LADY MAY. 
 
 [Tlie Copyright is reserved.]
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 \if J/^' BY 
 
 GEORGIANA" LADY CHATTEETON. 
 
 LONDON : 
 THOMAS RICHAKDSON AND SON ; 
 
 DUBLIN, AN'D DERBY. 
 
 MDCCCLXIX.
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 A HOMELY valley in a Midland shire 
 
 Before my grateful memory doth rise 
 A scene most English in our Land of Homes, 
 Far hid from din of factory or mart ; 
 A village where the church's Norman tower 
 Still speaks of steadfast faith to later times, 
 And seems with bold and massive strength to guard 
 The greater glories of a later art 
 
 Which pierced those mullioned windows down the nave 
 In good King Edward's reign. 'Twas in this vale 
 Some forty years ago, a couple dwelt, 
 An aged loving pair and prosperous 
 Yet not indeed with this their lot content ; 
 For childless they had been, and Nelly Kolfe, 
 The dame of whom I write, was young at heart, 
 Altho' full three score summers she had seen,
 
 2 LADY MAY. 
 
 As when she married Jonas in her prime : 
 
 And sunny was her face, as if all life 
 
 Had been a summer's day. She ne'er looked sad 
 
 Except when Jonas tarried at the inn 
 
 Full late, to hear, he said, the latest news 
 
 For then 'twas near the end of wars with France, 
 
 When for the groaning lands was freedom won. 
 
 A stone's throw from the church was Jonas' house, 
 Its gable to the little street was turned : 
 In front a garden lay ; its well-kept beds 
 Were gay with crimson tulip and jonquil, 
 And many a gaudy flower or sweetest herb 
 Our forebears loved, but now too seldom seen. 
 The beehives, sheltered by the clipped yew hedge, 
 Looked towards the sun, and at the farther end 
 An arbour decked with shells was seen, 'twas there 
 The Dame full oft with village gossips talked. 
 Well loved was she, and sought from far and near 
 By all who wanted sympathy or help : 
 For she in youth had lived as nursery-maid 
 At Morland Hall, and there had learned some skill 
 In leechcraft as 'twas practised in those days. 
 
 There too, it was that she had learned to love,
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 E'en more than youth is wont, all helpless babes, 
 
 Their winning ways and wiles, the first faint cry 
 
 Of babyhood : its sudden bitter griefs 
 
 And joys so innocent. And even when 
 
 Young Jonas, who had loved her ten long years, 
 
 Would wait no longer and her promise claimed 
 
 She sighed to leave them, though her heart was his. 
 
 The great folks grieved to lose her from the hall, 
 And all the children wept till they were told 
 That they should often see their own loved Nell 
 In her new pretty cottage, just beyond 
 The South Park Gates. 
 
 One of the olden type 
 
 Was Jonas' house; built, like the Manor House, 
 Of grey hewn stone the little sheltering porch 
 Surmounted with a date that told the year 
 Just after England's Charles had lost his head. 
 'Twas said the stones, like those of Morland Hall, 
 Came from the ruined abbey, in the midst 
 Of that fair vale, and erst were brought with care 
 And loving labour, in remoter times 
 When England's faith was one, by hooded monks 
 From sea-washed cliffs on Purbeck's distant shore.
 
 4 LADY MAY. 
 
 One evening, in the merry month of May, 
 Old Nelly in her arbour sat alone. 
 The news had come of some great battle gained, 
 And much she feared that Jonas, in his glee, 
 "Would tarry long, and by his friends beguiled, 
 "Would e'en forget himself, as he had done, 
 Alas ! too oft of late, and deeply drink, 
 Well knowing that they had no child, no heir 
 For whom to save none who might good or ill 
 From good or bad example pattern take. 
 And, in her bitter disappointment, she 
 Began to think that all would have been right 
 If they had had a child to love and teach : 
 Then sighed, and as the sun went down she knelt 
 And wept hot tears of bitter self-reproach, 
 Praying that God would her complaints forgive. 
 She conned her sacred hymns, and, musing read 
 The chapters in St. John she loved the best, 
 Then laid her down to sleep, for well she knew 
 That Jonas, finding her awake, would chafe, 
 Deeming himself the cause of her unrest 
 Then say 'twas hard. Full peacefully she slept 
 And dreamed a dream. She thought a child was born,
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 A lovely smiling babe; nor marvelled sbe, 
 
 For nought seems strange in dreams, at what was not 
 
 In nature nor in possibility. 
 
 Sbe seemed as young as on ber wedding day 
 
 Her tbree score years, her faded wrinkled face, 
 
 Her Jonas's feebler steps, she reck't them not 
 
 But holy joy and thankfulness to God 
 
 "Were all she felt. For there the little one 
 
 Lay smiling in her arms a maiden babe 
 
 With eyes of deep dark blue, like the loved child 
 
 (Young Geraldine Adare) whom she had nursed 
 
 In early youth at the old Manor House. 
 
 And now she felt the new-born baby's breath, 
 
 Its sweet warm breath upon her cheek, the clasp 
 
 Of little clinging fingers round her own 
 
 Then woke. So vivid was the dream, that still 
 
 There seemed the gentle pressure on her breast, 
 
 And still her fingers tingled with the touch 
 
 Of baby hands. So blissful was the feel 
 
 She longed to sleep again, and closed her eyes, 
 
 Then opened them, and almost hoped to find 
 
 A living infant in her loving arms. 
 
 The room with Eastern sunbeams now was bright,
 
 6 LADY MAY. 
 
 And so she knew it was full time to rise 
 
 And make her husband's breakfast. Hastily 
 
 She dressed, and then went down, but was so wrapt 
 
 In memory of her dream, that in her work 
 
 She made unwonted blunders burnt the toast 
 
 And spoiled the oaten cakes. 
 
 " What ails thee, Nell ?" 
 
 Her husband asked ; and then she smiling, mused, 
 But nought would say ; for in her youthful days 
 She heard that dreams, if in the morning told, 
 Will ne'er come true. And then she laughed outright ; 
 "Ah, how could such a dream come true for me ! 
 For me" she thought, " now in my sixtieth year ?" 
 
 "What ails thee, wench?" said Jonas. " Art thou 
 
 dazed? 
 
 Hast seen a ghost ? See, thou hast burnt the cakes, 
 And overturned the milk, and spoiled the toast !" 
 
 " I've only overslept myself," she said ; 
 " Mayhap the flour is bad : I'll to the mill 
 And get some new. Besides, hast thou not heard, 
 * More haste, worse speed.' So often used to say 
 My Lady at the Manor House. Ah, me, 
 I wish I knew what came to that poor child,
 
 LADY MAY. 7 
 
 My darling Ina if so be she lives. 
 
 Now, haste thee, Jonas hark, the hour hath chimed." 
 
 The dame would have him gone for once she wished 
 
 To he alone, for once that she might muse 
 
 And think and muse again upon her dream, 
 
 And seek the place where she had seemed to be. 
 
 She knew the spot full well 'twas near her home, 
 Her own old home beyond the Abbey Ponds 
 Near Dovvling's Mill. Her father there had lived : 
 Dearly she loved the spot, and oft had thought 
 In all the world there could be nought so fair 
 As Morland Abbey, and its great oak woods. 
 And so, her husband gone at last, she donned 
 Her cloak and hood, then hastened to the vale.
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 fTlHE sun was shining on the higUest tower 
 
 While yet the ruined cloisters were in shade ; 
 So Nelly knew 'twas early morning still, 
 Although impatience made her think it late. 
 For like a sundial to her practised eye 
 Were all the beauteous features of the vale ; 
 The rippling stream, the dark o'erhanging woods, 
 The dome-like downs, furze-gilded, rising fair. 
 And, as a child, she knew when it was time 
 In summer morns for school, because the knight 
 In armour lying, on the altar tomb, 
 Then seemed to smile with joy, as if he felt 
 The morning sun that slanted o'er his face, 
 And warmed, as Nelly thought, his hands upraised 
 In ceaseless prayer. At noon he was in shade, 
 And then she thought he frowned ; for stern and sad 
 The marble features grew. And when the mists 
 Of twilight fell, she was almost afraid
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 Of coming nigb : she fancied that his hands 
 Moved slowly, and that murmured sentences 
 And whispers strange passed through his marhle lips. 
 
 Yet even then, at all times, light or dark, 
 She loved the spot, and often did she come 
 To think of those whom living she had loved, 
 And grieved for still. 
 
 It was a lovely scene : 
 Most English in the ruined Abbey lone 
 That stamped a page in history's awful book 
 With mutilated Beauty and marred Faith ; 
 Fair witness to foul deeds of enrnity 
 (By. abstract Faith since made respectable) 
 Which armed a Tyrant's will. Most English ! aye, 
 For seldom do we see in other lands 
 A sacred building, reared at such a cost 
 Of wondrous art, for centuries remain 
 Untouched but perishing in calm decay. 
 
 And now the May morn sun was shining bright, 
 As Nell had seen it clearly in her dream. 
 The miller's gabled house was yet in shade, 
 But the mill stream that through the valley wound 
 Ran glistening in its rays. The gnarled oaks
 
 10 LADY MAY. 
 
 With yellow budding leaves, above her bead 
 "SVere tipped with goldeu light, as in her dream 
 They had appeared above the new-born child. 
 
 With wondering awe she hastened on, and passed 
 The miller's house, nor thought to get her meal- ; 
 But clambered up a winding path that led 
 Along the steep o'erhanging primrose banks, 
 Beside the little rivulet, that seemed 
 To dance and smile in gladness, rushing down. 
 Still further up she went, with quickened steps ; 
 For more and more the windings of the vale, 
 The budding flowers, the sunshine and the trees, 
 All that she saw, looked like her happy dream. 
 Nor did she stop till to the spot she came ; 
 There narrowest the gorge there shadows dark 
 Of branches interlaced, lay on the deep 
 And quiet waters of the High Oak Pond. 
 
 The place she knew right well ; for years ago 
 When yet a child, she once had ventured in 
 To pluck the water lilies shining there 
 Like cups of gold beneath the mid-day sun, 
 Then slipped and lost her footing : for the pond 
 Was treacherous and deep. But Jonas heard
 
 LADY MAY. 11 
 
 Her cry of agony, and flew to help. 
 " Perchance that's why I always loved the place," 
 Thought she. " And then to feel I was so near 
 To death that day ! But brave and bold he was 
 My Jonas, aye and is, and he could swim ; 
 Dear ! how his eyes did shine, I mind right well, 
 Like stars, the moment that he caught me up 
 And bore me to the bank." 
 
 She sat her down 
 
 To rest awhile upon the mossy turf, 
 And then the memories of by-gone days 
 Came crowding through her mind so rapidly, 
 And with such marked distinctness, that in truth 
 She, for the time, well nigh forgot her dream. 
 She thought again of all her gay young days, 
 "When she was living at the Manor House; 
 How deeply she had loved the children there, 
 And most of all the little Geraldine. 
 She was the youngest of those bright Adares, 
 And loveliest. From birth Nell tended her, 
 And saw with a triumphant pride and joy 
 Her darling reach her lovely sixteenth year. 
 But that was thirty years before. And then
 
 12 LADY MAY. 
 
 They left the place, and never since that day 
 
 Had Nelly seen, or scarcely heard of her. 
 
 Now some were dead she knew, and some were worse, 
 
 And rumours vague in after years had come 
 
 That Geraldine had sailed to India's clime 
 
 With a young soldier who had won her heart. 
 
 Ah ! little truly had she heard of them 
 Since that dark day when they were chased from home, 
 Compelled for heavy debts to fly in shame, 
 Aud hide their poverty in foreign lands ; 
 For the Adares had lived beyond their means. 
 
 * 
 
 This Nelly knew, and she had dreaded long 
 
 Some fatal ending to their revels gay, 
 
 And heedless, though perhaps good natured, wish 
 
 To see all others glad. But it had proved 
 
 Far worse than this ; for when the old squire died, 
 
 He left, besides a heritage of debts 
 
 Which e'en that large estate could never pay, 
 
 A sullied name, disgraceful to Adares. 
 
 Ancestral relics then were seized by Jews, 
 The Hall dismantled, and the pictures sold, 
 And priceless hordes of by-gone centuries 
 Were scattered. This was all the neighbours knew.
 
 LADY MAY. 13 
 
 The place Lad been shut up for many years : 
 The terrace steps were overgrown with moss, 
 The garden had become a wilderness, 
 And rats, the only inmates of the house, 
 Holding dim revels on the inlaid floors, 
 Scared passers-by with noises weird and strange : 
 While bats behind the wainscot squeaked and chirped, 
 And flitted round the carven ceilings rare, 
 Or flapped with dusky wings the moonlit pane. 
 A scene of desolation : sad but meet ; 
 Harmonious with the fate of the Adares. 
 
 4 
 
 Old Nelly could not bear to see it now ; 
 Yet day by day failed not to think on those 
 Whom she had loved so well ! 'Twas passing strange 
 That nought was heard of them. She could believe 
 At times in the mysterious malison 
 Which she had heard had been pronounced on those 
 Whose ancestors had seized the abbey lands, 
 And ruthless helped to desecrate the tombs 
 Of holy men who had been buried there. 
 
 But Jonas aye had scouted that belief, 
 And said those Popish priests had met their due, 
 Nor could he think it had been wrong to take
 
 1-1 LADY MAY. 
 
 The consecrated stones for MorlancT Hall, 
 As some maintained, and urged that the Adares 
 Had never prospered since ; nor e'er had passed 
 A generation without fearful ills 
 Descending on that mansion and its lords. 
 
