The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 3

Muriel's Story

Muriel's Story.

The sweetest recollection of my youth
Is now the saddest, so I lay it by,
Aloof from frequent contact of the day,
And only bring it to this Christmas fire
When twilight's wings of shade, outspreading broad,
Give the pale Even shelter, as she lies,
Heavy with sorrow, on the breast of earth.
The Christmas log is burning clear and red!
Ah—once I clapped my untired hands with glee,
A happy child, to watch the gay sparks fly,
For Yule-tide claimed a welcome from me then!
The buried years are very deep entombed
'Neath snows of winter and dead summer flowers:
I look upon their graves with many tears.
Joy is too niggard of her precious gifts,
It must be thus within the weary world.
How long ago—how dreary long it seems,
This night of all nights, since I toyed with life!
Yon mirror shows a wan white face for mine—
Pale lips compressed in constant, stern resolve
To stifle the faint outcries of the heart
That yearns and yearns, yet makes no patent sign
To touch world-pity, and a few weak friends
With languid consolations for my grief.
These eyes have quite forgotten how to shine,
And were he here he could not call them fair.
Yea, were he here—oh! would they shine again,
As skies are lit with presence of the moon?
But, blind to brightness, they have scanned the ground,
Unchidden for their weeping, through the years.
On such a night as this we said farewell.—
He gave no signet troth of oath, or ring,
But yet he loved me with a deathless truth.
I—Muriel—the chosen,—felt it sure:
Ay, it was good to live with bliss so rare
Rocking me ever in fond Mother-arms!
My love, mine own, you took my lonely days
Into a Paradise to feel the sun
That in the midst of glory set apace.
Yet I was brave in parting; each hope strong
For any future—save the one that came.

"Some laurel leaves for bridal garland culled
I'm fain to bring you when I come once more.
Dear, I have toil before me, and must pause
At words my soul would utter—yet I go
Glad in my faith in you and womanhood."—
Yes! Reginald was earnest when he spoke;
I know my love spake truly, but—O God!—
He calls another by the name of "wife."
Ah, when I heard the news youth drooped and died,
Death-stricken by the fierceness of my woe.
Still, Reginald, I gave you faith with love
And never wronged you in that agony,
And after death, when all the soul-mists fade,
Changing to glories, I may see your face
Beam on me in a holy calm of joy,
And learn why we were severed, left to life.
For I do think the help-meet at your side
Was linked by chain of duty to your lot,
She was your ward, but scanty wealth was hers,
Impulsive, vain, and very beautiful.
Stern rumour said she gave her love to you
Unasked—unsought, and lost her pride of race
To follow you, the time you went to Rome,
Meeting insult, and scorn upon the way.
You married her, and saved her from the world,
And now the self-same rumour hisses out
In serpent whispers, that her fancy's o'er,
The Lady Maud regrets her luckless step,
And murmurs that she did mistake for love
An idle glamour of romantic youth.
This rumour may be false, I question not
What e'er should be concealed from worldly ken,
And am content to trust you, Reginald.
I know you only great, and grand, and pure,
I love you as the noblest work of God;
Enshrined for me to honour in my soul!
My happiness I owe you, and my tears,
And now I cannot separate the twain
That share my lot between them till I die.
P'shaw, Muriel! you're weak indeed to night
To weep such scalding drops, and cry aloud
As if the dark could bear your voice afar
And draw him towards you for one moment's space.
The wild wind ceases sobbing with a sigh
(A mocking echo of the sigh I breathed.)
Ten long years since our parting passed full slow,
Your broad white forehead then was very smooth—
Ah! Love, you were face-eloquent as truth!
Such wondrous eyes you had—rich chestnut brown,
Soul lit to radiance, that with depth of shade
Sunk into lustrous sadness, or arose
Aflash with splendours when you smiled, or spoke;
And these dark eyes were closed, as jewels rare,
In lids a sculptors' hand were fain to carve.
O Eyes beloved, are ye dreamy now,
Or sadder than I knew ye often-times?
I shall not falter from your gaze again
That told me of high love in perfect speech;
And there hath fallen silence on my life
Because no tender voice says "Muriel,
My Muriel, God made your love for mine."
Not a slight trick of gesture—not a curve
Of brow or mouth but memory doth paint
In vivid colours for my starved sight:
So I must wail above my precious dead
Just this to-night—to morrow brings fresh cares,
And sordid cares they are, for I am poor,
Striving on daily for what price they give
For verses and life-histories I weave.
Jarvis, my trusty servant, and old Joan
From childhood have been with me, so my skill
Must gain us livelihood and comfort's cheer.
Good Joan is sorry that I do not wed,
For wooers found me in these later years
And seek me on, with zeal I merit not,
But I do live on friendless and alone.
I did not love my sister-women much,
Because the nearest to me came not close
The thoughts and pleasures that I valued most.
I was not drawn by tie of flesh and blood
To human kindred, since that none exist
To call me "daughter"—"sister"—any more;
And I have cast all friendship back with pride,
In all my sorrow seeming hard and cold
To kind advances, as the haughty rock
Frowns 'mid the sunlight with a moveless front.
Just punishment tonight—I am alone!
And loneliness is bitter in its gloom.
My cousin Ida, on a Christmas Eve,
Came like an hour of summer hitherwards,
And with her light-pressed kisses made me gay:
My cousin Ida! she was blithely fair,
As a June morning set in golden haze;
She seemed a child to me, though full five years
Had made her rosy-healthful ere my birth.
Hers was a nature born for constant youth,
And, were she living, would be child-like yet,
And borne on waves of Hope beyond a care.
But laughing Ida died, and I must live!
Sooth! what avails the fame I've won—to night!
This heart of mine, doth, mournful, long for peace, And like a fragile bark is rent and wrecked
By the rude breakers of this surging life,
Or as a broken anchor swamped in sand.
The air was gentle when it touched me first;
Men said I had some genius for my dower;
The coin I lavished for a foolish praise,
Dreaming it might surround the Love I loved,
And therefore prove for me a blessed boon.
Then with my puny hands I tried to hurl
Strong thunderbolts upon the ills I saw,
Till unprevailing efforts made me sink
Nerveless and conquered, doomed to meet despair.
I was a weary worker in the hive,
And searched within my heart's-deeps, bleeding fast,
For humbler knowledge of dire every-day.
I am a weary worker—but I write
From Nature's open book what there I see,
And timid read from it what God hath scrolled
For poet-guessings and Humanity.
I wonder if my words have wandered hence
To where my well-beloved dwells apart
From out the sacred unity of Home—
And if his lovely wife, the Lady Maud,
Hath paused in ball-attire to scan a page
Unwitting of the anguished soul that spoke.

