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Ideala

<h2 id="id00225" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XI.</h2> My widowed sister, Claudia, was one of Ideala's most intimate friends. She was a good deal older than Ideala, whom she loved as a mother loves a naughty child, for ever finding fault with her, but ready to be up in arms in a moment if any one else ventured to do likewise. She was inclined to quarrel with me because, although I never doubted Ideala's truth and earnestness (no one could), knowing her weak point, I feared for her. I thought if all the passion in her were ever focussed on one object she would do something extravagant—a prediction which Claudia, with good intent, rashly repeated to her once. Claudia was mistress of my house, and she and I had agreed from the first that, whatever happened, we would watch over Ideala and befriend her. My sister was one of the people who thought it would have been better for Ideala to have talked of her troubles. When I praised Ideala's loyalty, and her uncomplaining devotion to an uncongenial duty, Claudia said: "Loyalty is all very well; but I don't see much merit in a life- long devotion to a bad cause. If there were any good to be done by it, it would be different, of course; but, as it is, Ideala is simply sacrificing herself for nothing—and worse, she is setting a bad example by showing men they need not mend their manners since wives will endure anything. It is immoral for a woman to live with such a husband. I don't understand Ideala's meekness; it amounts to weakness sometimes, I think. I believe if he struck her she would say, 'Thank you,' and fetch him his slippers. I feel sure she thinks some unknown defect in herself is at the bottom of all his misdeeds." "I don't think she knows half as much about his misdeeds as we do," I observed. "Then I think it would be a charity to enlighten her," Claudia answered, decidedly. "One can't touch pitch without being defiled, and when it is too late we shall find she has suffered 'some taint in nature,' in spite of herself. Will you kindly take us to the Palace this evening? The Bishop wants us to go in after dinner, and Ideala has promised to come too." Ideala was fastidious about her dress, and being in one of her moods that evening she teased Claudia unmercifully, on the way to the Palace, about a blue woollen shawl she was wearing. "A delicate and refined nature expresses itself by nothing more certainly than elegant wraps," she said, parodying another famous dictum; "and I should not like to be able to understand the state of mind a lady was in when she bought herself a blue woollen shawl; but I could believe she was suffering at the time from a temporary aberration of intellect—only, if she wore it afterwards the thing would be quite inexplicable." Claudia drew the wrap round her with dignity, and made no reply; then Ideala laughed and turned to me. "Certainly your friend," she said, alluding to a young sculptor who was staying with me, "can 'invest his portraits with artistic merit.' Claudia's likeness in the Exhibition is capital, and the fame of it is being noised abroad with a vengeance. But I think something should be done to stop the little newspaper-boy nuisance: the reports they spread are quite alarming." "Ideala, what nonsense are you talking about sculptors and newspaper- boys?" Claudia exclaimed. "I'll tell you," said Ideala. "There was a small boy with a big voice standing at the corner of the market-place this afternoon. He had a sheaf of evening papers under his arm, and was yelling with much enthusiasm to an edified crowd:—'Noose of the War! Hawful mutilation of the dead! Fearful collision in the Channel! Eighty-eight lives lost! Narrative of survivors! Thrilling details! Shindy in Parl'ment! Hirish members to the front again! 'Orrible haccident in our own town! The Lady Claudia's bust!'" "Ideala, how dare you?"—but just then the carriage stopped, and we had to get out. The good Bishop met us in the hall. Ideala positively declined to go upstairs when he asked her. "It is too much trouble," she said, not seeing in her absence what was meant. "I would rather leave my things here." "But I am afraid I must trouble you," the Bishop answered, in despair. "The fact is, my wife is not so well this evening, and she was afraid of the cold, and is staying in her own sitting-room." The "sitting-room" was a snug apartment, warm, cosy, luxurious, and we found a genial little party of intimate acquaintances there when we arrived. Ideala's husband was not one of them. He did not take her out much at that time. Probably he was engaged in some private pursuit of his own, and insisted on her going everywhere alone to keep her out of the way. A little while before he would scarcely allow her to pay a call without him. But, as a rule, whatever his mood was, she did as he wished—and provoked him sometimes, I think, by her patient compliance; a little resistance would have made the exercise of his authority more exciting. When we entered the sitting-room "an ominous silence feel on the group," which was broken at last by one of the ladies remarking that a kind heart was an admirable thing. Another agreed, and made some observations on the merits of self-sacrifice generally. "But some people are not satisfied with merely doing a good deed," a gentleman declared, with profound gravity. "They think there is no merit in it if they do not suffer for it in some way themselves." There was a good deal more of this kind of thing, and we were beginning to feel rather out of it, when presently the preternatural gravity of the party was broken by a laugh, and then it was explained. Ideala had gone to a neighbouring town one day by train, and before she started a poor woman got into the carriage. The woman had a third-class ticket, but she was evidently ill, and when the guard came and wanted to turn her out, Ideala took pity on her, insisted on changing tickets, and travelled third class herself. The woman had been to the Palace, and described the incident to the Bishop's wife that morning, and she had just told her guests, wondering who the lady could have been, and they in turn had put their heads together and decided that there was no one in the community but Ideala who would have done the thing in that way. "But what else could I have done?" she asked, when she saw we were laughing at her. "Well, my dear," said the Bishop, who always treated her with the kind indulgence that is accorded