour, if you'll warrant 
 That she is not inside it. Just you bring me 
 To where it is. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Her pride is in her brother. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Well 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Now, if he should seem, mind, only seem, 
 And that but for a time, to have disgraced 
 Himself and her, and I stepped in to ransom 
 
 Their lives of all the consequences, then 
 
 I see my way. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You see your way ? The devil ! 
 I don't see mine. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 You shall, though ; now, look here. 
 To-morrow you and Wynne will both be sent for 
 
156 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 To take a parcel to the post. My father 
 
 Is safe to give it him. It will contain 
 
 Six thousand pounds in notes, and be addressed 
 
 To Cass and Co., New York. / want that parcel. ' 
 
 CARTERET. [Rising.] 
 You mean me 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Me, to 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I do. 
 CARTERET. 
 
 But how 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A hundred ways. The simplest thing might be 
 To ask it of him, say you have some pocket 
 Safer than that wherein he has bestowed it ; 
 You know your ways together, and his habits 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 I will not touch it ! All the world to one, 
 Suspicion 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 157 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Hush ! Suspicion, man, will fall 
 On no one in the end, and, for the time, 
 Will only light on Wynne. Give me that parcel ; 
 I'll find sure means to have it traced to him. 
 The cover shall be found in his possession ; 
 The notes I'll take from it, and see to forward 
 To Cass and Co., under my father's hand. 
 We'll blow a storm up that shall make us feel 
 Like demi-gods a day or two, and then 
 We'll blow it out ; and you will find yourself 
 Sailing before the wind, glorious and free ! 
 For me, if all go well and I'll so shape it, 
 
 So trim and order, that by Jove it shall 
 
 No woman's watery will should baulk a man's ! 
 I would not change with any god of Greece ! 
 Come, let us have another weed out there, 
 And settle the conditions. 
 
 [Exeunt Robert Murdoch and Carteret by a 
 door into the garden. 
 
 Enter NORMAN DRAYTON, accompanied by a Waiter. 
 
 WAITER. 
 
 The gentlemen were here a while ago ; 
 'Tis likely, Sir, they've stept into the garden. 
 
158 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Most likely. Here, a line upon my card 
 Will tell them all I came to let them know. 
 [Heading as he writes.] An unexpected complication 
 
 made it 
 
 Impossible for me to keep my pledge ; 
 Pray credit me with reason which, if stated, 
 Would win my pardon. 
 
 [Aside] Had I sent him this 
 When first I found my father was his guest, 
 My writing might have told my father more 
 Than this will tell to Murdock. 
 
 [To Waiter.] Give this card 
 
 To Mr. Robert Murdock. [ylmfe.] She was here ; 
 I wonder where she sat, was this her place ? 
 I should have known it by the roses' token 
 The sweetness of the air where she has been. 
 Here it is close, as if conspiracy 
 Had shut the door upon it. Damask rose-leaves 
 Shed on the cloth. 
 
 [Gathers the leaves into his hand, then throws 
 them down. 
 
 She would not so have crushed them. 
 
 WAITER. [Aside, setting table straight.] 
 He wears a deal of hair upon his face ; 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 159 
 
 He's dropped those crumbs o' roses, but may chance on 
 A something better suited to his mind. 
 I'll pin my eye upon him. 
 
 SIE PIERCE. [Without.] 
 
 I shall find them 
 
 Either upon the table, or beneath it, 
 A pair of double eye-glasses. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 That voice ! 
 My father's ! [Retreats to window. 
 
 Enter SIR PIERCE and another Waiter. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 We had nearly got to Sheen 
 Before I missed them. I remember now, 
 I used them, yes, in looking at a couple 
 Of boats upon the river. Where was that 1 
 I stood before this window. 
 
 [Advances abruptly to window where Norman 
 is standing. 
 
 Who is this? 
 
 Norman ? Yes, no. Allow me, Sir, a moment, 
 A likeness struck me, [Lays hold of Normaris arm] 
 
 and it strikes me still. 
 Your name 
 
160 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NOEMAN. 
 
 Is Drayton. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No, two years and that 
 
 Wild growth of beard have not so changed my son. 
 Your name is Thome. 
 
 [To Waiter.] Leave us, and shut the door. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I 
 
 My name is Thorne, I am your son ; I wish 
 This meeting had been spared to both of us, 
 But since our paths have crossed in our despite 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 In your despite, Sir ; it has been my dream 
 Early, and late, to cross this path of yours. 
 You've been in Germany, at Gottingen 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I left a year ago. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Since when I lost 
 
 All sight and sound of you. 'Tis a brave thing, 
 A fine, new-fangled form of wickedness, 
 Something to suit the temper of the age 
 This casting off a father by a son ! 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 161 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 You put it so. I do not cast you off; 
 It is not you I shun, if you would own 
 My right to live my life in such a fashion, 
 So to possess my soul 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Who wants your soul 1 
 Keep it, and make what use you will of it ; 
 Let it rejoice in idleness, or put it 
 To any dainty work that suits its highness. 
 I want a son without a soul, or with one, 
 To bear the burthen of the heritage 
 I've toiled so hard to win, that I have lost 
 The power to reap the harvest. It is little 
 That fathers of our day are taught to look for, 
 But so much -just so much I thought the frailest 
 Of youthful spirits of the modern type 
 Might grant us ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I entreat you, Sir, to leave 
 This question where we buried it when last 
 We parted. There's no sting in sarcasm 
 Shall make me drag it forth, and urge again 
 Reasons 
 
162 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 That showed your mind unsettled 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Reasons 
 
 Whose roots have, borne live branches, ripened fruit. 
 I see you well 1 I must be gone. I pray you, 
 No word of this to Murdock. This discretion 
 Is all that I may ever ask of you. [Going. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. [Detaining him.] 
 
 Stop, stop, by Heaven, are you a king, to choose 
 
 Your subjects of discourse, and to cut short 
 
 The audience when you will 1 Stop, boy, and solve me 
 
 A riddle that has tasked me day and night : 
 
 What meaning lies beyond that foolish feint, 
 
 That vain pretence of scorning money, earned, 
 
 As money has been earned, and will be earned, 
 
 By men who sway the counsels of the State, 
 
 Men who are honoured of their Queen and country, 
 
 Great Brewers who have proved their worth and 
 
 strength, 
 Who turned the scale of 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Sir, what can it profit 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 163 
 
 To seek for answer, where there is no tongue 
 By man invented which could make the thoughts 
 Of one of us the other's ? For my motives, 
 I showed them once in naked truth, when what 
 Was natural to me, to you seemed monstrous. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Monstrous ! I think so. Scorn a princely fortune, 
 Because it has been built up by your father, 
 Made legally, not levied in black-mail 
 By some forgotten ancestor ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Forgotten, 
 That says unknown, and covers all the case. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Refuse to take the place that has been made you 
 
 Before the world ! Your labour is not asked 
 
 To keep this great machine of fortune going ; 
 
 Your part is just to sit at ease, and swallow 
 
 The ripest of the fruits, and that in company 
 
 Of men who are the nation's prop, good Churchmen, 
 
 Good citizens, good subjects, men who kneel 
 
 As humbly in their Churches' services 
 
 As if they never kissed a royal hand. 
 
 M2 
 
164 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Ah, men who scorn not coming from St. James's, 
 The courts of the house I think they call the Lord's ! 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 The thing is clearly madness, moon-struck madness ! 
 Decline to take your part in the good things 
 Your fate provides, with worthy gentlemen 
 Who shine as magistrates 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 And make the crimes 
 They sit in judgment on 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Whose names are seen 
 To head the lists of charity with sums 
 To beggar German Princes ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 All too little 
 
 To ransom any smallest soul of them 
 From its appropriate hell. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Sir, you blaspheme. 
 I thought it only pride that set you up 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 165 
 
 Above your father's fortune ; but it seems 
 Some devilish possession. You said Drayton ! 
 You style yourself a Poet ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No, in truth. 
 
 Some that agree to call themselves the * world ' 
 Agree to call me by the name. One day 
 I may not blush to answer to it, now 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 Mad ! mad ! I thought it. Hah ! poor fool ! Poor 
 
 father ! 
 
 An only son, who might have had the world 
 Grovelling before him on bare knees. A POET ! ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Well, damn me by the name, and let me go. 
 I told you, Sir, that language means for us 
 Eternal discord ; that the same words stand 
 For contraries in our vocabulary. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Then try to clear your wits. 
 
 I say, once more, 
 
 Do you refuse to lead the life befitting 
 A gentleman ? 
 
166 THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yes, as you use the title. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You will not deign to spend the yearly income 
 Allotted to your use 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I will not spend it. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Nor take the fortune, nor support the duties 
 That would be yours upon your father's death ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 The one would be a burthen, and the other 
 A mockery. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You choose to be a beggar, 
 So be it, then ; go, I have heard enough. 
 That I who ever strove for some high goal 
 Should have a son so dead to all ambition ! 
 What did you do at College 1 
 
 NORMAN. [Bitterly.] 
 
 Only read. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 167 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Yes read, read books ; I sent you to learn men. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Say noble-men. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Well, noblemen ; are men 
 The worse for being noble 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Let me go, Sir. 
 
 I grieve that you should have a son who answers 
 So little to your hopes. When I took honours 
 I thought, and had some pleasure in the thought, 
 Your pride would be contented ; I was wrong, 
 I did not know its quality j it seems 
 We cannot give or take one from the other. 
 Let us not part in bitterness ; you hold 
 All that you asked of life. For me, no power 
 Shall make me drag your growing load of wealth, 
 Or try to roll it on my upward way, 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Boy, you have made of it a stone to crush me ; 
 Such heirless wealth is 
 
 *M4 
 
168 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Sir, would you but drop it, 
 Divided, it might lighten tons of care. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 He's mad, he's moonstruck 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Merely sane, my father, 
 As you are not. Oh, could you once behold 
 The thing that is, the spoils that are your pride 
 Spoils tempted from the feeble clutch of fools, 
 Or reeking with the sweat of wasted labour 
 Would rise before you as a pyramid, 
 A huge, unprofitable pyramid 
 Of copper, built with pennies of the poor. 
 I say the pile so got must crush the getter 
 Beneath its weight of blasted lives, its hopes 
 Of human progress baffled. All the shame 
 And tears of tempted weakness, all the sorrow, 
 Disease, and crime transmitted to the race 
 In blood and bone must hold in bond the souls 
 Of those who raise such monuments of woe. 
 I would not have my spirit lie entombed 
 In such a mausoleum, though it held 
 The treasure of the Pharaohs. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 169 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Boy, no more ! 
 
 You rave ; those words are but the sickly fume 
 Born of an idle brain. I did the work 
 Which leaves you free to scoff and vapour here. 
 A pyramid, you call it ; be it so ; 
 I built it ; go and match it, if you can ; 
 Make it without my aid, and use what stuff 
 And tools you will. I say go build your fortune, 
 And learn what work is with my curse upon it ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH and CARTERET appear at the 
 garden door. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I go. My mother knew the time to die. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Your mother, yes ; her grave, her very grave 
 Will fall to aliens, and my bones to boot. 
 Begone ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I dare not, Sir, I see you are 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Sick r but of you. Leave me in peace, I say, - 
 Alone. 
 
170 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Farewell. [Aside.] There's other help at hand, 
 Since mine offends him. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [At the door.] 
 
 Soh ; I scented somewhat 
 
 Of mystery. [Pointing after Norman] Sir Pierce's 
 wandering son. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Heir to a heap of money. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 And, WYNHAVOD ! 
 
 CARTERET 
 
 Sir Pierce has cut him off. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 He has, to-day. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. [Rising confused and seeking vaguely on 
 
 the ground.] 
 I've lost, I've lost 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Coming forward.] 
 
 These ' clearers,' as I think, Sir. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 Ah yes, these glasses ; I forgot the glasses. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 171 
 
 Thank ye, I'm glad of them ; they've done good 
 
 service. 
 
 But still this fog this burning sense of loss 
 Ah yes ; gone, gone ! Good evening, gentlemen. 
 
 [Exit Sir Pierce, slowly and feebly. 
 
 ROBEKT MURDOCK. [Watching him.] 
 
 Dispatch, dispatch ! he's ill, and may repent him. 
 This poet, who would cross my path of love, 
 Shows dangerous. To work, and leave the fool 
 No time for chance to conjure to his profit. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
172 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. An upper room in a rather dilapidated old 
 house, brightened by growing flowers, and tokens 
 of feminine presence and occupation. A large 
 bow-window overlooking the Thames at Fulham. 
 The walls painted with frescoes from the Niebel- 
 ungen Lied. On one side a mirror in an antique 
 frame. WINIFRED WYNNE discovered writing at 
 a table covered with MS. 
 
 Enter JENNY OWEN knitting a stocking. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Name o' goodness ! How you can, Miss Wynny ! 
 Scratching that paper all the blessed day ! 
 
 WINIFRED. [Wearily.] 
 Yes, Jenny, all the day since nine o'clock. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 I like to see a lady doing nothing ; 
 It's what they're made for, but there's many ways 
 O' doing it. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 173 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Well, I only know this one. 
 Our troubles came before my education 
 Was fairly finished. I'm but half a lady. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 You half a lady ! Where's the whole ones then 1 
 A Wynne, and of Wynhavod, though she rose 
 At five o' the morn and made the bed she'd slept on, 
 Would be a better lady, still, than many 
 Of those who lay till noon ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You dear old Jenny J 
 I'll vary my diversions with a walk 
 To-morrow, not to-day. My lazy ladyship 
 Is bent on filling four more of these pages, 
 Before I go to bed. You know I am subject 
 To idle whims like this. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Yes, quality 
 Is full of flimsy-whimsies. [Knitting fiercely, 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I wonder where 
 The piles of stockings that you knit all go to 1 
 
174 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 'Deed, and Miss Wynny, we've six feet between us!, 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 We might have sixty, Jenny ; yes, we might, 
 We might be centipedes, to wear them all. 
 You knit as hard and harder than I write. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Work isn't much more hard than play, Miss Wynny. 
 [.4m?e.] They neither o' them note that all the fowls 
 I buy have got four wings, and legs to match. 
 They eat one with the usual number, then, 
 How should they know what's hidden in a pie ? 
 Giblets I say, and they're as green as geese. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Looking at the clock, covering her writing, 
 and arranging the room.] 
 
 Is it so late 1 Mostyn will soon be here ; 
 He will be weary, for his writing, Jenny, 
 Is more than play- work, and the air to day 
 Must weigh like lead in golden Lombard Street. 
 How good it is that we can see the sun 
 Doubled upon the river, and can feel 
 The breezes cooled in passing over it ! 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 175 
 
 I love this river-road, this water high-way. 
 I fear you miss your mountains 1 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 'Deed, Miss Wynny, 
 
 I've got too much to do to heed such trifles. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 So much the better ; but our lodging here, 
 It was no trifling piece of luck which got us 
 Cheap quarters in this dear old house, and friends, 
 Great geniuses, to paint the mouldy walls 
 With frescoes that can bring the glow of Venice 
 Into a chamber looking on the Thames. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 It was not done by geniuses, Miss Wynny, 
 But all by Mr. Drayton, and I reckon 
 A gold-ground paper would have done as well. 
 But here comes Master Mostyn, and L'm wasting 
 My time along o' you. One sloth makes many. 
 
 [Exit Jenny. 
 Enter MOSTYN WYNNE. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I bring you evil news ; our holiday 
 
 Will be no holiday ; we shall not spend it 
 
176 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 With Drayton on the river, shall not float 
 At noon upon the shadow of the shade 
 Of Clieveden Woods, or 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Mostyn, what is this ? 
 
 You startle me. Some sudden thing has chanced 
 To overturn a plan we made 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I know 
 
 A plan we made before the leaves were green. 
 It is a sudden thing, or a slow thing 
 Come suddenly to light. I must be off, 
 Yes, to Wynhavod by the earliest train ; 
 It leaves at eight. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Off to Wynhavod ? You 1 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Yes, I. Who else but I have the poor souls 
 Who suffer there to look to ? Had you heard 
 What I have heard 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 From whom ? 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 177 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 From Robert Murdock. 
 
 Had you heard half, I think your tenderer heart 
 Would have found swifter means to get to them. 
 I leave 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You leave me in the dark ! Say, first, 
 What is this thing beyond the wrong we know of? 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 This : that our foster-brother, Owen Owen, 
 
 Has fallen into the pit that has been dug 
 
 For him, and all of them, by their devourer, 
 
 Him who slays bodies and lays snares for souls 
 
 At every corner of the land he wrung 
 
 From helpless hands of orphans, yours and mine ; 
 
 Poor lad ! poor Owen ! they have got him under; 
 
 Temptation had too many stations for him ; 
 
 His blood was poisoned with their devil's- drink, 
 
 And now, a prison offers him State cure 
 
 For ills the State promotes. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What has he done? 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Bodily hurt to some one, nothing much, 
 
178 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 A blow delivered in a drunken fray, 
 
 Where all was give and take. But in his case 
 
 A sentence means destruction ; it means hurling 
 
 A man from the incline where they have lured him 
 
 Over the rampart to the pit of Hell. 
 
 Now, you will see, good sister, where my place is. 
 