* * * * * *

Ah, here are letters with unbroken seals
Brought in by Jarvis well an hour ago,—
My reverie hath held me in its dark
Too long—and cold the light of life doth wane
With aspirations chilled at one outbreak;
Ambition may not charm me from myself!
Or mould this note, that is so scant of speech
As if the writer's time had missed a step
Up stony Pegasus, and days were few.
Tis business matter—ay, and this the same—
Discourteous slightly, no command of terms
For hiring cheap the brain-machine I own;
The morrow will be soon enough for these.
But what is this?—my senses reel as smote—
The silent paper seems to burn like fire!—
Oh, Reginald! is welcome death a near
That you have found me once again on earth?
My heart is bursting with a a sudden pang—
The lamp is whirling in fantastic dance—
Shall I unveil the Past and know its lore?
Nought could he say that I should shrink to read,
My Love's the Prince of Honour in my soul—
The dear familiar characters are blurred
As if unsteady fingers grasped the pen.
Come, Muriel, cast coward fears away,
Not Lady Maud would blame your loyalty,
Tis not that gold can ever change from gold,
And good remaineth good, in steadfast eyes.
Ah, now my courage will be calm for aught
That's here inscribed—nay, I shall swoon—shall fall! The Lady Maud is dead!
A year ago
She slept beneath the mould of Italy—
And he—my love—my love, is England bound
Unchanged (bless God!) to claim me for his wife.
He "will lay clear the mystery of fate
The why and wherefore of our severance"
(I thought to hear the tale from spirit-lips.)
Ay, so he says, but I with fullest trust
Will stay explainings in my perfect faith,
And by the ceaseless love that's mine eterne
I feel the love of God strike warmly down
Unto my human nature dulled with woe,
And aye my soul in gratitude shall kneel.

To morrow you will come, my Reginald—
To morrow—prove reality of bliss,
To morrow—look upon me as of old,
And with caressing murmurs name my name
As music by a happy household sung—
Then will you take me to a palace fair
Where only greatness and nobility
Do move, and where my freely breathing mind
Must doff her flimsy raiment for the robes
That crowned Womanhood doth stately wear.
Love! in this sudden shining of the sun
What heart-flowers may not bloom for endless days!

Ellys Erle.