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�“ They stood beside the coffin’s foot and head.
Both gazed in silence, with bowed faces—Grey
With bony chin pressed into bony throat.”
�/
449
BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI.
“ Perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart ; one of the
indivisible primary faculties or sentiments which give direction to the character of man.
—Edgar Poe.
Rain-washed for hours, the streets at last
were dried.
Profuse and pulpy sea-weed on the beach,
Pushed by the latest heavy tide some way
Across the jostled shingle, was too far
For washing back, now that the sea at ebb
Left an each time retreating track of foam.
There were the wonted tetchy and sidelong
crabs,
With fishes silvery in distended death.
No want of blue now in the upper sky:—
But also many piled-up flab grey clouds,
Threatening a stormy night-time; and the
sun
Sank, a red glare, between two lengthened
streaks,
Hot dun, that stretched to southward; and
at whiles
The wind over the water swept and swept.
The townspeople, and, more, the visitors,
Were passing to the sea-beach through the
streets,
To take advantage of the lull of rain.
The English “ Rainy weather” went from
mouth
To mouth, with “Very” answered, or a
shrug
Of shoulders, and a growl, and “Sure to bo!
Began the very day that we arrived.”
“ Yes,” answered one who met a travelling
friend;
“ I had forgotten that in England you
Must carry your umbrella every day.
An Englishman’s a centaur of his sort,
Man cross-bred with umbrella. All the same,
I say good-bye to France and Italy,
Now that I’m here again. Excuse me now,
As I was going up into the town
To feast my eyes on British tiles and slates.”
So on he walked, looking about him. Rows
Of houses were passed by, irregular ;
Many compacted of the shingle-stones,
Round, grey or white—with each its gar
den patch
VI.
Now as the outskirts neared; and down
the streets
Which crossed them he was catching
glimpses still
Of waves which whitening shattered out
at sea.
The road grew steep here, climbing up a
slope
Strewn with October leaves, which followed
him,
Or drifted edgeways on. The grey ad
vanced,
Half colour and half dusk, along the sky.
A dead leaf from a beech-tree loosed itself,
And touched across his forehead. As ho
raised
His eyes, they caught a window, and he
stopped—
An opened upper window of a house
With close-drawn blinds. A man was
settled there,
Eager in looking out, yet covertly.
He watched, nor moved his eyes from that
he watched.
The passenger drew close beside the rails,
Looking attentively. “ Why, Grey,” he
cried;
“ Can that be you, Grey ? I had thought
you’d been----- ”
The face turned sharply on him, and the
eyes
Glanced down, and both hands pulled the
window shut.
Pushing a wicket-gate, the other went
On to the door, expecting it to unclose.
The garden was but scantly stocked with
flowers,
And these were fading mostly, thinly leaved,
The earth-plots littered with the fall of
them.
Stately some dahlia-clusters yet delayed,
Crimson, alternating with flame-colour.
He stretched his fingers to the velvet bloom
Of one, and drew a petal ’twixt them. Then
29
�450
The plaited flower fell separate all to earth
By ring and ring; only the calyx stood
Upon its stalk. The autumn time was come.
Out of the bordering box stiff plantain
grew.
Scarce would the loose trees have afforded
shade,
So lessened was the bulk between their
boughs,
Had there been sun to cast it. In the grass
Bested the moisture of the recent rain.
No one seemed coming; so he walked some
steps
Backward, and peered: no sign of any one.
He knocked, and at the touch the door
unclosed.
“Don’t you remember, years ago, your
friend,
And correspondent since, John Harling ?”
“ Oh,
I know you, sir, of course—I did at once.”
“ Sir ! Why, how now ? Between old
friends like us ?
How many letters that begin ‘Dear John'
In your handwriting, I have asked after,
These eight years, in some scores of postesrestantes !
Too many, I should hope, for us to Sir
Each other now.
But only tell me,
Grey------”
Grey said, “ Come up, come up.”
There was a haste
About his words and manner, and he seemed
To half forget what first he meant to do.
He paused at the stairs’ foot; then, with a
glance
Thrown backward at his friend, who stayed
for him,
He mounted hurriedly, two steps at once.
They had not shaken hands yet. Harling
his
Had proffered with the words he uttered
first,
But Grey had not appeared to notice it.
Harling had caught the look of the other’s
face
Where twilight in the doorway glimmered
fresh,
And he had fancied it was pale and worn,
And anxious as with watchings through
the night.