 No one can plead so well on his behalf 
 
 The character he bore so long, and no one 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, Mostyn, you must save him ! Our poor Jenny ! 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 No word of this to her, until we tell her 
 Her son is free, and sobered by his fright. 
 This journey will take something from our hoard, 
 That niggards such as we are loth to spare. 
 I must not make those poor, proud eyes that love us, 
 Too shamed and sorry by my altered state. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Nay, we are richer than I thought. These last 
 
 Six months have not been lean ones. You are weary 
 
 Of figures, or you should have proof of it. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Weary of figures in the Banking- books; 
 But like cures like. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 179 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Well, then, a gentle dose. 
 See here ! Our capital demands three figures 
 To write it. If the first is but a unit 
 A bachelor we'll call it still, the second 
 Is growing, and will soon be marriageable. 
 In ten years' time 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I shall be thirty-two ; 
 You thirty, with the brightest of the gold 
 Faded from out your hair. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I shall have coined it. 
 Let us not count our losses, but our gains. 
 You will be ten times more a man than now ; 
 Wynhavod will be ours or, rather, yours. 
 Then you must marry. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 Yes. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You are the only 
 
 Heir of our line. You are the one sole vessel 
 That holds the treasure of our house's hope. 
 
 N2 
 
180 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAYOD. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Yes, we have had a legacy of pride, 
 And little else. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 We'll get high interest on it ; 
 It was our mother's portion. In good truth, 
 There is as much humility as pride 
 In looking past your individual life, 
 Backwards and forwards, thinking of yourself 
 But as a link which binds the past and future, 
 And glorying that the chain has been so long, 
 Because the links that hold, are stout and true. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 A grave the depth of half the world were shallow, 
 To hide the wretch who broke it in dishonour. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Dishonour ! Do not breathe of it ; the air 
 So stirred, is pestilent. 
 
 MOSTYN. [Regarding her.] 
 
 Why, what is this ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 It is that there are words which stand for things 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 181 
 
 So past my bearing, that I'd liefer hear 
 
 An oath rapped out, than have them said in whisper. 
 
 This chain is safe with us ; it has, perchance, 
 
 Had brighter links, but none of purer metal. 
 
 Cherish yourself a little, for its sake ; 
 
 This journey is too hurried. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I am not 
 
 So weak a link, but I can bear the shaking. 
 And then for me there needs no cherishing ; 
 ' Wynnes have been never wanting to Wynhavod, 
 Since Pridain Ely then took it for his own.' 
 You know the distich. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Surely, and that other : 
 
 4 The day the stock of Gwyn ap Blythen fails, 
 Make the last bed of the last Prince of Wales.' 
 Historians and prophets all are with us. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Historians and prophets have no word 
 To say for you, my sister ; you had best 
 Look to yourself; you work too hard, I think; 
 One-half our capital is of your earning ; 
 Those tomes that you translate 
 
182 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFKED. 
 
 Are heavy reading, 
 
 Which always is the case with easy writing. 
 You would not have me idle ? Our old Jenny 
 How shall we face her with her unknown sorrow ? 
 Knits as she goes, I think she knits in sleep, 
 She surely does in dreams ; if all her knitting 
 Had gone to make one stocking, she could hide 
 The world within it. Do you know, she sells them 
 And buys us dainties, which she serves us up 
 In various disguises. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 That must cease ; 
 We cannot suffer it. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Indeed, we can. 
 
 She put in part and lot with us ; she left 
 Her kith and kin and country for our sakes ; 
 She knows that we would cherish her in age 
 And sickness. Shall we play at Providence 
 We two, so young ; take the great role, and keep it, 
 Denying her her humble part, the due 
 Of so much faithful service 1 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 183 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 You are right ; 
 We must not limit love' 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 For if we could, 
 The world would be dismembered. Here she comes. 
 
 Enter JENNY, announcing. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 It's Mr. Drayton. [To Mostyn.~\ Master Mostyn, 
 
 dinner 
 Is ready in the lobby-room, for one. 
 
 Enter NORMAN. MOSTYN and NORMAN converse in 
 
 dumb-show. 
 Miss Wynny, will I bring tea here ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Yes, Jenny, 
 
 And Mostyn's dinner too ; I'll promise you 
 Your Benjamin will get his mess unshared. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 [Aside.] A mess she makes of it ! You'll have your 
 
 will, 
 Miss Wynny ; but such like was never seen, 
 
184 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Not even in the Colonel's time at home. 
 
 We should have locked the doors, and done as though 
 
 The house was empty, if the larder failed. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 That's true, but Mr. Drayton dines somewhere, 
 Somewhen, I think. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 [Aside.] I see what food he lives on, 
 
 And where he gets it. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Norman.] You have heard the tidings ? 
 
 Our midsummer day's dream has been a dream, 
 And so is ended. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yes, the infernal gods 
 
 Were struck with envy ! One such perfect day 
 Could make a man immortal. If we bring 
 Forth little fruit, and die before our time, 
 It is that we are starved for lack of joy. 
 
 JENNY. [Who has been laying the cloth.] 
 
 [Aside.] If he was starved, he wouldn't talk so big. 
 I've laid a second cover, anyway. [Exit Jenny. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 185 
 
 WINIFRED. [Lays her hand upon his arm, and draws 
 him to the table, where all sit.] 
 
 We must not make this duty hard to Mostyn. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I will not j you shall teach me to endure : 
 You need the rest, / only crave the bliss. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Mostyn has told you where he goes, and why ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Only that he obeys a sudden call. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Mostyn.] You have not told him 
 
 MOSTYN. [Motioning Winifred to silence. \ 
 
 Only that I start 
 To-night, and that my business leaves no choice. 
 
 NORMAN. [Aside, rising and sauntering towards the 
 
 window.] 
 
 She should command me wholly, and she shall ; 
 But why must she be nodded into silence ? 
 
186 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Mostyn.~\ May he not know 1 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 'Twould give him pain. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Why so? 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I may not tell you. Talk of other matters. 
 He'll follow where you lead. 
 
 WINIFRED. [To Norman, who reseats himself.] 
 
 You still are eager, 
 Still constant in your study of the drama ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 I see these foreign fellows now and then. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 That's what I mean ; that gallant company 
 Of artists teach us something more than art ; 
 They show us on the stage what may be wrought 
 By sympathy, and mutual help, and fairness ; 
 In short, by human brotherhood. 
 
 (\4side.] Dead silence ! 
 A poet in the dumps might sink a ship. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 187 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 They should have stopped at home, for none can teach 
 
 Or learn such things in London, where each man 
 
 Fears to be trampled in the crowd, and rends 
 
 His throat with cries to mark his whereabout. 
 
 Our life is lyrical, and not dramatic. 
 
 I own some pity for our money'd fools 
 
 Who throw their thousands in the mud, and struggle 
 
 To rise upon the heap, and thence proclaim 
 
 Their rescued individuality. 
 
 Their cry is human. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 [To Winifred.] Keep him on this tack, 
 And he will ask no questions. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To MostynJ] You are strange. 
 
 [To Norman.] For all the scornful pity you bestow 
 
 Upon our age's lyric tendencies, 
 
 I know you think that now, as in the past, 
 
 The poetry that moves the world's deep heart 
 
 Must reach its ear as drama. You have said so. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yes, poetry has been a living voice, 
 Whenever it has been a living power. 
 
188 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 It never will be that again. The world 
 Is old and fussy, and it wants to speak, 
 And does not want to hear. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Has it revealed 
 Its' age to you 1 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I judge it by its seeming. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Oh noble judge ! Oh excellent young man ! 
 The world you reckon senile, is a phoenix, 
 That many a time has risen from its ashes, 
 And will again. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 A poet's dream. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Say flatly 
 
 A fool's, men always club the two together. 
 Dreams are for money-grubbers, men who drive 
 Unwholesome trades which else would go unfollowed. 
 A poet's business is to see, not dream. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 189 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 We know too much ; the minds of men are dwarfed, 
 
 Brow-beaten by the growing mountain-ranges 
 
 Of fact that rise above us, and shut out 
 
 The light of Heaven. "We are faint and hopeless, 
 
 Degenerate, like the men who mope about 
 
 The skirts of Chimborazo. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Let them perish, 
 
 Go hang or drown themselves, or just die out, 
 And yield their places to a hardier race ! 
 The Alps and Andes crumble, and the Earth 
 A pebble long abraded by the waves 
 Of Time is wearing smooth ; but the wide world 
 Of thought is plastic still, is young, is growing ; 
 Is throwing up new continents to range, 
 Vast summits glorious to climb ; our powers 
 Grow with the tasks they tackle ; we are rising 
 With our surroundings. Honoured be our day, 
 For all the patient workers who cast up 
 Those mountains that you say obscure the Sun ; 
 The time is not far off when daring spirits 
 Poets to match those toilers in the dark 
 Will stand upon their crowns, and shout the news, 
 
190 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 The latest news from heaven, to the crowd 
 Awaiting them below. [Rises. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Rising too.] 
 
 When that day comes, 
 The voice I hope to hear will be familiar. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 For in it you will find your own again. 
 
 You have not heard it yet ; I have but dallied 
 
 Upon the fringes of the snow, and made 
 
 Toys of the flowers I found there. I might say 
 
 Had flapped some ineffectual wings of song, 
 
 If wings pertained to creatures of the fancy 
 
 So poor in essence, maugre cheap perfection 
 
 Of borrowed form, and surface iridescence. 
 
 These foreign growths that trail their limbless length 
 
 Over our pages, smooth, invertebrate, 
 
 Are of base order; they would lose no life 
 
 Nor anything of nobler form, bisected 
 
 Like earthworms by the spade. For all their grace 
 
 I hold them creeping things. I now * unpack ' 
 
 My heart of ' stuff' that might wax ' perilous,' 
 
 Hoping to find the world that lends its ear 
 
 To such, will hearken when a weightier theme 
 
 Is borne by me aloft. These lays of mine 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 191 
 
 Which men think fit to take into their mouths 
 As olives after meat, it's clear that no one 
 So much as dreams of in his bill of fare ; 
 All know that souls are fed on stronger stuff. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 Be just to beauty. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Beauty but skin deep ? 
 
 Beauty of borrowed pigments ? What we want 
 Is nobler life within. Like happiness, 
 Beauty is found of those who seek it not. 
 It asks wide passage ; is a dainty sprite 
 That baffles overmuch of observation ; 
 And we, word-mongers, who would set it tasks, 
 Keep it the prisoner of our base self-love, 
 When most we think it ours are mostly mocked ; 
 It passes out, and leaves our empty labours 
 Just dusted with the glory of its wings. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 So jealous of pursuit ? Is there no way 
 To win this Ariel's service ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 We may widen 
 The gates of life, the everlasting doors, 
 
192 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 That so the kingly spirit of Art may enter ; 
 
 And beauty is his body of revelation. 
 
 We think we worship relics which bear witness 
 
 To such a presence in the Classic Past ; 
 
 Vain boast ! Our cult is mere idolatry ; 
 
 Those forms to us are stocks and stones ; if shells, 
 
 The life has left and shut the door for us. 
 
 We praise the work, but half deny the worker, 
 
 Seeing what cunning craft is ours unaided. 
 
 We praise the work, and in our hearts believing 
 
 Our better skill, we take it home, and varnish ! 
 
 Our priests of culture make their genuflexions 
 
 Before those deep sea cockles, but they win 
 
 Small grace of them. I too have knelt, and sought 
 
 Morning and night in reverent contemplation 
 
 Their secret of perfection. I have seen 
 
 That much of them in silent hours like these, 
 
 That never will I touch palate or pen 
 
 To follow with my humbler means the great ones 
 
 Who wrought these moulds which now are filled with 
 
 Wanting the impulse of a living thought ! 
 Pray, pardon this taxation of your time ; 
 I keep you. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 We are glad to be so kept. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 193 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I have to leave you, though, to throw together 
 The few effects I need. You'll still be here 
 In half-an-hour ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Scarcely. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Then, farewell, 
 Until we meet again. [Exit Mostyn* 
 
 NOEMAN. 
 
 Farewell. [To Winifred.] You saw 
 Too clearly how this disappointment touched me ; 
 I thought to-morrow to have made a day 
 Of time eternal ; to have drunk a draught 
 So deep, so plugged all senses with content, 
 That I should never thirst or hunger more. 
 The white swan-feathers drifting down the stream 
 Would not have been more aimless. I have lost 
 A day in heaven, a day without a morrow. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Well for the day ; how very poor and pale 
 
 It might have looked, beside your glowing picture ! 
 
194 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I have known days that kept their promise richly. . 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [\4sic?e.] The ground grows dangerous. 
 
 [To Nor man J\ I'll look you out 
 Those Tryads of our ancient Bards ; you said 
 You wished to see them. They are here ; I have 
 A page or two to finish ; we can bear 
 Each other silent company ; our friendship, 
 I think, is equal to the test. 
 
 [Puts the book into his hand, and pointing to a 
 distant chair, seats herself at a writing-table. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 All tests! 
 I speak of mine. [Aside.] And spoke too soon of 
 
 friendship, 
 
 Which is a mask of love, her every breath, 
 Or but the air she stirs in passing near, 
 Could shatter, if I did not hold it firm. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Aside, preparing to write.] 
 
 I never knew till now the intimate charm 
 Of comradeship like this ; now, when I sit 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 195 
 
 Calmly at work, as if the man before me 
 Were such a household thing as Mostyii is. 
 
 NORMAN. [Who has furtively drawn his chair to where 
 he can see Winifred reflected in the mirror .] 
 
 She shines from out the mirror like a star, 
 And gazing thus unseen, I dare to pasture 
 My eyes upon her, and to breathe unheard 
 The hungry love that wastes my heart of flesh. 
 Fair Winifred ! well named, since to possess you 
 Were in this world to win the peace of heaven ; 
 And even thus to love you, barred of hope, 
 Is purifying pain. The heavens themselves 
 Are not so eloquent of light and law, 
 As this white soul that takes its radiant course 
 About an unknown centre, and withholds 
 My life, and others that attend on hers, 
 From drifting into darkness. Oh my love ! 
 Yes, I will breathe my secret to her image, 
 She near, but all unwitting, to her image, 
 Her sacred image in the golden frame, 
 Which shrines and cuts it off" from me. Dear Saint ! 
 I lay my heart and all its silent worship 
 Low at your feet ; I may not offer it. 
 Would it could something serve you; its desires, 
 o 2 
 
196 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Subdued, should make a carpet for your tread, 
 Should bend as rushes to your maiden will. 
 How calm she is ; she does not feel the waves 
 That break so near her. 
 
 [Winifred shades her eyes with her hands. 
 
 See, she veils her eyes, 
 
 To make a twilight for her thoughts, and leaves 
 The world eclipsed ; me waiting in the dark. 
 
 WINIFRED. [StiM shading her face.] 
 
 I cannot write ; I know not whence it comes ; 
 The air has grown electrical, the charm 
 Of mute companionship becomes too keen ; 
 At first, it seemed the odour of a flower 
 Breathed but in passing ; now it penetrates, 
 Makes faint the sense as with the malediction 
 Of dying blossoms crushed by ruthless fingers. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 So near my love you seem, and are so far. 
 Could we but meet a moment, not like sea 
 And shore, but like two waves brought face to face, 
 Bounding with equal impulse each towards each, 
 Mingling and breaking, mingling for a second, 
 Oh God, a second of Thy seons of time ! 
 Could we so meet as in some truer world, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 197 
 
 Some world that knows of no constraint but love, 
 Meet, mingle, eye to eye, and heart to heart, 
 My life might fall to ruin as the wave, 
 Rounding itself, grown perfect, breaks and parts ; 
 One moment of pure being wherein our souls 
 Should orb themselves, I ask no more of time 
 But this, just this. 
 
 [Norman rises ; Winifred lets fall her hands, and 
 their eyes encounter in the glass. 
 
 [Aloud.] Oh Heaven, my love, -just this ! 
 
 [Winifred rises, still gazing at Norman in the 
 mirror. He turns, and faces her. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You called, 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 My love ! you answer to the name ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, Norman. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Ah, you answer ! 
 
 WINIFRED. [Turning.} 
 
 You compel me. 
 
 f They join each other. Norman drops on one knee. 
 *o3 
 
198 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 We are not dreaming ? No, I hold your hand. 
 This is the solid earth we stand upon. 
 Oh, tell me what I dare not ask. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I no! 
 
 [Norman springs towards her. She piiskes kirn away. 
 I have not said the word, I dare not say it ! 
 Pity me, and forget me, I was mad. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Not mad love, but I saw your soul unveiled, 
 And what it told me I can dare repeat. 
 You love me ! But my love is such sheer flame 
 You cannot bear it, and you seek to hide 
 Yourself, as seraphs hide who stand wing-folded 
 Before the face of God. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, Norman, help me ! 
 I have undone myself ; my life and love 
 Are not my own. I gave them long ago 
 As offerings to the living, and, the dead 
 And from the dead we cannot take again. 
 But see how weak I am ! I almost told 
 My love unasked. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 199 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Now tell it at my prayer ; 
 Come, crown me with my name upon your lips. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 O Norman, could we dare to live a moment, 
 Just one before we died to joy for ever ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 They cannot die to joy who live to love. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 But we must die to love. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 When love is dead. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, treacherous Love, that parts us ; we have spoken 
 Words neither can forget. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 They will sustain us 
 
 Till our beleaguered souls have got release.* 
 Such utter love as this of mine I think 
 Could send warm waves throughout the universe, 
 And thrill with happy life the slumbering germs 
 Of some unpeopled star. Oh, Winifred, 
 Say once, but once you love me ! 
 