 " And we are childless too," would Nelly say, 
 " I wonder if it be because our house 
 Was built o' th' Abbey stones ? Alack-a-day ! 
 I would it had not been ; and Jonas too, 
 He got it from an uncle : ne'er a child 
 The old man had, though he was wedded twice." 
 
 Thus buried in the past old Nelly mused, 
 And scarce the present scene her eye discerned, 
 Nor saw the water lilies' golden leaves, 
 Nor their reflection in the dimpled pond 
 On which her eyes were fixed. 
 
 But suddenly 
 
 A far-off sound she heard, which made her start, 
 And quickly look around, for oh ! 'twas like 
 The baby cry that she had, dreaming, heard. 
 Yes ! 'twas the same. She upward strained her eyes 
 To gaze where slanting sunbeams bathed in light 
 The steep high bank, as if she could believe
 
 LADY MAY. 15 
 
 A babe were truly there, amid the wild 
 And tangled branches of the bramble rose. 
 
 The bank had been a quarry once ; but now 
 'Twas overgrown with bushes, which had clung 
 And spread their roots amid the clefts of rock. 
 There, often, in her childhood she had climbed. 
 
 Again that plaintive sound was heard, and then 
 She hastened on, regardless of her years 
 Of bramble sharp or backward sliding stone : 
 As rapidly she climbed, as when in youth 
 Her eager hands had gathered blue bells there. 
 
 Nor halted she for breath, nor felt fatigue 
 Once in that long ascent. It seemed as though 
 A youthful vigour for the while returned 
 Through eagerness to reach the spot, and search 
 The topmost rosebush, which, as she approached, 
 Looked e'en as it had looked in her strange dream. 
 
 With trembling hands she moved the slender boughs,, 
 And lo ! 'twas lying there, the lovely babe 
 Whom, dreaming, she had seen the night before, 
 Its tiny dimpled arms to her outstretched. 
 No broidered baby robes its form bedecked, 
 A woollen cloth the only garb it wore,
 
 16 LADY MAY. 
 
 And in a basket of rude work it lay, 
 
 For bed or coffin, as most probably 
 
 It might have chanced. No mark of any kind, 
 
 To shew its parentage or name she found, 
 
 Or help conjecture to a clue. 
 
 Most strange ! 
 
 The slender branches had sustained its weight, 
 Its little darling weight more precious far, 
 More precious to old Nelly's yearning heart 
 Than all the gold this weary world contained. 
 There it had lain suspended, 'mid the boughs, 
 The swaying branches of the bramble rose : 
 Just o'er the deepest part of High Oak Pond : 
 A breath had blown it down ! 
 
 She, shuddering gazed 
 On the stone wall that bounded, far above 
 The old high road from Norman tower. 'Tvvas built, 
 She well remembered, many years before, 
 Because 'twas there, where steepest the descent 
 That one dark night the coach was overturned, 
 And fell straight down into the High Oak Pond. 
 And some were drowned, and some were saved, of those 
 Who travelled in the old stage coach that night.
 
 LADY MAY. 17 
 
 She thought, and at the notion held her breath, 
 And pressed the babe still closer in her arms, 
 That some one from the road had thrown it o'er 
 The parapet : intending that the child 
 Should fall into the stagnant silent pond ; 
 And thus its very birth might be concealed. 
 
 And then she softly kissed its little cheek, 
 But scarce allowed herself another look 
 "While standing o'er that perilous abyss, 
 Lest through the trembling of her joyous heart, 
 Or accidental footslip, she should chance 
 To let the infant fall. Much longer time 
 "Was passed in the descent. Slowly she came 
 With cautious steps, and arm extended out, 
 To keep the prickly brambles from the Babe, 
 Who had, unconscious of its peril great, 
 Begun to crow with that soft cooing sound, 
 So like the babies at the Manor House. 
 
 At last she reached the level ground, below 
 The primrose bank that bordered High Oak Pond : 
 There sitting down she well nigh swooned away 
 For joy, and present sense of peril past ; 
 Then found in tears of happiness relief,
 
 18 LADY MAY. 
 
 And tried to give God thanks, (though scarce could she 
 In her great weakness frame befitting words,) 
 That this her life-long wish He had fulfilled. 
 
 But presently she trembled vaguely feared 
 That all might prove a dream. She longed to show 
 The babe to Jonas ; yet was loth to move, 
 Dreading the spell (for so it seemed) might fade, 
 As when at early morn she had awoke 
 From her mysterious dream. And then she laughed 
 At such vain fears, rose suddenly, and went 
 With tremulous quick steps adown the vale, 
 Passed by the river, and the miller's house, 
 Thence to the village. But she still concealed 
 Beneath the ample folds of cloak and hood 
 Her precious burden from the greeting friends 
 And neighbours whom she met, nor said a word 
 E'en to her brother Bevis, who passed by. 
 
 " Good Nell," said he, " here let me take thy meal ; 
 'Tis heavy, dame, and thou art tired and hot : 
 I saw thee turn to Dowling Mill." 
 
 " Not so, 
 
 Not so," she said ; " let be : I'm just at home." 
 Then hurried on. And half aloud he said,
 
 LADY MAY. 19 
 
 " "Whatever ails her now ? She looks as though 
 She'd seen a ghost or found a crock of gold." 
 
 Safely arrived at home, she dressed the child 
 In little clothes that once were Geraldine's, 
 And had heen treasured up for many years 
 In rose-leaf scented cabinet, her gifk. 
 And then she sat her down and rocked the babe 
 Till Jonas should return at noon to dine ; 
 The while she laughed, or mused with joyous heart, 
 And pictured to herself his great surprise.
 
 20 LADY MAY. 
 
 PAET III. 
 
 TJIOUE years have passed since Nelly's happy dream. 
 
 And now the little May, (for by that name 
 The habe discovered on that bright May morn 
 Was christened), had begun to grow apace. 
 Old Jonas had indeed been overjoyed 
 TO see that lovely babe on his return, 
 Yet thought it right to make its finding known 
 In all the country round, lest, as he said, 
 Its parents might be grieving for its loss. 
 
 And Nell had often trembled, nay, e'en yet 
 She trembled at the thought. "Ah, well-a-day !" 
 She said, and pressed it closer still, and kissed 
 Its little blooming cheek, and sighed to think 
 How much she wished that search might fruitless prove. 
 For sure 'twas wrong, as Jonas said, to dread 
 That the loved child should her lost parents find. 
 
 " Of gentle birth, she is, I wot," said Nell, 
 " She is so like the children at the hall.
 
 LADY MAY. 21 
 
 See, how she arches oft her snowy neck, 
 And moves her tiny hand in proud command ; 
 Besides, her winning ways and stately air 
 Might well become the daughter of a prince." 
 The village children called her Lady May, 
 Half in derision, half in awe, and yet 
 Obeyed her slightest wish, and strove to please 
 The winsome wayward child whom all did love. 
 
 Thus time passed with her uneventfully 
 Until her fifteenth year, when Jonas died. 
 Then Nelly feared that May might soon be left 
 All unprotected in this troublous world, 
 So full of varied peril, seeing that 
 Herself might follow soon. And who should then, 
 Ah ! who indeed, protect that orphan child ! 
 
 Her nephew, Keuben Bevis, by the mill, 
 Her brother's only son, had lost his wife ; 
 She, dying, left a child whom May loved well, 
 And tended, teaching all the lore she knew. 
 And Reuben, grateful for such kindly help, 
 Entranced, moreover, by her beauty rare, 
 Began to love, yet scarce acknowledged it, 
 So far above him seemed the stately May.
 
 22 LADY MAY. 
 
 He felt he ne'er could win her. No, not he ; 
 As possible 'twould be to grasp the moon, 
 As possible to seize the morning star, 
 In golden' glory pulsing through the vast 
 Dim arc of heaven, and joyful hastening on 
 To meet her lord the sun. So Keuben felt. 
 
 About that time repeated rumours came 
 That soon the Manor House would be restored. 
 The Viscount Hollingbourne possessed it now; 
 He, next of kin to Reginald Adare, 
 (The Squire's youngest born in battle slain), 
 Was heir-at-law for all were dead and gone 
 Whom Nelly knew. His was the eldest branch 
 And richest of that old and honoured race, 
 Styled Barons of Adare and Norman Tower, 
 From feudal times. His grandsire had been made 
 A Viscount for the passing of some Bill 
 That kept a tottering Ministry in place 
 One session more. 
 
 Some twenty miles away 
 
 Was Norman Tower, the Viscount's stately home, 
 And Nelly knew that they had been of old 
 Unfriendly to the Squires of Morland Vale.
 
 LADY MAY. 23 
 
 But when the neighbours said that he would come, 
 
 That Morland Manor House would smile ouce more, 
 
 And merry jest and voice of man and maid 
 
 Be heard in its dim chambers, and sweet songs 
 
 Resound in the long silent banquet hall ; 
 
 While cheerful steps would cross its dainty floors, 
 
 "Waking fair echoes of the olden time; 
 
 Old Nell rejoiced, anon she somewhat feared, 
 
 'Twere not, perchance, so well for May. 
 
 "As yet, 
 
 No gentlefolks," thought she, " have known my child ; 
 And strangers, seeing her, must marvel much 
 That village maiden should such beauty boast. 
 Then foolish vanity at praise unsought 
 Might steal its baneful poison through her heart." 
 Lord Hollingbourne she knew had lost his wife : 
 Some said he killed her by his passions wild ; 
 Yet that he loved his only daughter Blanche 
 Now in her nineteenth year. Two sous he had, 
 The eldest born was wild and like his sire, 
 But Claude, the second son, fair promise gave, 
 And seemed a noble nature to possess. 
 All this she heard, and more, that made her dread
 
 24 LADY MAY. 
 
 The Viscount and his heir, and almost wish 
 That Morland Manor House should aye remain 
 In desolation. 
 
 But, at length a day 
 
 Was fixed upon when Blanche alone would come 
 To take possession of her future home. 
 
 The Viscount was in France. But yet the dame 
 Willed not that May should join her village friends, 
 Who donned their best attire, and hastened up 
 Beyond the old Park gates, to see her come, 
 The fair young Madam in her coach-and-four, 
 Rejoicing that the long deserted Hall 
 Would be alive again. May long had loved 
 Its gables peaked, and ivy-covered walls, 
 And oft had lingered in its grass-grown courts, 
 And peeped into the rooms, or climbed aloft 
 The quaint old buttresses of stone, and gazed 
 Through answering windows, on the centre court. 
 In stately rooms like these she longed to dwell, 
 With ceilings high and beautifully carved, 
 With mullioned windows lit by storied glass, 
 And polished floors with diverse woods inlaid. 
 Oft she had traced with ready pen the form
 
 LADY MAY. 25 
 
 Of pendant boss and complicated curve, 
 Of figures quaint around the chimneypiece 
 In old black oak. She drew them one by one 
 From recollection when she sat at home, 
 While Nell looked on amazed, to see portrayed 
 The room where last she saw young Geraldine. 
 
 The maiden longed to see, and welcome too, 
 The future inmates of the place she loved ; 
 And wondered why, on that eventful day, 
 Old Nelly held her back and looked so grave, 
 While all the rest were glad while the old bells 
 Rang out a merry peal, that almost seemed 
 To shake the grey church tower. Yes, it was strange. 
 While Susan Dean and farmer Dowling's girl, 
 And many more, had donned their Sunday dress, 
 And flocked along the old high road that led 
 To the South Lodges, bearing garlands gay, 
 To greet the future Lady of the Hall. 
 
 But Nelly Rolfe and May remained at home 
 In their lone cottage garden all that eve ; 
 Upon an oaken bench they sat at work, 
 Within the porch close by the village street, 
 For warm the even was May longed for air
 
 26 LADY MAY. 
 
 And pale the maiden looked to Nell's fond eyes. 
 
 Anon the colour mounted to her cheeks, 
 
 As starting up she looked with anxious gaze 
 
 Adown the village street. " "What ails thee, child ?" 
 
 The dame enquired, but soon the reason saw. 
 
 A cloud of dast then outriders appeared 
 
 And then an open carriage quickly passed 
 
 Quite close to where they stood. And May could see 
 
 A fair young face and beauteous eyes that looked 
 
 Into her own with pleased and glad surprise. 
 
 'Twas but a moment, yet old Nelly Rolfe 
 
 Saw that the lady had remarked her child, 
 
 And felt that e'en for good or evil, Blanche 
 
 "Would henceforth hold an influence over May. 
 
 All the next night she scarce could sleep for care, 
 So vivid were the changes possible 
 In May's young life, and yet amid her fears 
 She hoped that Blanche Adare would prove a friend, 
 A real friend as long as both should live. 
 But, ah ! the father and the wild young heir, 
 Her heart within her sank at thought of them ; 
 But earnestly she prayed and cast her care 
 On Him who had bestowed that child on her.
 
 LADY MAY. 27 
 
 And May was wakeful too and, wondering, thought 
 Of all that Mistress Blanche would do what room 
 She had selected for her own, and where 
 She meant to pass the sunny morning hours ; 
 If in the southern oriel, looking down 
 Upon the terraced garden there perchance 
 She might be walking on the morrow's eve, 
 And May might see her. Musing thus, the child 
 Dropt off asleep, and in her blissful dreams 
 The stranger lady's eyes looked kinder still 
 Than to her waking gaze they had appeared. 
 
 'Twas late when they awoke. The dame rose first, 
 And hastened to her darling's bed, to see 
 If she were safe, half smiling at her fears 
 Yet vaguely anxious more and more convinced 
 That in the onward course of time, the race, 
 The stranger race of these unknown Adares, 
 For good or ill would influence her child. 
 