But in the room the light no longer served
Eor one to see the other, how the weeks
Had changed him, and the months and
years. The room
Was dim between the window-blinds and
dusk.
Now seated—“As you see, John,” Grev
began,
“This is a bed-room. I have not had time
To trouble myself yet about the house.”
“ You are but just arrived, then ?”
“Yes, but just.”
He was about to say some more, but
stopped.
“ And now,” said Harling, “ you shall tell
me all
About yourself. And how and where’s
your wife ?
What is it brought you down here ? Have
you left
Oxford, in which your practice was so good?
Or are you here on holidays ? I come
Upon you by an unexpected chance.
There must be something to be learned, I
know;
Chances are not all chance-work. Tell me
all.”
His friend rose up at this; and Harling saw
His knuckles on his forehead, at his hair,
And thought his eyes grew larger through
the dark.
Grey touched him on the shoulder, draw
ing breath
To speak with, but he then again sat down.
“Why, first I ought to hear your news, I
think,”
At last he answered, swallowing the gasps
Which came into his mouth, and clipped
his words.
“ Though travellers have a vested right to
lie,
I’ll take it all on trust.” He forged a laugh.
Harling grew certain there was something
now
His friend had got to tell, and must, but
feared.
He knew how such a fear, by yielding
grows,
And would have had him speak it out at
once.
Nevertheless he answered, “ As you will.
And yeti have but little left to say
Since my last letter. But the whole is this.
But let us first have light before we talk,
That we may know each other once again.
I shall not flatter you if grizzled hairs
�ÎHrg; Wolmeg Æhqu
Prove to outnumber your original brown,
But tell you truth. Pou tell the truth of
me.
X am more than half a Frenchman, I be
lieve,
By this time. That’s no compliment, say I,
For a John Bull at heart, and I am one ;
Thank God, a Tory, and hang the Marseillaisel”
“No lights, no lights,” Grey answered,
moodily.
“ Can we not talk again as once we used,
Through twilight and through evening into
night,
Knowing, without a light, it was we two ?—
I little thought then it would come to this,”
He added, and his voice was only sad.
“ And it is well, too, that the light should
come,
jfor then perhaps you will hare made a
guess,
By seeing me, before I tell it you.
My dear old friend, it’s needless now to
attempt
To hide it. I am wretched—that’s the
word.
I am a fool not to have got the thing
Over already, for it has to come
At last. But there’s a minute’s respite still,
Ifor first you were to tell me of yourself;
So. Harling, you speak now. But first the
light.”
The other, leaning forward, took his hand,
And tried to speak some comfort; but the
words
Faltered between his lips. For he was sure
That, if he had already heard this grief,
He would not talk of comfort, but sit dumb.
The lights were come now, and each looked
on each.
The traveller’s face was bronzed, and his
hah’ crisp
And close, and his eyes steady—all himself
Compact and prompt to any chance. And
yet
He was essentially the same who went,
To find his level, forth eight years ago,
Unformed, florid - complexioncd, easytongued :
Travel and time had only mellowed him.
Grey was the same in feature, not in fact.
His face was paler that was always pale ;
The forehead something wrinkled, and the
lips
Aria and meagre, faded, marked with lines ;
The eyes had sunken further in the head,
451
With a dark ridge to each, and grizzled
brows ;
His hair, though as of old, was brown and
soft.
The difference was less, but more the
change.
Each looked on each some minutes : neither
spoke.
His friend was clothed in black, as Har
ling saw,
Who now resumed the thread of his dis
course.
“ As for my own adventures, they are few :
For, after I left Rome—the storm will
burst,
Be sure, at Rome, before the year is done—
I went straight back to Paris. Politics,
You know, I’ve stood aloof from all the
year ;
But even with me, ( oo, they have done
their work.
My poor Louise was dead—shot down, I
learned,
Upon the people’s barricades in June :
She turned up quite a Red Republican
After their twenty-fourth of February ;
And my successor in her graces fell
With her—both fighting and yelling side
by side.
I could not but curse at them through my
teeth
With her own sacré-Dieu's—the whole of
them
Who get up revolutions and revolts.
And then they swore I was an Orleanist,
An English spy, or something ; and indeed
I found myself, the scanty days I stopped,
A centre-piece for all the blackest looks.
