X. ST. AGNES' EVE.
The Old Year—St. Agnes—Keats' Poem—The Circlet of
Pearls—A Cloud—The Promise—Mrs. Snarle continues
her Knitting.
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die:
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you must not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day,
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true love,
And the new year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go:
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.
He frothed his bumpers to the brim:
A jollier year we shall not see;
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die:
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.
Alfred Tennyson.
The Old Year had just gone by—the dear, sad
Old Year! He died in the blustering wind, out in
the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned,
and died! Something has gone with thee, Old
Year, which will never come again: kind words,
sweet smiles, warm lips—ah, no, they will never
come again! Hold them near your heart for love
of us, Old Year! They came with you, they went
with you! Kyrie elyson!
“I wish you could tarry with us,” said
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
Mortimer. “You were kind to us, merry and sad with
us.” And he repeated the lines,
“Old year, you shall not die:
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.”
“To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I
sell my prose sketch to Filberty's Magazine, I'll be
in a good humor to read you Keats' poem.”
Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had
entirely supported himself with his pen. His piquant
paragraphs and touching verses over the signature
of “Il Penseroso,” had attracted some attention;
and he found but little difficulty in disposing of
his articles, at starving prices, it is true; but he
bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had
been so occupied in writing short stories and essays,
that his romance, which lacked but one chapter of
completion, was still unfinished.
Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for
the “prose article,” that he could afford to devote
himself to a task which did not promise immediate
profit. He completed the novel at sundown that
day; and after supper Daisy reminded him of his
promise to read Keats' “Eve of St. Agnes.”
“I sometimes think,” said Mortimer, as good Mrs.
Snarle seated herself in a low rocking-chair,
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
preparatory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at his
feet, “I sometimes think that this poem is the most
exquisite definition of one phase of poetry in our
language. Musical rythm, imperial words, gorgeous
color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated
in it. And the story itself is so touching that it
would be poetical even if narrated in the plainest
prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then, worked
out with all the richness of that sweetest poet,
who, in intricate verbal music and dreamy imagery,
stands almost alone!”
Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and
the whole posé of her form was one of profound
attention.
She was fast asleep.
The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless
fingers; and Pinky, the kitten, was `spinning
a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs.
Snarle's lap.
“Who was St. Agnes?” asked Daisy.
“She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for
her religious views during the persecution of the
Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian.
But let us read the poem, which will make her more
immortal than her heroism.”
Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched
the verse with new music for Daisy's ears. Now
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the
old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night
air,
“While his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven.”
Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he
came to the place where Porphyro, concealed, beholds
Madeline as she disrobes:
“Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.”
“How few poets know how to handle color!” said
Mortimer. “Azure, red, orange, and all poetic hues
are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered rain-bow!
But how artist-like is Keats! His famous
window scene has not been surpassed:
“A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints and dim emblazonings,
A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon:
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,
Save wings, for heaven!”
“Is it not exquisite?” asked Mortimer, looking
in Daisy's face.
She nodded assent.
Mortimer fixed his eyes on a pearl necklace
which gently clasped the girl's neck, and started.
The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and
fell like two full white roses in the wind.
“Where did you get that?” and Mortimer laid
his hand on her arm nervously.
“It was a freak,” said Daisy, blushing. “Are
you angry?”
“Not angry, Daisy.”
“But you look so.”
“Do I? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see
that necklace.”
“It was Bell's, then?”
“Yes—no—don't ask me, Daisy.”
“Why?”
A shadow came over Mortimer's face.
That morning Daisy had been tempted to open
the morocco case, and a desire to clasp the white
necklace on her neck became irresistible. Something
drew her to it, and the same feeling of
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
mystery and longing which stole on her when she first
held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was
sleeping, overpowered her. Almost unconsciously
she fastened the gold clasp, and when the little
cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew
lighter, and she went over the house singing like a
canary. She wore it the whole day, pausing at
times in her household duties to admire the pearls.
After a while she forgot its existence, and her intention
to replace it before Mortimer returned.
When Mortimer's eye caught sight of the necklace,
Daisy was much embarrassed, for she could, in
no intelligible way, account for having taken it.
Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly
become possessed of the ornament, and saw no
means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint
without acknowledging that he had also taken the
check. He dreaded to make so humiliating a confession,
and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear of
Mr. Flint's anger. The circumstance had caused
him many moments of anxiety, and an unpleasant
thought came to him, as he saw the purloined necklace
on Daisy's innocent bosom.
“But you are angry?” said Daisy, looking up
with dimmed eyes.
“No, pet.”
“Then you will kiss me?” said Daisy, in a most
winning way.
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
Mortimer did what almost every one would have
done “in the premises”—an act which was quite
sufficient to make one break that part of the commandment
which refers to envy. Surely a man
would be inhuman not to, having once seen Daisy
Snarle!
“I am not angry, but pained; I cannot tell you
why. I wish you to promise me something.”
“I will. What is it?”
“That you will not doubt me, whatever may
occur in connection with this necklace—that you
will love me, though I may be unable to explain
condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of
others.”
“I promise that. But how strange,” thought
Daisy. “I am sorry that I was so childish as to
take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and
forget that I did so.”
Mortimer's cheerfulness returned, and he commenced
reading the poem at the place where he
had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the
last verse, telling how, ages long ago,
“The lovers fled away into the storm,”
Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knitting
as though she had been doing nothing else the
whole evening—a harmless subterfuge peculiar to
old people.
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 1836-1907 [1857], Daisy's necklace: and what came of it (A literary episode). (Derby & Jackson, New York) [word count] [eaf446T].
