Edith, Part III, Chapter 1

Note: original spelling has been maintained.

PART III. — BACK TO THE NEST.-

WEEKS go by, and May: and June is near: and the singing Of the birds grows still, in leafy lanes and the woodlands. Fair with morning smiles the peaceful hamlet of Orton, White with apple-blossom: but Edith lies in her chamber. ’Tis the selfsame room where, in the magical season Of her youth, she caroll’d at the morning’s awaking; Where, at night,—bare feet,—she, in a tremor of wonder, Watch’d the pole-stars gleam, and mystic splendour of heaven: Now she scarcely thinks if it be morning or even. When, in France, so long, through bitter years of her trial, All seem’d lost,—when, often, even craving of hunger Gnaw’d her,—it was hard: there was a struggle within her: Yet her heart bore up, and she was harden’d to bear it; As one, wreck’d, swims on, and battles slow with the breakers. But as that one, hurt, and overstrain’d with his effort, Grasps the land at last* and, senseless, falls on the shingle, So, nigh crazed, outworn, she touch’d the shore of her country. Then, when home, again, with hands enfolded about her, Thaw’d the ice-cold breast, her blood ran wild into fever. Week by week she lay, and toss’d, a waif, on the billow Of bewildering dreams, and terror fell on the household. Death, with listening ear, stood by the door of the chamber. But not all in vain the wind had blown in her tresses, On the hills, long since; and life was hardy within her. Now the worst is past, and she begins to recover.

Dreamy, vague, sad eyes, what is it hides in the strangeness Of the light that floats beneath the gloom of her lashes? Would she rather die? What is it saddens the pallor Of the pain-blanch’d cheek, that rests forlorn on the pillow? Sunshine falls in vain, and songs of birds, and the music Of the winsome tongue, that speaks, sometimes, in a whisper. Do we need to tell you who is there by the curtain? But she seems to listen, when, at times, through the window, Bark or laugh betrays Rolf at his gambols with Ethel; While her eye will rove, perplex’d a moment, and linger On the fair wild flowers on the little table beside her.

Leave the sick-room: come; and let us find little Ethel. Here she sits, beside the cross so dear to the rector, On the step, content, her feet in flowers of the daisies. Change and freedom make her cheeks like roses already: Now the old sad look has quicken’d into a brighter. She has wreathed Rolf’s neck with chain of flowers for a collar. On one tiny shoe he rests his nose, as he watches Every whim and look and sudden smile of his mistress; Knows the flowers for him, and wags his tail, acquiescing. See, she drops the flowers: she lifts a finger, and listens; While the clock begins its sleepy tale in the steeple. “ One: two: three”:—she counts: and up she springs, and is eager; Gives the dog a hug, as if to rouse him to action. “ Rolf, yes, that is ten: we must be there in a second. “ Come, quick! do you hear?” She gives the flowers, in the ribbon Of her neat straw hat,—the while she turns it, coquette-like,— Just a glance, a touch, to have it all that is perfect: 'Neath pert little chin she ties the string like a woman: Then they run, and gain the curate’s garden together.

“ Hush!” she says: “Now, stop!” and, creeping, sly, to the window, Taps, though it is open. Then she cowers, and is quiet. Next, she stands on tiptoe, peering in through the casement; Pulls her slim self up, and puts her head through the lattice. “ It is ten, you know. We cannot stay. Are you ready? “ It has struck. Where are you ? You are under the table. “ Come from under, there. I see your coat, uncle Berthold. “ I will take your hat.” But quick he sprang to the rescue: Seized it first, and laugh’d, and soon was round in the garden. So the two together, through the wall of the holly, Go, and by the graves, and o’er the lawn, to the orchard; Hand in hand run down the green incline of the meadows.