200 , THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Ah, no more ! 
 
 Do not abuse the strength that makes me weak. 
 Help me against yourself. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Alas ! our doom 
 
 Has parted so our lives, there is no need. 
 Heaven lies before us, but we dare not enter. 
 We saw it in a glass, a wonderland, 
 And turning found it here ; but still the gate 
 Is guarded, life's long labour lies without. 
 Our love flashed forth a moment and might make 
 Havoc where all was peace, but we will hide it 
 Yes, hide it as the jealous earth its jewels ; 
 I will not stir it, touch it with a word ; 
 I'll pluck my eyes out, if their fires should vex you. 
 One cry broke forth as from another world, 
 My love will never dare to speak again ; 
 I am a nameless man 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You nameless 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yes,- 
 The name the world has noted is not mine. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 201 
 
 The one that fell to me was overlaid 
 
 With such base coinage that well, well, no more ; 
 
 You would not blush for me But no, not now ; 
 
 It is enough that we are doubly parted. 
 
 To you I consecrate my life, my youth, 
 
 With all its stormy elements, its heat 
 
 Of blood and brain \ all shall be tame before you ; 
 
 You shall subdue them to your temperate will, 
 
 But do not banish me. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, we will keep 
 
 True to ourselves, and all things still shall seem 
 As heretofore between us ; we will meet, 
 And talk, and part as friends, unmated helpmates. 
 But leave me now ; I need to find my place 
 In life again ; this gleam has blinded me, 
 But only for a moment ; soon the path 
 Will show the clearer for it. Go, farewell. 
 
 [Norman half raises his arms, then lets them fall. 
 No, if you love me, leave me to myself ; 
 I lay my first command upon you, leave me. 
 
 [They look silently upon each other. Winifred 
 extends her hand, which Norman takes sub- 
 missively, and they part in silence. Exit 
 Norman. 
 
202 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Alone.] 
 
 Dear God, what is the value of the prize 
 
 For which I barter life, my life and his ? 
 
 A name, which lacking he can yet be nobler 
 
 Than kingly titles ever made a man. 
 
 A breath, a word from dying lips, a wish 
 
 That may have perished ere the lips that spoke it. 
 
 For this I crucify true love, love dear 
 
 As water to the desert wanderer, 
 
 Love rightful as the light of day, almost 
 
 As needful as the breath of heaven. How changed 
 
 My mind and thoughts ! a sudden breeze of passion 
 
 Has blown upon my stagnant life, and lo ! 
 
 It drifts from all its moorings. I must find 
 
 My purpose and myself. Help me, oh mother ! 
 
 [Exit Winifred. 
 
 MOSTYN. [Looking in at the door, after a paitse.] 
 
 She is not here ; you need not fear to meet her. 
 One word, I hope this will not part true friends. 
 
 He-enter NORMAN. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 As such, she suffers me ; I had not dared 
 
 To ask for more ; my love broke bounds unbidden. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 203 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 You will forgive her, Drayton 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Let me go ! 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Her pride 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I did not ask its sacrifice ; 
 Do not profane her ; she is loftier far 
 Than thought of man could reach her, but by love. 
 I told her that there stood a bar betwixt us, 
 On my side, as on hers. Tell her no more ; 
 I told you all long since, as I felt bound ; 
 No need that she should mix me in her thought 
 With sufferings of the poor she loves so well 
 And usurpation. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 She shall know no more. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I go now. [Exit Norman. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Good-bye, until we meet again. 
 
204 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 I leave in half an hour, and have still 
 Some trifles to arrange. 
 
 [Goes to his own secretary, and writes hastily, 
 then rises, whistling, and catting to his dog. 
 
 Gelert, old dog, 
 
 Where are you 1 At his post beside the river ; 
 Watching as if for wolves. And Winifred ? 
 No one to wish me well upon my way. 
 
 [Exit Mostyn. Jenny, looking in at another door. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 I heard him, Mr. Murdock, not a second 
 
 Agone ; he called to Gelert. I'll go and seek him. 
 
 Enter EGBERT MURDOCK and CARTERET. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Looking furtively round the roomJ\ 
 
 The Fates are with us ; see, the coast is clear. 
 Now for all gifts of cunning, hand, and eye. 
 Her writing-table, by the manuscript ; 
 Then this is his, open, I see, one key 
 Masters the whole. Soh, here I plant my seed. 
 
 [Opening the drawer, and placing the cover of 
 the letter within it. 
 
 To Cass and Co., my father's hand, and dated. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 205 
 
 CARTEEET. 
 
 A Devil's crop will follow. 
 
 EGBERT MUEDOCK. 
 
 No, a harvest, 
 
 Which I shall reap, and you glean after me. 
 Our bread will taste the sweeter for our toil. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You keep the notes. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 I keep the notes to forward, 
 When this has done my bidding ; oh, no fear, 
 I'll clear the premises when all is finished. 
 One who respects his craft will hardly fail 
 To [Listening. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Clean his tools 1 
 
 ROBERT MUEDOCK. 
 
 No, I'll not promise that. 
 But Wynne, he does not come. 
 
 CAETERET. 
 
 We're here too long. 
 
206 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 He's making ready for his journey. See, 
 
 [Looking at frescoes. 
 
 Her portrait ; it is Drayton's work ; that fellow 
 Has caught her spirit or been caught of it. 
 Her beauty and it is her very own 
 That frowns upon us in this vast Brunhilda 
 Is awful as. Medusa ; it might slay 
 A man to look on her, if 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 What? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 No matter. 
 
 And yet this woman's perfect saul could melt, 
 Dissolve in love as wholly as the pearl 
 That made so rich the drink of Anttony ! 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 I hear [Both listening. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Not her. It is but for a day 
 That this will damn him. It's a piece of work 
 Not meant to last, a sort of skeleton key 
 To force her pride, and open me a door. 
 She'll follow him to Wales, to break the blow 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 207 
 
 As it descends on him and all the surer 
 
 That she'll be made to think he's lying sick there. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 That's your infernal sketch, your crude design. 
 I wonder 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Hah ! I wonder, too, how first] 
 This madness seized me. Now I cannot stem it. 
 It sweeps me onward ; steady, I shall steer 
 My course upon it so I keep but cool. 
 She shall not find him, and, she shall find me 1 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You'll want your blinkers. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 True, but she'll be shorn 
 
 Of half her power, thus seeing herself in mine. 
 She does not know Festigniog ; all that part 
 Is strange to her. She must believe him there. 
 I little thought, when taking that old place 
 Upon the banks of Cynfael, it would serve me 
 To fish for such a pearl ! It's muddy work, 
 The trawling ; but the haul is glorious ! 
 I shall be proud of the exploit, when ended. 
 
208 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Hush ! there's a step ! If hers, I cannot face her ; 
 I could not meet her eye with these upon me. 
 Yes, it's her voice ; take them, she comes this way, 
 Take them ! [Trying to force the notes upon Carter et. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Not I. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Take them I say ; I feel 
 A felon. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Tut ! She cannot see through broadcloth. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 The churl ! You will not 1 Then here goes. 
 
 [Hastily rolling the notes in a paper that he takes 
 from his pockety and casting them from the 
 window. 
 
 [Aside.] That brings him 
 To heel again. 
 
 CARTERET. [AghastJ] 
 
 What have you done ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Just flung 
 
 The dirt away to cleanse my hand in case 
 It touches hers. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 209 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You've flung those notes where to ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Listening.] 
 
 Reprieved ! Her voice grows less. Into the river ! 
 Ha ha ! You'd see me drown a man I think 
 With less compunction. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Murdock, you are not safe 
 To go at large. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I'm safe to win the lady ! 
 There's many a prince has spent as big a sum 
 In Roman candles, man, to celebrate 
 A lesser victory ; I've done by water 
 What others do by fire. You look aghast. 
 
 CARTERET. [Hurrying away.] 
 I'm off to have the river dragged. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Waste labour. 
 
 I've lodged that money safe as in the bank, 
 There, in that ivy ; there has come no soul 
 To take or touch it. Hush, here's Mostyn Wynne. 
 * P 
 
210 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Enter MOSTYN. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 I heard that you were here, but I am off 
 In, [Looking at his watch] just five minutes. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I looked in to tell you 
 
 You'll need to make no haste. Your place is filled, 
 And for a week ; I've made all straight for you. 
 I may be following close upon your heels. 
 Commend me to Miss Wynne ; I will not stay. 
 You have [Looks round the room, and lets his eye 
 dwell for a moment on Mostyn's secretary] for- 
 gotten nothing 2 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Only this. [Closes the lid^of the secretary with a snap. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Aside, watching him from 
 the door.~\ 
 
 He locks our hands together. She is mine ! 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 211 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. A Garden on the banks of the Thames, at 
 Fulham, behind the Wynnes' lodgings. Time, 
 evening. Moon and starlight. A light in WINI- 
 FRED WYNNE'S window, of which the blind is 
 drawn down. A man's voice heard, softly singing 
 from on board a boat moored on the river. 
 
 VOICE. 
 
 Fair lamp, that shinest softly on the night. 
 Fair love, that mak'stfor mine a track of light, 
 My soul walks forth as on the sunlit sea, 
 And, passion-tost, is still upheld by thee. 
 
 Enter ROBERT MURDOCH, peering from behind a tree. 
 
 Shine on, unmoved above the wild commotion, 
 Shine as the sun upon the heaving ocean, 
 Shine, sun, until thy beams have quenched the sea, 
 Shine, love, until my heart finds rest in thee! 
 p2 
 
212 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Enter CARTERET. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Hush ! he's still there ; but going. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 All this while? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, curse him. I have waited here in hiding, 
 Not daring to appear ; his gloating eyes 
 Seem to absorb the world, and warn me off it. 
 At length we're quit of him. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Yes, he is gone. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 It should be in this ivy, where I pitched it 
 Hearing her voice. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Murdock, you baffle me ; 
 You cast six thousand pounds as to the winds 
 Because you hear her tread ; this is the madness 
 Of fear, not love. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Come, Carteret, classify 
 This thing hereafter ; help me now to search. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 213 
 
 I took good aim ; it should have fallen here, 
 
 Within these leaves; to think that crack-brained 
 
 minstrel 
 
 Should moor his boat beneath the sycamore 
 And scare us from our search. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 It is not here. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Not here ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 No, gone, clean gone, 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Gone where 1 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Who knows? 
 NotL 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [^sic/e.] I think not. I have watched him closely. 
 [Aloud .] This is a complication. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 I should think so ! 
 Six thousand pounds 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Six thousand feathers, man ! 
 They weigh no more with me ; but some one may 
 
214 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Have lighted on it, who may make it known, 
 And so defeat my plan. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Six thousand pounds ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Have done with that ! You will not fare the worse. 
 
 If this gets wind But that by Heaven it shall not ! 
 
 I will outdo the wind, by Jove, or turn it ! 
 
 I want two days, no more. They can't make known 
 
 A thing by proclamation here in London. 
 
 What are you digging for 2 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 I was not digging. 
 What's now to do? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Well carry out my purpose ; 
 Get to Festigniog by to-morrow noon, 
 We two. Then send a wire word from thence 
 Which fetches her, with tidings that her brother 
 Is hiding there, and sick ; she'll move at that. 
 Then, even should this paper have been found 
 By any in the house, and so confuse 
 The working of my sum, one-half would still 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 215 
 
 Hold good. I'll give her hospitality 
 To-morrow night, whether she will or no. 
 And it shall cost her dear, if dear she hold it 
 To take the hand I offer her. Her pride 
 Must drive her to capitulate ; this ermine, 
 So dainty of her whiteness and fair fame, 
 Will take the plunge that rids it of the stain 
 Her strange night's lodging will have fixed on it. 
 I have her fast. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Murdock, what is your hate, 
 If this you call your love ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Still classifying. 
 
 My love is such, that I would liefer drown her 
 Here in the Thames, than she should make the joy 
 Of that mad singer yonder. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 It has cost you 
 Six thousand pounds already. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Come away, 
 
 I will not count the cost, and you cannot. 
 My man has got our baggage at the station. 
 
216 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 You've set your father on the trail ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 I told you. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Wheel within wheel ; but are you sure of him ] 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 He cannot stop, when once you set him rolling. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Then the bomb bursts on her at ten to-morrow 1 
 
 I thought I saw it, then. [Still looking for money. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 'Twas a mirage, 
 Bred of your impecuniosity. 
 But come away from this. Farewell, my lady ! 
 Your light will shine elsewhere to-morrow night. 
 Hush, was not that a sound 1 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Yes, on the water. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Drayton, and he has seen me. Stand aside. 
 
 \Carteret hides behind a tree. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 217 
 
 Enter NORMAN, from the boat. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Who's that in hiding there ? [Seizes him. 
 
 You shall not go. 
 What is your business here ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Lawful as yours is. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Murdock ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [AsideJ] Best satisfy him, he will else 
 Spoil all. [.^Zowd.] I think our business is the same ; 
 It is that light which lures me, Mr. Drayton, 
 As it lures you. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Oh, Murdock, pardon me. 
 I did not know you ; and I know you now 
 In a new character ; you, love Miss Wynne ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 As you do, with no better hope ; we burn 
 Our wings. 
 
218 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 The stars are too far off, and too 
 Beneficent ; they light, and do not burn. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Excuse me, there ; my wings, I fear, are frail. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 And does she know your love ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Not of set speech. 
 Nor yours ? [A pause.] 
 [Aside.] I see ; he does not answer that. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Murdock, I am too poor ; I could not help 
 
 The purpose of her life, and dare not hope 
 
 To hinder it. My views must also keep 
 
 Me clear of fortune, for if I could grasp it 
 
 As who shall say I might not wealth for me 
 
 Would mean pollution. If my hand could hold out 
 
 More than would lay Wynhavod at her feet, 
 
 How could I offer at a shrine so pure 
 
 A tainted sacrifice ? But this to you 
 
 Is meaningless. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 219 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A trifle dark, may be 
 Just from excess of light. But I am off 
 By train. I came to take my dumb farewell. 
 
 [.Kisses his hand at the window. 
 I leave the watch to you. [Exit Robert Murdoch. 
 
 NORMAN. [Alone.] 
 
 He says he loves her. 
 
 'Twere well for him, for you, my love, no matter. 
 Who questions what the sunbeams light upon 1 
 The sun is never shamed. But I mistrust 
 The wolfish face of him. 
 
 [Exit Norman, singing to himself. 
 
 Re-enter CARTERET. 
 
 CARTERET. [Groping.] 
 
 I thought I saw it, 
 Here as they stood together. 'Twas this flint. 
 
 [Flings it at the stem of a tree. A low whistle 
 
 from Robert Murdoch. 
 Coming ! needs must, it is the Devil drives ! 
 
 [Exit Carteret. Norman's voice heard singing, 
 grows fainter and fainter in the distance, as 
 the scene closes. 
 
220 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 SCENE II. In the Garden, as before. Time, morning. 
 WINIFRED and JENNY discovered. The former 
 seated at a table, under a verandah, writing, 
 while boats and barges come and go upon the 
 
 river. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Well, Jenny, is that all ? 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 You've said, Miss Wynny, 
 About the drink got in those lurking-places 
 Sir Pierce has set by every waterfall, 
 And mill, and mine, and quarry, and street-corner? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Yes, Jenny, I have given him your warning. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Then, give him just my blessing, and I'll put 
 A cross again it. Now, write ' Owen Owen ' 
 Upon the cover; now write ' Dwygyfylchi/ 
 Then ' Conway,' that will be shorthand, Miss 
 
 Wynny, 
 For Dwygyfylchi. Will it find him 1 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 221 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 They're calling me. [Exit Jenny. 
 
 WINIFRED. \Alone, reading.] 
 
 1 Jail, Con way ; ' dear old Jenny ; 
 Shorthand, indeed ; poor soul, she does not know 
 The long arm of the Law has hold of him ! 
 Now I shall take these sheets to Mill and Grinder. 
 
 [Folds up MS. 
 Re-enter JENNY. 
 
 I'll post your letter, Jenny, in my walk, 
 I promised you I'd walk 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Yes, in the fields 
 You said to-day ; but there, fine folks are fickle. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 What a sight o' paper you have spoiled ; 
 Surely, Miss Wynny, it's your life you're writing 1 ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, Jenny, dear ; I have no life to write. 
 
222 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 The folks that have could never spare the time. 
 
 I've seen a deal o' life ; but I must go 
 
 Pick those black-currants, or you'll have sore-throats 
 
 And won't have jelly and the lavender, 
 
 I must be tying that, or you'll have linen, 
 
 And naught to sweeten it ! You'll see life too, 
 
 And life enough ; it mostly comes with marriage. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Then it will never come for me. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 That means 
 The right man has not come to offer it. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 It means just this, that if in days long hence, 
 When time has robbed me, as it robs the best, 
 I ever shall be free to give myself, 
 
 The gift will be too worthless for my granting. 
 
 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Leave those that ask the gift to judge o' that. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, I must go full-handed, or stand back 
 For ever. 
 
THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 223 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 There spoke pride, Miss Wynny. Yours 
 Will eat your heart out, ere 'tis done with you. 
 