to a favourite child, "you might have paid the difference for the woman, and travelled comfortably yourself, don't you know?" Ideala never thought of that! Presently the dear old Bishop nestled back in his chair, and with a benign glance round, which, his scapegrace son said, meant: "Bless you, my children! Be happy and good in your own way, but don't make a noise!" he sank into a gentle doze, and the rest of the party relapsed into trivial gossip, some of which I give for what it is worth by way of illustration. It shows Ideala at about her worst, but marks a period in her career, a turning-point for the better. She was seldom bitter, and still more rarely frivolous, after that night. "Clare Turner will take none of the blame of that affair on his own shoulders," some one remarked. "Mr. Clare Turner is the little boy who always said 'It wasn't me!' grown up," Ideala decided, from the corner of her couch. "He is a sort of two-reason man." "How do you mean 'a two-reason man,' Ideala?" "Well, he has only two reasons for everything; one is his reason for doing anything he likes himself, which is always a good one; and the other is his reason why the rest of the world should not do likewise, which is equally clear—to himself. He thinks there should be one law for him and another for everybody else. I don't believe in him." "Nor I," said one of the gentlemen. "Underhand bowling was all he was celebrated for at school; he bowled most frightful sneaks all the time he was there." "Talking about Clare Turner," Charlie Lloyd put in, "I've brought a new book of poems—author unknown. I picked it up at the station to-day. There's one thing in it, called 'The Passion of Delysle,' that seems to be intense; but I've only just glanced at it, and don't really know what it's like. Shall I read it?" "Oh, do!" was the general exclamation, and we all settled ourselves to enjoy the following treat. Charlie began softly: O day and night! Oh day and night! and is this madness? O day and night! O day and night! and is this joy? Whence comes this bursting sense of life, and love, and gladness, This pain of pleasure, perfected, without alloy? Lo, flowing past me are the restless rivers, Or swelling round me is the boundless sea; Or else the widening waste of sand that quivers In shining stretches, shuts the world from me— Or seems to shut it, while I would that what it seems might be. O day and night! O day and night! this mountain island, This saintly shrine, this fort—I scarce know what 'tis yet— This sand, or sea-girt, rocky, town-clad, church-crown'd highland, This dull and rugged gem in golden deserts set, Has some delicious, unknown charm to hold me, To draw me to itself and keep me here; The old grey walls, it seems, with joy enfold me— Or is it I that make the dead stones dear, And send the throbbing summer in my blood thro' all things near? O day and night! O day and night! where else do flowers Open their velvet lids like these to greet the light? Or raise such sun-kissed lips aglow to meet cool showers? Or cast more subtle scents abroad upon the night? These trees and trailing weeds that climb the cliff-side steep, The dusky pine trees, draped with wreaths of vine, Make bowers where love might lie and list the sea-voice deep, And drink the perfumed air, the light, like wine, Which threads intoxication through these hot, glad veins of mine. O day and night! O day and night! I sought this haven, From place and power, and wealth I flew in search of rest; They forced and bound me to a hard, detested craven, Who mocked my loathing with his head upon my breast. With deathless love I moaned for my young lover; To make me great they drove him from my side, And foully wrought with shame his name to cover— My boy, my lord, my prince! In vain they lied! But should I always suffer for their false, inhuman pride? O day and night! O day and night! I left them flying, I fled by day and night as flies the nomad breeze, Across the silent land when light to dark was dying, And onward like a spirit lost across the seas; And on from sea and shore thro' apple-orchards blooming, Till all things melted in a moving haze; And on with rush and ring by tower and townlet glooming, By wood, and field, and hill, by verdant ways, While dawn to mid-day drew, and noon was lost in sunset blaze. O day and night! O day and night! light once more waxing, Still on with courage high, tho' strength was well-nigh spent; Grim spectres of pursuit the wearied brain perplexing, Fear-fraught, but ever met with spirit dedolent. The landscape reeled, there came a sense of slumber, And myriad shadows rose and wanned and waned, And flitting figures, visions without number, Took shape above the land till sight was pained, And floated round me till at last the longed-for goal I gained. O day and night! O day and night! with rest abounding, The soothing sinking down on hard-earned holy rest, With grateful ease that grew from all the calm surrounding, A languid, dreamful ease, my soul became possessed. The hoarse sea-wind comes soughing, sighing, singing, Its constant message from the patient waves. While high above cathedral bells were ringing, Or falling voices chanted hymns of praise, And all the land seemed filled with peace and promised length of days. * * * * * O day and night! O day and night! once, all unheeding, By sun and summer wind with tender touch caressed, I wandered where the strains, the sacred strains, were pleading, And, kneeling in the fane, my thoughts to prayer addressed. And softly rose the murmur'd organ mystery, And swell'd around the colonnaded aisle, Where smiled the pictured saints of holy history On prostrate penitents who prayed the while: I could not pray there, but I felt that God Himself might smile. O day and night! O day and night! while I was kneeling There came the strangest sense of some loved presence near; A re-awakening rush of well-remembered feeling Thrill'd thro' me, held me still, with vague expectant fear. Half turn'd from me, there stood beside the altar, Where incense-clouds nigh veiled him from my sight, A fair-haired priest—my quicken'd heart-beats falter! Or is he priest, or is he acolyte, Or layman devotee who prays in novice robes bedight? O day and night! O day and night! whence comes this feeling? For all unreal seem day and night and life and death, And all unreal the hope that sets my senses reeling, And stills my pulse an instant, checks my lab'ring breath. Yet louder rolls the mighty organ thund'ring. And downward