The Inn Album/IV

IV

Occupied by the elm; and, as its shade Has crept clock-hand-wise till it ticks at fern Five inches further to the South,—the door Opens abruptly, someone enters sharp, The elder man returned to wait the youth— Never observes the room's new occupant, Throws hat on table, stoops quick, elbow-propped Over the Album wide there, bends down brow A cogitative minute, whistles shrill, Then,—with a cheery-hopeless laugh-and-lose Air of defiance to fate visibly Casting the toils about him,—mouths once more "Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!" Then clasps-to cover, sends book spinning off T'other side table, looks up, starts erect Full-face with her who,—roused from that abstruse Question, "Will next tick tip the fern or no?",— Fronts him as fully.

All her languor breaks, Away withers at once the weariness From the black-blooded brow, anger and hate Convulse. Speech follows slowlier, but at last—

"You here! I felt, I knew it would befall! Knew, by some subtle undivinable Trick of the trickster, I should, silly-sooth, Late of soon, somehow be allured to leave Safe hiding and come take of him arrears, My torment due on four years' respite! Time To pluck the bird's healed breast of down o'er wound! Have your success! Be satisfied this sole Seeing you has undone all heaven could do These four years, puts me back to you and hell! What will next trick be, next success? No doubt When I shall think to glide into the grave, There will you wait disguised as beckoning Death, And catch and capture me for evermore! But, God, though I am nothing, be thou all! Contest him for me! Strive, for he is strong!"

Already his surprise dies palely out In laugh of acquiescing impotence. He neither gasps nor hisses: calm and plain—

"I also felt and knew—but otherwise! You out of hand and sight and care of me These four years, whom I felt, knew, all the while ... Oh, it's no superstition! It's a gift O' the gamester that he snuffs the unseen powers Which help or harm him! Well I knew what lurked, Lay perdue paralysing me,—drugged, drowsed And damnified my soul and body both! Down and down, see where you have dragged me to, You and your malice! I was, four years since, —Well, a poor creature! I become a knave. I squandered my own pence: I plump my purse With other people's pounds. I practised play Because I liked it: play turns labour now Because there's profit also in the sport. I gamed with men of equal age and craft: I steal here with a boy as green as grass Whom I have tightened hold on slow and sure This long while, just to bring about to-day When the boy beats me hollow, buries me In ruin who was sure to beggar him. O time indeed I should look up and laugh  'Surely she closes on me!'  Here you stand!"

And stand she does: while volubility, With him, keeps on the increase, for his tongue After long locking-up is loosed for once.

"Certain the taunt is happy!" he resumes: "So, I it was allured you—only I — I, and none other—to this spectacle— Your triumph, my despair—you woman-fiend That front me! Well, I have my wish, then! See The low wide brow oppressed by sweeps of hair Darker and darker as they coil and swathe The crowned corpse-wanness whence the eyes burn black Not asleep now! not pin-points dwarfed beneath Either great bridging eyebrow—poor blank beads— Babies, I've pleased to pity in my time: How they protrude and glow immense with hate! The long triumphant nose attains—retains Just the perfection; and there's scarlet-skein My ancient enemy, her lip and lip, Sense-free, sense-frighting lips clenched cold and bold Because of chin, that based resolve beneath! Then the columnar neck completes the whole Greek-sculpture-baffling body! Do I see? Can I observe? You wait next word to come? Well, wait and want! since no one blight I bid Consume one least perfection. Each and all, As they are rightly shocking now to me, So may they still continue! Value them? Ay, as the vendor knows the money-worth Of his Greek statue, fools aspire to buy, And he to see the back of! Let us laugh! You have absolved me from my sin at least! You stand stout, strong, in the rude health of hate, No touch of the tame timid nullity My cowardice, forsooth, has practised on! Ay, while you seemed to hint some fine fifth act Of tragedy should freeze blood, end the farce, I never doubted all was joke. I kept, May be, an eye alert on paragraphs, Newspaper-notice,—let no inquest slip, Accident, disappearance: sound and safe Were you, my victim, not of mind to die! So, my worst fancy that could spoil the smooth Of pillow, and arrest descent of sleep Was  'Into what dim hole can she have dived,  She and her wrongs, her woe that's wearing flesh  And blood away?'  Whereas, see, sorrow swells! Or, fattened, fulsome, have you fed on me, Sucked out my substance? How much gloss, I pray, O'erbloomed those hair-swathes when there crept from you To me that craze, else unaccountable, Which urged me to contest our county-seat With whom but my own brother's nominee? Did that mouth's pulp glow ruby from carmine While I misused my moment, pushed,—one word,— One hair's breadth more of gesture,—idiot-like Past passion, floundered on to the grotesque, And lost the heiress in a grin? At least, You made no such mistake! You tickled fish, Landed your prize the true artistic way! How did the smug young curate rise to tune Of 'Friend, a fatal fact divides us! Love Suits me no longer! I have suffered shame, Betrayal: past is past; the future—yours— Shall never be contaminate by mine! I might have spared me this confession, not —O, never by some hideousest of lies, Easy, impenetrable! No! but say, By just the quiet answer—"I am cold." Falsehood avaunt, each shadow of thee, hence! Had happier fortune willed ... but dreams are vain! Now, leave me—yes, for pity's sake!' Aha, Who fails to see the curate as his face Reddened and whitened, wanted handkerchief At wrinkling brow and twinkling eye, until Out burst the proper 'Angel, whom the fiend Has thought to smirch,—thy whiteness, at one wipe Of holy cambric, shall disgrace the swan! Mine be the task' ... and so forth! Fool? not he! Cunning in flavours, rather! What but sour Suspected makes the sweetness doubly sweet? And what stings love from faint to flamboyant But the fear-sprinkle? Even horror helps—  'Love's flame in me by such recited wrong  ''Drenched, quenched, indeed? It burns the fiercelier thence!' '' Why, I have known men never love their wives Till somebody—myself, suppose—had  'drenched  And quenched love,'  so the blockheads whined: as if The fluid fire that lifts the torpid limb Were a wrong done to palsy. But I thrilled No palsied person: half my age, or less The curate was, I'll wager: o'er young blood Your beauty triumphed! Eh, but—was it ''he?  Then, it was'' he, I heard of! None beside! How frank you were about the audacious boy Who fell upon you like a thunderbolt— Passion and protestation! He it was Reserved in petto! Ay, and  'rich'  beside  'Rich'—how supremely did disdain curl nose! All that I heard was—'wedded to a priest;'  Informants sunk youth, riches and the rest. And so my lawless love disparted loves, That loves might come together with a rush! Surely this last achievement sucked me dry: Indeed, that way my wits went! Mistress-queen, Be merciful and let your subject slink Into dark safety! He's a beggar, see— Do not turn back his ship, Australia-bound, And bid her land him right amid some crowd Of creditors, assembled by your curse! Don't cause the very rope to crack (you can!) Whereon he spends his last (friend's) sixpence, just The moment when he hoped to hang himself! Be satisfied you beat him!"

She replies —

"Beat him! I do. To all that you confess Of abject failure, I extend belief. Your very face confirms it: God is just! Let my face—fix your eyes!—in turn confirm What I shall say. All-abject's but half truth; Add to all-abject knave as perfect fool! So is it you probed human nature, so Prognosticated of me? Lay these words To heart then, or where God meant heart should lurk! That moment when you first revealed yourself, My simple impulse prompted—end forthwith The ruin of a life uprooted thus To surely perish! How should such a tree Henceforward baulk the wind of its worst sport, Fail to go falling deeper, falling down

From sin to sin until some depth were reached Doomed to the weakest by the wickedest Of weak and wicked human kind? But when, That self-display made absolute,—behold A new revealment!—round you pleased to veer, Propose me what should prompt annul the past, Make me  'amends by marriage'—in your phrase, Incorporate me henceforth, body and soul, With soul and body which mere brushing past Brought leprosy upon me—'marry'  these! Why, then despair broke, re-assurance dawned, Clear-sighted was I that who hurled contempt As I—thank God!—at the contemptible, Was scarce an utter weakling. Rent away By treason from my rightful pride of place, I was not destined to the shame below. A cleft had caught me: I might perish there, But thence to be dislodged and whirled at last Where the black torrent sweeps the sewage—no!  'Bare breast be on hard rock,'  laughed out my soul In gratitude, 'howe'er rock's grip may grind! The plain, rough, wretched holdfast shall suffice This wreck of me!' The wind,—I broke in bloom At passage of,—which stripped me bole and branch, Twisted me up and tossed me here,—turns back And, playful ever, would replant the spoil? Be satisfied, not one least leaf that's mine Shall henceforth help wind's sport to exercise! Rather I give such remnant to the rock Which never dreamed a straw would settle there. Rock may not thank me, may not feel my breast, Even: enough that I feel, hard and cold, Its safety my salvation. Safe and saved, I lived, live. When the tempter shall persuade His prey to slip down, slide off, trust the wind,— Now that I know if God or Satan be Prince of the Power of the Air,—then, then, indeed, Let my life end and degradation too!"