 [Exit Jenny. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 So let it. I shall need it all to hold 
 My purpose fast, and I will feed it well. 
 Yes, it shall eat my heart, this pride of mine, 
 If nothing less suffice. But I was wrong. 
 I have a life, a life that overflows, 
 Whose tide is at the spring. The work is hard 
 That goes against its stream. But I have sworn, 
 If only to myself, still to myself ; 
 And shall I hold that self, crowned with his love, 
 So poor a thing, that I break faith with it 
 Unblushingly, because it had no witness ? 
 Nay, rather break my heart, if it be made 
 Of such slight stuff. But wherefore talk of breaking ? 
 Both heart and faith will hold until this purpose, 
 Grown dear with sacrifice, is consummated, 
 And two young Wynnes have won back old Wynhavod. 
 
 [Exit Winifred. 
 
 Re-enter JENNY, with a tray and basin. 
 
 JENNY. 
 I'll pick the currants here, and watch the sun 
 
224 THE WYNNES OP \VYNHAVOD. 
 
 At work upon the lavender. He gives 
 Such cheery help, and livens up old bones. 
 
 [Voice approaching from the water, singing words 
 
 of song as before. 
 
 That's Mr. Drayton's voice ; he takes no thought 
 More than the birds, but spends his life a-singing. 
 A little share of Master Mostyn's work 
 Would sort his rhymes with reason. Rhymes may 
 
 jingle, 
 
 They won't buy house or land ; what's wanted here 
 Is money. 
 
 Enter NORMAN at the garden gate. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Your young lady is within ? 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 No, Sir, she takes her morning exercise. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 And you her place the while. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 No, Sir, I know 
 My own too well. That is Miss Wynny's chair. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Of which she makes a throne. I called to tell her 
 A thing I chanced to see last night, but which 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 225 
 
 Is scarcely worth her hearing ; I will write 
 A line and leave it ; you will give it her. 
 
 [Feds in his pocket for paper, and brings out a 
 
 roll, of which he takes off the wrapper. 
 [Aside J] I thought to show her I could keep my 
 
 pledge, 
 
 Present a placid surface, though the storm 
 Had stirred the depths so newly ; it is well 
 The trial should stand over till to-morrow, 
 Her empty place seems yet too full for me. 
 
 [Writes on the paper cover, having let fall the roll 
 of notes. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Here is your money, Sir. 
 
 NORMAN 
 
 What money 1 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Notes, ' 
 A sight o' them ; you dropped them from that paper. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Notes in this paper ? 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 In deed, an' truth they were, Sir. 
 
 NORMAN 
 
 One thousand pounds ! two, four, six What is this ! 
 * n 
 
226 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 A deal o' cash to carry in your pocket ! 
 
 NORMAN. [Speaking to himself.] 
 
 I think my father thinks my poverty 
 Is a blind beggar that will take all gifts 
 Absolved of gratitude. This comes from him ; 
 But how 1 
 
 JENNY. 
 It's been in water. 
 
 NORMAN, 
 
 Hah, and here 
 
 Are dints of teeth dog's teeth, I see. 'Twas Gelert,- 
 Yes, it was Gelert brought them to the boat. 
 He swam to me, this roll within his mouth ; 
 And as I take each stick or straw he brings me, 
 Feigning to prize it, just to pleasure him, 
 Because, poor brute, he pants to pleasure me, 
 I put them here ; so, but for that, this treasure, 
 By whomsoever lost, would now be pulp, 
 Floating upon the Thames. 
 
 [Meditating.] Now, what to do ? 
 A child astray, we ask it where it dwells ; 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 227 
 
 Good ; to the Bank, where money is at home. 
 This for Miss Wynne. [Giving it to Jenny. 
 
 [Aside.] For her in unknown cypher. 
 [Exit Norman. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Verses, again ; he needs must sing on paper ; 
 It wants no English to know rhyme from reason. 
 
 [Door-bell rings. Exit Jenny into the house. 
 
 Re-enter JENNY, with MR. MURDOCK and SIR PIERCE 
 THORNE. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 If you've a mind to wait, it's pleasanter 
 Here in the garden. My young lady, Sir, 
 Is gone to take her airing ; Mr. Mostyn 
 Is on a journey. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Ha ! Is on a journey 1 
 D'ye know where to ? 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 I think to his estates 
 
 In Wales, but all was done in such a hurry, 
 I scarce know where he is, or where I am. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. [Low, to Sir P. ThorneJ\ 
 
 A sudden evil impulse. 
 
 Q2 
 
228 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 SIR PIERCE 
 
 His estates 
 In Wales, if he could pocket them, perhaps ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, we will wait. Miss Wynne will not be long 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 No, Sir, for she's on foot, by doctor's orders. 
 Gelert is with her. [Aside."] He's not like to think 
 Gelert a dog. He'll take him for her footman. 
 
 \Exit Jenny into the house. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK 
 
 He would be off, of course, but we shall gather 
 Somewhat from her. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No doubt. I'll watch her closely. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 I count on that. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 How came this thing to light ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. [Looking round, and speaking lowJ\ 
 An accident, an open drawer ! the cover 
 Addressed to * Cass and Co.,' lying within 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 229 
 
 My son, no word of this. He left last night. 
 
 It was a shock, an unexpected shock. 
 
 He could not face it, they were friends of his ; 
 
 But duty, and besides, six thousand pounds ! 
 
 He came to me [Pausing, and looking round. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 He came to you ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 He came 
 
 And asked me, by the way, as it would seem, 
 If we had sent, within this day or two, 
 Remittances to Cass and Co., New York. 
 I said we had, but what of that. He turned, 
 And walked uneasily a pace or two ; 
 Then summoned resolution, and came back 
 And asked still loth to look me in the face 
 By whom the parcel had been sent to post 1 
 When I said Wynne had taken it, I knew 
 Some doubt was stirred ; I saw him start ; but still 
 I had hard work to worm it out of him, 
 But I have dealt with men before to-day. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 He knows your errand here 1 ? 
 
230 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Oh, yes ; he knows 
 All, to the hour ; 'tis a large sum to lose. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Poor Wynne ! A vain, mad boy; his folly soon 
 Has landed him in crime. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 His dream, I'm told, 
 Was to get back Wynhavod ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Yes, from me ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 It was that dreani that tempted him. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 Exactly. Six thousand pounds it cost me, farm and 
 
 homestead ; 
 
 It scarcely paid the mortgage, but you see 
 The sum has fitted roundly in his dream. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Yes, it is strange. He worked so hard ; and how 
 Could he avail himself when all was done ? 
 
THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 231 
 
 SIB PIERCE. 
 
 Mad, mad ! all boys are mad, in these mad days. 
 I know it, to my cost ; all mad, all moon-struck ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 I think my son is sane. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Yes, you are happy. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Miss Wynne will soon be here. We must be firm. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You think she's in his secret ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Would be, surely. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 I wonder if she's clever as an actress 1 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 That's to be seen. I wish it were well over. 
 They say she's handsome. 
 
 SIR PIERCE, 
 
 Have you never seen her? 
 
 *Q4 
 
232 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Never. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Nor I. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 We must not let that weigh. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No, straight to the point. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Yes, yes, I'll tackle her, 
 You'll see. It's painful, so are many things ! 
 It's better to be sudden, to surprise her, 
 Leave her no time for Here she is. 
 
 Enter WINIFRED, ly garden. MR. MURDOCH and 
 SIR PIERCE loth stand back. 
 
 BOTH. [Bowing.] 
 
 Good morning. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Regarding them.] 
 To whom have I the pleasure? 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 You will know 
 My name, if not myself 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 233 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Your name is ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Murdock. 
 
 My business here Allow me to present 
 
 My friend, Sir Pierce ; you know his name, too, 
 Thorne. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I naturally know both names ; your own, 
 Not only as a name, but as a power. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Which I would always have you feel benign. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I have been satisfied to think it just. 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Untempered justice would be But you know 
 
 I am not here to speak of abstract justice, 
 
 [Winifred bows. 
 Nor any generalities. I come 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You come 1 
 
234 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 I need not tell you 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Pardon me. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 You know my errand ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, not quite. 
 
 [MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 You guess it 1 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 1 hardly feel it worth the while to guess, 
 Seeing that you are on the way to tell it. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 [To Sir Pierce.] You try her, Thorne, you have not 
 spoken yet. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You're well aware that that mad boy I hear of 
 As being in Flintshire tho' I doubt the fact 
 Has gone 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, tell me what you know of him ! 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 We rather wished to hear what you might know. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 235 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Nothing, but that he did this grievous thing 
 Unwittingly, unthinking, overtaken 
 
 ME. MURDOCK. [Eagerly.] 
 You grant he did it ] 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 He was not himself. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 The law will hardly 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, the law is cruel ; 
 
 But you, Sir Pierce, who know him, you, who hold 
 His fate within your hands 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You over- rate 
 
 My power ; this foolish boy has done has done 
 What lays him open 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Yes, I know, his sentence 
 Could it be transportation ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. [Low, to Sir Pierce.] 
 She knows all. 
 
236 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Sir Pierce.] But you will hear me plead for him, 
 
 he was 
 
 My playmate when a child. No claim on you, 
 But such a claim on me as must excuse 
 My urgency ; he is so young, has worked 
 So gallantly j he comes of such a stock, 
 So faithful, so devoted, and has been 
 A credit to his kin, until temptation 
 Undid him. Oh ! Sir Pierce, you must forgive me, 
 Temptation which he owes to you as owner 
 Of that which once was ours ; you, who have brought 
 This evil on him, will not let it crush him ; 
 I^e for him, not against him, in this matter. 
 Have you a son ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 And if I have, what then ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 He might be far away from you, be left 
 Without your counsel, have to struggle singly 
 Against the world, and all that threatens youth ; 
 This boy I call my brother was so left ; 
 Think of your son as he might be, so lonely, 
 So friendless, and so fallen. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 237 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Lucifer, 
 
 Who fell, was not so proud as is my son ; 
 But he is firm, and. hard as rock. / suffer. 
 
 WINIFRED 
 
 I have been indiscreet ; my words were arrows 
 Aimed at a venture. You are moved, you feel, 
 And will have mercy. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Such a voice might move 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 [To Sir Pierce.] Is this your firmness ? 
 
 [To Winifred.] This is not a matter 
 For feeling, but for duty to dispose of. 
 Sir Pierce is my good friend, but I can heed 
 No counsel and no pleading in this case. 
 The offence is far too grave, a breach of trust, 
 A felony so daring 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Felony ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, felony, what else but felony ? 
 The theft of such a sum 
 
238 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Did you say theft 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 I did say theft ; had I said robbery, 
 Would that have made it better ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 O poor Jenny ! 
 
 Shame, shame for her; the thought will be her 
 death ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 What does this mean ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You'll let me break it to her ? 
 Poor Jenny ! poor, poor mother ! she so proud, 
 So fond of him ; you'll let me break it to her. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Break what, to whom ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 She's mad, too, like the rest, 
 All mad together, boys and girls, stark mad. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Being so poor, you think she will not feel 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 239 
 
 The sting of the disgrace ; but she will feel it, 
 Will die of it, I fear. You'll let me tell her 
 As gently as such horror may be told ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 I cannot follow you. Who must be told 1 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 The mother of this wretched boy. She knows 
 Nothing of what has happened. We ourselves 
 Believed him guilty but of some assault, 
 A party in a drunken fray. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 There is 
 
 Confusion here. We speak of Mostyn Wynne, 
 Your brother. [A pause. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 What of him ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 [To Sir Pierce.] I cannot tell her ! 
 She does not know. There has been some mistake. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 An accident ! My brother ! He is killed ! 
 I see it in your faces ! 
 
240 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 No, not killed. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 But injured maimed ! Oh, let me go to him ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Not maimed. No accident. 
 
 WINIFRED 
 
 You torture me ! 
 Speak out ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 You thought him dead. He is not dead 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Not dead, not injured ! What, then, is to tell 
 Or hear that needs such fencing ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Nerve yourself; 
 
 A sum in notes committed to his charge 
 A heavy sum your brother has found means 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Found means ! My brother 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Pardon me the pang 
 I must inflict ; the cover has been traced to 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 241 
 
 Been seen in his possession, he is gone ; 
 He could not brave it out ; the evidence 
 Is dead against him. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I am dull, I think ; 
 
 Pray put your meaning into plainest words, 
 As brutal as you will, but short and plain. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 If you must have it so, we think your brother 
 Has robbed the Bank of several thousand pounds, 
 And we are here to search for further proof. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I see it Mostyn Wynne, then is the THIEF ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 The word is yours, not ours ; but help ! 
 
 SIR PIERCE, 
 
 Miss Wynne 
 Is fainting. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Waving them off.] 
 No, no ; stand away ! 
 
 MR. MURDOCK and SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Help, help i 
 
 R 
 
242 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Enter JENNY, from within. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Dear heart ! she's dead ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Not dead, nor like to die, 
 Having outlived the bludgeons of these men. 
 Take, take these keys; show them the house, the 
 
 drawers, 
 
 His desk, that opens it. These gentlemen 
 Are, are detectives,, searchers. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 [Aside.} Aye, for those notes ! 
 She does not know, and I had best be dumb. 
 
 [Exeunt Jenny, Mr. Murdoch, and Sir Pierce, into 
 the house. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Alone.] 
 
 Theft, robbery ! No, we must punish this. 
 How will these wretches face me when they come 
 Shamed from their bootlass search? What do they 
 
 seek? 
 
 Can they believe a thief would leave his plunder 
 Behind him in his den ? Oh, poverty, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 243 
 
 We thought you had no sting ; but insult, outrage, 
 These are your kin ! 
 
 Re-enter MR. MURDOCH, SIR PIERCE, and JENNY. 
 Well, have you done, so soon ? 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 Alas ! it was not far to seek ; this proof 
 Is damning. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Seizes and examines the half-torn cover.] 
 Proof! 
 
 MR. MURDOCH. 
 
 Yes, proof; the proof we sought, 
 Forgotten in his haste ; the slender clue 
 That binds together criminal and crime. 
 It seems a law of ill that it should leave 
 Some tell-tale on its track ; the deepest plots 
 Have failed from some such 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Hah ! it is a plot ; 
 
 Whose plot, and to what end, remains to see, 
 Some proof of that will not be far to find ! 
 Now, if your work is done, I'll thank you, gentlemen, 
 To leave me, since my work should now begin. 
 
 *R2 
 
244 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 I beg you to believe, my dear young lady 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Nothing that you can show or say ; my thoughts 
 Are busy ; give them room, that they may work. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK, 
 
 We grieve 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Our hearts are wrung 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Comfort each other, 
 
 I have no time to hear or soothe your sorrows. 
 But if you pity me, you waste your pity ; 
 If you would blacken him, waste villainy. 
 We Wynnes have been a fighting race ; a blow 
 Aimed at our honour calls to active life 
 The spirits of the heroes of our line. 
 You see us two alone and poor, and think 
 That you may trample us. I tell you no ; 
 A thousand voices call aloud in us, 
 Our hearts are quickened, and our hands are nerved 
 As by an unseen army ; we have backers 
 That you know nothing of; the mire, the lies, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 245 
 
 You cast at us defile your hands, but leave 
 Those spotless you insult, but cannot shame. 
 
 MR. MURDOCK. 
 
 We take our leave ; you make our duty hard. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 [^sicfe.] / feel the felon. 
 
 [To Winifred.] Should you ever need 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, never ! 
 
 [JZxit Mr. Murdoch and Sir Pierce. 
 
 Jenny, these are stirring times. 
 Mostyn went yesterday, and now to-day 
 I needs must follow after ; this is news 
 That, coming unawares, might, stagger him. 
 Then, he has work in Wales he cannot leave 
 Unfinished, and we must confer together 
 While he is free ! Who knows what they may dare 
 To do with him ? but only for a while. 
 Hah ! we shall have reprisals. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 [Aside.} Shall I tell her ? 
 Oh, Gelert, that I were but dumb like you ! 
 I know not if to hold or loose my tongue. 
 
246 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Nay, I'll say naught, but try what this will say, 
 Here is a paper left by Mr. Drayton. 
 
 WINIFEED. [Takes paper J\ 
 
 I know that name ; but none who live outside 
 The circle of my thought can live for me. 
 
 [Looking at paper. 
 
 He sang this at my window, not last night, 
 No, ages long ago, when there were stars. 
 
 [Beading, with emotion. 
 * Fair lamp, that shinest softly on the night, 
 
 Fair love, that mak'stfor mine a track of light ' 
 
 [Lays down the paper. 
 
 No more ; one day I gave away my heart ; 
 Now, I must have it back, for I may need 
 To use it roughly, as we can our own ; 
 Perhaps to give it to redeem our name. 
 We Wynnes can suffer any loss but honour, 
 As we can carry any load but shame. 
 
 Enter Servant, with telegram. 
 
 But what is this 1 A message, and from Wales. 
 
 [Reads hastily. 
 
 This news has been before me; he is sick 
 No wonder sick, and at Festigniog ! 
 How comes he at Festigniog 1 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 247 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 the day ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 There was some mystery with him I loved. 
 My brother would not tell him where he went. 
 That's nothing ! Just a passing mist, no more, 
 Which Mostyn's truth looks through, and shines the 
 
 whiter. 
 