At least I thought so. Many of my friends,
Besides, were gone, waiting for better times
When next they come to Paris. So I left
Disgusted, and crossed over. Why should I
Quit England and dear brother Tories?
still,
Although I do now think of settling here,
Perhaps, before another twelvemonth goes,
The South will tempt me back—sooner,
perhaps.
I must, I think, die travelling in the
South.”
He made an end of speaking. Grey looked
up.
“ Is there no more ?” he asked. He said,
“ No more.”
Grey’s face turned whiter, and his fingers
twitched.
�452
Mrs* Wohnes
“ It is my turn to speak, then” :—and he I Upon a prayer-book, open at the rite
rose,
I Of solemnizing holy matrimony.
Taking a candle: “ come this way v ith me.” Her marriage-ring was stitched into the
page.
They stepped aside into a neighbouring
room.
Grey stood a long while gazing. Then he
Grey walked with quiet footsteps, and he
set
turned
The candle on the ground, and on his knce3
So noiselessly the handle of the door
Close to her unringed shrouded hand, he
That Harling fancied some one lay asleep
prayed,
Inside. The hand recovered steadiness.
Silent. With eyes still dry, he rose un
changed.
The room was quite unfurnished, striking
chill.
They left the room again with heeded.steps.
A rent in the drawn window-blind betrayed On friendly Harling lay the awe of death
A sky unvaried, moonless, cloudless, black. And pity: he took his seat without a
Only two chairs were set against the wall,
sound.
And, not yet closed, a coffin placed on Some of the hackneyed phrases almost
them.
passed
Harling’s raised eyes inquired why he was His lips, but shamed him, and ho held his
peace.
brought
Hither, and should he still advance and “ Harling,” said Grey, after a pause, “ you
look.
think
“ It is my wife,” said Grey; “ look in her No doubt that this is all—her death is all.
face.”
Harling, when first I saw you in the street,
This in a whisper, holding Harling’s arm,
I feared you meant to come and speak
And tightened fingers clenched the whis
to me;
pering.
So hid myself and waited till you knocked ;
Darling could feel his forehead growing Waited behind the door until you knocked,
Longing that you, perhaps, would go.
moist,
When I
And sought in vain his friend's averted Had opened it, I think I called you Sir—
eyes.
Did you not chide me ? Do you know, it
Their steps, suppressed, creaked on the un
seemed
covered boards:
So strange to me that any one I knew
They stood beside the coffin’s foot and Before this happened should be here the
head.
same,
Both gazed in silence, with bowed faces— And know me for the same that once I was,
Grey
I could not quite imagine we were friends.
With bony chin pressed into bony throat.
It is not merely death would make one
feel
The woman’s limbs were straight inside her
Like this—no, there is something more
shroud.
behind
The death which brooded glazed upon her
Harder than death, more cruel. Let me
eyes
wait
Was hidden underneath the shapely lids ;
Some moments ; then no help but I must
But the mouth kept its anguish. Combed
tell.”
and rich
The hair, which caught the light within its lie gathered up his face into his hands
strings,
Brom chin to temples, only just to think
Golden about the temples, and as fine
And not be seen. He had not seated him,
And soft as any silk-web ; and the brows
But leaned against the chair. Nor Harling
A perfect arch, the forehead undisturbed ;
spoke.
B ut the mouth kept its anguish, and the
“ Two months are gone now,” Grey pur
lips,
sued. “We two
Closed after death, seemed half in act to
Lived lovingly. I had to come down here,
speak.
And here I met a surgeon of the town.
Covered the hands and feet; the head was
Hell only knows—I cannot tell you—why,
laid
�fHrs, Wolrnes
453
I asked him to return with me, and spend I So that would make her sad. I thought it
strange
A fortnight at our house. Perhaps I wrote
Th® whole of this to you when it occurred. She had not so informed me from the first.
Her cousin, when I named the point, ap
His name is Luton.”
peared
Here he chose to pause.
Surprised ; but then to recollect herself,
“Perhaps: I am not certain.” Harling And answered—I could see, a little piqued—
said.
She should not cry again because of her.
“ I think you might be certain,” answered “ These fits of tears continued. We were
Grey,
now
“If you’re my friend.” But then he Alone together, for the cousin went
checked himself,
Away soon after. Then I could not help
Adding : “ Forgive me. I am not, you see,
Seeing her health and strength were giving
Myself to-night—this night, nor many
way :
nights,
Her mind, too, seemed oppressed. She’d
Nor many nights to come. Well, he agreed.
hardly leave
Of course, he must agree; else I should At nights the chair she sat in, for she said
not
‘ This is the only place where I can sleep.’
Have been like this, disgraced, made al Yet her affection for me seemed to grow
most mad.”
A kind of pity for its tenderness.
Oh ! what is now become of her, that I,
At this he found his passion would be near
After to-morrow, shall not see her more,
To drive him to talk wildly : so he kept
Silence again some moments—then re But have to hide her always from my
sight ?”
sumed.
He took some steps, meaning to go again
“ How should I recollect the days we passed
Together ? There must surely have been And see her corpse; but, meeting Harling’s
eye,
enough
Turned and sat down.
To see, and yet I never saw it once.
Besides, my patients kept me out all day
“ Is it not,” he pursued,
Sometimes. It was in August, John, was
With fioorward gaze, “ hard on me I mustthis—
tell
The end of AuguBt, reaping just begun.
This business word by word, the whole of it,
We’ve had a splendid harvest, you’ll have While I can see it all before me there,
heard.”
And it is clear one word could tell it all ?
Can you not guess the rest, and spare inc
“ Indeed!” the other said, shifting the while
now ?”
His posture—and he knew not what to say.
“ I will not guess; but you,” said Harling,
“ Yes, you detect me,” Grey cried bitterly ;
“keep
“ You know I am afraid of what’s to come— All that remains unspoken ; for it wrings
A coward. Now I do hope I shall speak,
My heart, dear Grey, dear friend, to see
And tell you all of it without a stop.
you thus.”
There was a lady staying with us then,
“ No, it is better I should speak it out,
A cousin of my wife’s—but older, much;
For you would fancy something; and at
So that you understand how I could ask
least
This Luton down. Before his time was up,
You will not need to fancy w’hen you know.
He seemed to grow uneasy, and he left,-—■
She came to me one morning—(this was
Merely explaining, business called him
like
home.
A fortnight after he had gone away,.
_ I said I had not noticed anything
This Luton)—saying that she found it vain
Unusual; and yet I sometimes found
Attempting to compose her mind at home ;
Mary in tears, and could not gather why.
One day she told me when I questioned her That every place made her remember what
The baby had done or looked there, and
It was for thinking of our girl that died
ilie felt
Months back—for that her cousin would
Too weak for that, and meant to see -ier
begin
friends
Often to talk to her about her own;
�454
Mrs. Woltw
(That is, two sisters some few miles from
here).
She spoke more firmly than I had heard
her talk
A long time past—because I thought it
long—
And I believed she had determined right,
And so consented. But she only said
‘ I have made up my mind ’—thus waiving
all
Consent on my part—mere sick wilfulness
I took it for. She left the house. I might
Have told you she’d a lilac dress, and hair
Worn plain. And so I saw her the last
time—
The last time, God in heaven!” He seized
his fists
Together, and he clutched them toward his
throat.
“Many days passed. She had begged me,
feeling sure
It would excite her, not to write a line,
And said she would not write, nor let her
friends.
I think I did not tell you, though, how pale
Her cheeks were ; and, in saying this, she
sobbed,
For such a lengthened silence looked like
death.
“ Three weeks, or nearly that, had passed
away:
A letter on black-bordered paper came.
It was from Luton. Then I did not know
The hand, but shall now, if it comes again.
He wrote that I must go immediately,
That I was ‘to prepare myself’—some
trash :
He ‘ dared not trust his pen to tell me
more.’
“ On Thursday I arrived here. I cannot
Attempt to tell you all about it. When
You’ve read this, only call me, and I’ll
come;
But I will not be by you while you road.
On the first day I heard it all from him,
And loathe him for it. I am left alone,
And all through him.”
He took a newspaper
From underneath his pillow, and he showed
The place to read at. Then he left the
room ;
And Harling caught his footfall toward the
corpse,
And touching of his knees upon the boards.
And this is what ho feverishly perused:—
“ Coroner's Inquest—A Distressing Case.
An inquest was held yesterday, before
The County Coroner, into the cause
Of the decease of Mrs. Mary Grey,
A married lady. Public interest
Was widely excited.
“ When the Jury came
From viewing the corpse, in which are seen
remains
Of no small beauty, witnesses were called.
“ Mr. Holmes Grey, surgeon, deposed : ‘ I
live
In Oxford, where I practise, and deceased
Had been my wife for upwards of three
years.
About the middle of September, she
Was suffering much from weakness, and a
weight
Seemed on her mind. The symptoms had
begun
Nearly a month before, and still increased,
Until at last they gave me great alarm,
Of which we often spoke. On the eighteenth
She told me she would like to stay awhile
With two of her sisters, living on the coast,
At Barksedge House, not far from here.
She went
Next day. I cannot speak to any more.’
“ The Coroner: ‘ How were you first ap
prised
Of this most melancholy event ?’—‘ By
note
Addressed to me by Mr. Luton here.’
“A Juror : ‘ Could your scientific skill
Assign some cause for this debility ?’
‘No. I believed it was occasioned (so
She intimated) by a domestic grief
Quite unconnected with the present case.’
“The Coroner: ‘You’ll know how to ex
cuse
The question which I feel compelled to
put:
I have a public duty to perform.
Had you, before the period you described,
Any suspicions ever?’—‘ Never once :
There was no cause for any, I swear to
God.’
“ The witness had, throughout his testi
mony,
Preserved his calm—though clearly not
without
An effort, which augmented towards the
close.
�Wolmeg
455
“Jane Langley: ‘I keep lodgings in the The same thing happened ; but she spoke
town.
of love
On the nineteenth September the deceased
Now, and the very word half passed her lips.
Engaged a bed-room and a sitting-room.
Our talk ended abruptly. Mrs. Gwyllt
The name I knew her by was Mrs. Grange;
Came in, and by her face I saw she had
I saw but very little of her; she kept,
heard.
As much as that ■well could be, to herself,
“ ‘ This instance was the last we talked
And she would frequently leave home for
alone.
hours.
And I began to hear from -Mr. Grey
I cannot say I made any remark
His wife was far from well, and had the
Especially. I found a letter once—
tears
Just a few words, torn up. ‘ Holmes,’ it
Now often in her eyes. This made me feel
began.
Hampered and restless : so I took my leave
{ This letter is the last you ever will. . .’
After my first eleven days’ stay was gone,
No more, I think. I threw the bits away.
Saying I had affairs that could not wait.
That was, perhaps, four days before her
death.
“ £ Between the seventh of September, when
On that day, I suppose, as usual,
We parted, and the twenty-third, I saw
She left the house : I did not see her, though.
No more of the deceased. Towards seven
She was brought home quite dead.’
o’clock
That evening, I was told a lady wished
“ Upon the name
To speak with me. She entered : it was
Of the next witness being called, some stir
she—
Arose through persons pressing on to look.
Deceased. I can’t describe how pained I
After it had been silenced, and the oath
was
Duly administered, the evidence
At finding she had left her home like this.
Proceeded.
She said she loved me, and conjured me
“Mr. Edward Luton, surgeon :
much
‘ I lately here began for the first time
Not to desert her; that she loved me
In my profession. I was introduced
young;
To Mr. Grey in August. When he left
That, after we had ceased to meet, she
The seaside, he invited me to pass
knew
A fortnight at his house, and I agreed.
And married Mr. Grey. Also, that when
On seeing Mrs. Grey, I recognized
He wrote to her in August I should come,
In her a lady I had known before
Guessing who I must be, she thought it
Her marriage, a Miss Cbalsted. We had
well
met
To treat me as a stranger—dreading lest
In company, and, in particular,
Her love (so she assured me) should revive.
At some so-called “mesmeric evenings,”
All this through sobs and blushes. I could
held
not
At her remote connection’s house, the late
Make up my mind what conduct to pursue :
Dr. Duplatt. But now, as Mrs. Grey
I begged her to be calm, and wait awhile.
Allowed my presentation to pass off
And I would write. Sae left unnerved
Without a hint of knowing me, I left
and weak.
This point to her, and seemed a stranger :
till
“ ‘ I took five days, bewildered how to act.
We chanced, the sixth day, to be left alone.
But on the evening of the fifth, I saw,
I talked on just the same, but she was silent.
While looking out of window—(it was
At last she answered, and began to speak
dusk,
Familiarly of when she knew me first;
And almost nightfall)—Mrs. Grey, who
Without explaining—merely as one might
paced,
talk
Muffled in clothes, before my door. I knew
Changing the subject. But I let it pass.
By this how dangerous it must be to wait
And yet, when we were next in company,
For a day longer; so I wrote at once
Once more she acted new acquaintanceship.
She absolutely must return to her home.
Then, two days after, I believe—one time
Nothing was known as yet—all might be
Her cousin, Mrs. Gwyllt, was out by
well;
chance—
In time she would forget me ; and besides
�456
ÍBrsí. Colmes
I was engaged to marry, and must regard
Our intercourse as ended.
“ ‘ She returned
Next day, the twenty-ninth; and, falling
down
Upon her knees, she cried, with hardly a
word,
Some while, and kept her face between her
hands;
But at the last she swore she would not go,
But rather die here. It continued thus
Six days. For she would come and seat
herself,
When I was present, in my room, and sit,
An hour or near, quite silent; or break
out
Into a flood of words—and then, perhaps
Between two syllables, stop short, and turn
Round in her chair, and sob, and hide her
tears.
“ * The sixth day, after she had left the
house,
I had an intimation we were watched,
And certain persons bad begun to talk.
I thought it indispensable to write
Once more, and tell her she could not re
main—
I owed it to myself not to allow
This state of things to last; that I had
given
The servant orders to deny me, should
She still persist in calling.
“‘Towards mid-day
Of the sixth instant, the deceased once more
Was at my house, however;—darted
through
The door, which happened to be left ajar,
And flung herself right down before my feet.
This day she did not shed a single tear,
Nor talk at all at random, but was firm :
I mean, unalterably resolute
In purpose, and her passion more uncurbed
Than ever: swore it was impossible
She should return to live with Mr. Grey
Again ; that, were she at her latest hour,
She still would say so, and die saying so :
‘Because’ (I recollect her words) ‘this
flame
All eats me up while I am here with you;
I hate it, but it eats me—eats me up,
Till I have now no will to wish it quenched.’
I hope to be excused repeating ail
That I remember to have heard her say.
She bitterly upbraided me for what
I last had written to her, and declared
She hated me and loved me all at once
With perfect hate as well as burning love.
This must have lasted fully half an hour.
However fearful as to the results,
I told her simply I could not retract,
And she must go, or I immediately
Would write to Mr. Grey. I rose at this
To leave the room.
“ ‘ She staggered up as well.
And screamed, and caught about her with
her hands :
I think she could not see. I dreaded lest
She might be falling, and I held her arm,
Trying to guide her out. As I did so,
She, in a hurry, faced on me, and screamed
Aloud once more, and wanted, as I thought,
To speak, but, in a second, fell.
“ ‘ I raised
Her body in my arms, and found her dead.
I had her carried home without delay,
And a physician called, whose view con
curred
With mine—that instant death must have
ensued
Upon the rupture of a blood-vessel.’
“ This deposition had been listened to
Tn the most perfect silence. At its close
We understand a lady was removed
Fainting.
“ The Coroner: ‘You said just now
That, in your former letter to deceased,
You told her nothing yet was known. Was
not
Her absence traced, then, and suspicion
roused ?
Did she inform you ?’ ‘ She informed me
that
Would not be, for that Mr. Grey and she
Had mutually consented not to write.
I have forgotten why.’
“ The Coroner:
‘ Is Mr. Grey still present ?’ Mr. Grey ;
‘Yes, I am here.’ ‘You heard the last
reply;
Was such the case?’ ‘It was; we had
agreed
To exchange no letters, that her mind
might have
The benefit of more complete repose.’
“A J uror to the witness : ‘ Did no acts
Of familiarity occur between
Deceased and you ?’
“ Here Mr. Grey addressed
The Coroner, demurring to a reply.
“ The Coroner : ‘ It grieves me very much
�dMrs. Pointes
To pain your feelings; but I feel com
pelled
To say the question is a proper one.
It is the Jury’s duty to gain light
On this exceedingly distressing case ;
The public mind has to be satisfied;
I owe a duty to the public. Let
The witness answer.’
“ Witness: ‘ She would clasp
Her arms around me in speaking tenderly,
And kiss me. She has often kissed my
hands.
Not beyond that.’
“ The Juror: ‘ And did you
Respond----- ’ The Coroner; ‘The wit
ness should,
I think, be pressed no further. He has
given
His painful evidence most creditably.’
“The Juror: ‘Did deceased, in all these
days,
Not write to you at all ?’ ‘ She sent me this :
It is the only letter I received.’
“A letter here was handed in and read.
It ran as follows, and it bore the date
Of twenty-sixth September.
“ ‘ Dearest Friend,—
Where is your promise you would write me
»©on
My sentence, death or life ? This is the
third
Of three long days since last I saw you. Oh!
To press your hand again, and talk to you,
And see the moving of your lips and eyes !
lidward, I’m certain that you cannot know
How much I love you; you must not
decide
Until convinced of it----- But words are
dead.
That, Edward, is a love in very truth
Which can avail to overcome such shame
As kept me four whole days from seeing
you—
Four days after my coming quite resolved
To strive no more, but tell you all my heart.
As daylight passed, and night devoured the
dusk,
The first time, and the second, and the third,
I doubted whether I could ever wait
Till dawn—yet waited all the fourth day
too,
Staring upon myhands,andlooking strange;
Yes, and the fifth day’s twilight hastened
oa.
But love began then driving me about
457
Between my house and your house, to and
fro.
At last I could no more delay, but wept,
And prayed of Christ (for He discerns it
all),
That, if this thing were sinful unto death,
He would Himself be first to throw the
stone.
So then I came and saw you, and I spoke.
Did I not make you understand how I
Had loved you in the budding of my youth ;
And how, when we divided, all my hope
Went out from me for all the future days,
And how I married, just indifferent
To whom I took ? Perhaps I did not clear
This up enough, or cried and troubled
you.
Why did I ever see your face again ?
I had forgotten you; I lived content,
At peace. Forgotten you! that now ap
pears
Impossible, yet I believe I had.
Then see what now my life must be—con
sumed
With inner very fire, merely to think
Of you, and having lost my heartless peace.
How shall I dare to live except with you ?’
“ TheCoroner to Witness: ‘ Had you known
When you were first acquainted with
deceased,
Before her marriage, that she entertained
These feelings for you?’—‘Friends of mine
would talk
In a light way about it—nothing more—
And in especial as to mesmerism.
I knew that such a match could never be;
Her friends would have been sure to break
it off—
Our prospects were so very different.
I did not think about it seriously.’
‘“The letter says that you divided : how
Did that occur?’—‘I left the neighbour
hood
On account solely of my own affairs.’
“ ‘ You have deposed that you received a
hint
Your meetings with deceased had been
observed.
How did you learn this ?’—‘ Through the
brother-in-law
Of a young lady that’s engaged to me.’
“ The witness here retired. He looks about
The age of twenty-seven,—in person, tall
And elegant. His tone at times betrayed
Much feeling.
�458
holmes
“Mrs. Celia Frances Gwyllt:
‘ Deceased and I were cousins. In the
month
Of August last I spent a little time
With her and Mr. Grey. In the first
week
Of last month, I remember hearing her
Speak in a manner I considered wrong
To Mr. Luton, and she seemed confused
When she perceived me. Shortly after
wards,
I took occasion to inform her so.
This she at first made light of, and alleged
It was a mere flirtation. I replied,
I deemed it was my duty to acquaint
Her husband; when she begged that I
would not,
So that at length I yielded. Then came on
Some crying fits, which Mr. Grey was led
To ascribe to things I chanced to talk
about.
This and my pledge of silence vexed me
much,
And so, soon after that, I took my leave.’
“ Anne Gorman: ‘ I am Mr. Luton’s
servant.
On Tuesday wa3 the sixth I had to go
Out on an errand, with the door ajar,
When I remembered something I had left
Behind. On coming back, I saw deceased
Race through the lobby, and whisk into
the room.
I had been ordered not to let her in.’
“ The evidence of Dr. Wallinger
Ended the case. ‘ I was called in to see
The body of deceased upon the sixth :
Life then was quite extinct; the cause of
death,
Congestion and effusion of the ventricle.
Death would be instantaneous. Any strong
Emotion might have led to that result-.’
“ The Coroner, in course of summing up,
Commented on the evidence, and spoke
Of deceased’s conduct in appropriate terms;
Observing that the Jury would decide
Upon their verdict from the testimony
Of the professional witness—which was
clear,
And seemed to him conclusive. He could do
No less than note the awful suddenness
With which the loss of life had followed
such
A glaring sacrifice of duty’s claims.
“ The Jury gave their verdict in at once:
‘Died by the visitation of God.’
“ We learn
On good authority that the deceased
Belonged to a distinguished family.
Her husband’s scientific eminence
Is fully and most widely recognized.”
