Part 15

‘My Marian,’ I made answer, grave and sad, ‘The priest who stole a lamb to offer him, Was still a thief. And if a woman steals (Through God’s own barrier-hedges of true love, Which fence out licence in securing love) A child like this, that smiles so in her face, She is no mother, but a kidnapper, And he’s a dismal orphan ... not a son; Whom all her kisses cannot feed so full He will not miss hereafter a pure home To live in, a pure heart to lean against, A pure good mother’s name and memory To hope by, when the world grows thick and bad, And he feels out for virtue.’ ‘Oh,’ she smiled With bitter patience, ‘the child takes his chance,— Not much worse off in being fatherless Than I was, fathered. He will say, belike, His mother was the saddest creature born; He’ll say his mother lived so contrary To joy, that even the kindest, seeing her, Grew sometimes almost cruel: he’ll not say She flew contrarious in the face of God With bat-wings of her vices. Stole my child,— My flower of earth, my only flower on earth, My sweet, ray beauty!’ ... Up she snatched the child, And, breaking on him in a storm of tears, Drew out her long sobs from their shivering roots, Until he took it for a game, and stretched His feet, and flapped his eager arms like wings, And crowed and gurgled through his infant laugh: ‘Mine, mine,’ she said; ‘I have as sure a right As any glad proud mother in the world, Who sets her darling down to cut his teeth Upon her church-ring. If she talks of law, I talk of law! I claim my mother-dues By law,—the law which now is paramount; The common law, by which the poor and weak Are trodden underfoot by vicious men, And loathed for ever after by the good. Let pass! I did not filch ... I found the child.’

‘You found him, Marian?’ ‘Ay, I found him where I found my curse,—in the gutter, with my shame! What have you, any of you, to say to that, Who all are happy, and sit safe and high, And never spoke before to arraign my right To grief itself? What, what, ... being beaten down By hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch, Half-dead, whole mangled ... when a girl, at last, Breathes, sees ... and finds there, bedded in her flesh, Because of the overcoming shock perhaps, Some coin of price!... and when a good man comes (That’s God! the best men are not quite as good) And says, ‘I dropped the coin there: take it, you, And keep it,—it shall pay you for the loss,’— You all put up your finger—‘See the thief! Observe that precious thing she has come to filch! How bad those girls are!’ Oh, my flower, my pet, I dare forget I have you in my arms, And fly off to be angry with the world, And fright you, hurt you with my tempers, till You double up your lip? Ah, that indeed Is bad: a naughty mother!’ ‘You mistake,’ I interrupted; ‘if I loved you not, I should not, Marian, certainly be here.’

‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you are so very good; And yet I wish, indeed, you had never come To make me sob until I vex the child. It is not wholesome for these pleasure-plats To be so early watered by our brine. And then, who knows? he may not like me now As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me fret,— One’s ugly fretting! he has eyes the same As angels, but he cannot see as deep, And so I’ve kept for ever in his sight A sort of smile to please him,—as you place A green thing from the garden in a cup, To make believe it grows there. Look, my sweet, My cowslip-ball! we’ve done with that cross face, And here’s the face come back you used to like. Ah, ah! he laughs! he likes me. Ah, Miss Leigh, You’re great and pure; but were you purer still,— As if you had walked, we’ll say, no otherwhere Than up and down the new Jerusalem, And held your trailing lutestring up yourself From brushing the twelve stones, for fear of some Small speck as little as a needle-prick, White stitched on white,—the child would keep to _me_, Would choose his poor lost Marian, like me best, And, though you stretched your arms, cry back and cling, As we do, when God says it’s time to die And bids us go up higher. Leave us, then; We two are happy. Does _he_ push me off? He’s satisfied with me, as I with him.’

