I was with my lady when she died:
I it was who guided her weak hand For a blessing on each little head,Laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.
And I drew them round my knee that night,Hushed their childish glee,and made them say They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears Lest the thought of her should fade away.
I,who guessed what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still,cold face,That her children's hearts,at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.
And I knew so much!for I had lived With my lady since her childhood:known What her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen I had watched and sorrowed for alone.
Ah!she once had such a happy smile!
I had known how sorely she was tried:
Six short years before,her eyes were bright As her little blue-eyed May's that night,When she stood by her dead mother's side.
No--I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave--perhaps,in truth,Could not weave her joyous,smiling youth,Into all his stern and serious ways.
She,who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honour,as in grace,-She,whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all--she found Change indeed in that cold,stately place.
Yet she would not blame him,even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,"Let my babies still remain my own!"I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife's face.That test Seemed to strike right to his heart.He said,In a strange,low whisper,to the dead,"God knows,love,I did it for the best!"And he wept--Oh yes,I will be just -
When I brought the children to him there -
Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;
And he soothed them with his fond replies,Bidding me give double love and care.
Ah,I loved them well for her dear sake:
Little Arthur,with his serious air;
May,with all her mother's pretty ways,Blushing,and at any word of praise Shaking out her sunny golden hair.
And the little one of all--poor child!
She had cost that dear and precious life.
Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady's name,When the baby's gloomy christening came,And he called her "Olga--like my wife!"Save that time,he never spoke of her;
He grew graver,sterner,every day;
And the children felt it,for they dropped Low their voices,and their laughter stopped While he stood and watched them at their play.
No,he never named their mother's name.
But I told them of her:told them all She had been;so gentle,good,and bright;And I always took them every night Where her picture hung in the great hall.
There she stood:white daisies in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speak With a smile;the blue and sunny air Seemed to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.
Well,so time passed on;a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away.
Then the news came!I shed many tears When I saw the truth of all my fears Rise before me on that bitter day.
Any one but her I could have borne!
But my lady loved her as her friend.
Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truth Of this friendship that would never end!
Older,graver than my lady was,Whose young,gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice,and praise,and blame,And my lady leant on Margaret's name,As her dearest comfort,help,and guide.
I had never liked her,and I think That my lady grew to doubt her too,Since her marriage;for she named her less,Never saw her,and I used to guess At some secret wrong I never knew.
That might be or not.But now,to hear She would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendour of a bride:
Would no thought reproach her in her pride With the silent memory of the dead?
So,the day came,and the bells rang out,And I laid the children's black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand They must greet their father's new-made bride.
Ah,Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady's eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,-Little Arthur hid his face,and May Would not raise her eyes,or speak to him.
When Sir Arthur bade them greet their "mother,"I was forced to chide,yet proud to hear How my little loving May replied,With her mother's pretty air of pride,-"Our dear mother has been dead a year!"
Ah,the lady's tears might well fall fast,As she kissed them,and then turned away.
She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regret Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.
She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
For she used to linger day by day,By the nursery door,or garden gate,With a sad,calm,wistful look,and wait Watching the three children at their play.
But they always shrank away from her When she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave,cold silence to beguile:
