"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.