slopes a beam of light divine, The perfumed clouds are cleft: he looks up wond'ring— Looks up—what does he there before the shrine? He could not give himself to God, for he is mine, is mine! O day and night! O day and night! I go forth trembling, He did not meet my eyes, he never saw my face. My bosom swells with joy and jealousy resembling A war of good and evil waged in a holy place. No longer soft the day, the sun in splendour Pours all his might upon this green incline; I lie and watch the cirrus clouds surrender, Their glowing forms to one hot kiss resign— How could he give himself to God when he is mine, is mine? O day and night! O day and night! beneath your glory The crimson flood of life itself has turned to fire! The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary, Are quivering in their grim surprise at my desire. The mother earth, throbbing with pain and pleasure, Would sink her voices for the languid noon, But light airs wake a reckless madd'ning measure, And wavelets dance and sparkle to the tune. And mock the mocking malice of yon day-dimm'd gibbous moon. * * * * * O day and night! O day and night! a fisher maiden Is wand'ring up the path to where unseen I lie; She comes with some light spoil from off the shore beladen. And softly singing of the sea goes slowly by. And slowly rise great sun-tipped white cloud masses, Sublimely still their shadows flit and flee: How silently the work of nature passes— The roll of worlds, the growth of flower and tree! Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me! O day and night! O day and night! the hours rolling Bring ev'ry one its change, its song, or chant, or chime: Now solemnly their sounds a distant death-knell tolling. And now the bells above beat forth the flight of time. I lie, unconsciously each trifle noting, The far-off sailors toiling on the quay, Or o'er the sand a broad-wing'd sea-bird floating, Or passing hum of honey-laden'd bee— Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me! O day and night! O day and night! the scene surrounding Grows dim and all unreal beneath the sunset glow; And all the heat and rage pass into peace abounding, I moan, I fear no more, but wait, while still tears flow. The warm sweet airs scarce move the flowerets slender, A pause and hush have settled on the sea, A bird trills forth its love-song low and tender: O bird rejoice! thy love and thou art free- Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me! * * * * * O day and night! O day and night! ye knew it ever! Ye saw it written in the world's first golden prime! And smiled your giant smile at all my rash endeavour To snatch the cup unfill'd from out the hand of Time. He comes, O day and night! Spirits attending, Swift formless messengers my ev'ry sense apprise! He comes! the bright fair head o'er some old book low bending Dear Lord, at last! his eyes have met my eyes— Gleam of light goes quivering across the happy skies! * * * * * O day and night! O day and night! Love sits between us. Far out the rising tide comas sweeping o'er the sand. The murmurous pine trees lend their purple shade to screen us, And breathe their fragrant sighs above the quiet land. And, like a sigh, the sunset blaze is over, The folding grey has veiled its colours bright; While swift from view fade out the gulls that hover, As round us sinks at last, on pinions light, The dark and radiant clarity of the beautiful still night. O day and night! O day and night! no words are spoken. Such pleasant joy profound no words could well express: His wand'ring fingers smooth my hair in silent token, And all my being answers to the tender mute caress. My head is resting on his breast for pillow, And as by music moved my soul is thrill'd; Flow on and clasp the land, O bursting billow! O breezes, tell the mountains many-rill'd! Our hearts now know each other, and our hope is all-fulfill'd. O day and night! O day and night! no shadow crosses This long'd-for solemn hour of all-forgetful bliss; No chilling thought, or stalking dread arising, tosses A poison'd drop of bitterness to spoil the ling'ring kiss: No mem'ries past or future fears assailing— As soon might doubt bedim the stars that shine! Or souls released reach Paradise bewailing The end of pain, and clemency divine: The glorious present holds us: I am his and he is mine!" * * * * * O day and night! O day and night! and was it madness? Lo! all is changing, even sky, and sea, and shore; The heaving water ebbs itself away in sadness, The waves receding sigh, "Delight returns no more!" Far down the East the dawn is dimly burning, Its first chill breath has shivered thro' my frame, And with the light comes cruel Thought returning, The air seems full of voices speaking blame; Another day commences, but the world is not the same! O day and night! O day and night! its rashes pass'd us, We stand upon the brink and watch, the strong deep tide, And shrink already from the howls that soon must blast us, The world that sins unchidden, and the laws that would divide. "O Love, they rest in peace whom ocean covers!" One plunge, one clasp supernal, one long kiss! Then downward, like those old Italian lovers. Descend for ever through the long abyss, And float together, happy, all eternity like this! The charm of the reader's voice had held us spellbound, and the poem was well received; but after the usual compliments there was a pause, and then Ideala burst out impetuously: "I am sick of those old Italian lovers," she said; "they float into everything. Their story is the essence with which two-thirds of our love literature is flavoured. We should never have received them in society; why do we tolerate them in books? I like my company to be respectable even there; and when an author asks me to admire and sympathise with such people he insults me." "They must be brought in, though, for the sake of contrast," somebody observed. "They should be kept in their proper place, then," she answered. "You may choose what you please to point a moral, but for pity's sake be careful about what you use to adorn a tale." "Moral or no moral," said the young sculptor, "I think a new poem of any kind a thing to be thankful for." "And do you call that kind of thing new?" said Ideala. "I should say it was a fine compound of all the poems of the kind, and several other kinds, that have ever been written, with a dash of the peculiarly refined immorality of our own times, from which nothing is sacred; thrown in to make weight. Such writing, Like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, . . . . . . . . . . . and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. It is the feeling of the day accurately defined. Nobody sighs for love and peace now. The cry is for the indulgence of some fiery passion for an hour, and then, perdition!—if you like—since that is the recognised price of it." "Our loves are more intense than they used to be," said the sculptor, sighing. "Love!" Ideala answered. "Oh, do not desecrate 'the eternal God-word, love!' There is little enough of that in the business that goes by its name now-a-days. I am a lady—I cannot use the right word. But it is none the less the thing I mean because it calls blasphemously on God Almighty to help it to fulfil itself." "Well," said Charlie Lloyd, deprecatingly, "I didn't offer this, you know, as an admirable specimen of what our day can produce. I told you I hadn't read it, and now that I have I don't suppose any one has offered it to the public as a serious expression of sentiment." "You do not think people write books about what they really feel?" said Ideala. "I believe they do when the feeling is shameful. If you want to keep a secret, publish the exact truth in a book, and nobody will believe a word of it. I think people who publish such productions should be burned on a pile of their own works." "The writer is young, doubtless," I said, apologetically. It gives one a shock to hear a woman say harsh things. "He was evidently not too young to have bad thoughts," said Claudia, supporting her friend; "and he was certainly old enough to know better." "He!" ejaculated Ideala. "It is far more likely to be she. Do you read the reviews? You will find that all the most objectionable books are written by women—and condemned by men who lift up their voices now, as they have done from time immemorial, and insist that we should do as they say, and not as they do." "I am afraid you are right," said Charlie Lloyd. "So many of our best women—I mean the women who are likely to make most impression on the age—are going that way now." "But what horrid things you say, Ideala," one of the ladies chimed in, "and you make everybody else say horrid things. That 'Passion of Delysle' is not a bit worse than Tennyson's 'Fatima'—and there's a lot more in it—that part about 'the roll of worlds,' you know, is quite grand." "I always liked that idea," Ideala observed. "And—and—" the lady continued, "where she looks at everything, you know. She was very properly seeking distraction, and found it for a moment in the contemplation of nature, and that softened her mood, so that when the inevitable rush of recollection comes and forces the thought of him back upon her, her feeling finds expression in a prayer —instead of—instead of—" "A blasphemous remonstrance," Ideala put in. "Oh, I don't deny that there is just enough to be said in favour of all these things to make them sell—and this one has two unusual points of interest. It opens with a riddle, and the lady's lover is a priest, which gives an additional zest to the charm of wrong-doing, a sauce piquante for jaded appetites." "Why do you call the opening verses a riddle?" said Charlie Lloyd. "Because I fancy no one will ever guess what kind of a place it was— This mountain island, This saintly shrine, this fort— I forget how it goes on." "Oh, the description of the place is not bad," Charlie answered, after reading it over again to himself. "It would do for the Mont St. Michael in Normandy." "Well, let that pass, then," said Ideala; "also the dear familiar 'subtle scents abroad upon the night.' But what does she mean by 'On with rush and ring'?" "She means the train, obviously." "What an outlandish periphrasis! And how about The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary, Are quivering in their grim surprise?" "That is a 'pathetic fallacy.' She is not speaking of the things as they were, but as they appeared to her excited fancy. She chronicles her own death, though——" "So did Moses," said Ideala. "If you really want to justify 'The Passion of Delysle' I can help you. You see she was dreadfully badly treated by her friends, poor thing! and her marriage after all was no marriage, because she loved another man all the time; and your husband isn't properly your husband if you don't love him, love being the only possible sanctification—in fact, the only true marriage. And then her lover, thinking he had lost her, became a priest, and vows made under a misapprehension like that cannot be binding—it would be too much to expect us to suffer always for such mistakes. And then the world—but we all know how cruel the world is! And appearances were sadly against them, poor things! No one would ever have believed that they had stayed out all night to discuss their religious experiences. Suicide is shocking, of course; but still, when people are driven to it like that, we can only be sorry for them, and hope they will never do it again!" She nestled back more comfortably on her couch, and then continued in an altered tone: "But it is appalling to think of the quantity of machine-made verses like those that are imposed on the public year by year, verses the mere result of much reading and writing, without a scrap of inspiration in them, and as far removed from even schoolboy efforts of genius, as an oleograph is from an oil painting. Poets are as rare now as prophets, and inspiration has left us for our sins. I think any fairly educated one of us, with a tolerable memory and the habit of composition, could write that 'Passion of Delysle' again in half-an-hour." "Oh, could they, though!" said Ralph, the son of the house. "I dare bet anything you couldn't do it yourself in twice the time." "Dare you?" she answered, with a little smile. "Well, to adopt your elegant phraseology, Master Ralph, I bet I will produce the same story, with the same conclusion, but a different moral, in an hour—since you allow me twice the time I named—if I may be permitted to write it in blank verse, that is, and of course, with the understanding that what I write is not intended to be anything but mere versified prose." "Done with you!" cried Ralph. "Hush—h—h!" his mother exclaimed, deprecatingly. "Betting, and before the Bishop, too!" "What the Bishop don't know will do him no harm, Ma," said the youth in a stage whisper. "Sit down, Ideala, and begin. It's ten minutes to ten now." The Bishop slept serenely; conversation flagged; and Ideala wrote steadily for about three-quarters of an hour; then she gathered up the manuscript, rose from the table, and returned to her old seat. "'The Passion of Delysle' has become 'The Choice,'" she said. "Will you read it for me, Mr. Lloyd? I think it should have that advantage, at least." Charlie took the manuscript, and read: Once on a time, not very long gone by, A noble lady had a noble choice. The daughter of an ancient house was she, Beauty, and wealth, and highest rank were hers, But love was not, for of a proud, cold race Her people were, caring for nought but lands, Riches, and power; holding all tender thoughts As weakly folly, only fit for babes. The lady learnt their creed; her heart seem'd hard— She thought it so; and when the moment came To choose 'twixt love, young love, and pride of place, She still'd an unwonted feeling that would rise, And saying calmly: "I have got no heart, And love is vain!" she chose to be the wife Of sinful age, corruption, and untruth, Scorning the steadfast love of one who yearn'd To win her from the crooked paths she trod, And break the sordid chains that bound her soul, And sweep the defiling dust of common thoughts From out her mind, until it shone at last With large imaginings of God and good. She chose: no more they met: her life was pass'd In constant round of pomp and proud display. But when he went, and never more there came The love-sad eyes to question and entreat, The voice of music praising noble deeds, The graceful presence and the golden hair, She miss'd the boy; but scoff'd at first and said: "One misses all things, common pets one spurn'd, Good slaves and bad alike when both are gone,— A small thing makes the habit of a life!" But days wore on, and adulation palled. She knew not what she lack'd, nor that she loath'd The hollow semblance, the dull mockery, Which she had gain'd for joy by choosing rank, And money's worth, instead of peace and love. Yet ever as the long days grew to months More heavy hung the time, moved slower by. And all things troubled her and gave her pain, And morning, noon, and night the thought would rise, And grew insistent when she would not hear: "One loved me! out of all this crowd but one! And he is gone, and I have driven him forth!" Then in the silent solitude of night An old weird story that she once had heard Tormented her; a story speaking much Of a rock-island on the Norman coast, A mountain peak rising from barren sand, Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns, And beaten by the winds on ev'ry side, With wall'd-in town, and castle on the height, And high above the castle, strangely placed, A grey cathedral with its summit tipp'd By a gold figure of St. Michael crown'd, With burnished wings and flashing sword that shone A beacon in the sunset, seen for miles, As tho' the Archangel floated in the air. The castle and the church a sanctuary And refuge were, to which men often fled For rest or safety, finding what they sought. And as the lady thought about the place, A notion came that she would like to kneel And pray for peace at that far lonely shrine. The longing grew: she rested not nor slept. And should she fly and leave her wretched wealth? And if she fled she never could return; Yet if she stay'd she felt that she should die. So go or stay meant misery for her— But misery is lessened when we move. Yes, she would go! and then she laugh'd to think Of the wild fury of her harsh old Lord When he should wake one day and find her gone— Laugh'd! the first time for long and weary months. By Mont St. Michael, on the Norman coast, A restless river, changing oft its course, Flows sullenly; and racehorse-like the tide, Which, going, leaves a wilderness of sand. Comes rushing back, a foam-topp'd, wat'ry wall; And those who, wand'ring, 'scape the quicksand's grip, Are often caught and drown'd ere help can come. But fair the prospect from the Mount when bright The sunshine falls on Avranches far away, A white town straggling o'er a verdant hill; And on the tree-clad country toward the west, On apple orchards, and the fairy bloom Of feath'ry tam'risk bushes on the shore; Whilst high above in silent majesty Of hue and form the floating clouds support The far-extending vault of azure sky Such was the shrine the lady sought, and there In mute appeal for what she lack'd she knelt, Not knowing what she lack'd; but finding peace Steal o'er her soul there as she faintly heard The slow and solemn chanting of the priests, The mild monotony of murmured prayers, And hush of pauses when she seemed to feel The heart she deem'd so hard was melting fast, And listen'd to a voice within her say— "Love is not vain! Love all things and rejoice!" And found warm tears were stealing down her cheeks. The mystery of love, of love, of love, Of hope, of joy, of life itself, she felt; The crown of life, which she had sacrificed In scornful pride for lust of power and place. The lady bow'd her head, and o'er her swept A wave of anguish, and she knew despair. "Could I but see him once again!" she moan'd, "See him, and beg forgiveness, and then die!" Did the Archangel Michael, standing there Upon her left, in shining silver, hear? Who knows? Her prayer was answer'd like a flash; For at that moment, clear and sweet o'er all The mingled music of the chanting choir, There rose a voice that thrill'd her inmost soul: It breathed a blessing; utter'd soft a prayer. No need to look: and yet she look'd, and saw A hooded monk before the altar kneel, A graceful presence, tho' in sordid dress. And as she gazed the cowl slipp'd back and show'd (But dimly thro' the incense-perfumed cloud) A pure pale face, a golden tonsured head, And blue eyes raised to heaven. Then the truth Was there reveal'd to her that he had left The world to watch and pray for such as she. Out of the castled-gate she hurried forth: What matter'd where she went, to east or west? What matter'd peasant's warning that the sand Was shifting ever, and the rushing tide Gave them no quarter whom it overtook? 'Twas death she courted, and with heedless step Onward to meet it swift the lady fled. Death is so beautiful at such a time, When all the land in summer sunshine lies, And lapse of distant waves breaks pleasantly The silence with a soothing dreamy sound, And danger seems no nearer than the sky, He tempts us from afar with hope of rest. She hurried on in search of death, nor heard That eager footsteps followed where she went. The voice that call'd her was not real, she thought, But a sweet portion of a strange sweet dream— For now the terrible anguish quickly pass'd, And sense of peace at hand was all she felt. "O stop!" Ah! that was real. She turn'd and saw, Nor saw a moment till she felt his grasp Strong and determined on her rounded arm. "Thou shalt not die!" he cried. "What madness this?" "Madness!" she echoed: "nay, my love, 'tis bliss— The first my life has known—to stand here still With thee beside me, and to wait for death. I know my heart at last, but all too late! I may not love thee, I another's wife; Thou mayst not love me, thou hast wedded heaven. We cannot be together in this world; I cannot live alone and know thee here. And thou art troubled! I for beneath that garb Thy heart beats ever hot with love for me; For love will not be quell'd by monkish vows. But all things change in death! so let us die Thus, hand in hand, and so together pass, And be together thro' eternity!" There was a struggle in the young monk's breast; He would not meet her pleading eyes and yield, But gazing up to heaven prayed for strength, Strength to resist, and guidance how to act, For death like that with her was luring—sweet— A strong temptation, but he must resist, And strive to save and show her how to live. "We cannot make hereafter for ourselves," He answered softly; "all that we can do Is so to live that we shall win reward Of praise, and peace, and happy life to come. Thy duty lies before thee; so does mine. Let each return, and toil and watch and pray, Knowing each other's heart is fix'd on heaven. And do the good we can; not seeking death Nor shunning it, but living pure and true, With conscience clear to meet our God at last, And win each other for our great reward." The moving music of his words sank deep Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts. "Be thou my guide," she said. "My duty now Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee To win the love I yearn for in the end." It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed; And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing, A glitt'ring, glassy wall of foam-fleck'd wave Towards them glided with that fatal speed You cannot mark because it is so swift. No use to struggle now: no time to fly! He clasp'd her to him: "God hath will'd it thus. Courage, my sister!" "Is this death?" she cried. "Yes, this is death." "It is not death, but joy!" And as she spoke the spot where they were seen Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves: While high above the summer sun shone on— A passing seabird hoarsely shriek'd along! All things were changed, with that vast change which makes It seem as tho' nought else had ever been. "Well done, Ideala!" said Ralph, patronisingly; "you certainly have a memory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle.' I could criticise on another count, but taking into consideration time, place, circumstances, and the female intellect, I refrain. That is the generous sort of creature I am. So, without expressing my own opinion further—except to remark that, though I don't think much of either of them, personally I prefer 'Delysle.' The other is wholesomer, doubtless, for those who like a mild diet. Milk and water doesn't agree with me. But I put it to the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, do you or do you not consider that this lady has won her bet?" "Oh, won it, most decidedly!" we all agreed. "By-the-by, what was the bet?" I asked. "My Pa's gaiters against Ideala's blue stockings. I regret to say that circumstances over which I have no control"—and he glanced at the unconscious Bishop—"prevent the immediate payment of my debt—unless, indeed, he has a second pair;" and he left the room hurriedly as if to see. He did not come back to us that evening, but I believe he was to be heard of later at the sign of the "Billiard and Cue." "Well," said the young sculptor, returning to the old point of departure, "for my own part, I find much that is elevating in modern works." "So do I," said Ideala; "I find much that raises me on stilts." "But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people's heads and beyond." "It would," she answered, "if human nature didn't desire a sense of security; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that all I can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modern literature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like a giant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and without faith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and when you see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision is distorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, and causes you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with your approval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when the work of destruction is over, and you look about you once more with sober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Your false guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leaves you hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he has beguiled you. There is no need for new theories of Life and Religion; all we require is strength and courage to perfect the old ones. [Footnote: She quite changed her mind upon this subject eventually, and held that there was not only need of new theories, but good hope that we should have them.] What the mind wants is food it can grow upon, not stimulants which inflate it for a time with a fancied sense of power that has no real existence. But I have small hope for our nation when I think of the sparkling trash that the mind of the multitude daily imbibes and craves for. I mean our novels. What a fine affectation of goodness there is in most of them! And what a perfect moral is tacked on to them!