 But he is sick, and at Festigniog, 
 To-night I shall be at Festigniog too, 
 And well enough to make it ill for them 
 Who think to blight our hope and blot our fame. 
 There, Jenny, cease to wring your hands ; I feel 
 The battle-lfever on me. You must be 
 My henchman ; come, and arm me for the fight. 
 You shall be Glauce, I am Britomart, 
 My brother Satyrane ; we'll overthrow 
 Liars and lies ! I feel my courage rising 
 As flames from pitch ! Now to Festigniog ! hah ! 
 Tis well this came to guide my course. Festigniog ! 
 [JZxeunt Winifred and Jenny. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
248 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ACT IY. 
 
 SCENE I. An Entrance Hall in Robert Murdoch's 
 Place, near Festigniog. A billiard table at the 
 side, to the left of the spectator. An old ,carved 
 oak cupboard or armoury to the right. Deeply 
 embrasured window at the back of the stage, with 
 a view of distant mountains and the drive winding 
 through the grounds. A round table with books 
 and papers. 
 
 EGBERT MURDOCH, CARTERET, CROSS, and PAYNE. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 Seventy to ninety-two, the game's a hundred. 
 Now, Murdock, come ; the balls are waiting you ; 
 There's eight to make. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I see my way to make it ; 
 If at a stroke, I'll count it for an omen. 
 
 CROSS. 
 Of what ? 
 
THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 249 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Taking deliberate aim.] 
 
 Of luck in fishing, nothing more ; 
 That lovely trout I've angled for so long, 
 If by a screw I touch the white ball there, 
 I'll land that trout to-morrow. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Come, I say ; 
 Your plots are too long hatching. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 Done, by Jove ! 
 CROSS. 
 
 A pretty stroke, a cannon off the red, 
 And both balls pocketed. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 The game is mine, 
 
 And so shall be the trout. You're near the bell, 
 Just touch it, will you 1 \Carteret rings the bell. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 Now, for my revenge ; 
 Come, Murdock, break the balls. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 No, not to-night : 
 
250 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 I am content with fortune, and will rest 
 At one with her. Success is inspiration. 
 
 CROSS. 
 
 What mischief would you have it help you to ? 
 
 EGBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 The capture of the trout I told you of. 
 
 Enter Servant, in answer to bell. 
 Tell Mrs. Price I want to speak with her. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 What, Hecate, your one-eyed housekeeper ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 One eye was one too many in her head 
 When with that one the purblind beldame chose 
 A swaggering young scamp to be her husband, 
 Who'll squeeze the money out of her for drink, 
 And leave her pocket shrunken as her skin. 
 
 CROSS. 
 Hush ! here she comes. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 We'll leave you to your tryst. 
 [Exeunt Carteret, Cross, and Payne. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 251 
 
 Enter MRS. PRICE. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Have you prepared the chamber for the lady 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 Aye, aye ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 The painted chamber ? 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 Yes ; your own. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 It is the best ; I wish to do her honour. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 Well, honour or dishonour, Sir, 'tis ready. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Good ; and you've moved me to the room above 2 
 
 MRS PRICE. 
 
 Your man has moved your clothes there ; 'tis a job 
 Not suited to my time of life. I've got 
 A rnort o' twinges. What with the rheumatics 
 And 
 
252 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 You would say your conscience. Now, look here ; 
 I tell you, if that stings, it stings for nothing. 
 You're welcome to mount guard beside her dcor. 
 This lady seeks her brother at Festigniog ; 
 He is not there. To spare her further trouble, 
 I give her lodging in her own despite. 
 She must not know to whom she is beholden. 
 You can keep counsel. Speech would not be silver 
 To you ; but silence, look you, would be golden. 
 If you still doubt me, and still feel those twinges, 
 Take this, a sovereign cure. Ha ! ha ! [Gives money. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 You make me laugh, Sir, with your pleasant ways. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 [To Mrs. Price.] Tom Price is here. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Without the lady ? 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 The lady's in the trap, Sir, at the gate. 
 [To Mrs. Price.] He wants to speak with you. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 253 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Well, bring him in. 
 Enter TOM PRICE. 
 
 Where is the lady ? 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 In a swound almost. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Where is she swooning 1 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 In the trap. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Where's that 1 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 Fast in a rut, the near hind- wheel nigh off. 
 
 I loosed the pin, Sir, all as you gave orders. 
 
 But had you seen the face of her when first 
 
 I told her what had chanced, I'm bound your honour 
 
 Would let her go her ways, where'er they led to. 
 
 Her brother's sick, and wants her. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 You've been drinking, 
 Or wouldn't talk that way. You'll smart for this. 
 
254 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Fills a glass, and gives it to Tom.] 
 [Aside.] An angler should not shrink from touching 
 
 slime. 
 Here, take that, on the top of all the rest. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 You make him harmless, but my way was better. 
 I should ha' sobered him with fright, and used him 
 To finish up the job. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Safe have, safe hold. 
 
 We're best to keep the babbler here, and send 
 Some stouter heart to fetch the lady in. 
 Go, Frost ; and mind, we have no wheelwrights here ; 
 This house is uninhabited, except 
 By you, and Tom, and Mrs. Price, who keep it ; 
 Go, offer her its hospitality, 
 She'll take it, if you show her that her choice 
 Lies betwixt that and sleeping in the lane. 
 
 [Frost bows and exit. 
 
 Now, Carteret, those fellows must clear out j 
 Get them to go with you ; she's coming, man ; 
 The smoking-room is distant ; take them there ; 
 All must be empty here, empty as air ; 
 This house must seem the heritage of ghosts. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 255 
 
 TOM PRICE. [Maudlin, and almost weeping.~\ 
 
 You'll let me fix the wheel upon the trap, 
 Your honour ? 'Twould ha' cut you to the heart 
 To see her wryig her hands, and they so white, 
 But whiter was her winsome face. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. [Filling the glass.] 
 
 Drink, fool ! 
 Drink to the whey-faced lady ; you're in luck. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, drown him wholly. He is dangerous ; 
 
 And she must see him here, lest she misdoubt 
 
 The trap. [Refills, and gives the glass. 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 To you, Sir, and the pretty lady. 
 She looked a 1-lily with the rain upon her, 
 The rain-drops sparkling in the rising moon. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 Ah, see as many moons as there are stars; 
 We'll soak you soon in liquor till you're blind. 
 Moonlight, indeed ! At night, all cats are grey. 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 I'll drive you, lady, though I beg for it ! 
 
 [Falls on the floor. 
 
256 THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 His tongue is locked. Quick, now, and draw the cover 
 Over the table there. We're barely matched 
 With time. 
 
 [Watching Winifred approach from the window. 
 
 Soh, all is well, the gate now shuts 
 On her ; she little dreams whereto her steps 
 Are leading her, or knows the god who guides them. 
 
 [Exit Robert Murdoch. 
 
 Enter WINIFRED, with FROST. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Festigniog still ten miles ? Well, I can walk it. 
 Where now is he who drove me ? I would give him 
 Three times his fare to put me on my way. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 There lies Tom Price, my husband, pretty lady. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Asleep ? Well, sleep is good, but it comes lightly, 
 It seems to him. You will not mind to wake him ? 
 
 TOM PRICE. [Half rising.] 
 Here, Miss, your servant. Fifty moons or none, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 257 
 
 I'll shift to drive you. There's no man could speak you 
 No fairer now nor that. [Falls back again. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What's this? 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 He's drunk. 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 No, lively, lady ! There's no man 'twixt this 
 And Con way knows this country-side so well, 
 Especially o' nights 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 A thankless sot ! 
 
 Maybe, in fifty years, my boy, they'll haul you 
 Out o' the bog, and show you, fresh as paint, 
 For money, when I'm not at hand to get it. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Oh, I am lost ! 
 
 [To Frost.] You'll point me out the road ? 
 
 FROST. 
 I am a stranger in these parts, young lady. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Mrs. Price.] Well, you could tell the turnings I 
 must take. 
 
 s 
 
258 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 What, in the dark ? Do you, too, want to pickle 
 Your white flesh in the bog ? I'll tell you nought. 
 You'd best come dry yourself before the fire, 
 And take our food and lodging for the night ; 
 We'll turn you out to-morrow. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I must go ! 
 
 I have a brother at Festigniog, who 
 Is sick, and worse than sick, in grievous trouble ; 
 He wants my help. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 There'll come no help for him 
 
 Through you to-night. You'll get no nearer to him 
 By drowning. So, just take a dry night's rest, 
 'Tis better than the river or the bog ; 
 And in the morning early 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 She is right ; 
 
 The deepening night dispenses me of choice. 
 Poor wretch ! you lie beneath our country's curse, 
 And cannot aid me. I will stay, good mother ; 
 Thanks for the offer ; I, in truth, am weary. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 259 
 
 No ; nothing but a bed whereon to rest, 
 And gather strength for better use to-morrow. 
 
 [.Exeunt Winifred and Mrs. Price into the chamber. 
 
 Enter ROBERT MURDOCK, stealthily, by opposite door. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I have you in the pool, my dainty trout ; 
 
 There will be work enough to angle you. 
 
 Strange, how the dark, old place seems sanctified, 
 
 Yes, sanctified, no other word will serve, 
 
 But by her unseen presence ; she has carried 
 
 Her strong, pure purpose through the hall, and purged 
 
 Thereby the air our breathing had made gross. 
 
 Well, her own atmosphere shall compass her ; 
 
 She lies there safe as in her nest at Fulham, 
 
 While I, with baser means so better matched with 
 
 This muddy ball, the earth contrive her will. 
 
 SCENE II. The same. Morning. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Nay, lay no cloth for me, I beg, but give me 
 A crust, and I will eat it by the way. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 Na, na ; sit down, and have a sup o' tea. 
 
 *S2 
 
260 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 The sun is up, I must be off; already 
 
 I think I know the road ; I have been out, 
 
 And tracked it from yon strawberry -covered hill. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 Mad haste, mad waste ; you'll no but lose your time, 
 Unguided. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 There's a house, I think an inn, 
 A mile ahead. I'll steer for that, and thence 
 Make good my further course from point to point. 
 This [giving money] for my lodging and all else, and 
 
 thanks. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 What, going without the crust? [^Iside.] Small hope 
 
 o' catching 
 
 This bird with chaff, but I had best use lime, 
 If she's too lively, [^owd.] 'Tis a good ten mile. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 That's nought, I measure toil with morning strength, 
 And count the gain of it with morning hope. 
 So fare you well. 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 Stay, while I go fetch Tom. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 261 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No need. 
 
 VOICE. [From adjoining room, heard through the half- 
 open doorJ\ 
 
 It was Miss Wynne, I say ; I saw her. 
 Her face is memorable. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 You are reckless, 
 Or worse, to say so. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Who are they who speak, 
 It seems of me ? 
 
 MRS. PRICE* 
 
 The gentlemen came back 
 Last evening, when you were a-bed. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Who came ? 
 
 MRS. PRICE. 
 
 The gentlemen from London. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I was told 
 
 The house was tenantless. One voice of those 
 Seemed Mr. Murdock's. Can the house be his 1 
 
262 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 VOICE. [Still without.] 
 
 I saw her ; well ; I saw her leave your chamber 
 At early dawn. I swear it was Miss "Wynne, 
 The fair recluse of Fulham. Yon deny it. 
 But later on, I met her on the hill ; 
 She all as fresh, the fact as clear as dew. 
 
 ROBEET MURDOCK. [Still without] 
 
 Cross, you shall answer this. 
 
 CROSS. [Stitt without.] 
 
 I think I have. 
 
 I said I saw a face, and whose it was ; 
 What more I told was wrung from me. If you 
 Should doubt my senses, or your own, these others 
 Might ratify the tale of both. The lady 
 Is close at hand. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Mnrdock, you give us leave ? 
 
 [Omnes approach the open door. 
 
 [ROBERT MURDOCK. [With marked distinctness] 
 I give you leave to prove this man a liar ! 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 263 
 
 CROSS. 
 
 This matter cannot end beneath your roof, 
 And shall not. I am off; you'll hear from me. 
 
 [Exit Cross. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Pausing at the door.] 
 Miss Wynne ! ! 
 
 tAYNE. 
 
 The lady of the hill 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 And of 
 The Painted Chamber. 
 
 PAYNE. 
 
 Clear as dew-drops, truly. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] They beat my covert for me, but I hate 
 The hounds that harry her. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 How came you here ? 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 The very question we would turn on you. 
 
264 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Which of yon is the master of this house ? 
 
 To him I would explain the accident 
 
 Which, brought me here, unwitting as unwilling. 
 
 CARTERET. 
 
 Ha, ha ! Come, Murdock, 'tis your cue ; ' unwilling/ 
 Miss Wynne is perfect in her part. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] The brute, 
 
 He overlearns all lessons. [.4 &md.] Go ; no more ! 
 Your shameless thoughts dishonour you. 
 
 [Walking the room as in great agitation. 
 Just Heaven ! 
 
 That thoughts so vile have power to cling, and darken 
 A name as pure of evil as the stars ! 
 Go, leave us, all of you. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Winifred and Robert Murdock. 
 [Aside.] I must be cool. 
 This is the crowning touch of all ; and though 
 I work for both our weals, her presence shakes me. 
 [To her.] I scarcely dare to face you, having brought 
 This wrong upon you, guiltless though I be 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What wrong 7 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 265 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 You kill me with the question. Ah ! 
 You do not know, your high thoughts cannot stoop 
 To measure those of this low world of ours. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I think I must have fallen below the world, 
 
 In these last days. What do you mean 2 Speak out. 
 
 If I am still above the ground, I beg 
 
 Let me see daylight. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 It is this . How tell her ! 
 
 Your lodgment here last night, seen, known of all 
 These idlers of the Clubs, interpreted 
 According to their knowledge of a world 
 Undreamt by you. Oh, pardon me, I show you 
 A Wound you do not feel. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 And scarce believe in ; 
 
 A wound skin-deep, at most. I must be gone ; 
 Last night's adventure has done worse for me 
 Than start vain fears ; it lost me precious hours 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 No ; it has saved you some. I know your errand, 
 
266 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Seeing I know your mind. You seek your brother ; 
 He is at Conway, thirty miles from hence, 
 Not at Festigniog, whither you were bound. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 How can that be 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Believe me, it is so. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What meant that telegram sent from Festigniog ? 
 
 It meant but who may tell the shifts, the turns, 
 
 Of one who flies from 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Let me hear the word. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 It is too bitter. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 For your tongue, or thought ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Oh, for my tongue ! My thought is barred all 
 choice. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 267 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 My tongue is not so dainty. You would say, 
 ' From justice.' 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, from justice. It is cruel ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No ; kind as love, and like it, cannot err I 
 
 He fly from justice, he who at its call 
 
 Is gone to fight its battle now unaided ! 
 
 Mostyn is pure, as I can be no more, 
 
 Pure even of knowledge of the foul abyss 
 
 The thoughts of men may sink to. When he knows it, 
 
 We will return and face them ; they shall see 
 
 That if they force us to the brink of shame, 
 
 They cannot drag us over. But no more. 
 
 Now, tell me how to get to Conway, quick ; 
 
 One word of sober sense a sober brain 
 
 May act on, would do good among these lies. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Alas, you must have patience, you are bound ! 
 No train will leave for Conway these two hours. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 I know the road I came, and go to wait it. 
 
268 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 This haste mends nothing now ; what's done is done. 
 The shadow of the roof that you would fly from 
 Would rest upon you still. Hear me a moment : 
 The love yOu seemed to scorn has never spoken 
 Till now, when it can help you at your need. 
 It has not pleaded for the bliss it craved, 
 But now it asks to stand between the world 
 The false, ill-judging world and that fair fame 
 You hold more dear than life, more dear than love. 
 Accept my faithful service, and my means 
 Of making it availing. On one hand, 
 All evil chances wait you : a proud name 
 Dragged through the Law-Courts, which must mean 
 
 at best 
 
 I say at best defeat of all your hopes. 
 But no, they were no hopes, they were but dreams, 
 And vague as ignorance ; my heart has bled 
 To watch you blunt the bright edge of your youth 
 Against the gold and iron that opposed 
 Your struggles. Now, the Dragon of the Law 
 Stands ready to consume your slow-won gains, 
 And blight as with a breath of pestilence 
 All fields of future effort. You have battled 
 You nobly, Wynne too desperately and failed ; 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 269 
 
 So failed, that failure is the least of all 
 The ills that threaten you. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Enough, no more ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A moment still I pray ; I am your slave, 
 
 Trust me to cut this coil, and do the work 
 
 For which my hands are better armed than yours. 
 
 I hold the golden key you would have toiled for 
 
 Through years of costly sacrifice. No, hear me, 
 
 Let me but see the light of those fair eyes, 
 
 And with one bound I swear to lift you clear 
 
 Of shame and sorrow. If your name has suffered, 
 
 I offer one as high in men's esteem ; 
 
 Take it, and with it love that cannot speak 
 
 It overweights my tongue ; but take my name, 
 
 Take, bear it as my wife, and so uphold 
 
 The fame of yours. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I cannot answer you, 
 
 As one deserves who thinks he could bestow 
 So vast a boon ; pray, pardon me for that ; 
 First, to myself my need seems not so great, 
 And if it were, I'd go a beggar rather 
 Than use your name, upon the poor exchange 
 I have to offer on it. 
 
270 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Let me judge 
 The worth of what you have, and what I lack. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, that must I. My answer is, Farewell. 
 1 stay too long. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 One word, one moment still. 
 Wise as you are, your wisdom is too young 
 To guide you safely in these unknown straits. 
 We'll call your brother true as you are true, 
 I may not judge him ; all this evidence 
 That thickens on him, coupled with his flight, 
 And the strange mystery of it, may be only 
 The work of Chance, that takes him for its foot-ball. 
 But be that as it may, men's minds are still 
 Governed by proof; what, if he be condemned 1 
 The thing my name would shield you from, woul d 
 
 seem 
 The likelier by reflection. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Let me be. 
 You cannot tempt, and only torture me ; 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. '271 
 
 I will not say insult. T do not fear 
 Your world of shadows. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 I must save you, then, 
 In spite of all ; yes, even of yourself ! 
 
 [Attempts to lay his hand upon her wrist. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You shall not. Hah ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 By heaven and earth, I will. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What will you ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Force you to accept the refuge 
 I offer you against the scorn of men. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I answer it with deeper scorn, and you, 
 
 I dare you, as I scorn you, from the height, 
 
 Yes, of my trust in everlasting truth. 
 
 You have no faith in God or man, in Mostyn 
 
 Or me ; the world itself is not so low, 
 
 But you blaspheme it ; him you hold a thief ; 
 
272 THE \VYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 And me a wanton to be bought with bribes, 
 Or a frail coward to succumb to threats 
 More cowardly 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 These blind strokes shall not serve you. 
 Think you if you were drowning, I would spare 
 To make you powerless to subvert my efforts 
 To rescue you ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You threaten force to keep me 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I will release you at a word. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 What word ? 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Your promise to be mine ; to take my name. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Never, while I withstand to take your nature. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 You shall not rush on ruin 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Touch me not ! 
 You will get nothing by your villainy. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 273 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Yes, I shall get the heart of my desire, 
 The thing whereof the hope sustains my life, 
 Which I have wearied for in dreams and waking, 
 Have made my very end and goal of being, 
 Seeking in crooked paths and straight, since first 
 Your vision changed the aspect of the world, 
 You I shall get. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 No, nothing but the husk, 
 The empty shell of me ; and if you crushed it 
 To dust within your grasp, I should elude you 
 Pass forth unspotted from your sin-stained hand. 
 Away ! Help, help ! Is there on earth no pity 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [.d&icfe.] Her cry goes through me as a bird that 
 
 struggles, 
 Unnerves the hand that holds it. 
 
 [To her.'] Do not fear me; 
 I seek your good. I love you. I will make 
 No step more near than this, until you give me 
 The right. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Soh ; hold to that, and let me go. 
 The space between us is impassable. 
 T 
 
274 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I cannot. Do not hate me for my love ; 
 
 I offer more than now you care to take, 
 
 A day will come when you will own its value : 
 
 For you a shield from slander, for your brother, 
 
 Guilty or wronged, protection from the law. 
 
 No, I must speak ! my father would not press 
 
 This suit against the brother of my wife. 
 
 Take thought for him, your brother ; for yourself, 
 
 You may be pitiless, but not of him. 
 
 Give me your hand on that, for love of Mostyn, 
 
 For honour of your name, now doubly blasted, 
 
 And only so to be redeemed. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I will not ! 
 
 Honour is not to be so lost or kept. 
 Hah ! I have learnt by this how vain our pride, 
 How poor our strivings were. If I should bide 
 A year unrescued in this ogre's den, 
 And as I think I shall not bide a day, 
 My honour would be mine unto the end, 
 Undimmed, despite all stains upon the rag 
 Your world knows by the title. It may call me 
 Your paramour, your mistress, or your victim, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 275 
 
 By any name it knows, except your wife ; 
 That is a shame not death shall put on me ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Retreating, and overcome .] 
 
 [.4me.] My weapons cannot reach this Britomart ; 
 She blasts me with her virtue at white heat ; 
 I cower before her. I have sold my sword 
 And sword-craft to the devil, and got cheated ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Let let me go. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I cannot. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Let me go ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 I'll rather let my life. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 You shall not stay me, 
 
 You dare not. Help ! help ! It cannot be 
 That here are none but fiends. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.} With this high soul 
 I'll make the body try conclusions. [.d&mrf.] Lady, 
 
 *T2 
 
276 THE WYNNES OP WYNHAVOD. 
 
 That door is fast : though you are safe within it 
 As in a shrine. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 O God of heaven ! Norman ! 
 [Flies to the window, and tries wildly to open it. 
 
 A figure is seen advancing from without. 
 Ha ! Who is this 1 Himself; he sees me; help ! 
 Help, help, I faint ! 
 
 Enter NORMAN through the window, having staved in 
 the glass. Winifred falls fainting into his arms. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Lie safe, my love ! 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] Lost! Lost! 
 The pangs as of a thousand years of hell 
 Are in this moment. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 [To Winifred.] I have tracked you, found you. 
 
 [To Robert Murdoch.] You'll pay down all that life 
 is worth for this. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Unlocking, and opening wide 
 the door.] 
 
 You think to storm my house. Begone ! No man 
 Bides here against my will. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 277 
 
 NORMAN. [Still supporting the fainting form of 
 
 m 
 
 No house in Britain 
 Holds out the law. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Advancing menacingly .] 
 
 Quit this, or harm will come ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Stand off ; if you but breathe on her you make 
 A step towards death. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Leave go ; she is my charge ; 
 This lady is my wife ; your blundering fury 
 Has brought her to this pass. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Villain, you lie. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 You, man of double names Drayton or Thorne 
 Shall prove that on your life. 
 
 [Opens the armoury, and hastily snatches a brace 
 of pistols, one of which he endeavours to 
 force upon Norman. 
 
 Leave her, I say ; 
 Have done this woman's work ; we're man to man. 
 
278 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Her sense is sealed from hurt. Lay her down softly. 
 Take this ; you give the sign ; count three ; we fire 
 together. 
 
 NORMAN. [Taking the loaded weapon from fiobert Mur- 
 doch's hand, and flinging it down upon the table.] 
 
 You must be much a fool to count your life 
 The wreck you've made of it a match for mine ! 
 Stakes should be equal. Cease this rant, and listen : 
 I have you fast within the devil's coil 
 You wove about these two. You know these notes 1 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Aside. Clutching the pistol that 
 he still retains J\ 
 
 I see that death must be my door of exit. 
 [Aloud.} How so ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 For having lately left your hands. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Am I a miser that I know the face 
 
 Of money that has past between my fingers ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 This is poor fencing. Oh my gentle love, 
 Is there no help for you in this foul den ? 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 279 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 What proof connects this crumpled trash with me 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Your name upon the paper it was wrapped in. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A mere thief's trick ; that roll was found 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Found where 
 Two knaves were seeking it one starlit night. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] Farewell, fair world ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No doubling will avail you. 
 
 Your struggles scarcely blunt contempt with pity. 
 She moves ; come back to me, my life ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Where am I ? 
 Ah, here ! 
 
 NORMAN 
 
 Here, but with me. 
 
280 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Take me to Mostyn ; 
 They're crushing out his life. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No, he is well ; 
 
 These lies have left him scatheless ; see, there stands 
 The baffled schemer, tangled in the ruin 
 Of plots whose secret threads are all unwound. 
 His was the hand that 
 
 [Norman bends over Winifred, and continues 
 in 
 
 ROBERT MUBDOCK. 
 
 [yigttfe.] Hah ! those hated lips 
 That breathe into her ear what seems my shame ; 
 They shall not live to print their kisses on her ! 
 That dark trap-door of death shall launch us three 
 Together on the void. 
 
 [He moves stealthily towards the table, Norman 
 continuing to whisper in Winifred's ear, and 
 cautiously possesses himself of the pistol 
 dropped by Norman. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 281 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 [Aloud, to Winifred.] Now, that's yourself, 
 Your brave, strong, noble self again. 
 
 WINIFRED. [Freeing herself from Norman's arms.] 
 
 Almost ; 
 But oh ! this bad new world ! 
 
 [Tries to rise, and falls back. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No love, not yet ; 
 Rest here awhile. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Aside, taking unsteady aim.] 
 Ay, make your lover's heaven 
 Here in this house. I feel the fangs of furies ! 
 Hold a moment. 
 
 [Dropping the weapon, and pressing his hand 
 before his eyes. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Norman, I live again, 
 Though in a dream ; how came 1 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Nay, love, not now. 
 
 All heaven and earth, the very beasts were with us. 
 Oh Winifred, I hold you ! 
 
282 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. \Aside, trying to take aim again.] 
 
 So, one ball 
 Will pierce the twain. What ague shakes me thus 1 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 Let go, love ; I can walk. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Not so, sweetheart ; 
 
 I'll carry you from out this poisoned air. 
 Jenny awaits our coming at Dolgelly. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Only your arm to stay me 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 How they mix 
 Their dying breaths. My hand still shakes ; they get 
 A moment's grace ere this hot love of theirs, 
 Which is for me hell fire, shall be put out. 
 That covers her. If now my aim were sure, 
 That all-too-happy heart would cease to beat. 
 Fool, fool ! I thought I loved her as a man ; 
 This mist is womanish. [His arm falls to his side. 
 I cannot slay her 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 283 
 
 Now, with that smile upon her, and by heaven 
 It saves him though I wish him damned for it ! 
 
 [He drops the pistol into the pocket of his shooting - 
 coat. Norman, and Winifred supported by 
 his arm, move across the stage towards the 
 door. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Advancing.] 
 A word before you part. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No word can cross 
 
 The gulf between us ; there is law for felons ; 
 Fly it. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 A word, but not for you. 
 
 [Sinking on one knee before Winifred. 
 
 My crimes 
 
 Against you, lady, are too black for pardon. 
 I thought you proud, I find you great, too great 
 To come within the compass of my art. 
 Your eyes that deal out life and death have settled 
 My doom, that matters little. Yet one word, 
 One word as from the grave that buries shame, 
 Folly and failure, passion, hate, and all things. 
 I loved you ! Grant me grace to know I loved you ! 
 
284 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 The web I wove to win you to myself 
 I would have so unwound 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Vain fool to think 
 
 That having spent the best of all your strength 
 In compassing the villainy the first 
 Unlettered knave if gifted by the devil 
 Had done with likelier cunning, you might trust 
 To some hap-hazard opportunity 
 To build again the thing you had despoiled. 
 Destruction needs no god to set it going ; 
 A child will crush a hecatomb of flies, 
 No hand of man will ever fashion one ; 
 Any beast's hoof will grind a shell to dust, 
 Not all the world's creative souls restore 
 The builder, ground within the shell, to life ; 
 Cellini's self could not so much as chisel 
 The involuted chambers of a house 
 Left empty by a snail. This is fool's work 
 That you have set your hand to. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 Have a care ; 
 
 You little know how near you were to nothing 
 A moment since. I have not left you breath 
 To blow into my face. Fool's work you call it ? 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 285 
 
 No ; work to tax a man. The part you shared 
 With Gelert, was a dog's. I could have righted 
 More than I wronged. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Trickster ! The part you bungled 
 Was mere destruction, and you boast your power 
 Of raising from the dust a man's good name, 
 A woman's honour, and her faith in men; 
 Things easy to betray as life, and hard 
 Almost as life to re-instate 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Forbear ! 
 No more I pray ; this man lies at your mercy. 
 
 Enter hastily MOSTYN with TOM PRICE. 
 
 Mostyn ! My brother ! 
 
 \_Mostyn and Winifred fall into each other's arms. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCH. 
 
 Soh, my house already 
 
 Is masterless ; unwelcome guests may come * 
 And go in it ; they scent my death afar. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 [To Mostyn.] You still are young as when you left for 
 
 Wales- 
 How long ago ] 
 
286 * THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Two days. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Two lives ! 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 And you 
 Are still your valiant self 1 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 All, to a hair. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 You, Norman, were before me here. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No whit 
 Too soon. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 [To Mostyn.] What brought you? 
 
 TOM PRICE. 
 
 I, I fetched him, lady ; 
 Ay, though I die for it. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 True, he overheard 
 
 The talk of two conspirators, and journeyed 
 All night to bring you help. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 287 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] They mouth me ; this 
 Is death without its reverence. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Thanks, kind friend ! 
 Mostyn, you know how much of what has past 3 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 All ; from our faithful Jenny at Dolgelly, 
 Where Norman left her. Murdock, can you breathe 
 In such a company ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I pray no more ; 
 Through him I now know, yes, / now know shame. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. 
 
 [Aside.] I will endure. She shall not look on blood. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Norman, I did not think to see you here ; 
 There's heavy news for you abroad in Conway : 
 Sir Pierce lies sick, and all his cry they say 
 Is for his son. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 My father ! I must see him. 
 
288 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Our ways then lie together. Owen's trial 
 
 Comes off to-day at noon. 
 
 [To Winifred]. Poor Win, poor sister ! 
 
 Your eyes will see what mine have seen, the smoke 
 
 Of strangers' fires upon the hearth, where hope 
 
 And memory of ours have vainly clung. 
 
 What if our place should know us nevermore ! 
 
 [Exeunt Norman, Mostyn, and Winifred. 
 
 ROBERT MURDOCK. [Advancing to the window, and 
 watching their figures as they grow less in the 
 distance.] 
 
 So ends the game ; I've played it ill, and lost. 
 There's nothing left to do but dout the candle ; 
 After long agony, I now can die. 
 These foolish, soft, strange fancies that have held me 
 In lingering torment for her sake, were like 
 The wild bird's feathers in the bed, that keep 
 The dying wretch from shuffling off the flesh. 
 Nature, blind builder, what strange stuff you work 
 Into our consciousness ; but Death is lord 
 Of all. Farewell, fair lady ! One last look ; 
 The sun that sets for me, makes day for him , 
 No more of that, my eyes shall hold her image 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 289 
 
 For death to seal within them ; so I win 
 Of both at last, and so, fair world, farewell ! 
 
 [Robert Murdoch sinks upon a chair, and raises 
 
 the pistol to his mouth. The discharge is heard 
 
 as the curtain descends. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
290 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. The great Hall of Wynhavod House. The 
 walls hung with old portraits, arms, trophies of 
 the chase, and a huge genealogical tree. A high 
 oak chimney-piece, with dog-irons and deep 
 chimney-corners beneath, and a settle on one side. 
 The whole overlaid with articles of modern luxury 
 and virtu. View of Welsh mountains and the sea 
 from an oriel to the right. 
 
 DAFYTH the Harper, leaning despondently over his 
 harp, and two London Footmen discovered. 
 
 FIRST FOOTMAN. 
 
 Come, Taffy, strike ! 
 
 DAFYTH. 
 
 All ! Strike ! I wish I could. 
 
 SECOND FOOTMAN. 
 
 Tune up ; the master's coming. 
 
 DAFYTH. 
 
 Humph, his going 
 Would seem more tunable. But we are sold, 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 291 
 
 Sold to the Devil, you, my harp, and me, 
 And all the music in us. 
 
 [Strikes one melancholy chord, and pushes the harp 
 aside.] 
 
 FIRST FOOTMAN. 
 
 How, now, Taffy ? 
 
 DAFYTH. 
 
 Dafyth 's my name, which, being interpreted, 
 Means David. We've been harpers, man and boy, 
 Since Wales became dry land, and Dwygifylchy 
 Rose from the flood. 
 
 SECOND FOOTMAN. 
 
 You chose a poor trade, Taffy. 
 
 DAFYTH. 
 
 Dafyth, I say ! The name is well beknown ; 
 One of my ancestors stood godfather 
 To Dafyth, King of Israel. 
 
 FIBST FOOTMAN. 
 
 Ho ! ho ! 
 
 He'll tell us 'twas the christening gift broke down 
 The fortunes o' the family ! Hold hard. 
 
 [First Footman places himself beside the door, 
 second Footman exit hastily. Dafyth strikes 
 
 up ' Of a noble race was Shenkin? 
 u2 
 
292 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Enter SIR PIERCE THORNE in a wheeled chair, 
 attended by NORMAN. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Last night I never thought to see again 
 
 These mountains, in their morning caps, or hear 
 
 The gossip of the waves upon the shore. 
 
 Now, not alone I hear and see, but each 
 
 Familiar thing strikes sharply on my sense, 
 
 As if that brief cessation of the wheels 
 
 Of life had brought new conscience of their motion. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I'm glad they go so smoothly that their turning 
 Brings you new joy. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 New hope, or short-lived joy ; 
 I see my son beneath the roof I meant 
 That he should call his own, while I looked on ; 
 Yes, and surprised some sorrow in his eyes 
 When mine reopened upon this side death, 
 As loth to lose the father long denied. 
 That was a dawn of light I thought had set 
 Upon your mother's grave ; boy, do not quench it ; 
 It is the light which seems to gild the hills, 
 It makes the music of those hollow waves. 
 
THE WYXNES OF WYNHAVOD. 293 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I would not quench it ; it was grief to see you 
 So stricken, Sir ; but calm yourself. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No calm ! 
 
 Joy be my cure, since grief has been my bane. 
 You sent for Mostyn Wynne ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 And his sister ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Both, as you bade me. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 They have suffered sorely 
 From evil chance, and will of wicked men ; 
 And though they scape this pitfall, still the world 
 Is a bleak place for lambs so closely shorn. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 Yes, a bleak place. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 She, Norman, in herself 
 Is such a gem, that she might almost dim 
 * u3 
 
294 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 The jewels in a coronet; a peer, 
 
 A prince, might even get new lustre from her. 
 
 And, by my soul, the diamond can flash fire ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 You saw all that ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 I would I had the setting 
 Of such a jewel ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 You would set it how 1 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 I'd make of it the crown of this your home, 
 The casket whence it fell 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 No more, I pray you ; 
 I must not hear such words. 
 [Aside, in great agitation.} Great God, forbid 
 This purest thing should tempt me to my fall ! 
 I dare not tell him that my will holds firm 
 To keep my hands clean of his wealth. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 [^szWe.] He stiffens 
 
 His back against me, but I've got a corner 
 Still in his heart ; that's something for a father 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 295 
 
 In these hard tiroes. Young dog, but he shall smart 
 A little longer yet. [Norman returns. 
 
 This stroke has been 
 
 A warning of the hour that ends the day ; 
 Nay, so you took it, and your pride was softened v 
 So far that you vouchsafed to reassume 
 The name you dropped in scorn, accounting it 
 Too plain to bear the flourishes you thought 
 To add to that you grasped from out the air. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I fear this warning, Sir, has left you where 
 It found in point of justice. You must know 
 Your name seemed not too poor, but far too rich, 
 Too cumbered with the spoils of ruined lives, 
 For me to bear it proudly. Let us turn 
 To kindlier subjects. Be content I bear it, 
 And bear it yet more humbly that I feel 
 Some shame in having dropped it." 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Boy, stop there, 
 
 And gild it, if you can, with some choice metal 
 Will make it brighter in the world's esteem 
 Than gold has done. Tut, tut ! you have a name 
 That stands for solid substance, not mere wind, 
 To offer to the woman that you love. 
 
296 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 You guess my secret, then ? 
 
 SIB PIERCE. 
 
 I guess your secret, 
 Albeit no conjuror^ 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Then feel for me. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 I do, right joyfully. If you have won 
 Her love, your cup is fairly full I take it. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Full, but of bitterness, I neither hope 
 To turn the current of her life, nor speed it. 
 She has a purpose which I may not further. 
 
 I have a call No more of that ; enough. 
 
 Our lives are doubly parted ; they were rent 
 Asunder at the Lodge an hour ago ; 
 They could not flow in sight of one another, 
 TJnmingled and in peace, as we believed 
 "When first we told our love. I must stand off, 
 And let her shape her course without me, while 
 I ' dree my weird ' alone. Ah God I wonder, 
 I wonder will she always so ' dree ' hers ? 
 
 [ Walks off, overcome by emotion. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 297 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 He feels the prick ; his joy will be the greater. 
 I play the fiend to his St. Anthony ! 
 I'll back the boy to win, ha, ha ! my son, 
 Keen to foil fortune, as I was to court her ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 You'll spare me when she comes. I am too sore 
 To suffer more as yet, and could not meet her 
 Here in this house, where 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No, I cannot spare you , 
 
 I need your help to give the Wynnes Welsh welcome. 
 That this might savour of their former home 
 I've sent for Owen and his mother ; he 
 Has been acquitted on the major count, 
 And had his fine discharged upon the minor. 
 They should be here. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Well, just another tug ; 
 It cannot draw more blood when hope is dead. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 This woman's guile has cost her masters dear. 
 
298 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 These Welsh will hide a fact as dogs hide bones, 
 For hiding's sake. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Poor soul, she hid this, lacking 
 The faith to breast the tide of proof which seemed 
 To fix the crime on Mostyn. Gelert's ' find ' 
 To her seemed damning evidence, so might it 
 To me, had I not seen those ferrets hunting. 
 
 [Norman retires up stage. 
 
 Enter OWEN OWEN and JENNY. 
 
 FIRST FOOTMAN. [Announcing.] 
 Them parties as was ordered to appear. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Good day to you, Sir Pierce. 
 
 You'd speak with us 1 
 
 OWEN. 
 
 Your servant, Sir. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 I would, my man. This house 
 Will soon change hands, I think 
 
 JENNY. [Regarding him critically.] 
 
 Indeed, Sir Pierce, 
 You do look sadly ; that a' can say for you. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 299 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Will soon change hands. My son is my successor. 
 I hope his looks and ways may suit ye better. 
 
 [Jenny slowly curtseys assent. 
 I thought to say before I went from hence, 
 To say to yon, my man, that I, a regretted 
 Your drunken folly, more because I feared 
 I seemed to have some hand in your temptation. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 An' sure I hope, Sir Pierce, that where you go 
 There won't be no temptation to build publics. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 No. There, I think they stand too thick already. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 The Lord ha' mercy, then, upon your soul ! 
 
 We all must know that place, though loth to name it. 
 
 FOOTMAN. [Announcing.'] 
 Miss Wynne and Mr. Wynne. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Kind of you both 
 
 To serve a sick man's whim. My cheeks, fair lady, 
 Should show you some poor counterfeit of health, 
 
300 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Some faint resemblance to a blush, remembering 
 
 My part 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 In what we'll drown too deep for speech. 
 So near to death should be not far from Lethe. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 For me ? 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 I mean for you. But you are better ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Still better for the pardon in your eyes. 
 
 See here, your honest servants are before you ; 
 
 So much is changed, I thought these well-known faces 
 
 Would help my welcome. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Much is changed, but more 
 Remains the same. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Well, well, the chief improvements 
 Are yet to see. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 We overlook them all, 
 ,, The whole being so familiar. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 301 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 [-4*wZe.] Overlook 1 ? 
 
 The money spent to make their shambling ruin 
 A home for Christian folk, they overlook. 
 
 Enter a Footman, giving a card to SIR PIERCE. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 Ah ! bid these ladies to my audience, too. 
 
 Enter MRS. MURDOCK and AMANDA. 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. 
 
 We find you risen ; the danger past ; what joy ! 
 I am Amanda's follower, no power ' 
 Could hold her when the messenger who came 
 To seek for Mr. Dray ton at our house 
 Informed us of your illness. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 I had feared 
 You were alone untended. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 As I soon 
 
302 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Shall be, unless the pity that has granted 
 
 This angels' visit should extend itself. 
 
 \_Sir Pierce beckons to footman, who removes his 
 chair, and he retires up the stage followed by 
 Mrs. Murdoch, and speaking earnestly with 
 Amanda. Da/yth quits his harp, and ap- 
 proaches Mostyn. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 My brave old Dafyth. 
 
 [Gives his hand, which Dafyth takes with effusion. 
 
 DAFYTH, 
 
 Oh, the day, the day ! 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 The day that we invoke will not be yet. 
 There's weary work betwixt us and the time 
 Our labour may avail to ransom all 
 The faithful souls who wait us. But you, Dafyth, 
 You look as full of favour 
 
 DAFYTH. 
 
 'Tis their flesh-pots. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! To pass away the time, I spoil them, 
 These cursed, low Egyptians ; yes, I spoil them. 
 
 \_Mostyn joins the group round Sir Pierce, and 
 Dafyth returns to his harp. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 303 
 
 NORMAN and WINIFRED coming forward. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I see you once again, but have no heart 
 To greet you in this house, and dare not welcome ; 
 Your kinsfolk in the past all seem to chide me 
 Here as my father's son. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 We must go forward, 
 Our roots alone are in the past, all fruit 
 And flower is of the present. Let the dead 
 Bury the dead ; no living soul is more 
 Than love and labour of his own can make him. 
 The fires of these last days have purged us two 
 Pure of some prejudice. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Yet, love, I think 
 Your words are braver than your heart this moment. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 They shall uplift my heart. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 To see you thus 
 Would still be joy, though death had seized on mine. 
 
3C4 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Love conquers death. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 But life can martyr love. 
 We hold our ways aloof 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Because our lives 
 Are dedicated. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Even in this hour 
 
 Temptation has been giving me hot work. 
 One word might crown the hope of all our lives, 
 One wished-for word 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 But never give it breath, 
 That way lies treason 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 To our nobler selves, 
 
 That cannot so be crowned ; I know it all, 
 So fought and conquered, but am furious 
 Still with the strife. I could have placed you here, 
 Where need of you is rife, and love prevails 
 To make its labours fruitful. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 315 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Hush, no more; 
 
 We tried that ground, and found it could not bear us. 
 We shall find comfort in our faithful toil, 
 And you, the wakening world is wanting you. 
 Our life-streams must not join, nor even flow 
 In sight of one another. But let be ; 
 We buried that, let be. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 [A side.] This final wrench uproots my heart. 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Sir Pierce 
 
 Is waiting this long while for speech of you, 
 And grows impatient. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Bid them not cut short 
 
 Their talk for mine. We fathers have been taught 
 To bide our time in silence. 
 
 Oar last. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 We have spoken 
 
306 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 You say your last ? Tis well, my son, 
 Now hear MY word. Draw round me all; and 
 
 Norman, 
 Give me that parchment roll. 
 
 [Norman gives parchment. All stand round 
 Sir Pierce's chair in silence. 
 
 Son, if your mother, 
 
 Who loved and trusted me as none beside 
 Have ever loved or trusted, had she left 
 A gift to be delivered to your keeping. 
 Waiting such time as I accounted fit, 
 Would you refuse the gift, mark me, your mother's 
 For passing by my hand ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 Your thought would seem 
 To speak me harder 
 
 SIR PIERCE.- 
 
 Ha ! you would accept it ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 More gladly, if it spoke your love with hers. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Then, with her dying and my living love, 
 
 Take this. See here, her hand and deed, Wynhavod,. 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 307 
 
 And all the land belonging thereunto, 
 Bought with her money, pure of any stain 
 From mine ; her money and her father's, gathered 
 God knows from what foul quarries long ago, 
 But cleansed, maybe, by wholesome use. This parch- 
 ment 
 Will tell no more. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 Wynhavod ! 
 
 MOSTYN AND WINIFRED. 
 
 Ha, Wynhavod ! 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 You part with dear Wynhavod 1 
 
 MRS. MURDOCK. [Low to Amanda.] 
 
 No great loss. 
 OWEN. 
 They're pitching it about from hand to hand. 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 They say, when things are stirring, Wynnes must win. 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Now all is said ; both house and land are yours. 
 Miss Wynne is here, there's nothing left to do 
 But lay it at her feet. 
 
 X2 
 
308 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 I lay it there. 
 [Norman lays the parchment on the ground before 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Such joy might kill ! Wynhavod, and with you ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 This is the heaven prefigured in the glass ; 
 We enter it together. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 It is good 
 
 That we have days of youth to spread joy over. 
 Or such a press of it might well be mortal. 
 But see, your father ! 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No, the cure for grief 
 Has been administered a trifle freely, 
 But all goes well. I must remain your guest 
 A little while, before I go to make 
 Another home, and teach men. to regret me 
 When I shall leave it. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 Wherefore go from this ? 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 309 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 No room for all our work, and new-born hope. 
 Behold my future wife ! 
 
 NORMAN. 
 Miss Murdock ? 
 
 SIR PIERCE. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 For kindly pity of my lonely state, 
 She takes me as she finds 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 It is a downpour 
 Of happiness all round. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 But you, my brother, 
 What part is left in all this joy for you ? 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 The part of Mostyn Wynne can soon be shown, 
 And if he be the man that I account him, 
 His portion will content him. Not this parchment, 
 Which formulates my mother's wish, nor any 
 Or every title that a man might bear, 
 Could make of me my mind and better part 
 *x3 
 
310 THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 
 
 Being otherwhere the owner of her gift 
 
 In such true sense as satisfies true hearts. 
 
 For you, good brother, loving thought and duty 
 
 Keep on Wynhavod an undying claim, 
 
 I bid you to it as the native ground 
 
 Appointed for your labours. Here of old 
 
 Your fathers bled and sweated, and have made 
 
 The soil their own in many a hard- won fight. 
 
 You have been exiled from it, but no other 
 
 Has ever held it firmer in his love. 
 
 You could not plant an acorn on this coast, 
 
 But it would feed on dust akin to yours. 
 
 The cattle and the trees, the very stones 
 
 Make claim upon you; answer to their call. 
 
 As lord of land and sea, an honest man 
 
 Can be no more than steward of what he holds. 
 
 To me it is denied to be so much. 
 
 Come to my help, and do what I may not, 
 
 Bide here beneath this roof, the watchful guardian 
 
 Of all those interests which you hold so dear. 
 
 My wife and I will share them as we can, 
 
 And take our toll of benefit from that 
 
 Which overflows when justice says, ' Enough.' 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 Wynnes will win home, whatever winds may blow ! 
 
THE WYNNES OF WYNHAVOD. 311 
 
 JENNY, OWEN, AND DAFYTH. 
 
 Wynnes win ! Hurrah ! Wynhavod for the Wynnes ! 
 
 MOSTYN. 
 
 Wynnes win good friends, and holding for another 
 
 Lands which they once let waste from out their grasp, 
 
 I win my share in them to nobler purpose, 
 
 And liker that of Wynnes who won it first, 
 
 Than those who boast of ownership where tenure 
 
 Implies no service ; when young athletes use 
 
 The strength of feebler folk without return, 
 
 And grown men sport away their lives unblushing. 
 
 I am content to hold the land which Wynnes 
 
 Have won and lost alone by Love and Labour. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET 6QUAHB 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 Second Edition. Eevised and enlarged, crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 GERARD'S MONUMENT 
 
 AND OTHEE POEMS. 
 
 Times: 'An original and well-told story, with an entrancing plot, full 
 of fancy and feeling. Mrs. PFEIFFER has caught something of the plaintiveness 
 and simplicity of the old ballads, hut her verse has also a distinct impress of its 
 author's own individuality. ... To a delicate taste and refined feeling is added 
 a high degree of literary skill and genuine imaginative power. . . . She brings to- 
 gether a group of persons who interest us, and weaves their lives into a dramatic 
 story, the plot of which is as new as it is effective. . . . Mrs. PFEIFFER pleases 
 palates that scarcely care to quench their thirst with anything less than the 
 nectar of the Gods.' 
 
 Spectator : ' In " Gerard's Monument " each of the figures is distinct and 
 picturesque ; both scenery and character are touched with genuine skill ; the 
 verse is melodious and flowing. . . . Here is a picture which Mr. Millais might 
 transmute into canvas and colour : " Valery, proud and patient maid,'" &c. &c. 
 
 Liverpool Albion : ' It is long since we have read a volume of poems 
 with such intense pleasure long since we have seen a work in which all 
 the artistic qualities which make a poem admirable, and all the emotional 
 qualities which make it dear, have been blended in such exquisite proportion. 
 " Gerard's Momiment," the longest and most important poem in the book, 
 is a mediaeval story of love and death, and deathless remembrance, told in 
 verse that alternately sings and sobs, and wails and prays verse that is not 
 merely the well-fitting vesture, but the living, breathing body of the thought 
 or the passion which it enshrines. The distinct and yet never obtrusive origi- 
 nality both of conception and execution is so striking that the critic who 
 attempts to classify the book has not an easy task ; but we think we are not far 
 wrong in saying that " Gerard's Monument " bears a closer resemblance to the 
 greatest and most truly imaginative of Coleridge's poems than to the works of 
 any more recent singers. It has less weirduess and more humanness than they, 
 but it is like them in the quaint strangeness of its beauty, in what we may call 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 the far-away impression which it gives, and in the picture it presents of real 
 human figures of flesh and blood moving through an atmosphere which we 
 know not how transfigures and spiritualises them. . . . The goldsmith and 
 Valery are exquisite creations. . . . Let every one who cares for musical and 
 imaginative verse at once secure a copy of " Gerard's Monument." ' 
 
 Standard : ' The opening and leading poem is a sad story, told with 
 singular simplicity, grace, and pathos. . . . The author holds a commission 
 from the muses, and her songs are her vouchers.' 
 
 Scotsman : ' The author of " Gerard's Monument " is a true poet, with a 
 large measure of ideality and command of versification, and an intense and yet 
 delicate perception of the beautiful.' 
 
 Lord Lytton ; ' " Gerard's Monument " has stopped and held me in the 
 midst of most pressing occupations as the wedding guest was stopped and held 
 by the eye of the Ancient Mariner.' 
 
 Daily Telegraph : ' It is refreshing to come on a volume of pure and 
 simple poetry, such as "Gerard's Monument, and other Poems," by EMILY 
 PFEIFFEK, which has undoubted claims to high praise in these " degenerate 
 days " of poetic inspiration. . . . The volume is full of beauty.' 
 
 Civil Service Gazette : ' " Gerard's Monument " is one of the best 
 stories in verse which we have read for some time past. . . . The lyrics are so 
 charming and so full of pathos that we are glad to welcome a writer who 
 possesses real poetic merit.' 
 
 Bell's "Weekly Messenger : ' In " Gerard's Monument" we meet with 
 genuine poetry. One of the great charms of Mrs. PFEIFFER'S versification is its 
 perfect simplicity. She never strains after effect, and, therefore, she more easily 
 produces it. ... She touches the strings of the heart by means of genuine 
 feeling. . . . The poem, " Love, show thine eyes, thy stature infinite," will afford 
 some idea of Mrs. PFEIFFER'S claim to be reckoned amongst the ablest of the 
 British poets of those ages which have long since passed away.' 
 
