Under The Rose

'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'     Oh the rose of keenest thorn!     One hidden summer morn     Under the rose I was born.     I do not guess his name     Who wrought my Mother's shame,     And gave me life forlorn,     But my Mother, Mother, Mother,     I know her from all other.     My Mother pale and mild,     Fair as ever was seen,     She was but scarce sixteen,     Little more than a child,     When I was born     To work her scorn.     With secret bitter throes,     In a passion of secret woes,     She bore me under the rose.     One who my Mother nursed     Took me from the first: -     'O nurse, let me look upon     This babe that costs so dear;     To-morrow she will be gone:     Other mothers may keep     Their babes awake and asleep,     But I must not keep her here.' -     Whether I know or guess,     I know this not the less.     So I was sent away     That none might spy the truth:     And my childhood waxed to youth     And I left off childish play.     I never cared to play     With the village boys and girls;     And I think they thought me proud,     I found so little to say     And kept so from the crowd:     But I had the longest curls     And I had the largest eyes     And my teeth were small like pearls;     The girls might flout and scout me,     But the boys would hang about me     In sheepish mooning wise.     Our one-street village stood     A long mile from the town,     A mile of windy down     And bleak one-sided wood,     With not a single house.     Our town itself was small,     With just the common shops,     And throve in its small way.     Our neighbouring gentry reared     The good old-fashioned crops,     And made old-fashioned boasts     Of what John Bull would do     If Frenchman Frog appeared,     And drank old-fashioned toasts,     And made old-fashioned bows     To my Lady at the Hall.     My Lady at the Hall     Is grander than they all:     Hers is the oldest name     In all the neighbourhood;     But the race must die with her     Though she's a lofty dame,     For she's unmarried still.     Poor people say she's good     And has an open hand     As any in the land,     And she's the comforter     Of many sick and sad;     My nurse once said to me     That everything she had     Came of my Lady's bounty:     'Though she's greatest in the county     She's humble to the poor,     No beggar seeks her door     But finds help presently.     I pray both night and day     For her, and you must pray:     But she'll never feel distress     If needy folk can bless.'     I was a little maid     When here we came to live     From somewhere by the sea.     Men spoke a foreign tongue     There where we used to be     When I was merry and young,     Too young to feel afraid;     The fisher folk would give     A kind strange word to me,     There by the foreign sea:     I don't know where it was,     But I remember still     Our cottage on a hill,     And fields of flowering grass     On that fair foreign shore.     I liked my old home best,     But this was pleasant too:     So here we made our nest     And here I grew.     And now and then my Lady     In riding past our door     Would nod to Nurse and speak,     Or stoop and pat my cheek;     And I was always ready     To hold the field-gate wide     For my Lady to go through;     My Lady in her veil     So seldom put aside,     My Lady grave and pale.     I often sat to wonder     Who might my parents be,     For I knew of something under     My simple-seeming state.     Nurse never talked to me     Of mother or of father,     But watched me early and late     With kind suspicious cares:     Or not suspicious, rather     Anxious, as if she knew     Some secret I might gather     And smart for unawares.     Thus I grew.     But Nurse waxed old and grey,     Bent and weak with years.     There came a certain day     That she lay upon her bed     Shaking her palsied head,     With words she gasped to say     Which had to stay unsaid.     Then with a jerking hand     Held out so piteously     She gave a ring to me     Of gold wrought curiously,     A ring which she had worn     Since the day I was born,     She once had said to me:     I slipped it on my finger;     Her eyes were keen to linger     On my hand that slipped it on;     Then she sighed one rattling sigh     And stared on with sightless eye: -     The one who loved me was gone.     How long I stayed alone     With the corpse I never knew,     For I fainted dead as stone:     When I came to life once more     I was down upon the floor,     With neighbours making ado     To bring me back to life.     I heard the sexton's wife     Say: 'Up, my lad, and run     To tell it at the Hall;     She was my Lady's nurse,     And done can't be undone.     I'll watch by this poor lamb.     I guess my Lady's purse     Is always open to such:     I'd run up on my crutch     A cripple as I am,'     (For cramps had vexed her much)     'Rather than this dear heart     Lack one to take her part.'     For days day after day     On my weary bed I lay     Wishing the time would pass;     Oh, so wishing that I was     Likely to pass away:     For the one friend whom I knew     Was dead, I knew no other,     Neither father nor mother;     And I, what should I do?     One day the sexton's wife     Said: 'Rouse yourself, my dear:     My Lady has driven down     From the Hall into the town,     And we think she's coming here.     Cheer up, for life is life.'     But I would not look or speak,     Would not cheer up at all.     My tears were like to fall,     So I turned round to the wall     And hid my hollow cheek     Making as if I slept,     As silent as a stone,     And no one knew I wept.     What was my Lady to me,     The grand lady from the Hall?     She might come, or stay away,     I was sick at heart that day:     The whole world seemed to be     Nothing, just nothing to me,     For aught that I could see.     Yet I listened where I lay:     A bustle came below,     A clear voice said: 'I know;     I will see her first alone,     It may be less of a shock     If she's so weak to-day:' -     A light hand turned the lock,     A light step crossed the floor,     One sat beside my bed:     But never a word she said.     For me, my shyness grew     Each moment more and more:     So I said never a word     And neither looked nor stirred;     I think she must have heard     My heart go pit-a-pat:     Thus I lay, my Lady sat,     More than a mortal hour -     (I counted one and two     By the house-clock while I lay):     I seemed to have no power     To think of a thing to say,     Or do what I ought to do,     Or rouse myself to a choice.     At last she said: 'Margaret,     Won't you even look at me?'     A something in her voice     Forced my tears to fall at last,     Forced sobs from me thick and fast;     Something not of the past,     Yet stirring memory;     A something new, and yet     Not new, too sweet to last,     Which I never can forget.     I turned and stared at her:     Her cheek showed hollow-pale;     Her hair like mine was fair,     A wonderful fall of hair     That screened her like a veil;     But her height was statelier,     Her eyes had depth more deep;     I think they must have had     Always a something sad,     Unless they were asleep.     While I stared, my Lady took     My hand in her spare hand     Jewelled and soft and grand,     And looked with a long long look     Of hunger in my face;     As if she tried to trace     Features she ought to know,     And half hoped, half feared, to find.     Whatever was in her mind     She heaved a sigh at last,     And began to talk to me.     'Your nurse was my dear nurse,     And her nursling's dear,' said she:     'I never knew that she was worse     Till her poor life was past'     (Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):     'I might have been with her,     But she had no comforter.     She might have told me much     Which now I shall never know,     Never never shall know.'     She sat by me sobbing so,     And seemed so woe-begone,     That I laid one hand upon     Hers with a timid touch,     Scarce thinking what I did,     Not knowing what to say:     That moment her face was hid     In the pillow close by mine,     Her arm was flung over me,     She hugged me, sobbing so     As if her heart would break,     And kissed me where I lay.     After this she often came     To bring me fruit or wine,     Or sometimes hothouse flowers.     And at nights I lay awake     Often and often thinking     What to do for her sake.     Wet or dry it was the same:     She would come in at all hours,     Set me eating and drinking     And say I must grow strong;     At last the day seemed long     And home seemed scarcely home     If she did not come.     Well, I grew strong again:     In time of primroses,     I went to pluck them in the lane;     In time of nestling birds,     I heard them chirping round the house;     And all the herds     Were out at grass when I grew strong,     And days were waxen long,     And there was work for bees     Among the May-bush boughs,     And I had shot up tall,     And life felt after all     Pleasant, and not so long     When I grew strong.     I was going to the Hall     To be my Lady's maid:     'Her little friend,' she said to me,     'Almost her child,'     She said and smiled     Sighing painfully;     Blushing, with a second flush     As if she blushed to blush.     Friend, servant, child: just this     My standing at the Hall;     The other servants call me 'Miss,'     My Lady calls me 'Margaret,'     With her clear voice musical.     She never chides when I forget     This or that; she never chides.     Except when people come to stay,     (And that's not often) at the Hall,     I sit with her all day     And ride out when she rides.     She sings to me and makes me sing;     Sometimes I read to her,     Sometimes we merely sit and talk.     She noticed once my ring     And made me tell its history:     That evening in our garden walk     She said she should infer     The ring had been my father's first,     Then my mother's, given for me     To the nurse who nursed     My mother in her misery,     That so quite certainly     Some one might know me, who...     Then she was silent, and I too.     I hate when people come:     The women speak and stare     And mean to be so civil.     This one will stroke my hair,     That one will pat my cheek     And praise my Lady's kindness,     Expecting me to speak;     I like the proud ones best     Who sit as struck with blindness,     As if I wasn't there.     But if any gentleman     Is staying at the Hall     (Though few come prying here),     My Lady seems to fear     Some downright dreadful evil,     And makes me keep my room     As closely as she can:     So I hate when people come,     It is so troublesome.     In spite of all her care,     Sometimes to keep alive     I sometimes do contrive     To get out in the grounds     For a whiff of wholesome air,     Under the rose you know:     It's charming to break bounds,     Stolen waters are sweet,     And what's the good of feet     If for days they mustn't go?     