"Good!" he smiles, "true Lord Byron!  'Tree and rock:'   'Rock'—there's advancement! He's at first a youth, Rich, worthless therefore; next he grows a priest: Youth, riches prove a notable resource, When to leave me for their possessor gluts Malice abundantly; and now, last change, The young rich parson represents a rock —Bloodstone, no doubt. He's Evangelical? Your Ritualists prefer the Church for spouse!"

She speaks.

"I have a story to relate. There was a parish-priest, my father knew, Elderly, poor: I used to pity him Before I learned what woes are pity-worth. Elderly was grown old now, scanty means Were straitening fast to poverty, beside The ailments which await in such a case. Limited every way, a perfect man Within the bounds built up and up since birth Breast-high about him till the outside world Was blank save overhead one blue bit of sky— Faith: he had faith in dogma, small or great, As in the fact that if he clave his skull He'd find a brain there: such a fact who proves No falsehood by experiment at price Of soul and body? The one rule of life Delivered him in childhood was  'Obey!  Labour!'  He had obeyed and laboured—tame, True to the mill-track blinked on from above. Some scholarship he may have gained in youth: Gone—dropt or flung behind. Some blossom-flake, Spring's boon, descends on every vernal head, I used to think; but January joins December, as his year had known no May Trouble its snow-deposit,—cold and old! I heard it was his will to take a wife, A helpmate. Duty bade him tend and teach— How? with experience null, nor sympathy Abundant,—while himself worked dogma dead, Who would play ministrant to sickness, age, Womankind, childhood? These demand a wife. Supply the want, then! theirs the wife; for him— No coarsest sample of the proper sex But would have served his purpose equally With God's own angel,—let but knowledge match Her coarseness: zeal does only half the work. I saw this—knew the purblind honest drudge Was wearing out his simple blameless life, And wanted help beneath a burthen—borne To treasure-house or dust-heap, what cared I? Partner he needed: I proposed myself, Nor much surprised him—duty was so clear! Gratitude? What for? Gain of Paradise— Escape, perhaps, from the dire penalty Of who hides talent in a napkin! No, His scruple was—should I be strong enough —In body? since of weakness in the mind, Weariness in the heart—no fear of these! He took me as these Arctic voyagers Take an aspirant to their toil and pain: Can he endure them?—that's the point, and not —Will he? Who would not, rather! Whereupon, I pleaded far more earnestly for leave To give myself away, than you to gain What you called priceless till you gained the heart And soul and body! which, as beggars serve Extorted alms, you straightway spat upon. Not so my husband,—for I gained my suit, And had my value put at once to proof. Ask him! These four years I have died away In village-life. The village? Ugliness At best and filthiness at worst, inside. Outside, sterility—earth sown with salt Or what keeps even grass from growing fresh. The life? I teach the poor and learn, myself, That commonplace to such stupidity Is all-recondite. Being brutalized Their true need is brute-language, cheery grunts And kindly cluckings, no articulate Nonsense that's elsewhere knowledge. Tend the sick, Sickened myself at pig-perversity, Cat-craft, dog-snarling,—may be, snapping ..."

"Brief: You eat that root of bitterness called Man —Raw: I prefer it cooked, with social sauce! So, he was not the rich youth after all! Well, I mistook. But somewhere needs must be The compensation. If not young nor rich ..."

"You interrupt!"

"Because you've daubed enough Bistre for background. Play the artist now, Produce your figure well-relieved in front! The contrast—do not I anticipate? Though neither rich nor young—what then? 'Tis all Forgotten, all this ignobility, In the dear home, the darling word, the smile, The something sweeter ..."