Edith heard their feet, she heard them pause ’neath the window, Whispering who lay there, in softened tones of compassion. Now she lifts her head a little while from the pillow, Bends her ear to catch the voice of one unforgotten: Shuddering, knows it well: and, as it dies in the distance, With lost look sinks back, and shuts her eyes, and is silent. Weary dreams she has, like ghosts that roam o’er a water. Seem her thoughts like those who, setting sail from the harbour, In some ship well built, to cross the curve of the ocean, Come no more to land, but bleach in vales that are sunless. Strange!—Now he is calm; his work is all that he wishes. Life a new lease takes:—is she not here in the village? He has faith to trust the unread scroll of the future.

On the bridge they paused, and, looking down at the minnows, Soon the curate’s stick drops, as a challenge, among them. Fast the scared things hide, ’neath roots and leaves of the cresses. Rolf is in: he has it: now he is scouring the meadows, Baffling all their craft, and still retaining the trophy. When, the long fields pass’d, they reach’d the wood and the copses, Up the hill they climb'd, and hid from Rolf in the thickets. Still they took the way that Edith chose, on the morning When the dull-eyed care first set his sign on her forehead; When life's angel first join’d with the angel of sorrow, In a league, to make her spirit strong by endurance. Now the curate strove to please his friend, little Ethel; Pleased himself, withal; for he was childlike and simple. Whom the dewdrops please has double chance to be noble: He that weighs a star may still be charm’d with a pebble. These a blackbird’s nest made glad a while on the hillside; Nestling primrose root, as good as gold to the children; Wind flowers, past their best, and pungent leaves of the sorrel, With its shy pale flowers, by elm tree bole, mid the mosses. When the failing wood left bare hill-sward to the summit,— Save the tangling fern,—they raced to climb to the beacon: ’Twas a merry morn: they, breathless, gain’d it together; Saw the far blue hills, and the meandering river: So, at last, descended, scrambling down through the bracken. Now their mirth and laugh ring in the gloom of the quarry, While the rabbit, chased, flees in alarm to his burrow; While the magpie makes the wood alive with his chatter. Now, the pine-grove’s night, they linger fondly within it: Find the dripping well, and call aloud through the cavern; Break, with dipping lips, their mirror’d forms in the water. So, the road, the bridge, the busy stir of the village; So the lane, the limes, the little wall, and the laurels. At the rectory gate the curate emptied his pockets Of the green pine-cones, and kiss’d the child, and departed.

Then the child, half wild, ran up the stairs, to the chamber; But she check’d her foot, when, at the door, she remember’d. “ Dear mamma is ill,” she thought, “and I shall awake her: “ Now she sleeps, perhaps:” and softly stole, like a sunbeam, To the white bed foot, and met the smile of the mother. So she moved more near, and spake, and lean’d on her elbows, While the mother smoothed the soft brown hair from the forehead. “ See, mamma, what flowers!” she said, and show’d, in her basket. Gems, the hill top loves: and Edith smiled, to behold them, As one will, who finds some lost thing, wholly forgotten:— “ Yellow mountain pansies! You have been to the beacon! “ These I know so well! they only grow by the beacon. “ Who has been with you?” And Ethel said, “ Uncle Berthold. “ They are all for you, because he knows that you love them.” Edith bent her cheek to Ethel’s brow, for the colour Flush’d up in it, strange, at simple words of her prattle. “ He is good,” she said: “you must do all that he bids you. “ You are grown great friends, but do not tease or annoy him.” “ No, indeed!” she laughed: “he likes to run in the meadows. “ Rolf, he goes with us; and you shall go with us also, “ Uncle Berthold says. Make haste, mamma, to be better: “ Now you are so weak, you could not climb to the beacon.” Edith closed her eyes, and thoughts grew burning within her. Mary Trevor watch’d each fitful change of expression; Saw the pain, and lured the little seer from her presence. In fhe glass she set the drooping gems of the hill-top.

“ Aunt,” at last she said, “why did he gather the pansies?” Look’d the sweet face up, but only smiled, for an answer. Now, give ear, awhile; now, let us try if the scalpel Of a singer’s wit can touch the cause of her trouble.