Give me a longer tether,     Or I may break from it.     Now I have eyes and ears     And just some little wit:     'Almost my Lady's child;'     I recollect she smiled,     Sighed and blushed together;     Then her story of the ring     Sounds not improbable,     She told it me so well     It seemed the actual thing: -     Oh, keep your counsel close,     But I guess under the rose,     In long past summer weather     When the world was blossoming,     And the rose upon its thorn:     I guess not who he was     Flawed honour like a glass,     And made my life forlorn,     But my Mother, Mother, Mother,     Oh, I know her from all other.     My Lady, you might trust     Your daughter with your fame.     Trust me, I would not shame     Our honourable name,     For I have noble blood     Though I was bred in dust     And brought up in the mud.     I will not press my claim,     Just leave me where you will:     But you might trust your daughter,     For blood is thicker than water     And you're my mother still.     So my Lady holds her own     With condescending grace,     and fills her lofty place     With an untroubled face     As a queen may fill a throne.     While I could hint a tale -     (But then I am her child) -     Would make her quail;     Would set her in the dust,     Lorn with no comforter,     Her glorious hair defiled     And ashes on her cheek:     The decent world would thrust     Its finger out at her,     Not much displeased I think     To make a nine days' stir;     The decent world would sink     Its voice to speak of her.     Now this is what I mean     To do, no more, no less:     Never to speak, or show     Bare sign of what I know.     Let the blot pass unseen;     Yea, let her never guess     I hold the tangled clue     She huddles out of view.     Friend, servant, almost child,     So be it and nothing more     On this side of the grave.     Mother, in Paradise,     You'll see with clearer eyes;     Perhaps in this world even     When you are like to die     And face to face with Heaven     You'll drop for once the lie:     But you must drop the mask, not I.     My Lady promises     Two hundred pounds with me     Whenever I may wed     A man she can approve:     And since besides her bounty     I'm fairest in the county     (For so I've heard it said,     Though I don't vouch for this),     Her promised pounds may move     Some honest man to see     My virtues and my beauties;     Perhaps the rising grazier,     Or temperance publican,     May claim my wifely duties.     Meanwhile I wait their leisure     And grace-bestowing pleasure,     I wait the happy man;     But if I hold my head     And pitch my expectations     Just higher than their level,     They must fall back on patience:     I may not mean to wed,     Yet I'll be civil.     Now sometimes in a dream     My heart goes out of me     To build and scheme,     Till I sob after things that seem     So pleasant in a dream:     A home such as I see     My blessed neighbours live in     With father and with mother,     All proud of one another,     Named by one common name     From baby in the bud     To full-blown workman father;     It's little short of Heaven.     I'd give my gentle blood     To wash my special shame     And drown my private grudge;     I'd toil and moil much rather     The dingiest cottage drudge     Whose mother need not blush,     Than live here like a lady     And see my Mother flush     And hear her voice unsteady     Sometimes, yet never dare     Ask to share her care.     Of course the servants sneer     Behind my back at me;     Of course the village girls,     Who envy me my curls     And gowns and idleness,     Take comfort in a jeer;     Of course the ladies guess     Just so much of my history     As points the emphatic stress     With which they laud my Lady;     The gentlemen who catch     A casual glimpse of me     And turn again to see,     Their valets on the watch     To speak a word with me,     All know and sting me wild;     Till I am almost ready     To wish that I were dead,     No faces more to see,     No more words to be said,     My Mother safe at last     Disburdened of her child,     And the past past.     'All equal before God' -     Our Rector has it so,     And sundry sleepers nod:     It may be so; I know     All are not equal here,     And when the sleepers wake     They make a difference.     'All equal in the grave' -     That shows an obvious sense:     Yet something which I crave     Not death itself brings near;     Now should death half atone     For all my past; or make     The name I bear my own?     I love my dear old Nurse     Who loved me without gains;     I love my mistress even,     Friend, Mother, what you will:     But I could almost curse     My Father for his pains;     And sometimes at my prayer     Kneeling in sight of Heaven     I almost curse him still:     Why did he set his snare     To catch at unaware     My Mother's foolish youth;     Load me with shame that's hers,     And her with something worse,     A lifelong lie for truth?     I think my mind is fixed     On one point and made up:     To accept my lot unmixed;     Never to drug the cup     But drink it by myself.     I'll not be wooed for pelf;     I'll not blot out my shame     With any man's good name;     But nameless as I stand,     My hand is my own hand,     And nameless as I came     I go to the dark land.     'All equal in the grave' -     I bide my time till then:     'All equal before God' -     To-day I feel His rod,     To-morrow He may save:             Amen.