 It chanced that on this very afternoon, 
 While May was busied with some household work, 
 Which then, as ever, she obedient wrought 
 With playful and glad willingness for Nell, 
 And with such graceful skill that nought appeared
 
 28 LADY MAY. 
 
 Unseemly, mean, or vulgar, that she touched, 
 The strange presentiment appeared like truth. 
 
 While May was ruhbing bright the parlour floor, 
 Whose old oak boards she loved to polish well, 
 Speeding along a leaden-weighted brush 
 With dancing step while humming some wild air, 
 Her cotton gown, its sleeves and skirt tucked up, 
 Appearing as if made express to show 
 The pretty rounded arm and fairy foot, 
 She saw reflected in the polished boards 
 A figure past the open casement glide, 
 Then blushing, turned to look, convinced that step 
 So hushed and graceful was no village girl's. 
 'Twas Blanche Adare. And she had come to see 
 The wondrous pretty maiden, whose fair face 
 Had left its impress on her memory, 
 So that she straight had asked, " What people lived 
 In the stone cottage by the village green ?" 
 And they had told her 'twas the widow Piolfe, 
 With her adopted daughter, Lady May. 
 They said, moreover, that the Dame had lived 
 As nurse in days of yore at Morland Hall,
 
 LADY MAY. 29 
 
 And then in her old age had found this child 
 According to a dream. 
 
 Blanche heard much more, 
 
 And what she heard confirmed the sudden thought, 
 That it were hest that May should ne'er suspect 
 She might not have been horn a peasant's child, 
 And therefore, ent'ring now, Blanche turned and spoke 
 To Nelly most, and many questions asked, 
 Touching the old Adares, as if she liked 
 To hear their praises told which pleased the Dame. 
 But oft she looked at May, and said, at length, 
 " You'll bring her to the hall, then you can see 
 All we are doing to the place you love ; 
 The pictures, too, from foreign lands renowned, 
 Although you may not like them, Dame, so well 
 As the old portraits long ago dispersed." 
 
 Then Nelly answered with a curtsey low, 
 That she would bring her child to Morland Hall ; 
 But added somewhat that disclosed her fears, 
 Lest discontented with her humble home 
 The child should grow. Blanche understood her fears 
 And motioning to May to cull some flowers 
 (As yet were none at Morland Hall), she watched
 
 30 LADY MAY. 
 
 The maiden tripping down the gravel path 
 
 Till out of hearing. Then she whispered low 
 
 In Nelly's ear. " Fear not : I guess it all. 
 
 Depend on me, no hint shall she receive 
 
 Of the suspicion which we all must feel, 
 
 That she is other than appears not one ; 
 
 Nor learn to love the mother less, whose care 
 
 And guardianship has made her what she is, 
 
 Most lovely in her mind, and form, and face, 
 
 And pure as driven snow. You trust me, dame ?" 
 
 Nell curtseyed low, and strove to feel content 
 
 That May should often visit Morland Hall ; 
 
 And as the days rolled on, she learned herself 
 
 To love fair Blanche, and wholly trust in her ; 
 
 But vainly sought a likeness in her face 
 
 To the lost owners dear with all their faults 
 
 Of Morland Manor and its fair broad lands. 
 
 More like % far to the beloved old race 
 
 Was little May. She had the same blue eyes, 
 
 Dark fringed with raven lashes, and the skin 
 
 So pearly fair ; the eyebrows long and fine, 
 
 Like those that arched o'er Geraldine's sweet eyes ;
 
 LADY MAY. 31 
 
 The swan-like throat, the graceful springing step, 
 Her voice, her laughter e'en, resembled theirs. 
 
 And she had grown more like, as years rolled on, 
 Till Nelly often started when she looked 
 Upon her suddenly ; and wondering mused 
 If possibly she were indeed the child 
 Or grandchild of lost Geraldine ; then sighed 
 And sadly smiled at such surmise. 
 
 And May 
 
 Loved well the grave tall Blanche, and strove each day 
 To please and cheer her ; often marvelling why 
 She should be sad in such a princely home, 
 Surrounded by all beauteous things, with means 
 And will to make so many glad. 
 
 'Twas true 
 
 She was alone : her brother came not there ; 
 Her father still remained in foreign lands ; 
 And yet his absence did not seem to cause 
 This sorrow. May was wise in gracious tact ; 
 Her mind was now expanding day by day 
 To stronger entity, and she had seen 
 That Blanche, at mention of her father's name, 
 Would start and grow more pale, although she spoke
 
 82 LADY MAY. 
 
 With reverence and filial love of him, 
 And now and then would say quite suddenly, 
 " Oh think of him in all thy prayers to heaven, 
 For if thou lovest me thou must love him." 
 And then a tear would tremble in her eye, 
 And she would sigh and muse abstractedly, 
 Seeming much older than her nineteen years, 
 As one who overmuch had thought and felt. 
 Yet she was beautiful ; although at times 
 A shade of sternnesss clouded her high brow 
 A shadow soon dispelled, and rarest seen 
 When May was near. " Dear little Lady May," 
 She oft would call her, yet she kept her word, 
 Nor ever hinted what so many thought, 
 That May was other than appeared. 
 
 Meanwhile 
 
 Young Reuben Bevis watched with anxious eyes 
 To see how May would bear this change of scene : 
 And whether she would still appear to care, 
 As once, for his poor child, and wish to nurse 
 And teach her as of yore. Or if, perchance 
 Her grand new friend, and all the retinue 
 Of gorgeous servants now at Morland Hall,
 
 LADY MAY. 33 
 
 Would make her proud, and she would cease to care 
 For aught so dull and humble as his home. 
 
 And yet he never spoke his fears, nor seemed 
 Such change to dread ; but Nelly read his thoughts, 
 And counselled him that he should not despair. 
 Truly o'er- anxious was the dame that May 
 Should be betrothed ere long nay, even spoke 
 Thereon to Blanche, one day at Morland Hall, 
 "When quite alone with her, by accident 
 Of time and circumstance, long since forgot. 
 Blanche looked up quickly, and replied in haste, 
 As if relieved from some great care or dread : 
 " He has a noble heart, I think ; I'm sure 
 He cares for her : I have remarked him oft, 
 "When she has passed his cottage door with me." 
 These words old Nelly heard with thankful joy : 
 They reassured, and helped her to decide ; 
 For she had partly feared that Blanche would think 
 Her nephew was not good enough for May, 
 As, sooth to say, she often thought herself, 
 Though now that she was growing very old 
 She longed to see her safely wed with one 
 Who would at least protect and love her well. 
 
 3
 
 34 LADY MAY. 
 
 All this old Nelly pondered, and she knew 
 That May well loved her nephew's little child, 
 And told herself that it were surely best 
 For May to wed young Reuben, nor to wait. 
 She reasoned e'en as worldly mothers do, 
 Unconscious that she might be doing wrong ; 
 And guided by the self-same instinct such 
 As makes the so-called worldling plot and plan 
 In ball-room, opera, or country house, 
 With baneful bonhomie, both try to do 
 The thing they deem most likely to ensure 
 Their child's prosperity. Then is it fair 
 To breathe forth indiscriminate contempt 
 And loud denunciations 'gainst one class 
 Upon that score, as commonly is done 
 In books and table-talk ? But let that pass. 
 
 One morning Blanche, by Nelly's earnest wish, 
 (Half stammered and half hinted nervously,) 
 Outspoke the case to May in sudden words, 
 As if she forced herself to utter them. 
 May heard her gravely then felt almost stunned, 
 And bursting into tears she hid her face, 
 Yet marvelled why she wept, for she believed
 
 LADY MAY. 35 
 
 That Eeuben was the best, the very best, 
 
 Of all mankind. " Yes, I am sure he is," 
 
 She said at length to Blanche amid her tears, 
 
 Unconscious that she had not spoken yet. 
 
 " He is so good, I ought to be right glad 
 
 To think that I could give him happiness." 
 
 And then she trembled and grew pale, and looked 
 
 Upon the view she knew and loved so well, 
 
 From Blanche's oriel window, down the vale. 
 
 Intently on the well-known scene she gazed, 
 
 As if its loveliness could e'en restore 
 
 The gladness she had lost. But all in vain : 
 
 The landscape was the same the joy was gone. 
 
 Then turning to the pictures that she loved, 
 
 She sought if any happiness were left ; 
 
 But these too failed they gave not back her joy. 
 
 " Perchance," thought she, " I see not for my tears." 
 
 Again she wondered why she should have wept, 
 
 Remembering that to grieve was not her wont, 
 
 That she had never wept indeed before, 
 
 Except when Jonas died. 
 
 It seemed that Blanche 
 Divined her feelings partly, partly hoped
 
 86 LADY MAY. 
 
 'Twas only the first thought and the surprise. 
 
 Yet wished indeed, if otherwise, that May 
 
 Almost in spite of such, might acquiesce ; 
 
 And firmly soothed and led the grieving girl 
 
 With hints more felt than heard ; the blissful lot 
 
 Of one like May, for instance loved through life 
 
 Within that happy valley, freed from care, 
 
 Loved by a true heart, faithfully and well. 
 
 " And when my father comes," said Blanche, " perhaps 
 
 He will not stay here long, and then I fear 
 
 It will be lonely for you when I'm gone. 
 
 And Nelly too is old, aye very old, 
 
 And in the course of nature cannot live 
 
 Much longer in this world of death and grief, 
 
 For such it is, dear May : a weary world 
 
 Though happy you have been, and never yet 
 
 Have learned to feel its sadness." 
 
 But May sighed 
 
 And thought 'twas sad indeed, a weary world ; 
 Yet wondered that she had not thought it so 
 Until that hour. But then quite suddenly 
 A retrospective insight, full and swift, 
 Of her own life, so far as it had reached,
 
 LADY MAY. 37 
 
 Revealed before her consciousness that she 
 
 Had sometimes felt aweary, sometimes grieved 
 
 And longed for somewhat vaguely. Could it he 
 
 That those dim longings and regrets loreshowed 
 
 Life's incompleteness the attainable ? 
 
 And then she thought (though not in form of words) 
 
 That it was very sad, this old, old world 
 
 So new to her self-consciousness, and tried 
 
 For resignation to breathe forth a prayer, 
 
 But scarcely could be said to pray, and then 
 
 Resolved to make the best of it, that course 
 
 Which lies between rebellion and despair, 
 
 From resignation just as far removed 
 
 As from resistance. And again she wished 
 
 Most passionately to acquire the hope 
 
 Of happiness above, for now it seemed 
 
 That even heavenly life had waxen dim 
 
 And doubtful to her faith. 
 
 Nell had her wish. 
 May tacitly consented : either then 
 Or at some later hour indefinite,
 
 88 LADY MAY. 
 
 But on the self-same day. The possible 
 Eesolved into the probable, and thence 
 Into the vaguely certain, thence full soon 
 Into the certain ; coloured by the light 
 Of pleasant intercourse, and softly toned 
 By Reuben's absence (he was absent then 
 For some few days) and by his earnest love, 
 Which absence made congenial. 'Twas arranged 
 Not by persuasion, properly so-called, 
 But rather through disposal of her mind 
 By Blanche's, and of Blanche's by the shape 
 Of circumstance, and what she called Nell's wish. 
 
 Thus was arranged the compact which must bind 
 These two for lifetime : all was settled, e'en 
 To Reuben's wedding day. The tenth of June 
 Was named, agreed to, fixed in such brief time 
 As would have been unseemly ; were it not 
 That Nelly so desired. 
 
 Then Blanche Adare 
 
 Both chose and gave the wedding dress, and said 
 That she would have a village fete that day, 
 And all the girls and boys, May's youthful friends, 
 Should gifts, by her selected, have from Blanche,
 
 LADY MAY. 39 
 
 Who would, moreover, give gay new attire 
 To all who were invited to the feast. 
 
 And so the time mpst rapidly sped on, 
 In preparations made and lengthened out 
 By Blanche ; and when the first of June had dawned 
 In sunlight warmly tinged with summer hues, 
 May passively looked forth, and sighed and thought 
 " The tenth too soon will come." 
 
 That selfsame eve 
 
 She sat in Blanche's room at sunset hour, 
 That room from whence the eye could reach fur down 
 The valley to the ruined ahbey towers ; 
 And sought with her untutored skill to draw 
 The much-loved scene. Partly that she might have 
 Its image near her in her future home 
 In part that she might occupy her mind 
 Without reflection. There was on the right 
 An avenue that led to Morland Hall ; 
 And as she looked, endeavouring to portray 
 Its silver beech-stems tinted with the sun, 
 A carriage at the farther end appeared, 
 All white with dust. 
 
 " Who comes so late !" said Blanche,
 
 40 LADY MAY. 
 
 " My father would have written, if this night 
 
 He purposed coming." Then she trembled much, 
 
 Turned pale, and said, " Stay here till I return." 
 
 She left the room : May knew she passed adown 
 The winding staircase in that southern wing, 
 Which opened on the groined Banquet Hall, 
 And saw her on the terrace soon emerge, 
 Then pass along it to the carven gates. 
 
 Meanwhile the carriage stopped, and from it sprang 
 A graceful, handsome youth, resembling Blanche, 
 AVho clasped her lovingly with eager arms. 
 
 " It is her brother," May surmised, and watched, 
 As on the fragrant terrace arm-in-arm 
 She saw them slowly pace. And presently 
 Blanche pointed to the oriel of her room, 
 And raised her eyes to May, who sudden felt 
 That they were speaking of her, and she blushed. 
 
 And Claude looked quickly up his eyes met May's 
 Pie looked as Blanche had looked that gladsome eve 
 When in the village street, a year before, 
 They first had met ; but his blue eyes expressed 
 More happiness, or rather they betrayed 
 No sign of sorrow. May drew back, and blushed
 
 LADY MAY. 41 
 
 More consciously; meanwhile a sense of joy, 
 Vague, undefined, was growing in her heart. 
 
 Some minutes passed then voices met her ear, 
 And happy footsteps coming up the stairs 
 The door flew open, and he came with Blanche 
 Into the oriel chamber, as the sun 
 Was sinking down behind the quarry hill, 
 'Mid gold and purple vapours. Ouly once 
 He looked at May, then, turning, praised her sketch, 
 And praised the wedding dress which Blanche brought 
 
 forth, 
 
 With strange persistance, to display it all 
 The golden brooch the bows which she had placed 
 Upon its stomacher, with her own hand. 
 He smiled and said that Blanche had done it well, 
 But scarcely looked at it. " 'Tis growing late, 
 And I must send you home, dear child," said Blanche. 
 Ckude started then, as if his thoughts had been 
 Strangely absorbed again he looked at May 
 A gaze with more of sadness than of joy 
 As if he strove to read her inmost mind, 
 Or print her every feature on his own. 
 " Farewell," he said, " and may your lot bo blessed."
 
 42 LADY MAY. 
 
 He took her band, and then, with such an air 
 
 Of high respect, he raised it to his lips, 
 
 That May was all amazement almost thought 
 
 It was a happy dream, nor would she move 
 
 Or even speak, lest the unwonted charm 
 
 Should melt away. A moment he was gone 
 
 And she was left filled with a sudden fear, 
 
 That in this world she ne'er should see him more. 
 
 But Blanche emhraced her tenderly, and said, 
 la tones that sounded like her brother Claude's, 
 " Now come, dear child, for I must take you home; 
 Rejoiced am I that you have seen him once 
 My brother for, alas ! he leaves me soon 
 To visit the far south. He came to-day 
 To bid farewell, and see the Manor Etouse." 
 
 Blanche took her home walked even to the door 
 Of Nelly's house conversing all the while 
 With rapid utterance of many things, 
 But saying nought of Claude, whose image grew 
 In May's young heart, unconsciously the while. 
 That night she could not sleep for very joy, 
 Or rather joyousness of fancy such 
 As is not recognized though felt. It seemed
 
 LADY MAY. 43 
 
 That years had passed in that long happy eve, 
 And that the sun were shining bright and clear 
 All through that starless night. She feared to sleep, 
 Lest in her sleep she should forget her bliss, 
 Then wake to find it but a dream. At length, 
 When day began to dawn she sank to sleep 
 To sleep but not to rest. The scene was changed ; 
 Dark figures round her moved, while in their midst 
 Stood Reuben pale and haggard ; and he gazed 
 With miserable eyes into her face, 
 And tried to speak but could not. And the while 
 She marvelled sadly why he seemed so changed, 
 For in her dream she had not thought of Claude, 
 But only felt some spell had chained her down 
 While low and lower still she seemed to fall, 
 And mocking whispers hissed athwart the gloom, 
 That she must evermore in darkness dwell. 
 
 'Twas late when she awoke. The summer snu 
 Was shining high, and May, with painful start 
 And vague remorse, gazed suddenly around, 
 While Nelly, who had watched her troubled sleep, 
 Held out to her a note from Blanche Adare. 
 May took the letter with a trembling hand,
 
 44 LADY MAY. 
 
 While tears welled slowly in her lustrous eyes, 
 But flowed not yet her eyes were as her thoughts, 
 Too full for motion, and their pearly mist 
 Remained like sunless dew. Blanche only said, 
 That she would go as far as Norman-Tower 
 With Claude that a/ternoon, and not return 
 Till late too late to see her. 
 
 Few the words, 
 
 And closed with fond assurances of love, 
 Then why was May so sad ? She could not tell 
 She felt as sleeping she had dreamed of hliss, 
 And woke to find it gone. Yet, sooth, it was 
 The dream that had heen sad for Nell had asked, 
 " What ailed thee, child ? why didst thou wail and 
 
 moan 
 
 So piteously in sleep ? I've watched thee long." 
 " I ought not to have slept," May simply said, 
 " For I was happy ere I fell asleep." 
 Perplexed, the mother mused, yet would not ask 
 The meaning of this strange reply. In truth, 
 She could not bear to think that child so loved, 
 Feared aught of sorrow in her future lot.
 
 LADY MAY. 45 
 
 PAET IY. 
 
 morn, ere birds bad ceased tbeir matin cbants 
 To slumber in tbe sbade at drowsv noon, 
 Came Mistress Susan Dean from Dowling's mill 
 To Nelly's door witb quick and joyful steps. 
 Sbe, Reuben's married sister, bad arrived 
 Tbe day before, from distant country town, 
 To spend a montb witb Reuben, see bis bride 
 And Nelly, and attend tbe marriage feast : 
 But, being very poor, bad only brougbt 
 Her youngest babe and dearest, wbile tbe rest 
 Remained in grandam's care. 
 
 "Dear May," quotb sbe, 
 " An' ibou wilt come tbis morning to our mill, 
 My baby take in cbarge, and mind young Jane, 
 Tben brotber Rube will drive me down, be saith, 
 To see our friends and kin at Norman-Tower." 
 " I gladly go," said May. But sad at beart 
 Sbe sallied fortb ; and yet sbe strove to feel 
 Contented, and to crusb ber strong desire
 
 46 LADY MAY. 
 
 To see young Claude, if only once, again. 
 
 She thought it hard, and somewhat strange, that Blanche 
 
 Had written to forhid her coming, since 
 
 She said, it was not till the afternoon 
 
 That they to Norman-Tower would go. Her mind 
 
 "Was full of vivid scenes, of pictures fair 
 
 Of sweet imaginings of Blanche and Claude. 
 
 She saw them in her fancy pace along 
 
 The avenue or through the upland glades, 
 
 Or haply, linger in the gardens fair, 
 
 Where vase-crowned terraces and grassy slopes 
 
 "Were rising once again as in their prime, 
 
 From grim weed-hidden desolation there. 
 
 She fancied she could hear their happy tones 
 
 As they conversed together ; voices sweet 
 
 Whose far off echoes in her inmost heart 
 
 Had sounded through that hlissful wakeful night 
 
 Like cadences of music. And she thought , 
 
 That such a voice, so sweet as Claude Adare's, 
 
 Had ever reached her ears before that eve, 
 
 Nor would again. She sat beside the cot 
 
 And rocked the child to sleep, while Janie read 
 
 Aloud her little lesson of small words.
 
 LADY MAY. 47 
 
 But May could scarcely heed the childish tones ; 
 
 For where she sat, the casement looked upon 
 
 The fair old oaks that bordered Morland Hall ; 
 
 And oh ! if she were only on that hill, 
 
 The grassy knoll ahove that oaken grove, 
 
 She could look down and see if Blanche and Claude 
 
 Were walking on the terraces below. 
 
 She longed to go, if only she could trust 
 
 Young Jane to watch the babe while she was gone. 
 
 It seemed to sleep so well ; it would not wake 
 
 For half an hour or more. At last she said, 
 
 " Dear Jauie, could I trust thee with the child ? 
 
 Wilt thou take care of baby till he wake ?" 
 
 And Jane replied, with childlike joy and pride, 
 
 " Oh yes, I will ; and Auntie Sue has said, 
 
 That I am quite a clever little nurse, 
 
 And carry Joe as well as she can do." 
 
 " Yet, take great care ; and mind, if he should wake, 
 Thou dost not let him toddle out of doors." 
 " Oh yes, I will take care," said Jane. The child 
 Was scarcely six years 'old : but trusted more 
 Are village children in their early years 
 Than those of other classes. So May went
 
 48 LADY MAY. 
 
 And clambered up beneath the spreading trees 
 To reach the envied height. The path was steep, 
 Yet soon she gained the summit of the knoll, 
 And looked straight down upon the Manor House, 
 And all its gardens glistening in the sun. 
 Nor Blanche nor Claude were there. It silent lay, 
 And basking in the noontide glare of June. 
 
 She sat upon the grassy slope and watched, 
 Hoping that they would soon appear below, 
 Until the old hall clock struck twelve, and showed 
 An hour had passed. She started at the sound, 
 Remembering 'twas the children's dinner hour ; 
 And feared that Janie, wondering why she stayed, 
 Might with th' impatience of a hungry child 
 Have left the little one. She started up, 
 And marvelled where her errant thoughts had been, 
 In that most swift of hours : then cast one look 
 Of disappointment at the Hall, and ran 
 All breathless home. The door stood open wide, 
 And as she reached it Jane came running out 
 With countenance perplexed and ill at ease, 
 As one who is alarmed, yet strives the while 
 To feel no wrong is done. This May perceived
 
 LADY MAY. 49 
 
 And asked with trembling voice about the babe. 
 " Oh, he's quite well," said Janie ; " come and look. 
 He's fast asleep ; he did not hear me speak ; 
 He does not hear your step : and yet it's late. 
 And oh, I am so hungry too." 
 
 The babe 
 
 Was lying still ; his eyes were closed, his lips 
 Were very pale, yet smiled most peacefully. 
 May looked at him a moment in suspense ; 
 Then stooping down to kiss his little brow, 
 She started back. " Oh, how is this ?" she cried, 
 " He's cold, quite cold ; his clothes are dripping wet." 
 
 " Yes, it's the stream," said Janie ; " I went out 
 To see if you were coming, and the child, 
 He would come too. I could not keep him back ; 
 He wanted so to see the water shine. 
 I held his hand quite tight when we were there, 
 But he would stoop to look, and tried to catch 
 The other little boy he saw in it, 
 And then he slipped away from me and fell. 
 I could not stop him ; down the bank he rolled, 
 But I went in at once and pulled him out. 
 He did not speak, for he was fast asleep ;
 
 60 LADY MAY. 
 
 So gently in the cot I laid him down, 
 And he has slept quite quiet ever since." 
 
 Poor May had seen death once. Old Jonas looked 
 E'en so, but he was old. This could not be. 
 Oh no, it could not be the child was dead ! 
 She caught him up, and shrieked with fear and woe, 
 
 Then ran with him all down the village street, 
 
 i 
 
 And never stopped for breath until she reached 
 Old Nelly's door. 
 
 'Twas true ! The child was drowned.
 
 LADY MAY. 51 
 
 PAET V. 
 
 FT1HROUGH many sleepless nights and weary days 
 
 Did Nelly watch beside her, fearing much 
 That now the happy years of May's young life 
 "Were drawing to their close. And Blanche Adare 
 Sat oft beside the sufferer's bed, and strove 
 To comfort Eeuben, and speak cheering words 
 Of hope to all. To Susan Dean, whose grief 
 Had filled the measure of the self-reproach 
 That haunted May, she sent, with kindly words, 
 Most costly gifts for all her little ones, 
 And presents for her husband and herself; 
 Not unacceptable for unto those 
 Whose lot it is to earn with daily care 
 A bare subsistence equal to their needs, 
 If grief be e'er so deep, a few kind gifts, 
 And kinder words, avail to comfort much. 
 
 But Reuben reasoning little, feeling much 
 Had grown meanwhile, his purpose to renounce 
 Concerning May : convinced that, should she live,
 
 52 LADY MAY. 
 
 He ne'er could make her bappy. True it is 
 That Love divines where Reason is at fault: 
 And simple rustic natures have a sense 
 More quick than reason ; such can oft descry 
 The germ of ill, the hidden cause of grief 
 In those they love. How oft an aged nurse 
 Divines the motives hid 'neath smiles or tears, 
 That actuate for evil or for good 
 The children of her care ! 'Twas so with him. 
 
 Though nought he knew concerning Claude, nor 
 
 knew 
 
 That sight of him had puzzled May's young heart, 
 (As magnet doth the trembling needle draw 
 From her allegiance to the frozen pole,) 
 Yet be divined the hidden grief that sucked 
 The roses from her cheeks ; and as, in sooth, 
 He felt more clearly than he could reflect, 
 He was by feeling, not reflection, led. 
 
 Oft he recalled to mind how she had looked 
 Before and since the wedding day was named ; 
 And he compared the child-like trust she showed, 
 With the impassioned gladsome light that shone 
 In Jane's dark eyes, his first and loving wife,
 
 LADY MAY. 53 
 
 When he had woo'd and won her maiden heart ; 
 How fitful blushes mantled in her cheeks, 
 And how they came and went at his approach ; 
 And how her eyes would shine : she once had said 
 His steps were set to music she who now 
 Reposed beneath the daisies peacefully. 
 
 But May had looked both shy and grave, nay, sad, 
 Since they had been betrothed, and seemed oppressed 
 With unelastic weight of care that pressed 
 Her gentle spirit down. And thus it was, 
 That after much long commune with himself 
 Thoughts without words, and feelings without thought, 
 He came to his resolve. He begged his aunt 
 To tell poor May when she could comprehend, 
 (For yet her mind oft wandered painfully), 
 To tell her even midst her ravings wild, 
 Rather than not at all such was his prayer 
 That he had quite released her from her troth. 
 He hoped it might revive her sinking heart 
 To feel herself unfettered, free to choose 
 Her lot in life. 
 
 They told her these his words 
 One evening, when they thought she seemed more calm,
 
 54 LADY MAY. 
 
 And, for a moment, Blanche could plainly see 
 
 A look of joy flit o'er her pale thin face; 
 
 But soon 'twas gone, and with a steady voice 
 
 She said, "I know why Reuben wishes this. 
 
 He thinks I love him not : but 'tis not so ; 
 
 For I have inly vowed that I will strive 
 
 Much more than erst, (if God doth spare my life), 
 
 To make him happy. Ask him to forgive 
 
 My awful sin that caused the dear babe's death, 
 
 That so, I living yet awhile, may bring 
 
 A little joy to him deserving much." 
 