‘So soft to one, so hard to others! Nay,’ I cried, more angry that she melted me, ‘We make henceforth a cushion of our faults To sit and practise easy virtues on? I thought a child was given to sanctify A woman,—set her in the sight of all The clear-eyed Heavens, a chosen minister To do their business and lead spirits up The difficult blue heights. A woman lives, Not bettered, quickened toward the truth and good Through being a mother?... then she’s none! although She damps her baby’s cheeks by kissing them, As we kill roses.’ ‘Kill! O Christ,’ she said, And turned her wild sad face from side to side With most despairing wonder in it—‘What, What have you in your souls against me then, All of you? am I wicked, do you think? God knows me, trusts me with the child! but you, You think me really wicked?’ ‘Complaisant,’ I answered softly, ‘to a wrong you’ve done, Because of certain profits,—which is wrong Beyond the first wrong, Marian. When you left The pure place and the noble heart, to take The hand of a seducer’.... ‘Whom? whose hand? I took the hand of’.... Springing up erect, And lifting up the child at full arm’s length, As if to bear him like an oriflamme Unconquerable to armies of reproach,— ‘By _him_’ she said, ‘my child’s head and its curls, By those blue eyes no woman born could dare A perjury on, I make my mother’s oath, That if I left that Heart, to lighten it, The blood of mine was still, except for grief! No cleaner maid than I was, took a step To a sadder end,—no matron-mother now Looks backward to her early maidenhood Through chaster pulses. I speak steadily: And if I lie so, ... if, being fouled in will And paltered with in soul by devil’s lust, I dared to bid this angel take my part, ... Would God sit quiet, let us think, in heaven, Nor strike me dumb with thunder? Yet I speak: He clears me therefore. What, ‘seduced’’s your word? Do wolves seduce a wandering fawn in France? Do eagles, who have pinched a lamb with claws, Seduce it into carrion? So with me. I was not ever, as you say, seduced, But simply, murdered.’ There she paused, and sighed, With such a sigh as drops from agony To exhaustion,—sighing while she let the babe Slide down upon her bosom from her arms, And all her face’s light fell after him, Like a torch quenched in falling. Down she sank, And sate upon the bedside with the child.

But I, convicted, broken utterly, With woman’s passion clung about her waist, And kissed her hair and eyes,—‘I have been wrong, Sweet Marian’ ... (weeping in a tender rage) ‘Sweet holy Marian! And now, Marian, now, I’ll use your oath although my lips are hard, And by the child, my Marian, by the child, I’ll swear his mother shall be innocent Before my conscience, as in the open Book Of Him who reads for judgement. Innocent, My sister! let the night be ne’er so dark, The moon is surely somewhere in the sky; So surely is your whiteness to be found Through all dark facts. But pardon, pardon me, And smile a little, Marian,—for the child, If not for me, my sister.’ The poor lip Just motioned for the smile and let it go: And then, with scarce a stirring of the mouth, As if a statue spoke that could not breathe, But spoke on calm between its marble lips,— ‘I’m glad, I’m very glad you clear me so. I should be sorry that you set me down With harlots, or with even a better name Which misbecomes his mother. For the rest, I am not on a level with your love, Nor ever was, you know,—but now am worse, Because that world of yours has dealt with me As when the hard sea bites and chews a stone And changes the first form of it. I’ve marked A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape From all the various life of madrepores; And so, that little stone, called Marian Erle, Picked up and dropped by you and another friend, Was ground and tortured by the incessant sea And bruised from what she was,—changed! death’s a change, And she, I said, was murdered; Marian’s dead. What can you do with people when they are dead, But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and go, Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and go, But go by all means,—and permit the grass To keep its green feud up ’twixt them and you? Then leave me,—let me rest. I’m dead, I say. And if, to save the child from death as well, The mother in me has survived the rest, Why, that’s God’s miracle you must not tax,— I’m not less dead for that: I’m nothing more But just a mother. Only for the child, I’m warm, and cold, and hungry, and afraid, And smell the flowers a little, and see the sun, And speak still, and am silent,—just for him! I pray you therefore to mistake me not, And treat me, haply, as I were alive; For though you ran a pin into my soul, I think it would not hurt nor trouble me. Here’s proof, dear lady,—in the market-place But now, you promised me to say a word About ... a friend, who once, long years ago, Took God’s place toward me, when He draws and loves And does not thunder, ... whom at last I left, As all of us leave God. You thought perhaps, I seemed to care for hearing of that friend? Now, judge me! we have sate here half-an-hour And talked together of the child and me, And I not asked as much as, ‘What’s the thing You had to tell me of the friend ... the friend?’ He’s sad, I think you said,—he’s sick perhaps? It’s nought to Marian if he’s sad or sick. Another would have crawled beside your foot And prayed your words out. Why, a beast, a dog, A starved cat, if he had fed it once with milk, Would show less hardness. But I’m dead, you see, And that explains it.’ Poor, poor thing, she spoke And shook her head, as white and calm as frost On days too cold for raining any more, But still with such a face, so much alive, I could not choose but take it on my arm And stroke the placid patience of its cheeks,— Then told my story out, of Romney Leigh, How, having lost her, sought her, missed her still, He, broken-hearted for himself and her, Had drawn the curtains of the world awhile As if he had done with morning. There I stopped, For when she gasped, and pressed me with her eyes, ‘And now ... how is it with him? tell me now,’— I felt the shame of compensated grief, And chose my words with scruple—slowly stepped Upon the slippery stones set here and there Across the sliding water. ‘Certainly, As evening empties morning into night, Another morning takes the evening up With healthful, providential interchange; And, though he thought still of her,’— ‘Yes, she knew, She understood: she had supposed, indeed, That, as one stops a hole upon a flute, At which a new note comes and shapes the tune, Excluding her would bring a worthier in, And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar He loved so’ ... ‘Loved,’ I started,—‘loved her so! Now tell me’ ... ‘I will tell you,’ she replied: ‘But since we’re taking oaths, you’ll promise first That he, in England, he, shall never learn In what a dreadful trap his creature here, Round whose unworthy neck he had meant to tie The honourable ribbon of his name, Fell unaware, and came to butchery: Because,—I know him,—as he takes to heart The grief of every stranger, he’s not like To banish mine as far as I should choose In wishing him most happy. Now he leaves To think of me, perverse, who went my way, Unkind, and left him,—but if once he knew ... Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel wrong Would fasten me for ever in his sight, Like some poor curious bird, through each spread wing Nailed high up over a fierce hunter’s fire, To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk Come in by chance. Nay, since your Marian’s dead, You shall not hang her up, but dig a hole And bury her in silence! ring no bells.’