 Professor Longfellow : ' I think it a remarkable work, and hope it 
 will be republished here.' 
 
 Morning Post: 'A most attractive poem, with an enchanting plot 
 developed skilfully in melodious verse. Once read it is certain to linger in the 
 memory.' 
 
 Carmarthen Journal : ' " Gerard's Monument," with its strangety origi- 
 nal plot, its wealth of truly poetic imagery, its bold and graceful portraiture, its 
 weird and tragic pathos, is a work full of music-breathing rhyme. The design 
 is such as could hardly have in its fulness entered into a mind where poetry 
 was not a natural and spontaneous growth ; and throughout the narrative the 
 author gives continual manifestations of attributes which belong only to those 
 singers who are born but seldom and never made. ... In many places Mrs. 
 PFEIFFER evinces an acquaintance with the customs, manners, and ideas of the 
 middle ages which has been rarely found in any writer since Sir Walter Scott.' 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 3 
 
 Second Edition. Crown Svo. 65. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 INCLUDING A PORTION OF THE SONNETS, ' THE RED LADYE,' ' ODE TO THE 
 TEUTON WOMEN,' LYRICS, AND SONGS. 
 
 Nonconformist : ' That Mrs. PFEIFFER has power there can be no doubt, 
 that she is an intent and subtle thinker is what most readers will heartily admit 
 after reading, say, the "Crown of Song," or the "Dark Christmas of 1874," 
 which last shows that she can conceive contemporary subjects imaginatively, 
 and set them forth in a fitting ideal atmosphere, penetrated by personal 
 colouring. . . . Enough, we hope, has been said to show that the high intel- 
 lectual mark in this volume is sufficient to justify the space we have awarded 
 to it.' 
 
 Spectator : ' There is a great weight of truly blended thought and feeling 
 in many of the poems. ..." Loved Florinel " is beautiful. ... In not a few 
 of the sonnets, where the thought and feeling are so closely intertwined that it 
 is impossible to separate one from the other, there are flights of imagination, 
 to our minds, of which almost the greatest of English sonnet- writers might, 
 and possibly would, have been proud.' 
 
 "Westminster Keview: 'Some of Mrs. PFEIFFER'S lyrics are very 
 charming ; they have ease, freedom, and sweetness. . . . Her sonnets show her 
 strength and the attitude of a deeply poetic mind towards modem science.' 
 
 Morning Post : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER has evidently brought to her agreeable 
 task a spirit of love for her subject, flowing and expressive rhyme, with a poet's 
 feeling, fancy and sympathy. ... In " Broken Light " we have passion which 
 reminds us of Shelley.' 
 
 Scotsman : ' This volume will do nothing to diminish the high estimate 
 of Mrs. PFEIFFER'S powers formed by readers of " Gerard's Monument." .... 
 There is scarcely one of the poems which is not full of beauties of thought and 
 expression, and some are masterpieces of lyric poetry. . . . The hymn to the 
 Dark Christmas of 1874 expresses with great force very grand thoughts.' 
 
 Liverpool Albion: 'We have not forgotten the fine humanity, the 
 tender pathos, the sweet and changeful music of "Gerard's Monument," and as 
 we opened this volume we felt there was a treat in store for us. We have not 
 been disappointed. Mrs. PFEIFFER has produced a book of poems which will 
 be very precious to all lovers of genuine poetry. The sonnets grapple with the 
 deepest problems which can occupy human thought, and yet are never over- 
 weighted by the purely intellectual element.' 
 
 The Queen : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER has the rare faculty of giving utterance to 
 great thoughts in the most simple language ; disclaiming the shallow artifice of 
 mystifying her readers in order that she may seem profound, she shows her idea 
 in the same clear light in which it appears to herself. . . . Her versification is 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 remarkable for its purity and finish. Her imagery, though powerful, is never 
 strained ; though quaint and striking, always natural and easily to be 
 recognised.' 
 
 Pall Mall : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER'S verse, when called forth by genuine feeling, 
 is healthy in tone and graceful in expression. Her sonnets, thirty in number, 
 afford the best illustrations of her ability. They are marked by high imagination 
 and show considerable mastery over this difficult form of verse.' 
 
 Saturday Review :' Mrs. PFEIFFER has undoubtedly the true spirit of 
 a singer.' 
 
 Carmarthen Journal : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER'S poetry has already acquired 
 a reputation wherever the English language is spoken. . . . The man or woman 
 who can read " Broken Light " without experiencing a nameless thrill of sweet 
 pain may expect to pass through this world as contentedly as a quadruped, 
 which is, no doubt, a pleasant prospect in its way.' 
 
 Second Edition, revised. Crown 8vo. 65. 
 
 GLAN-ALAECH: 
 
 HIS SIIiEl-TCIE JLIETID SOHSTG-. 
 
 British Quarterly : * Mrs. PFEIFFER in this poem combines two quali- 
 ties that rarely go together in the same degree. There is a powerful narrative, 
 bringing into relief a state of society and of manners very remote, and a re- 
 fined, subtle reflective quality by which the great lesson she would teach is 
 interjected and made, as it were, to penetrate the whole poem from first to last. 
 Glan-Alarch is a Welsh bard, who had been attached to the Court of a Prince 
 Eurien, of whose deeds and love affairs he is the recorder. Very clearlv and 
 forcibly does Mrs.! PFEIFFER describe the gradual attraction that grows up 
 between Eurien and the adopted Irish girl Mona, who is the comfort of his 
 aged mother. In the records of action there are touches almost worthy of 
 Scott ; but all is suffused by the subjective impressions native to a Welsh 
 singer, and by this means a truly dramatic quality is imparted to the more 
 vigorous descriptive passages. The account of the mode in which an adven- 
 turous widow, Bronwen (who comes to Eurien's Court to ask his aid), manages 
 to work on Mona's sensitive mind, and to possess herself of the affections of 
 Eurien, after Mona has fled, is most admirably told. There is necessarily a 
 certain " shadowiness " in the characters in some respects ; but this is no more 
 than is consistent with the assumption of the poetic Welsh medium through 
 which the story professedly comes to us ; and we think that to convey this 
 impression, and yet to maintain narrative interest, indicates a very 'high 
 degree of art. We have read the poem with keen and continuous interest. It 
 is vigorous in picture and profound in its lessons.' 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFEK. 
 
 Contemporary He-view : ' This is a fine poem, a story of considerable 
 power being told with unusual literary finish. Readers will necessarily be 
 reminded of Scott's "Last Minstrel"; but if either a certain similarity of 
 pathetic figure in this case or a general prevailing type of personages resembling 
 the characters in Mr. Tennyson's Idylls led anyone to call Mrs. PFEIFFEK a 
 copyist, they would do her great wrong. There is true originality in the 
 
 detailed execution on every page Many examples of pictorial skill 
 
 might be quoted. The verbal excellence often rises veiy high, unusual vivid* 
 ness of phrase ascending more than once into the sublimity of descriptive 
 expression. Often, too, the think ing is of a very subtle character, amounting 
 to fine analysis. The book is a distinct and valuable contribution to modern 
 poetiy, and Mrs. PFEIFFEB has a fair chance of one day herding with the 
 immortals.' 
 
 Academy : ' The same qualities which have made Mrs. PFEIFFER'S 
 poetry of interest and worth appear in the present volume more largely and 
 evenly developed than in any of the preceding writings. The story is less 
 concerned with external movement thaa with spiritual motives and their rela- 
 tion to two human hearts. Mona, a beautiful and original conception, is " a 
 spirit and a woman too," whose being is framed for self-transcending joy and 
 pain. A refined and vivid feeling for nature appears throughout the poem. 
 There is abundant place in literature for what is finely organised spirit in a 
 delicate robe of flesh, and Mrs. PFEIFFER'S poem makes a real addition to our 
 possessions.' 
 
 Carmarthen Journal : ' Apart from its poetic merit, " Glan-AIarch " 
 has a fine dramatic power and very ingenious plot ; and beyond this, too, it 
 gives a picture of Cymric life in mediaeval times, which can be found in no 
 other work of imagination in existence a picture almost as striking and real 
 as we find of the England of the Plantagenets in " Ivanhoc," though more 
 shadowy and spiritualised, so to speak, by the " fine frenzy of the artist " . . . ; 
 it has a higher merit than that to which all this would entitle it. It possesses all 
 that completeness, polish, and perfection as a whole which constitutes a genuine 
 work of art. Independently of particular beauties, too, there runs through 
 the whole an indefinable charm of too subtle an essence to be expressed in the 
 words of a critic a something that must be felt, to which a chord of inner 
 spiritual feeling is continually vibrating as you read, and which leaves behind 
 a fragrance destined to linger in the memory long after the stoiy unfolded in the 
 poem is forgotten. . . . There are, perhaps, no works in which the conten- 
 tion of the finer and holier influences with the grosser powers that help to shape 
 human destiny is more cunningly traced. We should hesitate, indeed, to con- 
 tradict any seer who should prophesy that " Glan-Alarch " is fated to be an 
 only bright monument of Welsh name and fame when the race, now " treading 
 to music the dark way of doom," shall have disappeared as a separate people.' 
 
 English. Independent : ' A volume full of measures which are truly 
 described in the words, " A very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, 
 and can play well on an instrument." .... Passages of great beauty might 
 be quoted to an unlimited extent. We recommend the book most cordially.' 
 
 "Whitelxall : ' If anyone doubt that we have among us a true woman-poet, 
 the successive works of Mrs. PFEIFFER will settle the question. She aims high, 
 and she does not miss her mark in telling us, in language so simple as to be in 
 strange contrast with much polysyllabic poetry of the period, a story of old 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 British days, while yet our shore knew not the foot of the Roman invader save 
 in the peaceful guise of a merchant. Apart altogether from the charm that 
 lodges in the verse, there is much to interest the reader in the description of 
 British scenes and fashions, and in that human nature which is so changeless 
 though so often changed.' 
 
 Daily Telegraph : ' Mrs. EMILY PFEIFFER, who has won golden opinions 
 both by her metrical romances and her sonnets, confirms the judgment of her 
 true poetic faculty in every page of " Glan-Alarch." Few readers of poetry will 
 fail to enjoy this book throughout, and close it with a sense of lingering*satis- 
 faction.' 
 
 Morning Post : ' In the utterances of " Glan-Alarch " the reader will at 
 once discover the full verbal music which soothes and fascinates. He stands 
 out like the grand introductory figure in " The Lay of the Last Minstrel." 
 The book is unquestionably full of genuine poetic power and dramatic effect.' 
 
 Scotsman : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER'S new metrical romance abundantly fulfils 
 the promise of her previous writings. It is in every sense a valuable addition 
 to the class to which it belongs. Throughout the poem there is vigour of 
 execution : glowing description is united to poetic fancy of high order.' 
 
 Deutsche Rundschau : ' Die Diction ist edel, gedankenreich, und erhebt 
 sich in den lyrischen Stellen nicht selten zu wahrhaft poetischem Schwunge. 
 Der Charakter jenes wilden, schonen Berglandes, der Ton und die Stirnmung 
 seiner Traditionen sind wunderbar gut getroffen.' 
 
 Nonconformist : * We fully perceive the high ideal of love and its 
 mission which Mrs. PFEIFFER teaches us in this poem. She has written with 
 great care and very subtle effect of blank verse, and thrown in passages which 
 show the highest possibilities in a fresh direction.' 
 
 Court Journal : * " Glan-Alarch " is a work of great merit.' 
 
 Liverpool Albion: 'We heartily recommend this work The 
 
 character of Glan-Alarch himself, at once ardent and self-denying, is one not 
 only in itself truly poetic, but could only have been portrayed by one who 
 herself is a true poet.' 
 
 Leeds Mercury : Mrs. PFEIFFER set herself a task worthy of a poet. We 
 rise from a careful and delighted perusal of her book with the sense of human 
 reality and kinship as underlying this legendary story of a far-off but also a 
 related time.' 
 
 Carnarvon Herald : ' The author's name as a poetess has long since 
 been well established, and " Glan-Alarch " fully maintains her renown. The 
 diction is choice, the brilliant and telling passages are numerous, and the de- 
 scription of Snowdonian scenery is hard to surpass. Every Welshman who 
 loves his rare and its history is bound to read the poem.' 
 
 "Welshman : ' It would seem as if our wealth of historical and legendary 
 lore has at length found a poetical interpreter worthy of the name. Lovers of 
 poetry true poetry will find, on perusing Mrs. PFEIFFER'S volume, that our 
 anticipations have been nobly fulfilled. She shows that she is in the possession 
 
WORKS OF EMILY PFEIFFER. 
 
 of powerful assimilating genius. . . . The acquaintance of a Wordsworth 
 with nature, and at the same time the soaring fancy of a Shelley. The book is 
 a grand whole.' 
 
 Belfast News Letter : ' Strong, vigorous, and at the same time refined, 
 and most artistic in its construction ; but more commendable still is the indivi- 
 duality maintained throughout. Mrs. PFEIFFER follows not in the least 
 extent either the method or the form of any other modern writer. Her style 
 and treatment are altogether her own, and the consistency is preserved through 
 the entire of " Glan-Alarch " without the aid of those mannerisms which so 
 many popular poets depend on for maintaining their individuality. There is 
 .mch character in the book : Eurien is finely drawn, and the poet-maiden a 
 splendid creation. The description of the conflicts between the Ancient Britons 
 and Saxons is vigorous in the extreme, and the scenery is painted most effec- 
 tively in every line.' 
 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 QUARTERMAN'S GRACE, 
 
 AND OTHEE POEMS. 
 
 INCLUDING 'MADONNA DNYA,' 'A VISION OF DAWN,' &c. &c., AND 
 EENDEEINGS OF TWENTY-FIVE OF HEINE'S SHOBTER POEMS. 
 
 Spectator : ' Mrs. PFEIFFER should be judged by a high standard. . . . 
 Scarcely anything could be better than the conception of the young girl, 
 Quarterman's Grace. The picture of Madonna Dunya, stricken by the Black 
 Death, flying from the child to die apart, is truly pathetic. The translations 
 from Heine come as near to doing justice to the mingled fancy, wit, and 
 diablerie of Heine as we may expect.' 
 
 Graphic : ' Pathetic and graceful to a degree. We must congratulate 
 Mrs. PFEIFFER upon the singular spontaneity of the octosyllabic verse 
 throughout the poem. . . . "Madonna Dunya " is one of those poems that one 
 feels impelled to learn by heart, so as to have it always with one. The Heine 
 translations have grace, music, and poetic feeling.' 
 
 Examiner : ' A note of true poetry, impossible to mistake. ... It is 
 impossible to do justice in an extract to a poem so ethereal in its effect and so 
 cumulative in its dainty touches. ..." Madonna Dunya," too, is distinctly 
 ** poetical," and has a clear literary quality.' 
 
 "Woman's Journal, Boston, U.S. : ' Let no one fail to read this beautiful 
 and characteristic poem, " Madonna Dunya." It certainly entitles its author, 
 EMILY PFEIFFER, to a place in the very first rank of living poets.' 
 
WORKS OF EMILY FFEIFFER. 
 
 Scotsman : 'The same subtle sense of rhythm, the refined play of fancy, 
 and the mastery of choice and richly-coloured diction which won admiration in 
 " Gerard's Monument " and " Glan-Alarch.". ..." Madonna Dunya," illus- 
 trative of the strength of maternal love, is lit up by flashes of pure imagination, 
 studded with descriptions remarkable from their realistic impressiveness, their 
 grace, their terseness, and their luminous beauty, . . . couched in language 
 polished, nervous, and unaffected, ... its verse has a fine spontaneous buoy- 
 ancy and majesty of flow. The Sonnets " Studies from the Antique " are? 
 veritable gems of poetic art. The translations from Heine show a high degree 
 of success, and several of them are rendered with a fidelity and felicity un- 
 equalled by any previous translator.' 
 
 British Quarterly : ' Contains fine thought, careful workmanship, and 
 true feeling.' 
 
 Manchester Examiner : ' The fancy and thought of-^Jie poems are not 
 more striking than the grace and finish of the versification.' 
 
 Belfast News-Letter : ' Reads like a dream that might be dreamt on a 
 summer's day, when the consciousness of the strong life, beating and breathing 
 in all things under the heaven, has not altogether dissolved into the fantasy of 
 a vision.' 
 
 G-eraldine Jewsbury : ' " Madonna Dunya " lives within one like an 
 influence.' 
 
 SONNETS AND SONGS. 
 
 A New Edition, 16mo., handsomely printed and bound in cloth, 
 gilt edges, 4s. 
 
 The*^&onourable J. B. Lowell : ' These poems are the very " plants 
 andflowei?s of light." ' 
 
 Dr. ' O. W. Holmes : ' A rare poetic beauty belongs to these noble poems ; 
 they are full of the highest and noblest inspiration. 
 
 Spectator : Mrs. PFEIFFER'S sonnets are, to our mind, among the finest 
 in the language.' 
 
 Liverpool Albion : ' A more perfect volume, in " matter and manner,' 
 it would be difficult to find.' 
 
 Scotsman: 'A rare combination of strength and fire in thought with 
 grace of form.' 
 
 Carmarthen Journal : ' These sonnets are among the finest gems pro- 
 duced in modern times.' 
 
 London : 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 Paternoster Square. 
 
 /A,