As Hurling finished reading this, he rose
To call his friend; but, shrinking at the
thought,
He read it all again and lingeringly.
But, after that, he called in undertone;
And he received the answer, “ Come in
here.”
He entered therefore.
Grey was huddled o’er
The coffin, looking hard iuto her face.
“ You know it now,” he said, but did not
move.
“ We long have been old friends,” Harling
replied.
“ Words are of no avail, and worse than
none.
I need not try to tell you what I feel.”
Grey now stood straight. “I am to bury her
The day after to-morrow : I alone
Shall see her covered in beneath the earth.
Maj' God be near her in the stead of men,
And let her rest. Yet there is with her that
Which she shall carry down into the grave;
Still in the dark her broken marriage-vow
Under her head: they shall remain together.
How can I talk like this ?” And he
broke off.
“ This is a crushing grief indeed, I know,”
Said Harling; “yet be brave against it.
When
This few days’ work is over, Grey, go home,
And mind to be so occupied as must
Prevent your dwelling on it. If you choose,
I will accompany and stay with you.”
But he replied: “ My home will now be
here;”
And all the angles of his visage thinned.
“He is here I mean to ruin. Shall he still
Be free to laugh me in his sleeve to scorn,
And show me pity—pity '.—when we meet ?
I have no means of harming him, you
think ?
There’s such a thing, though, as profes
sional fame,—
I have it. Where’s the name of Luton
known?
is is my home : I mean to ruin him.”
“Why, he,” objected Harling, “never did
�Wtfltw ©reg.
One hair’s-breadth wrong to you: his hands
are clean
Of all offence to you and yours-. For shame!
It was blind anguish spoke there—not
yourself.”
“ Ah! you can talk like that! But it is I
Who have to feel—I who can see his house
From here, and sometimes watch him out
and in,
And think she used to be with him inside.
And he could bear her coming day by day,
And see the sobs collecting in her throat,
And tresses out of order, as she fell
Before his feet, and made her prayers, and
wept!
He bore this! What a heart he must
have had!
Must I be grateful for it ? Bid he not
Admit inopportune eyes were watching
him?
He was engaged to marry—yes, and one
For whom he’s bound to keep himself in
check,
And crouch beneath her whims and
jealousy:—
Not that I ever saw her, but I’m sure.
Besides, he told me she would not be his
Unless he gains the standing deemed her
due,—
And I’ll take care of that.”
His friend was loath,
459
Seeing the burden of his agony,
To harass him with argument and blame ;
Yet would he not be by to hear him rave,
And said he now must go.
“ One moment more,”
Said Grey, and oped the window. Overhead
The sky was a black veil drawn close as
death;
The lamps gave all the light, prolonged in
rows:
And chill it blew upon them as they gazed,
Mixed with thin drops of rain, which
might not fall
Straight downward, but kept veering in
the wind.
There was a sounding of the sea from far.
Grey pointed. “ That beyond there is the
house,
Turning the street—that where a candle
burns
In the left casement of the upper three.
That is, no doubt, his shadow on the blind.
Often I get a glimpse of it from here,
As when you saw me first this afternoon.
Shall he not one day pay me down in full ?
John, I can wait ; but when the moment
comes . . .!”
He shut the sash. Harling had seen ths.
night,
Equal, unknown, and desolate of stars.
1849*
* The reader will observe the already remote date at which this poem was written.
Those were the days when the prge-Raphaelite movement in painting was first started. I,
who was as much mixed up and interested in it as any person not practically an artist
could well be, entertained the idea that the like principles might be carried out in
poetry; and that it would be possible, without losing the poetical, dramatic, or even
tragic tone and impression, to approach nearer to the actualities of dialogue and narration
tnan had ever yet been done. With an unpractised hand I tried the experiment; and
the. result is this blank-verse tale, which is now published, not indeed without some
revision, but without the least alteration in its general character and point of view.—
vv at t?
°
r
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Mrs. Holmes Greg
Creator
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Rossetti, William Michael
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: 452, 449-459 p. : ill. (engraving) ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Broadway 1 (1868). Attribution of journal title and date: Virginia Clark catalogue. A poem in blank verse. The illustration, page number 452, is at the front of the poem. The first page of the verse is numbered 449.
Publisher
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[s.n.]
Date
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[1868]
Identifier
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G5343
Subject
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Poetry
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Mrs. Holmes Greg), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English