 Blanche saw the effort, and admiring, loved 
 The maiden more than ever, and expressed 
 Her confidence that May would find all joys 
 Grow up and blossom round the path in life 
 Which she had wisely chosen. But the dame 
 Desponding, shook her head at this advice, 
 And guided by the instinct that instructs 
 The pure uneducated mind, agreed 
 With Reuben and approved of his resolve. 
 
 This May perceived, and asked persistently 
 That he be sent for. So he came in haste ;
 
 LADY MAY. 55 
 
 And then she prayed him tp forgive her sin, 
 And let her try to bring him happiness. 
 
 He, seeing that her wearied mind was bent 
 On this intention quite exclusively, 
 With tact of true affection, nothing said 
 Against her wishes ; but he kissed her hand, 
 And marked with grief how great the contrast showed 
 Between its lily fairness and his brown 
 Work hardened, roughly shapen palm. Again 
 He inly vowed, that never, never more 
 Or not, at least, until long years had passed 
 Would he behold that sweetest face again, 
 Convinced that she had plighted him her troth 
 To please old Nelly Rolfe and not herself. 
 
 That day when Keuben left her, sorrowing 
 He passed the open portal of the church, 
 For 'twas a saint's day, and, the service done, 
 The sextoness had left the door ajar 
 For sunshine to steal in, and drive away 
 The clammy vapours foul and stagnant air, 
 Which in our parish churches now supply 
 The place of incense and of ceaseless prayers. 
 
 He paused a moment ; then he entered in,
 
 56 LADY MAY. 
 
 And humbly knelt beside the altar rails. 
 This was the month, and this the very place, 
 Where he had hoped to claim his bride ; but, no, 
 -He would not think of that he only wished 
 To pray for guidance now, and light to see 
 How best he might insure her happiness, 
 And give her no just cause for self-reproach. 
 For this he prayed, and then with strength arose 
 To carry out a plan quite sudden now 
 Yet formed three years before, when he had erst 
 Begun to love the beauteous May too well. 
 He would depart from England, take his child, 
 And, with her, all the hoarding of his life 
 And produce of his farm, to seek a home 
 Where, rising in the southern sea, an isle, 
 Shining with sands of gold, bids fair to prove 
 Another England in far future times, 
 When we shall all be dust. There he would go, 
 Aud speedily : it was the only way 
 To free the timorous conscience of his love. 
 For months she should not know where he was gone ; 
 He would divide him from her by the sea. 
 To Nell alone would he confide his plans
 
 LADY MAY. 57 
 
 And purposes, that when three years bad passed, 
 If May were still unwedded, and should wish 
 Till then as now she wished, he would return 
 And end his days with her, his bride beloved, 
 If God so willed it, in his native vale. 
 Thus Reuben went, and with such skilful speed 
 His plans, matured in wakeful nights, were formed, 
 That none but Nelly guessed where he had gone, 
 Nor was it known till many months had passed, 
 What far off land had claimed him for her own.
 
 58 LADY MAY. 
 
 PAET VI. 
 
 "T71IVE weeks had fled, when from the Viscount camo 
 
 A letter to his daughter. It announced 
 His speedy coming, and his wish declared 
 To take her with him northwards. Sad and hrief, 
 And selfish were his words. He seemed to care 
 But little for the heauties of the vale, 
 But little for. the Manor House, and yet 
 His restless spirit had been bent erewhile 
 On its adornment. Blanche, too, f^Jt sad, 
 And marvelled at his mood, till musing on't, 
 She apprehended sorrows yet unknown, 
 Not taking shape and circumstances, but vague 
 As waking nightmares. She had learned to love 
 The quaint old Manor House of bygone times 
 Far better than their grander northern home, 
 Where e'en in childhood she had grown to feel 
 How little grandeur adds to happiness. 
 For oft her father seemed to be a prey 
 To agony of mind. Reports had reached
 
 LADY MAY. 59 
 
 Her ears, when quite a child, that he had done 
 Some fearful wrong, yet what, she never knew. 
 
 Strange words are whispered low in nurseries, 
 Nor meant to reach the little children's ears, 
 Supposed to he in peaceful slumbers locked, 
 Or deemed, perchance, too young to comprehend 
 The meaning of their elders. But, the while, 
 Such vague mysterious hints by nurses dropped, 
 Uncomprehended at the time, sink deep 
 Into the children's quickened wondering ears, 
 And long years afterwards are understood. 
 
 Blanche loved her sire : for though to all beside, 
 Stern, haughty, and^repellent he appeared, 
 To her and Claude he had been ever kind 
 Yet not a tender nor a careful parent ; 
 This she felt, but scarcely would confess, 
 Nor ever could endure to hear him blamed. 
 
 Few friends had Blanche, she was by nature shy, 
 And had from childhood lived so much alone. 
 Her father shunned his neighbours nay, perchance 
 He had been shunned by them she knew not which, 
 Nor ever had she sought companionship 
 Except her brother Claude's, till May she found.
 
 60 LADY MAY. 
 
 The maiden's lovely face, as by the porch 
 She stood on that glad eve when Blanche first came, 
 Reminded her of some one, with a strange 
 Yet joyous sense of mystery of some 
 Fair picture she had seen ; or else, perchance, 
 Some dream that she had dreamed. And this had first 
 Attracted her ; then, rumours that she heard, 
 Awoke those recollections of her youth 
 Long dormant, of a time long, long ago, 
 When mingled joy and woe had seemed more keen 
 Than in her after years. Yes, she had seen 
 In bygone times some beauteous face like May's. 
 'Twas not her mother's portrait jshe had died 
 When Blanche was born. It was a fairer face, 
 With beaming eyes, arched eyebrows, and the same 
 Profusion of a sunset-tinted hair, 
 Curling around a snowy swan-like throat. 
 'Twas surely not a dream. The nurses, too, 
 Had whispered of a lady wondrous fair : 
 They said, " Ah, well, she will not suffer more ; 
 Her bed is quiet, and the marble slabs 
 Are doors not quickly opened. 'Tis as well;
 
 LADY MAY. 61 
 
 One can't be murdered more than once, and life 
 Is sad enough." 
 
 "But, -what of him, my Lord?" 
 " He knows a deal more than you think he does" 
 " Lord, bless you, how he loved her." 
 
 " Yet, 'twas he 
 
 As sure as fate who did it, and 'twill out; 
 Yes, mark my words, 'twill out when we are dust, 
 "When we are dust and worms, if not before. 
 Why, look at him, you'll see it in his face." 
 
 "Hush, there's that child, we wake her with our 
 
 talk: 
 Come down to supj^r." 
 
 Each strange word and tone 
 Had Blanche remembered through her after life. 
 At times she thought 'twas some delirious dream 
 Of fever born, which might have ta'en such shape 
 Of horror and of dread. For how could he, 
 Her father, e'er have murdered one he loved? 
 It was too horrible. " Tis hate alone ; 
 Tis hate, not love, that kills," repeated she. 
 Yet haunting fears from childhood's days derived,
 
 62 LADY MAY. 
 
 When thus the nurses darkly talked together, 
 Now appeared to grow in ghastly shape. 
 
 And all these recollections, though indeed 
 So fraught with pain, seemed but to draw her more 
 With an attraction irresistible 
 And strange to Nelly's child. 
 
 Blanche dearly loved 
 
 The gentle girl, and gladly would have done, 
 Nay, suffered much for her, if this could win 
 The child's true happiness ; and much she grieved 
 To leave her, too, in leaving Morland Hall. 
 She thought her fitted well to grace a throne, 
 Yet, viewing all the risks and ills of life, 
 And perils many, she could see for her 
 No better lot than Keuben's bride to be. 
 A like impression May had made on Claude : 
 He felt a glad surprise at sight of her, 
 As at a dream fulfilled. And yet a dread, 
 Vague, undefined, oppressed him ; caused, perchance, 
 By just the same surmise that troubled Blanche, 
 Though never had he spoken on't to her, 
 Nor she to him. Blanche saw, indeed, that May 
 Embodied, as it were, his purest dreams,
 
 LADY MAY. 63 
 
 And that her image bad been graven deep, 
 Too deep, percbance, on bis impassioned beart, 
 For after be bad gone, sbe found a sketcb 
 Traced by bis band, as be bad seen ber first, 
 On entering bis sister's western room. 
 Tbe sunset aureole round ber sbining bead, 
 Her lily face in glowing sbade, ber eyes 
 Half bid beneatb tbeir lasbes' silken fringe, 
 And bastily beneatb tbese words were traced : 
 
 "Just so, some beauteous saint in storied glass, 
 Where ceaseless chants in dim cathedrals rise, 
 Transmits the light of heaven, and seems to give, 
 Its glory, tempered for our sin-dimmed eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! may this image come before my soul 
 In after years ; when weary from the strife, 
 In some enchanted island, I may find 
 Temptation to forget the better life. 
 
 " Yes, weary from the strife for earth appears 
 A tear-stained battle-field where all must die ; 
 Where banners, laurel- wreaths, and golden crowns, 
 With those who fought for them, down-trodden lie.
 
 64 LADY MAY. 
 
 " And yet, methinks, I feel a soft reproach, 
 For gloomy thoughts beam from those eyes so fair; 
 Sweet saint, not only from the syren's wiles 
 Protect, but lure me too from dark despair." 
 
 She told him then, by letter, how poor May 
 
 Had nearly died of grief at having caused 
 
 The death of Susan's babe. Blanche never knew 
 
 The cause of May's unwonted negligence, 
 
 For Nell had prayed her not to ask, had said 
 
 That May when questioned on't had swooned with grief, 
 
 Nor woke, save 'mid delirious ravings wild, 
 
 That had betrayed to Nell some hidden woe ; 
 
 So Blanche suspected not that Claude Adare 
 
 Might have impressed the youthful heart of May 
 
 With more than the esteem which she must feel 
 
 For one whose praises she had often heard. 
 
 And May, by eager impulse often led, 
 
 With undeveloped power and genius filled, 
 
 Susceptible deep impress to receive 
 
 Of all that fired her young enthusiasm, 
 
 Was so unlike herself, that scarce could Blanche
 
 LADY MAY. 65 
 
 Follow the sudden changes of her miud, 
 Or comprehend its wild imaginings. 
 
 July was near its close, and May as yet 
 Had never left the house, and scarce her room ; 
 But one hright morn she felt a sudden strength, 
 Aud longing irresistible to walk 
 As far as Morland Hall. " I wish," she said, 
 " Once more to see it, ere my Lady Blanche 
 Doth leave it for so long." She felt, that then 
 To visit its deserted silent rooms, 
 Would he a trial greater than her strength. 
 
 Besides, the sketch the sketch she had begun, 
 Which Claude had praised was left there, and she 
 
 wished 
 
 To have it, although inwardly resolved 
 To think of none but Reuben, and to wait 
 Until he should return to claim his bride. 
 
 Nell shook her head disprovingly, and said, 
 " Thou art not strong enough to walk so far;" 
 Yet thankful that her child could frame such wish, 
 The Dame went forth with her, until they reached 
 The avenue, and there met Blanche herself.
 
 66 LADY MAY. 
 
 On seeing them she was at first o'erjoyed, 
 
 Bat when they closer caine, and she could mark 
 
 The ravages by illness made on May, 
 
 The cheek so pale and thin, the weary walk, 
 
 More visible by far than in the house, 
 
 She could have wept for grief. But she concealed 
 
 Her apprehension 'neath a prudent smile, 
 
 Then helped the maiden's steps with loving care, 
 
 And led her to the oriel that she loved. 
 
 And there they passed the day. The summer air 
 Came softly sighing through the casement wide, 
 And bore the orange blossoms' odour sweet, 
 From vases on the terraces beneath. 
 A golden mist hung o'er the distant downs 
 And o'er the purple woods. The Abbey towers, 
 Athwart the haze in greater grandeur loomed, 
 Each mullioned tracery in light defined. 
 And, 'mid the waving foliage of the oaks, 
 That stretched their loving arms across its banks, 
 The river glided, darting shafts of light, 
 As through the vale it wound and passed away. 
 
 And May looked happy, and she seemed to grow 
 More strong with each succeeding sunny hour,
 
 LADY MAY. 67 
 
 As if resolved all care to cast aside 
 For this one day. And when the summer clouds, 
 Like courtiers, ranged themselves in straight long 
 
 lines, 
 
 Attired in crimson and in gold, to wait 
 Their mighty monarch's exit through the west, 
 The portals of the sunset, she prepared 
 To hid a long adieu to Morland Hall, 
 Resolving not to visit it again 
 
 Until some happy day months hence, when Blanche 
 Should come again. Most beautiful she looked : 
 The setting sunheams kissed her golden hair, 
 And tinged with roseate hue her lily cheek ; 
 Her deep blue eyes were fixed on Blanche with love 
 Intensified in this their parting hour. 
 And so absorbed was Blanche, rejoiced to see 
 Her friend so beautiful, and e'en to mark 
 A visible improvement since the morn, 
 She did not hear a footstep on the stairs, 
 Nor see the door had opened, till a voice, 
 Or rather moaning cry of one in pain, 
 Had reached her ear. Then, starting round, she saw
 
 68 LADY MAY. 
 
 Her father there hut so unlike himself 
 
 She scarcely recognized him. Upon May 
 
 His staring eyes were fixed, and with a gaze 
 
 Of horror mingled with a wild delight, 
 
 As if the vision from the spirit world 
 
 Of one long lost and mourned, before him stood. 
 
 He noted not his daughter's presence there, 
 
 His thoughts were riveted on May alone. 
 
 Thus fixed his gaze remained, while o'er his face 
 
 Strange passions chased each other, like the clouds 
 
 On windy moonlit nights, till Blanche perceived 
 
 A deadly pallor overspread his face 
 
 The while with palsied lips he tried to speak 
 
 Then sank upon a chair, and, shuddering, pressed 
 
 His hands upon his eyes. " Who, who is this ?" 
 
 He said, " I must he dreaming. Tell me who ?" 
 
 But Blanche led May affrighted from the room, 
 
 And strove some plausihle excuse to give 
 
 For such strange anguish on her father's face ; 
 
 Then hastened back to him. The dreaded ill 
 
 Seemed certainly at hand. Her father's guilt, 
 
 By hints infused into her childish mind
 
 LADY MAY. 69 
 
 In days when nurses whispered to each other, 
 Now a shape more tangible assumed. 
 
 She found him still in the same attitude 
 Of woe and shame ; but, as she nearer came, 
 His head sank backwards slowly, and a cry 
 As if of one in mortal agony 
 Struck on her ears. And then she saw him fall 
 Insensible upon the marble hearth. 
 Her people summoned by her piercing cries, 
 Helped her to raise him up, and in their arms 
 They bore him to his bed, while messengers 
 Were sent to summon Claude. 
 
 A weary hour 
 
 Of dread suspense his daughter passed, while May 
 Was wondering in alarm and grief, if she 
 By some strange accident had caused this woe. 
 She longed to be of use, but Blanche, with tears 
 And warm caress, implored her to begone, 
 Then added, 'mid impassioned words of love, 
 " Go, for he likes not strangers, that is all. 
 But if he can his health regain, I know 
 A day will come when he will love you well. 
 Ah ! he deserves your pity and your prayers.
 
 70 LADY MAY. 
 
 Now, go, my child speak not, lest he perchance 
 Should hear your voice. But ask Dame Rolfe to 
 
 come 
 And help to nurse my father through the night."
 
 LADY MAY. 71 
 
 PAET TIL 
 
 QOME nineteen years before, Lord Holliugbourue, 
 
 Then Hugh Adare, an only son, bad been 
 Involved in debts ; the sharp and sour fruits 
 Of reckless youth. His fair young wife, oppressed 
 With days of care and nights of dread, expired 
 'Mid winter snows, in giving birth to Blanche, 
 The youngest of their children. .Then were left 
 The motherless, to struggle on alone 
 As best they might, for Hugh fled o'er the sea 
 For greater safety. And he chanced to see 
 At Brussels, tarrying with some relatives, 
 A maiden fair, called Geraldine O'Neil, 
 Her mother was the Geraldine Adare, 
 Whom Nelly Rolfe had nursed and loved so well 
 And who had married Everard O'Neil, 
 The colonel of an Indian regiment. 
 She lived but two short years ; then brave O'Neil, 
 The broken-hearted, fell an easy prey 
 To fever nurtured 'neath that torrid sun,
 
 72 LADY MAY. 
 
 And thus their orphan child was left ; the last, 
 The last remaining of that ancient race 
 Who had for many generations dwelt 
 In Morland's happy vale. 
 
 Fair Geraldine ! 
 
 All Brussels talked of her : the English girl 
 "With sunset-tinted hair, and wondrous eyes, 
 And called her, in their homage, Dawn of Day. 
 Her troth was plighted to Lord Hollingbourne, 
 Hugh's cousin, then a soldier, and in Spain, 
 But soon expected thence. 
 
 Oh, Love ! most blind, 
 Misleading him of heavenly guidance reft, 
 With semblance of an angel, into dark 
 And tortuous paths of sin, and yet the while 
 An angel truly to the pure in heart : 
 From paradisal gardens wafting down 
 Life-giving odours from thy snowy wings, 
 Thou com'st to man a Blessing or a Curse. 
 A curse to him enslaved by love of self, 
 A joy to him through love of God made free, 
 To that a fatuous light amid a swamp, 
 To this the sunrise o'er a seething sea.
 
 LADY MAY. 73 
 
 An evil angel in a shape of light, 
 Love came 'mid sorrow's night to Hugh Aclare ; 
 Came like a gleam of purest light from heaven, 
 Upon the swamps and quicksands of his life, 
 Luring him on to greater depths of woe, 
 And recklessly he followed. 
 
 When he saw 
 
 Fair Geraldine O'Neil, the orphan girl, 
 (To see her was to love her,) he resolved 
 That she should be his Dawn of Day, nor cared 
 If treason to his cousin were involved 
 In such mad vows. But gentle Geraldine 
 Despised his suit, his talents, and his wit; 
 His fascination, that men babbled of, 
 Appeared to her deformity ; she scorned 
 The want of purpose which she felt, not saw, 
 The vaunted beauty which she saw, not felt, 
 And to him closed her doors and maiden heart. 
 
 Then, mad with rage, he plotted and contrived, 
 How best t' instil into his cousin's mind 
 Distrust of his betrothed. But vain such arts, 
 The simple trust and purity of both 
 Were proof against his utmost wit and wile,
 
 74 LADY MAY. 
 
 For they, without suspecting Hugh, surmised 
 
 That traitorous hand was plotting 'gainst their weal, 
 
 And smiling, closer to each other clung. 
 
 'Tis ever thus, the citadel must show 
 
 Some weaker point ere vanquished hy the foe ; 
 
 A scorpion strikes not through the coat of mail, 
 
 And limpid waters check the poisoned gale. 
 
 So they were married, Viscount Hollingbourue 
 And Geraldine, but on their wedding day, 
 Clash of opposing arms was almost heard 
 In many-spired Brussels. Brief their joy, 
 For ere three suns had set and risen, he, 
 The bridegroom, to the battle-field was called, 
 And Geraldine well nigh of anguish died, 
 So sure she felt they ne'er should meet again 
 In this sad world. But he, a better hope 
 Strove to impart, and kissed away her tears, 
 Yet made his will, bequeathing all his wealth 
 And properties to her if he should die. 
 
 Th' opposing armies met : a glorious day 
 For bleeding Europe, and for England's fame, 
 But fatal to so many of her sons
 
 LADY MAY. 75 
 
 Who offered priceless holocausts of life, 
 And youth, and hope, to purchase victory. 
 
 Among the bravest of the brave that day, 
 And foremost in the fight, was Hollingbourne. 
 He lived to see it won, but, wounded sore, 
 He sank, and at the sunset hour he died. 
 
 No need of messenger to tell his loss ! 
 For at that self-same hour poor Geraldine 
 Had ceased to hope. The sad presentiment, 
 Which ever since he went possessed her heart, 
 Assumed a shape more tangible : she thought 
 His dying eyes gazed with a glorious light 
 In her's, and seemed to look a last farewell ; 
 And then she heard him most distinctly say, 
 " Take heart, sweet love ; soon shall we meet again 
 In happiness eternal and complete."
 
 76 LADY MAY. 
 
 PAET VIII. 
 
 "VTO sooner did the fatal news arrive, 
 
 Than Hugh assumed the title, and laid claim 
 To all the properties therewith entailed, 
 And thus belonging rightfully to him, 
 In failure of his cousin's lawful heir. 
 By will, Lord Hollingbourne could but dispose 
 In favour of his widow, of those lands 
 Which from his mother were derived. But these 
 Were passing large, so Geraldine was rich, 
 Though nought she cared for wealth, nor had a wish, 
 Except on earth to serve her God, and soon 
 Eejoin the husband she so deeply loved, 
 In happiness eternal and complete. 
 Few friends had she, and none to care that Hugh, 
 Had thus assumed the title, ere full time 
 Had passed in which an heir might possibly 
 Be born. The barony, in Edward's reign 
 Bestowed upon Adares for fealty 
 And service well performed in border wars,
 
 LADY MAY. 77 
 
 Descended to the females of their line, 
 
 Although" the modern visconty belonged 
 
 To males alone. But all their large estates 
 
 Were with the ancient barony entailed ; 
 
 So, if the viscountess should prove with child 
 
 Of either sex, her offspring would have right 
 
 To all its father's fortune and estates. 
 
 And this the present viscount knew right well, 
 
 Yet took advice from one a so-called friend, 
 
 A worthless wretch, whose interest in him 
 
 Proceeded from the hope of selfish gains. 
 
 " For," said the tempter, " if Hugh's debts were paid, 
 
 Himself thus free to watch o'er Geraldiue, 
 
 And act as guardian should a child be born, 
 
 'Twere best for her." And so, with pretext fair, 
 
 Of watching o'er the widow's wealth, Hugh came 
 
 To England's shores, and soon, by wily means, 
 
 Contrived to assume control o'er all her lauds, 
 
 As well as those entailed upon the title. 
 
 Gcraldine, meanwhile, had much desired 
 To see her husband's castle, Norman-Tower, 
 And thither she arriv I 'i'.ngh o'crwhelrned 
 With loneliness and woe. His kindred all,
 
 78 LADY MAY. 
 
 Were dead or fur away, and knew her not, 
 But much she loved to see what he had loved, 
 The objects that his eyes had rested on, 
 As were his glance o'erfraught with harmony 
 That lingered round them still. She loved to trace 
 His likeness in ancestral portraits ; through 
 Fair woods to roam, which he had oft described, 
 And glades where he had chased the fallow-deer ; 
 In summer evenings linger on the lake, 
 Or saunter in the gardens he had loved, 
 And list while aged servitors would tell 
 Unnumbered histories of his gracious youth. 
 So months passed on, and then a hope so blessed 
 Began to dawn, that e'en she wept for joy ! 
 A child ! her dearest Arthur's child and her's, 
 "Would soon be born. But could she hope to rear 
 The babe, if living ? Grief had undermined 
 Her strength and health ; so of necessity 
 She must a just and upright guardian seek, 
 Who would protect the babe. 
 
 Full long she mused, 
 
 Then suddenly she thought of John O'Neil, 
 Her father's brother. Straight she wrote to him ;
 
 LADY MAY. 79 
 
 Implored bis presence, and with cautious bints 
 Endeavoured to express tbat Hollingbourne 
 Was not a man to whom she could entrust 
 The welfare of her child. No answer came. 
 She wrote again and yet again, and watched 
 With grief and wonder ; still came no reply. 
 Meanwhile from Hugh a missive bad arrived, 
 Proving his wondrous interest in her fate. 
 With words of tender comfort, yet subdued, 
 He said her Yorkshire lands bad been involved 
 In such confusion by a worthless steward 
 Tbat worlds of trouble he had ta'en to place 
 The property in order, and he hoped 
 She soon would come to see what he had done. 
 
 Tbat be was far away consoled her most, 
 For great her dread bad been lest he should come 
 To Norman-Tower, where no sure refuge she 
 From his most baneful presence could devise. 
 
 The English nurse she had of late engaged 
 Was daughter to a servant of the bouse, 
 And married to the gamekeeper, who came 
 But lately to the place. And Geraldine 
 His face misliked, yet half reproached herself
 
 80 LADY MAY. 
 
 For such mistrust, since all spoke well of him ; 
 And with a kind of penitence she heaped 
 Favours upon him for his good wife's sake. 
 A buxom dame she was ; most trusty seemed, 
 And spoke with fitting tenderness and love 
 Of Geraldine's lamented lord, while words 
 Of disrespect, made pungent by dislike, 
 She lavished upon Hugh. 
 
 " My lord ! indeed !" 
 
 She said with tossing head and curling lip ; 
 " No right to claim the title and estates 
 Has he : and he'll be finely taken in 
 When our dear babe is born." 
 
 Week followed week 
 
 While Geraldine was waiting nervously ; 
 Still had no letter come from John O'Neil, 
 Or promise of his coming. And one day 
 At even, faintness seized her suddenly ; 
 Then dreading lest the trial hour had come 
 So much too soon, she told her nurse to send 
 In haste for a physician. None arrived ; 
 
 And whether in much nervousness, the nurse 
 
 i 
 
 Forgot her lady's bidding, or her words
 
 LADY MAY. 81 
 
 Misunderstood, nay heard not, none could tell : 
 
 'Twas only known that dawn had chased the night, 
 
 Long hours had passed before the groom was sent ; 
 
 And ere the echoes of his horse's hoofs 
 
 Had ceased to ring beneath the castle gates, 
 
 Fair Geraldine's pure soul had ta'en its flight 
 
 And found a Dawn of Day more bright than our's. 
 
 Then were the inmates of the castle told 
 
 That she had suddenly, in fainting, died ; 
 
 That no child had been born. That self-same eve, 
 
 When the physician hurriedly arrived, 
 
 He found the viscount kneeling near her bed, 
 
 With all the outward signs of grief immense, 
 
 Deploring that he had arrived too late 
 
 To see his much loved cousin ere she died. 
 
 Within that silent room they tarried long, 
 
 The doctor and Lord Hollingbourne, where lay 
 
 The lifeless form of Geraldine Adare ; 
 
 But what between them passed was never known. 
 
 Two suns arose and set, and then they bore 
 Her sable coffin to the marble vaults, 
 While marvelled all the servitors at such 
 (For so they deemed it) strange unseemly haste. 
 
 6
 
 82 LADY MAY. 
 
 And e'er a month bad passed the buxom nurse 
 Of fever died with ravings dread to hear, 
 Then straight the gamekeeper, her husband, went 
 And ne'er returned. 
 
 Lord Hollingbourne appeared 
 
 Henceforth to loathe the wealth that he had gained. 
 Deserted was the castle : never more 
 He visited the place ; nor was he heard 
 To name its name : but travelled quickly north 
 And in his Yorkshire dwelling fixed his home. 
 
 There in all solitary state he lived, 
 And reared his children, whom he jealous kept 
 From converse with their fellows ; he, the while 
 Ne'er seen to smile, but shunning all his friends : 
 AVhile whisperings mysterious and dark hints 
 Among the nursemaids and retainers gnawed, 
 Like rats, his children's confidence away, 
 And left them hearts half emptied of his love.
 
 LADY MAY. 83 
 
 PART IX. 
 
 T)ALE Blanche sat watching by her father's bed, 
 
 The night when he arrived at Morlaud Hall. 
 No words his dry lips passed ; but piteous moans 
 At intervals she heard. The doctor came ; 
 It chanced to be the same who years before 
 Arrived too late at Norman-Tower to see 
 The lonely widow die. He had not met 
 Lord Hollingbourne since. 
 
 " My lord is changed ; 
 
 Ah ! greatly changed," he whispered low to Blanche ; 
 " I scarce should know him for the same. He owned 
 A constitution fitted well to last 
 A century. Some sudden shock was this ?" 
 Blanche led him from the room, then faltering said, 
 " He was excited strangely here this night, 
 When May, a village girl, he saw. Her face 
 May some resemblance bear to one, perchance, 
 Whom he had known and loved."
 
 84 LADY MAY. 
 
 " A likeness ; well," 
 
 The doctor said, " that surely is no cause : 
 The fit must have been coming on. You said 
 He unexpected came. It was the heat ; 
 Or the too rapid journey." " True," said Blanche, 
 Relieved to think her father's malady 
 Might come from other cause than sight of May. 
 Then she returned with better heart to watch 
 Beside his bed. The danger for his life 
 Was great, the doctor had confessed, and said 
 They were to call him if a change occurred, 
 Then went to bed and slept. 
 
 Old Nelly Eolfe 
 
 Had come to Morland Hall and sat by Blanche, 
 Keeping throughout that night her wakeful watch, 
 Oblivious of fatigue. It was enough 
 That he who lay in such extremity 
 Her services required ; it was enough 
 That still he bore the name she loved so well. 
 
 The moonbeams through the mullioued window shone 
 Upon the polished floor and wainscot wall ; 
 And Nelly looked around with awe, for this 
 This was the room where Geraldine was born.
 
 LADY MAY. 85 
 
 As then, so now, it was a moonlight night, 
 
 The pale and ghostly beams assumed the shape 
 
 Of gothic arches on the oaken floor, 
 
 And now, as then, amid their silver light, 
 
 The mullioned transom formed a shadowy cross. 
 
 'Twas more than sixty years ago since Nell, 
 
 A girl of fifteen summers, had kept watch 
 
 Beside the nurse, while slept a painful sleep 
 
 The lady of the hall. Aye, since that night 
 
 Full sixty-five long years had passed. The room 
 
 Was scarcely changed. She well-nigh could have thought 
 
 Her life since then had been one long strange dream ; 
 
 That still she watched beside her lady's couch, 
 
 While near her lay young Geraldine, a child 
 
 So dear, she thought her birth must surely bring 
 
 Some blessing to the house. As thus she mused 
 
 The moonbeams slowly crept along the floor, 
 
 The cross in shadow reached the bed, and then 
 
 It touched the sufferer's stiff and pallid hands 
 
 Where on the broidered coverlet they lay. 
 
 Though Nelly's gaze upon those hands was fixed, 
 
 She scarce their movement saw, so deep she mused, 
 
 Nor marked the chain of gold they clutched, and how
 
 86 LADY MAY. 
 
 They strove to hide a something at its end. 
 
 But Blanche, more watchful, sought with straining eyes 
 
 The secret of her father's life to read. 
 
 The cross in shadow and the moonheams crept 
 
 Still higher up, and touched his troubled brow. 
 
 Perchance the light disturbed him, for he moved, 
 
 He started as in greater pain, and raised 
 
 His clenched hand suddenly, then loosed its grasp, 
 
 And from it fell an oval miniature. 
 
 The golden rim bright glistened in the light, 
 
 Depicted there Nell saw a well-known face, 
 
 A face like May's ; but ah ! resembling more 
 
 Her own beloved lost Gerakline. Blanche saw, 
 
 Remembered too. In happier hours of childhood, 
 
 When her sire had with her played, at times 
 
 He would uplift her, place her on his knee, 
 
 Then hold that miniature before her eyes 
 
 And let her kiss it, then approving smiled 
 
 As if the sight of it possessed a charm 
 
 To soothe the rugged fierceness of his mind. 
 
 But only in her very earliest days 
 Could this have happened, so remote and dim 
 The time appeared. And then it must have ceased ;
 
 LADY MAY. 87 
 
 For she remembered nought in after years, 
 
 Save a faint consciousness of past delight, 
 
 And yearning for it. Then she saw young May, 
 
 And wondered : now the miniature itself 
 
 Supplied the missing link in memory's chain, 
 
 That bound the maiden to a happy past. 
 
 Yes, strangely happy although mixed with dread, 
 
 A dread that hourly grew through reasoning on't, 
 
 And seeing how her father's dying grasp 
 
 Thus jealous, had the miniature concealed. 
 
 At early dawn of day he seemed to rest 
 As if he suffered less. And suddenly 
 His eyes were opened, and he looked at Blanche, 
 Then recognised her, and in haste he clutched, 
 As if he would conceal, the miniature : 
 " I've had a dream," he said with feeble voice, 
 "A fearful, yet a very happy dream." 
 But, seeing Nelly, added, "Who is this? 
 Where am I, Blanche ? I thought I saw her face, 
 The Dawn of Day. But first dismiss that woman : 
 I would speak a word with you alone." 
 Nell gave restoratives, and prayed that he
 
 83 LADY MAY. 
 
 Would rest awhile to gain some needful strength 
 Ere yet he tried to speak ; then left the room. 
 
 And much she hoped he would confess the sin 
 That made his dying hours so full of pain. 
 Accustomed through her long and useful life 
 To see men die, she well had learned to know 
 The evil signs of guilt which darkly haunt 
 The dying sinner's hed. And all that night 
 The viscount's troubled face told more of pain 
 Occasioned by a conscience ill at ease 
 Than anguish of the body. 
 
 Patiently 
 
 She knelt beside his chamber door and prayed. 
 The sun had risen, and its cheering ray 
 Illumed the eastern window pane, which bore 
 The old heraldic shield of the Adares. 
 Still gleamed the colours vivid as of yore, 
 And while she kneeling humbly prayed for him 
 "Who lay there dying, and a blessing craved 
 For May and Blanche, the well known silver cross 
 On blood-red shield shone o'er her folded hands 
 A cross in light. Full joyfully she hailed
 
 LADY MAY. 89 
 
 The dazzling emblem of salvation there, 
 Which seemed to bless her prayers. 
 
 And what of him, 
 
 Lord Hollingbourne ? He lay a dying now, 
 And all was dark before his troubled gaze ; 
 No light had he been taught to see beyond 
 The portals of this fast receding world. 
 The lowly dame who knelt beside his door 
 Was older far than he, her eyes were dim, 
 Her ears were dull of hearing, but the cross, 
 The cross in shadow meekly borne at first 
 Had turned to one of radiance pure and bright, 
 That all her soul illumined. Hallowed thoughts 
 Consoled her, such as fill the minds of those 
 Who steadfast teach themselves to love the good, 
 Who find more beauty in the sparkling dew 
 That glistens on a single blade of grass 
 Than gleam of priceless pearl or diamond 
 In regal crown. Those who have suffered much, 
 And have their cross resignedly embraced, 
 Will surely find that these their kisses pure, 
 Bestowed on it, will at the last transform 
 Its painful shade into a brilliant light
 
 90 LADY MAY. 
 
 Shining with radiance from within o'er all 
 The present and the past, and brighter joy 
 Conferring on the dim and sightless eyes 
 Than fairest object to the gaze of youth. 
 
 Oh dread not age, if young thou keep'st thy heart ; 
 'Tis only on the old in sin, on those 
 "Whom age despise, that age inflicts despair, 
 And malady of soul than death more dread. 
 
 Meanwhile, with straining ear Blanche listened keen 
 To catch the utterance of her father's words. 
 " Whose was the form," he said, " and whose the face 
 I saw erewhile ? 'Twas surely not a dream ?" 
 
 "Nay, 'twas a village girl ; a little maid," 
 Said Blanche, with cautious words, " who oft has come 
 To cheer my solitude." 
 
 " Deceive me not," 
 
 He said with trembling irritated voice ; 
 " Her parentage is other than you say." 
 
 " Indeed, I know not," faltered Blanche, " perhaps 
 It may be so. Old Nelly Eolfe, the nurse, 
 Discovered her, a babe just newly born, 
 Nigh eighteen years ago, in Quarry Wood, 
 Suspended in a rosebush o'er the dark
 
 LADY MAY. 91 
 
 And silent waters of the High Oak Pond. 
 Above it runs the old highroad that leads 
 To Norman-Tower ; beneath, the deep mill stream 
 That through the valley winds." 
 
 " It must," he cried, 
 
 " It must then be her child ! Oh Geraldine ! 
 Forgive, forgive my treachery. How oft, 
 When dark and cruel shadows through the night 
 Of all these weary years, have made my rest 
 Less restful than the ploughman's toilsome days, 
 How often have I thought that I would give 
 All, all the loathsome wealth that I have gained, 
 And even face disgrace and obloquy 
 If thy babe's life could be restored. For this 
 I've almost tried to pray. hear me now, 
 And pardon, God of sinners ! Let me give, 
 let me give her back her lands, her name ! 
 let me feel that I have pardon gained, 
 By this dear token, finding her at last, 
 Unhoped for, thricely welcomed, mourned so long, 
 Aye, mourned as never child before was wept ! 
 With all a father's anguish of despair, 
 Who loved her mother more than life itself;
 
 92 LADY MAY. 
 
 With all a sinner's anguish of remorse, 
 
 Who for a score of years, with bleeding feet 
 
 Hath toiled along life's sharp and flinty path. 
 
 Send for her quickly ; let me trace again 
 
 The lineaments beloved. Bring the nurse, 
 
 That she may prove thy words. Yet stay, my child, 
 
 (Thou wilt not hate thy father ?) let me tell 
 
 The miserable story ere I die. 
 
 'Tis growing dark : come closer ; bring more lights." 
 
 His head sank back ; his forehead pale, bedewed 
 With drops of mental anguish, weeping Blanche 
 Refreshed with odours cool and sweet, and kissed 
 His pallid hands, and raised him in her arms 
 Until the sunlight shone upon his face, 
 And then he smiled. 
 
 " She pardons me," he said ; 
 " And justice will be done to her at last !" 
 " My father, rest awhile," entreated Blanche ; 
 " Sleep, and beside thee I will watch." 
 
 " No, no ; 
 
 But listen. I am better now ; and time 
 Is very precious. It was long ago : 
 I listened to a menial in my pay,
 
 LADY MAY. 93 
 
 A confidential wretch who knew too much, 
 And used that knowledge glibly. He it was, 
 Who, covetous of profit, bade me seize 
 That portion of my cousin's wealth, by right 
 Mine own, entailed upon the next of kin, 
 If haply he no lawful heir should leave. 
 I did so, and my pressing debts discharged. 
 Thus able to return, I hoped to live 
 Upon the property, and there atone 
 By prudence and good management for all 
 The follies of my youth. I long had loved 
 With fiery passionate absorbing love, 
 My cousin's widow, Geraldine Adare. 
 Oh ! could I but have seen her, ere she knew 
 The viscount, and was taught to hate my name ! 
 No, not by him ; I wrong him even now. 
 wretch that I have been ! I will not seek 
 My madness to excuse : and yet for her 
 . My love was pure ; the only influence 
 That drew me upwards all those weary years. 
 Weary and profitless ! yet how I wronged 
 That gentle soul ; for, hounded on by him, 
 Tins scoundrel Jacob, who an influence gained
 
 94 LADY MAY. 
 
 O'er all my actions, by a foolish deed 
 To him, alas ! well known, I murdered her. 
 Nay, shrink not : not by poison or cold steel, 
 But by a deed of cruelty, which sapped 
 Her tender life away. I see it now. 
 frightful punishment for foulest plot ! 
 He, Jacob, shewed me that if any heir 
 Were born and lived, not only should I lose 
 The properties and lands, but should be forced 
 To render up account of moneys spent, 
 And thus disclose the evil I had done. 
 Disgraced, I should be forced to fly again, 
 Be banished from her presence evermore, 
 Nor dare, thus branded with new obloquy, 
 To hope in time her priceless love to win. 
 Such dread alternative decided me. 
 Such misery was not to be endured ; 
 And so I let him foully plot and plan 
 Against the life of the expected babe. 
 He soon contrived to place his wife as nurse 
 At Norman-Tower, as gamekeeper himself ; 
 And trusted much by Lady Holliugbourne, 
 Spies on her every action they became.
 
 LADY MAY. 95 
 
 They intercepted letters sent by her, 
 And handed them to me : the while she pined, 
 Because the time of birth drew near, and yet 
 No friend or guardian came to her. Alas ! 
 I I was there at hand in Jacob's lodge 
 Concealed, and waiting till the child be born. 
 So well he managed that not e'en his wife 
 Suspected that he meant the baby ill ; 
 She only thought I wished to bring it up 
 As if it were my own, with care and love. 
 So off he rode upon the swiftest steed, 
 Bearing the babe. It was the eighth of May ; 
 At dawn I stood below the northern tower, 
 Where secretly I had been waiting long, 
 And hoping for good news of Geraldiue. 
 I knew that Jacob with the babe had gone ; 
 For I had seen him creeping stealthily 
 Beneath the shadow of the eastern wall. 
 No words he said : I scarcely dared to look, 
 But well I knew the babe was in his arms. 
 A weary hour passed on ; then came the nurse, 
 Frantic, scarce knowing what she did, and cried 
 That all was over, and the mother dead !
 