I answered gaily, though my whole voice wept; ‘We’ll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells, Because we have her back, dead or alive.’

She never answered that, but shook her head; Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven, Shall tell a story of his lower life, Unmoved by shame or anger,—so she spoke. She told me she had loved upon her knees, As others pray, more perfectly absorbed In the act and aspiration. She felt his, For just his uses, not her own at all, His stool, to sit on, or put up his foot, His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar, Whichever drink might please him at the chance, For that should please her always: let him write His name upon her ... it seemed natural; It was most precious, standing on his shelf, To wait until he chose to lift his hand. Well, well,—I saw her then, and must have seen How bright her life went, floating on her love, Like wicks the housewives send afloat on oil, Which feeds them to a flame that lasts the night.

To do good seemed so much his business, That, having done it, she was fain to think, Must fill up his capacity for joy. At first she never mooted with herself If _he_ was happy, since he made her so, Or if _he_ loved her, being so much beloved: Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, Observing that it lightens? who’s so bold, To question God of His felicity? Still less. And thus she took for granted first, What first of all she should have put to proof, And sinned against him so, but only so. ‘What could you hope,’ she said, ‘of such as she? You take a kid you like, and turn it out In some fair garden; though the creature’s fond And gentle, it will leap upon the beds And break your tulips, bite your tender trees: The wonder would be if such innocence Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids.’

And, by degrees, when he who had chosen her, Brought in his courteous and benignant friends To spend their goodness on her, which she took So very gladly, as a part of his,— By slow degrees, it broke on her slow sense, That she, too, in that Eden of delight Was out of place, and, like the silly kid, Still did most mischief where she meant most love. A thought enough to make a woman mad, (No beast in this, but she may well go mad) That, saying ‘I am thine to love and use,’ May blow the plague in her protesting breath To the very man for whom she claims to die,— That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down And drowns him,—and that, lavishing her soul, She hales perdition on him. ‘So, being mad,’ Said Marian ... ‘Ah—who stirred such thoughts, you ask? Whose fault it was, that she should have such thoughts? None’s fault, none’s fault. The light comes, and we see: But if it were not truly for our eyes, There would be nothing seen, for all the light; And so with Marian. If she saw at last, The sense was in her,—Lady Waldemar Had spoken all in vain else.’ ‘O my heart, O prophet in my heart,’ I cried aloud, ‘Then Lady Waldemar spoke!’ ‘_Did_ she speak,’ Mused Marian softly—‘or did she only sign? Or did she put a word into her face And look, and so impress you with the word? Or leave it in the foldings of her gown, Like rosemary smells, a movement will shake out When no one’s conscious? who shall say, or guess? One thing alone was certain,—from the day The gracious lady paid a visit first, She, Marian, saw things different,—felt distrust Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance Her hopes were building into with clay nests: Her heart was restless, pacing up and down And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms, Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease.’