—like the balayeuse at the bottom of a lady's dress; but, like the balayeuse, it is only meant to be a protection and a finish, and, however precious it may be, it suffers from contact with the dirt, and sooner or later has to be cut out and cast aside, soiled and useless. Some doggerel a friend of mine scribbled on one book in particular describes dozens of popular novels exactly: O what a beautiful history! Think what temptations they passed! Each one more cruelly trying, More tempting, indeed, than the last. And what a lesson it teaches; No passion from evil's exempted— Whilst admiring the moral it preaches, It makes you quite long to be tempted. I agree with those who tell us that society is breaking up, or will break up unless something is done at once to stop the dissolution. We have no high ideals of anything. Marriage itself is a mere commercial treaty, and only professional preachers speak of it in other terms—and those young people, with a passion for each other, who are about to be united—a passion that dies the death inevitably for want of knowledge, and wholesome principle, and self-control to support it. Some of us like our bargains better than others, but you can judge of the estimation in which marriage is held when you see how much happiness people generally find in it. If men and women were kept apart, and made to live purely from their cradles, they would still scarcely be fit for marriage; yet any man thinks he may marry, and never cares to be the nobler or the better for it. And when you see that this, the only perfect state, the most sacred bond of union between man and woman, is everywhere lightly considered, don't you think there is reason in the fear that we are falling on bad times? Oh, don't quote the Romans to me, and the Inevitable. We know better than the Romans, and could do better if we chose. But we have to mourn for the death of our manhood! Where is our manhood? Where are our men? Is there any wonder that we are losing what is best in life when only women are left to defend it? Believe me, the degradation of marriage is the tune to which the whole fabric of society is going to pieces——" "Eh, what!" exclaimed the Bishop, waking up with a start—"whole fabric of society going to pieces? Nonsense! When so many people come to church. And then look at all the societies at work for the—for the— ah—prevention of everything. Why, I belong to a dozen at least myself; the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Rational Dress Reform, for doing away with petticoats—no, by-the-by, it is my wife who belongs to that. But, at any rate, everything is being done that should be done, and you talk nonsense, my dear"—looking at Ideala severely— "because you don't know anything about it." "The faults we are hardest on in others are those we are most conscious of in ourselves—perhaps because we know how easy it would be to conquer them," Ideala observed vaguely. "Oh, come, now, my dear," said the Bishop, beaming round on all of us, "you must not believe what you hear about society being in such a bad state. I know idle people say so, and it is very wrong of them. Why, I never see anything wrong." "Of course not," said Ideala. "We are all on our best behaviour before you." The Bishop patted his apron good-humouredly. "Well, now, take yourself for example," he said. "I am sure you never do wrong—tell stories, you know, and that kind of thing." "Haven't I, though!" she answered, mischievously. "Not that it was much use, for I always repented and confessed; and now I have abandoned the practice to the best of my ability. It is horrid to feel you don't deserve the confidence that is placed in you, Bishop, isn't it?" "Ideala!" Claudia protested. The Bishop looked puzzled. "I can assure you I have suffered agonies of remorse because, in an idle moment, I deceived my cat—a big, comfortable creature, who used to come to me every day to be fed, and preferred to eat out of my hand. He was greedy, though, and snapped, and one day I offered him a piece of preserved ginger, and he dashed at it as usual, and swallowed it before he knew what it was. Then he just looked at me and walked away. He trusted me, and I had deceived him. It was an unpardonable breach of confidence, and I have always felt that I never could look that cat in the face again." The Bishop smiled and sighed at the little reminiscence. "I think you are right, though, in one way, Ideala," he presently observed. "The powers of Light and Darkness are certainly having a hard fight for it in our day; but we have every reason to hope. Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill." "And, granted that the popular literature of the day is corrupt," the young sculptor put in, "and that the standard of society is being yearly lowered by it, still there is Art——" "But there is so little of it," said Ideala; "I mean so little that elevates. Most of the subjects chosen are not worth painting; and what profit is there in contemplating a thing that is neither grand nor beautiful in itself, nor suggestive, by association, of anything that is grand or beautiful? The pictures one generally sees are not calculated to suggest anything to the minds that need suggestion most. The technical part may be good and gratifying to those who understand it, but that is the mere trade of the thing. We prefer to see it well done, of course, but if the canvas has nothing but the paint to recommend it, the artist might have saved himself the trouble of putting it on, for all the good it does or the pleasure it gives." "Oh, Ideala, do you know nothing of the charm of colour?" asked a lady who painted. "I do," said Ideala, "but I may be supposed to have enjoyed exceptional advantages. And it is hardly charm we want to elevate us. There will always be enough in all conscience to appeal to the senses. But there is an absence even of charm." "Many a noble thought has been expressed in a coat of colour," said the lady. "I know it has," Ideala answered; "and all best thoughts give pleasure. I have been so thrilled by a noble idea, well expressed, that I could do nothing but sit with closed eyes and revel in the joy of it. But if such an idea were placed before you, and you did not know the language in which it was written, what good would it do you? An uneducated person seeing a picture of a donkey in a field sees only a donkey in a field, however well it may be painted; and I fancy very exceptional ability would be required to make any of us think a grey donkey sublime, or believe an ordinary green field to be one of the Elysian." "Talking about charm," the sculptor broke in, enthusiastically, "I suppose you haven't seen the new picture, 'Venus getting into the Bath?' That is a feast of colour, and realism, if you like! She is standing beside the bath with a dreamy look on her face. Her lovely eyes are fixed on the water. One arched and blue-veined foot is slightly raised as if the touch of the marble chilled her. Her limbs are in an easy attitude, and beautifully modelled. She is represented as a slight young girl, and the figure stands out in exquisite nudity from a background of Pompeian red, and the dark green of myrtles. With one hand she is holding aloft the masses of her rich brown hair—the attitude suggests the stretching