From sleep to sleep while Lucy slid away So gently, like the light upon a hill, Of which none names the moment that it goes, Though all see when ’tis gone,—a man came in And stood beside the bed. The old idiot wretch Screamed feebly, like a baby overlain, ‘Sir, sir, you won’t mistake me for the corpse? Don’t look at me, sir! never bury me! Although I lie here, I’m alive as you, Except my legs and arms,—I eat and drink, And understand,—(that you’re the gentleman Who fits the funerals up, Heaven speed you, sir,) And certainly I should be livelier still If Lucy here ... sir, Lucy is the corpse ... Had worked more properly to buy me wine: But Lucy, sir, was always slow at work, I shan’t lose much by Lucy. Marian Erle, Speak up and show the gentleman the corpse.’
And then a voice said, ‘Marian Erle.’ She rose; It was the hour for angels—there, stood hers! She scarcely marvelled to see Romney Leigh. As light November snows to empty nests, As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed stones, As July suns to ruins, through the rents, As ministering spirits to mourners, through a loss, As Heaven itself to men, through pangs of death, He came uncalled wherever grief had come. ‘And so,’ said Marian Erle, ‘we met anew,’ And added softly, ‘so, we shall not part.’
He was not angry that she had left the house Wherein he placed her. Well—she had feared it might Have vexed him. Also, when he found her set On keeping, though the dead was out of sight, That half-dead, half-live body left behind With cankerous heart and flesh,—which took your best And cursed you for the little good it did, (Could any leave the bedrid wretch alone, So joyless, she was thankless even to God, Much less to you?) he did not say ’twas well, Yet Marian thought he did not take it ill,— Since day by day he came, and, every day, She felt within his utterance and his eyes A closer, tenderer presence of the soul, Until at last he said, ‘We shall not part.’
On that same day, was Marian’s work complete: She had smoothed the empty bed, and swept the floor Of coffin sawdust, set the chairs anew The dead had ended gossip in, and stood In that poor room so cold and orderly, The door-key in her hand, prepared to go As they had, howbeit not their way. He spoke.
‘Dear Marian, of one clay God made us all, And though men push and poke and paddle in’t (As children play at fashioning dirt-pies) And call their fancies by the name of facts, Assuming difference, lordship, privilege, When all’s plain dirt,—they come back to it at last; The first grave-digger proves it with a spade, And pats all even. Need we wait for this, You, Marian, and I, Romney?’ She, at that, Looked blindly in his face, as when one looks Through driving autumn-rains to find the sky. He went on speaking. ‘Marian, I being born What men call noble, and you, issued from The noble people,—though the tyrannous sword Which pierced Christ’s heart, has cleft the world in twain ’Twixt class and class, opposing rich to poor,— Shall we keep parted? Not so. Let us lean And strain together rather, each to each, Compress the red lips of this gaping wound, As far as two souls can,—ay, lean and league, I, from my superabundance,—from your want, You,—joining in a protest ’gainst the wrong On both sides!’— All the rest, he held her hand In speaking, which confused the sense of much; Her heart, against his words, beat out so thick, They might as well be written on the dust Where some poor bird, escaping from hawk’s beak, Has dropped, and beats its shuddering wings,—the lines Are rubbed so,—yet ’twas something like to this, —‘That they two, standing at the two extremes Of social classes, had received one seal, Been dedicate and drawn beyond themselves To mercy and ministration,—he, indeed, Through what he knew, and she, through what she felt, He, by man’s conscience, she, by woman’s heart, Relinquishing their several ’vantage posts Of wealthy ease and honourable toil, To work with God at love. And, since God willed That, putting out his hand to touch this ark, He found a woman’s hand there, he’d accept The sign too, hold the tender fingers fast, And say, ‘My fellow-worker, be my wife!’’
She told the tale with simple, rustic turns,— Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden eyes That took the gaps of any imperfect phrase Of the unschooled speaker: I have rather writ The thing I understood so, than the thing I heard so. And I cannot render right Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft, Self-startled from the habitual mood she used, Half sad, half languid,—like dumb creatures (now A rustling bird, and now a wandering deer, Or squirrel against the oak-gloom flashing up His sidelong burnished head, in just her way Of savage spontaneity,) that stir Abruptly the green silence of the woods, And make it stranger, holier, more profound; As Nature’s general heart confessed itself Of life, and then fell backward on repose.
