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Page 15
AND Gervase only thought
of Lota, lived
In a long search for her. At morn he thought
"Will she not let me know to-day?" at night,
"Well, it will be to-morrow:" till at last,
Like some sad watcher by a sick man's bed,
Who, having hoped too much, droops suddenly
Into a blind despair and turns averse
From any comfort, he, at one new touch
Of disappointment, instantly fell numb
And sullen in his heart. "Vain, vain, and vain!
Why do I seek her? She has found some home
Dearer to her than mine would be." And yet
He did not cease to seek her. But it was
The weary task of him who will still seek
Along a great sea-shore for one he saw
Drift out upon the tide a week ago.
"Not mine, if I should find her - no not mine!
Or else no bitterest pride could make her kill
My life and hers with silence for some taunts
Which are no guilt of mine. Yet I must seek,
Lest she should be at buffets with the world;
Too rough a game, poor darling, for your strength,
Whatever fault the woman knows of you,
Who talked of histories." And sometimes he
Would ask "Had she been fettered in her youth
By some rash troth, made at her fathers will,
Obeyed now, for his sake, too faithfully?"
And ofttimes he would dream her fervid mind,
That kept a subtle breath from foreign lands
Of faith unprotestant, as garments keep
A clinging sense of the rich incense mist,
Had hurried her to some wild saintly vow
Of maiden-living or, (so rash she was
To any impulse), even of convent bonds.
But never could he picture any chance
Upon her life, nor purpose set in view,
Nor bait, nor bugbear, hurrying her flight,
Which could show baseness in her. She remained
To him the same sweet April blossom, touched
With sun and rain by turns, danced in the wind
Of a gusty springtime; but in sun or rain
Or flickering shadows of the windy days,
Glowing in light or glimmering in shade,
Still perfect to its natural pure tints,
White at the core and rosy in the blush.
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