of the muscles after repose; with the other"—but here his memory failed him. "What is she doing with her other hand?" "Scratching herself!" slipped from Ideala, involuntarily, to her own horror and the delight of some. But she recovered herself quickly, and turning to the good Bishop, who was looking mildly astonished and much amused, she said: "There, my Lord, is an instance of the corrupt state of society in our own day. You see, even your restraining presence doesn't always keep us in order. I hope," she whispered to me, "I'm not going to be made the horrid example to prove the truth of all my theories." Soon after this the party broke up. Claudia returned in her wraps to say good-night to the Bishop's wife. "Claudia!" Ideala exclaimed, "you have forgotten that detestable old blue shawl." Claudia tried to stop her with a significant gesture, but in vain. Ideala was obtuse. "Claudia came out this evening in the most extraordinary covering I ever saw a lady wear," she said to the Bishop's wife. "I really think she must have borrowed it from one of the maids." "I am afraid you must mean the blue shawl I lent to Lady Claudia the other evening," the Bishop's wife replied, with a hurt smile. "Oh!" said Ideala, disconcerted for a moment. "But, really, Bishopess, you deserve to be upbraided. You should set a better example, and not provoke us to scorn on the subject of your shawls." Later, when I was alone with my sister, I said: "Ideala did nothing but put her foot in it this evening. What was the matter with her? I never heard her speak so strongly before, except when she was alone with us. And I don't think she ought to discuss such subjects with such people; it is hardly delicate." Claudia sighed wearily. "Who knows what pain is at the bottom of it all?" she said. "But one thing always puzzles me. Ideala rails at evils that never hurt her, and yet she speaks of marriage, which has been her bane, as if it were a holy and perfect state, upon which it is a privilege to enter." "Plenty of people have condemned marriage simply because their own experience of it has been unfortunate," I answered; "but Ideala is above that. She will let no petty personal mishap prejudice her judgment on the subject. She sees and feels the possibility of infinite happiness in marriage when there is such love and such devotion on both sides as she herself could have brought to it; and she understands that her own unhappy experience need only be exceptional." "I wish it were!" sighed Claudia. Some years later, Ideala confessed to me that she had written "The Passion of Delysle" herself, but had had no idea of its significance until she heard it read aloud that night, and then, as she elegantly expressed it, she could have cut her throat with shame and mortification, which I consider a warning to young ladies not to trust to their poetical inspirations, for—if the shade of Shelley will pardon the conclusion—alas! apparently, they know not what they do when they write verses! "I can't think how you could have criticised it like that, Ideala," I said, "now that I know you wrote it." "Neither can I," she answered. "You ought to have confessed you had written it, or have said nothing about it," I told her, frankly. "Yes," she assented. "Not doing so was a kind of falsehood. But neither course occurred to me." And then she explained: "I never see the meaning of what I write till the light of public opinion is turned upon it, or some cold critic comes and damps my enthusiasm. When a subject possesses me, and shapes itself into verse, it boils in my brain, and my pen is the only way of escape for it, the one safety-valve I have to ease the pressure. And I can't judge of its merits myself for long enough after it is written, because the boiling begins again, you see, whenever I read it, and then there is such a steam of feeling I cannot see to think. For the verses, however poor they appear to you, contain for me the whole poem as I have it in my inner consciousness. It is beautiful as it exists there, but the power of expression is lacking. If only I could make you feel it as I do, I should be the greatest poet alive." It was a trick of Ideala's to miss the true import of a thing—often an act of her own—until the occasion had passed, or to see it strangely distorted, as she frequently did at this time—though that gradually ceased altogether as she grew older; but it was this peculiarity, so strongly marked in her, which first helped me to comprehend a curious trait there is in the moral nature of men and women while it is still in process of development. Many men, Frenchmen especially, have thought the trait peculiar to women. La Bruyére declares that "Women have no principles as men understand the word. They are guided by their feelings, and have full faith in their guide. Their notions of propriety and impropriety, right and wrong, they get from the little world embraced by their affections." And Alphonse Karr says: "Never attempt to prove anything to a woman: she believes only according to her feelings. Endeavour to please and persuade: she may yield to the person who reasons with her, not to his arguments"—opinions, however, which apply to men as often as not, and only to the young, impressible, passionate, and imperfectly educated of either sex. But there is scarcely a generalisation for one sex which does not apply equally to the other, so perfectly alike in nature are men and women. The difference is only in circumstance. Reverse the position of the sexes, require men to be modest and obedient, and they will develop every woman's weakness in a generation. If a man would comprehend a woman, let him consider himself; the woman has the same joys, sorrows, hopes, fears, pleasures, and passions—expressed in another way, that is all. But, certainly, for a long time Ideala's guide was her feeling about a thing. I have often said to her, when at last she decided to take some step which had obviously been the only course open to her from the first: "But, Ideala, why have you hesitated so long? You knew it was right to begin with." "Yes," she would answer, "I knew it was right; but I have only just now felt that it was." She had never thought of acting on the mere cold knowledge. For feeling to knowledge, in young minds, is like the match to a fire laid in a grate; knowledge without feeling being as cheerless and impotent as the fire unlit. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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