"Yes, you interrupt. I have my purpose and proceed. Who lives With beasts assumes beast-nature, look and voice, And, much more, thought,—for beasts think. Selfishness In us met selfishness in them, deserved Such answer as it gained. My husband, bent On saving his own soul by saving theirs,— They, bent on being saved if saving soul Included body's getting bread and cheese Somehow in life and somehow after death,— Both parties were alike in the same boat, One danger, therefore one equality. Safety induces culture: culture seeks To institute, extend and multiply The difference between safe man and man, Able to live alone now; progress means What but abandonment of fellowship? We were in common danger, still stuck close. No new books,—were the old ones mastered yet? No pictures and no music: these divert —What from? the staving danger off! You paint The waterspout above, you set to words The roaring of the tempest round you? Thanks! Amusement? Talk at end of the tired day Of the more tiresome morrow! I transcribed The page on page of sermon-scrawlings—stopped My intellectual eye to sense and sound— Vainly: the sound and sense would penetrate To brain and plague there in despite of me Maddened to know more moral good were done Had we two simply sallied forth and preached I' the  'Green'  they call their grimy,—I with twang Of long-disused guitar,—with cut and slash Of much misvalued horsewhip he,—to bid The peaceable come dance, the peace-breaker Pay in his person! Whereas—Heaven and Hell, Excite with that, restrain with this!— so dealt His drugs my husband; as he dosed himself, He drenched his cattle: and, for all my part Was just to dub the mortar, never fear But drugs, hand pestled at, have poisoned nose! Heaven he let pass, left wisely undescribed: As applicable therefore to the sleep I want, that knows no waking—as to what's Conceived of as the proper prize to tempt Souls less world-weary: there, no fault to find! But Hell he made explicit. After death, Life: man created new, ingeniously Perfect for a vindictive purpose now That man, first fashioned in beneficence, Was proved a failure; intellect at length Replacing old obtuseness, memory Made mindful of delinquent's bygone deeds Now that remorse was vain, which life-long lay Dormant when lesson might be laid to heart; New gift of observation up and down And round man's self, new power to apprehend Each necessary consequence of act In man for well or ill—things obsolete— Just granted to supplant the idiocy Man's only guide while act was yet to choose, And ill or well momentously its fruit; A faculty of immense suffering Conferred on mind and body,—mind, erewhile Unvisited by one compunctious dream During sin's drunken slumber, startled up, Stung through and through by sin's significance Now that the holy was abolished—just As body which, alive, broke down beneath Knowledge, lay helpless in the path to good, Failed to accomplish aught legitimate, Achieve aught worthy,—which grew old in youth, And at its longest fell a cut-down flower,— Dying, this too revived by miracle To bear no end of burthen now that back Supported torture to no use at all, And live imperishably potent—since Life's potency was impotent to ward One plague off which made earth a hell before. This doctrine, which one healthy view of things, One sane sight of the general ordinance— Nature,—and its particular object,—man,— Which one mere eye-cast at the character Of Who made these and gave man sense to boot, Had dissipated once and evermore,— This doctrine I have dosed our flock withal. Why? Because none believed it. They desire Such Heaven and dread such Hell, whom everyday The alehouse tempts from one, a dog-fight bids Defy the other? All the harm is done Ourselves—done my poor husband who in youth Perhaps read Dickens, done myself who still Could play both Bach and Brahms. Such life I lead— Thanks to you, knave! You learn its quality— Thanks to me, fool!"

He eyes her earnestly, But she continues.

"—Life which, thanks once more To you, arch-knave as exquisitest fool, I acquiescingly—I gratefully Take back again to heart! and hence this speech Which yesterday had spared you. Four years long Life—I began to find intolerable, Only this moment. Ere your entry just, The leap of heart which answered, spite of me, A friend's first summons, first provocative Authoritative, nay, compulsive call To quit—though for a single day—my house Of bondage—made return seem horrible. I heard again a human lucid laugh All trust, no fear; again saw earth pursue Its narrow busy way amid small cares, Smaller contentments, much weeds, some few flowers,— Never suspicious of a thunderbolt Avenging presently each daisy's death. I recognized the beech-tree, knew the thrush Repeated his old music-phrase,—all right, How wrong was I, then! But your entry broke Illusion, bade me back to bounds at once. I honestly submit my soul: which sprang At love, and losing love lies signed and sealed  'Failure.'  No love more? then, no beauty more Which tends to breed love! Purify my powers, Effortless till some other world procure Some other chance of prize! or, if none be,— Nor second world nor chance,—undesecrate Die then this aftergrowth of heart, surmised Where May's precipitation left June blank! Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked, I do not! Ugliness Had I called beauty, falsehood—truth, and you My lover! No—this earth's unchanged for me, By his enchantment whom God made the Prince O' the Power o' the Air, into a Heaven: there is Heaven, since there is Heaven's simulation—earth; I sit possessed in patience; prison-roof Shall break one day and Heaven beam overhead!"

His smile is done with; he speaks bitterly.

"Take my congratulations, and permit I wish myself had proved as teachable! —Or, no! until you taught me, could I learn A lesson from experience ne'er till now Conceded? Please you listen while I show How thoroughly you estimate my worth And yours—the immeasurably superior! I Believed at least in one thing, first to last,— Your love to me: I was the vile and you The precious; I abused you, I betrayed, But doubted—never! Why else go my way Judas-like plodding to this Potter's Field Where fate now finds me? What has dinned my ear And dogged my step? The spectre with the shriek  'Such she was, such were you, whose punishment  Is just!'  And such she was not, all the while! She never owned a love to outrage, faith To pay with falsehood! For, myself know this— Love once and you love always. Why, it's down Here in the Album: every lover knows Love may use hate but—turn to hate, itself— Turn even to indifference—no, indeed! Well, I have been spell-bound, deluded like The witless negro by the Obeah-man Who bids him wither: so, his eye grows dim, His arm slack, arrow misses aim and spear Goes wandering wide,—and all the woe because He proved untrue to Fetish, who, he finds, Was just a feather-phantom! I wronged love, Am ruined,—and there was no love to wrong!"

"No love? Ah, dead love! I invoke thy ghost To show the murderer where thy heart poured life At summons of the stroke he doubts was dealt On pasteboard and pretence! Not love, my love! I changed for you the very laws of life: Made you the standard of all right, all fair. No genius but you could have been, no sage, No sufferer—which is grandest—for the truth! My hero—where the heroic only hid To burst from hiding, brighten earth one day! Age and decline were man's maturity; Face, form were nature's type: more grace, more strength, What had they been but just superfluous gauds, Lawless divergence? I have danced through day On tiptoe at the music of a word, Have wondered where was darkness gone as night Burst out in stars at brilliance of a smile! Lonely, I placed the chair to help me seat Your fancied presence; in companionship, I kept my finger constant to your glove Glued to my breast; then—where was all the world? I schemed—not dreamed—how I might die some death Should save your finger aching! Who creates Destroys, he only: I had laughed to scorn Whatever angel tried to shake my faith And make you seem unworthy: you yourself Only could do that! With a touch 'twas done.  'Give me all, trust me wholly!'  At the word, I did give, I did trust—and thereupon The touch did follow. Ah, the quiet smile, The masterfully folded arm in arm, As trick obtained its triumph one time more! In turn, my soul too triumphs in defeat: Treason like faith moves mountains: love is gone!"

He paces to and fro, stops, stands quite close And calls her by her name. Then—

"God forgives: Forgive you, delegate of God, brought near As never priests could bring him to this soul That prays you both—forgive me! I abase— Know myself mad and monstrous utterly In all I did that moment; but as God Gives me this knowledge—heart to feel and tongue To testify—so be you gracious too! Judge no man by the solitary work Of—well, they do say and I can believe— The devil in him: his, the moment,—mine The life—your life!"

He names her name again.

"You were just—merciful as just, you were In giving me no respite: punishment Followed offending. Sane and sound once more, The patient thanks decision, promptitude, Which flung him prone and fastened him from hurt Haply to others, surely to himself. I wake and would not you had spared one pang. All's well that ends well!"

Yet again her name.

"Had you no fault? Why must you change, forsooth, Parts, why reverse positions, spoil the play? Why did your nobleness look up to me, Not down on the ignoble thing confessed? Was it your part to stoop, or lift the low? Wherefore did God exalt you? Who would teach The brute man's tameness and intelligence Must never drop the dominating eye: Wink—and what wonder if the mad fit break, Followed by stripes and fasting? Sound and sane, My life, chastised now, couches at your foot. Accept, redeem me! Do your eyes ask  'How?'  I stand here penniless, a beggar; talk What idle trash I may, this final blow Of fortune fells me. I disburse, indeed, This boy his winnings? when each bubble-scheme That danced athwart my brain, a minute since, The worse the better,—of repairing straight My misadventure by fresh enterprise, Capture of other boys in foolishness His fellows,—when these fancies fade away At first sight of the lost so long, the found So late, the lady of my life, before Whose presence I, the lost, am also found Incapable of one least touch of mean Expedient, I who teemed with plot and wile— That family of snakes your eye bids flee! Listen! Our troublesomest dreams die off In daylight: I awake and dream is—where? I rouse up from the past: one touch dispels England and all here. I secured long since A certain refuge, solitary home To hide in, should the head strike work one day, The hand forget its cunning, or perhaps Society grow savage,—there to end My life's remainder, which, say what fools will, Is or should be the best of life,—its fruit, All tends to, root and stem and leaf and flower. Come with me, love, loved once, loved only, come, Blend loves there! Let this parenthetic doubt Of love, in me, have been the trial test Appointed to all flesh at some one stage Of soul's achievement,—when the strong man doubts His strength, the good man whether goodness be, The artist in the dark seeks, fails to find Vocation, and the saint forswears his shrine. What if the lover may elude, no more Than these, probative dark, must search the sky Vainly for love, his soul's star? But the orb Breaks from eclipse: I breathe again: I love! Tempted, I fell; but fallen—fallen lie Here at your feet, see! Leave this poor pretence Of union with a nature and its needs Repugnant to your needs and nature! Nay, False, beyond falsity you reprehend In me, is such mock marriage with such mere Man-mask as—whom you witless wrong, beside, By that expenditure of heart and brain He recks no more of than would yonder tree If watered with your life-blood: rains and dews Answer its ends sufficiently, while me One drop saves—sends to flower and fruit at last The laggard virtue in the soul wh'ch else Cumbers the ground! Quicken me! Call me yours— Yours and the world's—yours and the world's and God's! Yes, for you can, you only! Think! Confirm Your instinct! Say, a minute since, I seemed The castaway you count me,—all the more Apparent shall the angelic potency Lift me from out perdition's deep of deeps To light and life and love!—that's love for you— Love that already dares match might with yours. You loved one worthy,—in your estimate,— When time was; you descried the unworthy taint, And where was love then? No such test could e'er Try my love: but you hate me and revile; Hatred, revilement—had you these to bear, Would you, as I do, nor revile, nor hate, But simply love on, love the more, perchance? Abide by your own proof!  'Your love was love: Its ghost knows no forgetting!'  Heart of mine, Would that I dared remember! Too unwise Were he who lost a treasure, did himself Enlarge upon the sparkling catalogue Of gems to her his queen who trusted late The keeper of her caskets! Can it be That I, custodian of such relic still As your contempt permits me to retain, All I dare hug to breast is—'How your glove  Burst and displayed the long thin lily-streak!'  What may have followed—that is forfeit now! I hope the proud man has grown humble! True— One grace of humbleness absents itself— Silence! yet love lies deeper than all words, And not the spoken but the speechless love Waits answer ere I rise and go my way."

Whereupon, yet one other time the name.

To end she looks the large deliberate look, Even prolongs it somewhat; then the soul Bursts forth in a clear laugh that lengthens on, On, till—thinned, softened, silvered, one might say The bitter runnel hides itself in sand, Moistens the hard grey grimly comic speech.

"Ay—give the baffled angler even yet His supreme triumph as he hales to shore A second time the fish once 'scaped from hook— So artfully has new bait hidden old Blood-imbrued iron! Ay, no barb's beneath The gilded minnow here! You bid break trust, This time, with who trusts me,—not simply bid Me trust you, me who ruined but myself, In trusting but myself! Since, thanks to you, I know the feel of sin and shame,—be sure, I shall obey you and impose them both On one who happens to be ignorant Although my husband—for the lure is love, Your love! Try other tackle, fisher-friend! Repentance, expiation, hopes and fears, What you had been, may yet be, would I but Prove helpmate to my hero—one and all These silks and worsteds round the hook, seduce Hardly the late torn throat and mangled tongue. Pack up, I pray, the whole assortment prompt! Who wonders at variety of wile In the Arch-cheat? You are the Adversary! Your fate is of your choosing: have your choice! Wander the world,—God has some end to serve, Ere he suppress you! He waits: I endure, But interpose no finger-tip, forsooth, To stop your passage to the pit. Enough That I am stable, uninvolved by you In the rush downwards: free I gaze and fixed; Your smiles, your tears, prayers, curses move alike My crowned contempt. You kneel? Prostrate yourself! To earth, and would the whole world saw you there!"

Whereupon—"All right!" carelessly begins Somebody from outside, who mounts the stair, And sends his voice for herald of approach: Half in half out the doorway as the door Gives way to push.

"Old fellow, all's no good! The train's your portion! Lay the blame on me I'm no diplomatist, and Bismarck's self Had hardly braved the awful Aunt at broach Of proposition—so has world-repute Preceded the illustrious stranger! Ah!—"

Quick the voice changes to astonishment, Then horror, as the youth stops, sees, and knows.

The man who knelt starts up from kneeling, stands Moving no muscle, and confronts the stare.

One great red outbreak—throat and brow— The lady's proud pale queenliness of scorn: Then her great eyes that turned so quick, become Intenser: quail at gaze, not they indeed!