‘And still the lady came,’ said Marian Erle, ‘Much oftener than _he_ knew it, Mister Leigh. She bade me never tell him that she had come, She liked to love me better than he knew, So very kind was Lady Waldemar: And every time she brought with her more light, And every light made sorrow clearer ... Well, Ah, well! we cannot give her blame for that; ’Twould be the same thing if an angel came, Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time The lady came, she looked more beautiful, And spoke more like a flute among green trees, Until at last, as one, whose heart being sad On hearing lovely music, suddenly Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in tears Before her ... asked her counsel ... ‘had I erred In being too happy? would she set me straight? For she, being wise and good and born above The flats I had never climbed from, could perceive If such as I, might grow upon the hills; And whether such poor herb sufficed to grow, For Romney Leigh to break his fast upon ’t,— Or would he pine on such, or haply starve?’ She wrapt me in her generous arms at once, And let me dream a moment how it feels To have a real mother, like some girls: But when I looked, her face was younger ... ay, Youth’s too bright not to be a little hard, And beauty keeps itself still uppermost, That’s true!—Though Lady Waldemar was kind, She hurt me, hurt, as if the morning-sun Should smite us on the eyelids when we sleep, And wake us up with headache. Ay, and soon Was light enough to make my heart ache too: She told me truths I asked for ... ’twas my fault ... ‘That Romney could not love me, if he would, As men call loving; there are bloods that flow Together, like some rivers, and not mix, Through contraries of nature. He indeed Was set to wed me, to espouse my class, Act out a rash opinion,—and, once wed, So just a man and gentle, could not choose But make my life as smooth as marriage-ring, Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheerful house, With servants, broaches, all the flowers I liked, And pretty dresses, silk the whole year round’ ... At which I stopped her,—‘This for me. And now ‘For _him_.’—She murmured,—truth grew difficult; She owned, ‘’Twas plain a man like Romney Leigh Required a wife more level to himself. If day by day he had to bend his height To pick up sympathies, opinions, thoughts, And interchange the common talk of life Which helps a man to live as well as talk, His days were heavily taxed. Who buys a staff To fit the hand, that reaches but the knee? He’d feel it bitter to be forced to miss The perfect joy of married suited pairs, Who, bursting through the separating hedge Of personal dues with that sweet eglantine Of equal love, keep saying, ‘So _we_ think, It strikes _us_,—that’s _our_ fancy.’‘—When I asked If earnest will, devoted love, employed In youth like mine, would fail to raise me up,— As two strong arms will always raise a child To a fruit hung overhead? she sighed and sighed ... ‘That could not be,’ she feared. ‘You take a pink, You dig about its roots and water it, And so improve it to a garden-pink, But will not change it to a heliotrope, The kind remains. And then, the harder truth— This Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a pale, So bold for conscience, quick for martyrdom, Would suffer steadily and never flinch, But suffer surely and keenly, when his class Turned shoulder on him for a shameful match, And set him up as nine-pin in their talk, To bowl him down with jestings.’—There, she paused; And when I used the pause in doubting that We wronged him after all in what we feared— ‘Suppose such things should never touch him, more In his high conscience, (if the things should be,) Than, when the queen sits in an upper room, The horses in the street can spatter her!’— A moment, hope came,—but the lady closed That door and nicked the lock, and shut it out, Observing wisely that, ‘the tender heart Which made him over-soft to a lower class, Could scarcely fail to make him sensitive ‘To a higher,—how they thought, and what they felt.’