I kissed the lips that ended.—‘So indeed He loves you, Marian?’ ‘Loves me!’ She looked up With a child’s wonder when you ask him first Who made the sun—a puzzled blush, that grew, Then broke off in a rapid radiant smile Of sure solution. ‘Loves me! he loves all,— And me, of course. He had not asked me else To work with him for ever, and be his wife.’
Her words reproved me. This perhaps was love— To have its hands too full of gifts to give, For putting out a hand to take a gift; To love so much, the perfect round of love Includes, in strict conclusion, the being loved; As Eden-dew went up and fell again, Enough for watering Eden. Obviously She had not thought about his love at all: The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves, And risen self-crowned in rainbow: would she ask Who crowned her?—it sufficed that she was crowned. With women of my class, ’tis otherwise: We haggle for the small change of our gold, And so much love, accord, for so much love, Rialto-prices. Are we therefore wrong? If marriage be a contract, look to it then, Contracting parties should be equal, just; But if, a simple fealty on one side, A mere religion,—right to give, is all, And certain brides of Europe duly ask To mount the pile, as Indian widows do, The spices of their tender youth heaped up, The jewels of their gracious virtues worn, More gems, more glory,—to consume entire For a living husband! as the man’s alive, Not dead,—the woman’s duty, by so much, Advanced in England, beyond Hindostan.
I sate there, musing, till she touched my hand With hers, as softly as a strange white bird She feared to startle in touching. ‘You are kind. But are you, peradventure, vexed at heart Because your cousin takes me for a wife? I know I am not worthy—nay, in truth, I’m glad on’t, since, for that, he chooses me. He likes the poor things of the world the best; I would not therefore, if I could, be rich. It pleasures him to stoop for buttercups; I would not be a rose upon the wall A queen might stop at, near the palace-door, To say to a courtier, ‘Pluck that rose for me, ‘It’s prettier than the rest,’ O Romney Leigh! I’d rather far be trodden by his foot, Than lie in a great queen’s bosom.’ Out of breath She paused. ‘Sweet Marian, do you disavow The roses with that face?’ She dropt her head, As if the wind had caught that flower of her, And bent it in the garden,—then looked up With grave assurance. ‘Well, you think me bold! But so we all are, when we’re praying God. And if I’m bold—yet, lady, credit me, That, since I know myself for what I am, Much fitter for his handmaid than his wife, I’ll prove the handmaid and the wife at once, Serve tenderly, and love obediently, And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than some Who are wooed in silk among their learned books; While I shall set myself to read his eyes, Till such grow plainer to me than the French To wisest ladies. Do you think I’ll miss A letter, in the spelling of his mind? No more than they do, when they sit and write Their flying words with flickering wild-fowl tails, Nor ever pause to ask how many ts, Should that be y or i—they know’t so well: I’ve seen them writing, when I brought a dress And waited,—floating out their soft white hands On shining paper. But they’re hard sometimes, For all those hands!—we’ve used out many nights, And worn the yellow daylight into shreds Which flapped and shivered down our aching eyes Till night appeared more tolerable, just That pretty ladies might look beautiful, Who said at last ... ‘You’re lazy in that house! ‘You’re slow in sending home the work,—I count I’ve waited near an hour for’t.’ Pardon me,— I do not blame them, madam, nor misprize; They are fair and gracious; ay, but not like you, Since none but you has Mister Leigh’s own blood Both noble and gentle,—and, without it ... well, They are fair, I said; so fair, it scarce seems strange That, flashing out in any looking-glass The wonder of their glorious brows and breasts, They are charmed so, they forget to look behind And mark how pale we’ve grown, we pitiful Remainders of the world. And so, perhaps, If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from these, She might ... although he’s better than her best, And dearly she would know it ... steal a thought Which should be all his, an eye-glance from his face, To plunge into the mirror opposite, In search of her own beauty’s pearl: while I.... Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh silk For winter-wear, when bodies feel a-cold, And I’ll be a true wife to your cousin Leigh.’
Before I answered, he was there himself. I think he had been standing in the room, And listened probably to half her talk, Arrested, turned to stone,—as white as stone. Will tender sayings make men look so white? He loves her then profoundly. ‘You are here, Aurora? Here I meet you!’—We clasped hands.