 96 LADY MAY. 
 
 Dead ! Geraldine ! I reeling staggered back, 
 
 But, mastering my agony, rushed up 
 
 Through winding turret stairs, through corridors 
 
 And galleries, until I reached her room. 
 
 'Twas true ; my torment had begun. She lay 
 
 So calm and peaceful, 'twas as if she slept. 
 
 I scarcely dared to look upon her face, 
 
 So hallowed, yet so wondrous lovely still : 
 
 Yet there I lingered. I had murdered her ! 
 
 The only being I had ever loved. 
 
 Her death, so unexpected, drove me mad : 
 
 For I reproached the nurse with bitter words, 
 
 And asked her fiercely for the babe, and she 
 
 Weeping and wailing, solemnly declared 
 
 That Geraldine had never known its loss ; 
 
 For at its birth she sank, and fainting died. 
 
 But often I have felt convinced since then 
 
 That the poor mother had lived long enough 
 
 To see to feel her baby torn away, 
 
 Then of such grief expired. And this through me ! 
 
 'Twas I who caused it : 'twas my cruelty 
 
 That brought her to her grave the beauteous one, 
 
 In youth's first bloom and left me desolate.
 
 LADY MAY. 97 
 
 My fell ambition had defeated love, 
 
 And thus o'erleapt itself. For I had hoped 
 
 That when some years had passed, she might have 
 
 learned 
 
 To love me : worthless save in loving her ! 
 That I with true devotion might wash out 
 The stains of my enforced treachery ; 
 For so I deemed it then. How deep my woe ! 
 How deep : the while some thought it was assumed. 
 Assumed ! Ah, yes ; my right hand I had given 
 To purchase such assumption ; such amount 
 Of innocence compared with this my guilt. 
 The doctor came, though afterwards the nurse 
 Confessed he was not called till all was o'er. 
 He found me there beside her lifeless form, 
 So overwhelmed with grief he ne'er could think 
 That I had done her wrong. I raved with words 
 Impassioned, of her virtues, loveliness, 
 And boundless charm, then hurried him away ; 
 And saying that 'twould drive me mad to wait 
 About that cursed dwelling, straight ordained 
 A hasty funeral. And ne'er did he 
 Suspect, nor any in the castle think 
 
 7
 
 98 LADY MAY. 
 
 That she had borne a child. Except the nurse 
 
 None guessed the hideous truth. She, clamorous, 
 
 Deplored with tears her lady's death, and said 
 
 'Twas caused by sudden fainting fits ; that such 
 
 Had oft been wont to seize her, but had passed, 
 
 And that so lengthened and severe was none 
 
 As this which ended but with life. The nurse 
 
 Was known and trusted well : no reason then 
 
 To doubt her tale ; nor did the doctor think 
 
 To question it, he witnessing our grief. 
 
 Yet even this deception, and the end 
 
 Attained of all my base accursed plots, 
 
 More guilty made me feel. Then Jacob swore 
 
 A solemn oath that in his arms the child 
 
 Expired or ere he left the castle walls ; 
 
 But that he feared to bring it back, so rode 
 
 Along the London road a score of miles 
 
 Until he reached the Quarry Hill, and there 
 
 Down from the parapet he let it drop, 
 
 That thus the waters of the pond should hide 
 
 The little form in its secluded depths. 
 
 That was the eighth of May ; I know it well. 
 
 All night I had been waiting at the tower,
 
 LADY MAY. 99 
 
 And as the dawn above the hills arose 
 I saw him, Jacob, glide along the wall, 
 And knew he bore the child. Yes, still he lives, 
 But in a madhouse : nay, I harmed him not ; 
 I gave him gold and sent him to far lauds, 
 But soon he came again, and in his arms 
 He ever carries ceaseless round and round 
 Some wisped up clothes in semblance of a child, 
 A babe that he declares was, years ago, 
 Still living, thrust into a silent pond, 
 Then creeping out had followed him, and begged 
 With piteous cry for life. This tale he tells 
 To every face he sees, then wildly laughs 
 And says that ever since he guards it well. 
 And I, than he more guilty : gracious God, 
 Oh pardon me and him ! Since that dark day 
 I've never never known a moment's peace." 
 
 The darkness came again across his face, 
 The shadow of the sin ; his head sank down ; 
 O'ershrouding all his senses, fell the veil 
 Of deep exhaustion ; while the trembling Blanche 
 Called Nelly to her side. Again, once more 
 His dim eyos opened, and from clammy lips
 
 100 LADY MAY. 
 
 Came slow the laboured words : " Send, send for her, 
 
 That I may read a pardon in her eyes ; 
 
 Her mother's pardon for my hideous crime : 
 
 If it be granted to a dying wretch 
 
 In whom nought lives but penitence and grief. 
 
 Oh let her come, and I shall read my fate 
 
 Upon her lovely face. First tell her all, 
 
 Then say how I have suffered for my guilt. 
 
 Say that her right and titles she shall have ; 
 
 That all the world shall know what I have done. 
 
 I would not have it otherwise. Go ; go."
 
 LADY MAY. 101 
 
 PAET X. 
 
 rjIHE bells that morn rang out a merry peal 
 
 In Morland church. For, hearing that their lord 
 Had come at last, the ringers greeted him 
 "With joy, according to a usance old. 
 But soon strange rumours came; the bells were stopped; 
 The ringers hastened out of church, and straight 
 The village folk assembled 'neath the tower, 
 Perplexed, and fearing unexpected ills. 
 In wonderment and awe the gathered throng 
 Asked questions of each other, till appeared 
 An elder dame, who in mysterious tones 
 Said that Lord Hollingbourne all through the night 
 Had lain a dying ; that old Nelly Rolfe 
 Had nursed him, and in haste had sent for May ; 
 That Blanche had sent express for Claud Ad are, 
 His father's favourite son. The villagers 
 All clustered round the dame, (her daughter lived 
 As housemaid at the hall) and presently
 
 102 LADY MAY. 
 
 She said, " Strange things have happened ; strange 
 
 enough, 
 
 I scarcely like to tell." But pressed upon, 
 And bursting with the news, she could refrain 
 From speech no more ; the wondrous tale would out. 
 At first she whispered low with cautious lips, 
 " Our Lady May, the child we kissed and nursed 
 When quite a babe, like any of our own, 
 And felt so proud of her ; we did, we did, 
 As she grew up " Here weeping tears of joy, 
 The dame, who hitherto had spoken low, 
 Now with hysteric shout cried out more loud, 
 " Oh aye ! we felt so proud of her, we did ; 
 The fairest dearest blossom of our vale, 
 To think that she, our own, own Lady May, 
 In her own right is Baroness Adare !" 
 The words pour forth so loud that all can hear ; 
 From ear to ear, from mouth to mouth the sounds, 
 The startling sounds are borne with thrilling shout ; 
 They echo from the Norman belfry tower, 
 And through the village street are carried on, 
 Till every cottage rings, while fitfully 
 Their wandering echoes distant hamlets catch.
 
 LADY MAY. 103 
 
 And little children run with gleesome steps 
 Up Morland Vale to blaze the tale afar, 
 And seek the very spot, the High Oak Pond, 
 Where Lady May was found. "With joyous shouts 
 They reach the abbey towers, and pass beneath 
 The cloistered shade. But there the velvet moss 
 So thickly grows, that as they enter in 
 The patter of their many feet is hushed. 
 This sudden silence filling them with awe, 
 They gaze around and clasp each other's hands, 
 Then hurry onwards, never looking back 
 Until they reach the stream near Bowling's mill. 
 And there they shout the tidings as they pass 
 The wondering miller's men, and rush on, on, 
 To see the very spot where Lady May 
 Was found by Nell so many years ago.
 
 104 LADY MAY, 
 
 PAET XI. 
 
 " TT must not, cannot be," said May to Blanche, 
 
 "I never will consent to bis disgrace. 
 He wears my mother's portrait next his heart ; 
 And great his love has been. He thought me dead, 
 Nor knew that Nelly, guided by a dream, 
 Had found and nursed me eighteen years ago. 
 And truly, had he known that I survived, 
 While yet a babe he would have found me out 
 And all these lands restored. And now shall I 
 Found strangely by his means, deprive his age 
 Of wealth and rule thus grown habitual, 
 And let him be held up to obloquy, 
 The father of my friends ? Ah no ; such rights, 
 As people call them, will I never take ! 
 No, never ! Let me still be little May, 
 Old Nelly's foundling child." 
 
 In vain did Blanche 
 Her dying father's eager wishes urge, 
 And fears express, that if May still refused,
 
 LADY MAY. 105 
 
 He could not die in peace. May wept, and said 
 That he would live, and she could never bring 
 Contempt on him or poorer state on Blanche, 
 Who horn in high position graced it well, 
 And making many happy, cared for all. 
 
 In this dilemma Blanche consulted Claude : 
 But Claude was in a worse embarrassment. 
 His heart had long been May's; but when 'twas known 
 That she was Baroness Adare by right, 
 He passed from shapeless hope to blank dismay, 
 And thence into despair ; for how could he 
 Who spoke not of his love while May was yet 
 The nameless foundling child of Nelly Bolfe 
 Declare it now, albeit then her troth 
 Was bound, and now 'twas free ? The open facts 
 Would libel him, and foulest falsehood spin 
 From truth and righteous honour, so that e'en 
 The best should scarcely choose but echo it, 
 So strong the lying evidence would be. 
 
 Blanche found him buried in such thoughts as these. 
 At first he scarcely seemed her voice to hear, 
 But when she spoke the name of Lady May 
 He started up in attitude perplexed
 
 106 LADY MAY. 
 
 That her suspicions roused. She paused awhile, 
 Then smiling said : "I leave it in your hands : 
 Neglect it not, but act. If May consent 
 Through your persuasion to accept her rights, 
 My father's suffering mind will be at rest ; 
 Nay, this might save his life." 
 
 She left the room 
 
 Before he could refuse, nor gave him time 
 To make excuse. Meanwhile she knew that May 
 Was on the terrace, at the farther end 
 Reading beneath cool shadows of the trees, 
 And from the window where she spoke with Claude 
 The maiden's form distinctly could be seen. 
 
 Then Blanche went up into her father's room 
 To watch beside his bed. His window looked 
 Upon the terrace likewise, and she saw 
 Claude presently approach the studious May. 
 " That foolish boy, how slow he walks," thought she ; 
 " He seems afraid to venture near, and yet 
 I think she cares for him ; if so, her wealth 
 Without him would to her be little worth." 
 She watched until he reached the seat, but then, 
 Too anxious e'en to look, withdrew her eyes,
 
 LADY MAY. 107 
 
 As if she dimly feared that by her gaze 
 
 A spell might be dissolved. And then she knelt 
 
 Beside her father's bed. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Another year, 
 
 Bearing abortive hopes and baseless fears 
 Into the silent land, has fleeted by ; 
 To some unfolding brighter earthly life, 
 To others heavenly. Lord Hollingbourne 
 Still lives at Morland Hall, nor wishes more 
 To quit its shades beloved, (where happiness 
 Has dawned at last upon repentant years,) 
 Till carried to his grave. And even then 
 He hopes within its precincts fair to rest 
 At Morland Abbey, in the marble vault, 
 The ancient resting-place of the Adares. 
 That stately pile is now well nigh restored 
 With loving care by May ; its pillared aisles 
 Are being raised again with reverence, 
 From slumbers sad of ruin and neglect, 
 To gladden village hearts. One day there came 
 To Claude a packet costly from far lands, 
 A massive chain of gold by Reuben sent,
 
 J08 LADY MAY. 
 
 As wedding gift for May. The owner now 
 
 Of fertile farms in yonder Southern Isle, 
 
 He wrote that he had come upon a vein, 
 
 A virgin vein of gold, on the estate, 
 
 And as the loyal token of his heart 
 
 The first-fruits did he dedicate to May. 
 
 And having heard her oft express her grief 
 
 That Morland Ahbey Church should thus be left 
 
 To moulder and decay in winter winds, 
 
 He asked that she would let him send her o'er 
 
 A contribution to its rising walls, 
 
 Thank offering for his prosperity. 
 
 And soon to Nelly Eolfe a letter came 
 
 Which told the welcome news that he had found 
 
 Another virgin vein of gold a bride, 
 
 Who made new home for him bereft of home. 
 
 The cottage by the church has now been given 
 To Susan Dean ; for May will never part 
 From Nell her second mother, who remains 
 At Morland Hall, and by her own desire 
 Inhabits there the same old nursery 
 Where Geraldine she reared.
 
 LADY MAY. 109 
 
 A bright May morn 
 
 Again bursts forth in beauty o'er the vale ; 
 Again a joyous peal sounds cheerily 
 From out the belfry towers. Its shadow lies 
 In tender purples o'er the village street, 
 Where meet the folks in holiday attire, 
 And with expectant faces, greetings give. 
 Triumphal arches decorated gleam 
 At intervals along the winding road, 
 While Mayday garlands float upon the breeze, 
 And banners with the shield of the Adares. 
 A gay procession winds adown the vale ; 
 Bright colours glimmer through the trees, and crowds 
 Of villagers, with thrilling shouts exclaim, 
 " Long life to Claude Adare and Lady May." 
 And Nelly Rolfe, the upright hearty dame 
 Of fourscore years and ten, is also there, 
 Thankful to see her darling's grandchild wed 
 The best and noblest of the ancient race. 
 
 PRINTED BY BICHARDBON AND SON, DERBY.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 GAYLORD
 
 A 000 686 055 5
 
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