'Oh! thine be the gladness--and mine be the Guilt!

Forgive me--adored one--forsake if thou wilt-- But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And Man shall not break it whatever _thou_ mayst.

'Oh! proud to the mighty--but humble to thee This soul in its bitterest moment shall be, And our days glide as swift--and our moments more sweet With thee at my side--than the world at my feet.

'One tear of thy sorrow--one smile of thy love-- Shall turn me or fix--shall reward or reprove-- And the heartless may wonder at all I resign: Thy lip shall reply--not to them--but to mine.'

These verses were not published until Byron had been five years in his grave. They tell the story plainly, and the ma.n.u.script in Mr. Murray's possession speaks plainer still. Before Byron gave the ma.n.u.script to his wife, he erased the following lines:

'We have loved--and oh! still, my adored one, we love!'

'Oh! the moment is past when that pa.s.sion might cease.'

'But I cannot repent what we ne'er can recall.'

After Medora's birth Byron became more and more dejected, and on April 29 he wrote a remarkable letter to Murray, enclosing a draft to redeem the copyrights of his poems, and releasing Murray from his engagement to pay 1,000, agreed on for 'The Giaour' and 'The Bride of Abydos.' Byron was evidently afraid that Mr. Chaworth Musters would discover the truth, and that a duel and disgrace would be the inevitable consequence.

'_If any accident occurs to me_, you may do then as you please; but, with the exception of two copies of each for _yourself_ only, I expect and request that the advertis.e.m.e.nts be withdrawn, and the remaining copies of _all_ destroyed; and any expense so incurred I will be glad to defray. For all this it may be well to a.s.sign some reason. I have none to give except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circ.u.mstance of consequence enough to require explanation. Of course, I need hardly a.s.sure you that they never shall be published with my consent, directly or indirectly, by any other person whatsoever, and that I am perfectly satisfied, and have every reason so to be, with your conduct in all transactions between us, as publisher and author.

It will give me great pleasure to preserve your acquaintance, and to consider you as my friend.'

Two days later Byron seems to have conquered his immediate apprehensions, and, in reply to an appeal from Murray, writes:

'If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter; tear my draft, and go on as usual: in that case we will recur to our former basis. That _I_ was perfectly _serious_ in wishing to suppress all future publication is true; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more particularly your own. _Some day I will tell you the reason of this apparently strange resolution._'

It had evidently dawned on Byron's mind that a sudden suppression of his poems would have aroused public curiosity, and that a motive for his action would either have been found or invented. This would have been fatal to all concerned. If trouble were to come, it would be wiser not to meet it halfway. Happily, the birth of Medora pa.s.sed unnoticed.

As time wore on, Byron's hopes that Mary would relent grew apace. But he was doomed to disappointment. Mary Chaworth had the courage and the wisdom to crush a love so disastrous to both. Byron in his blindness reproached her:

'Thou art not false, but thou art fickle.'

He tells her that he would despise her if she were false; but he knows that her love is sincere:

'When _she_ can change who loved so truly!'

'Ah! sure such grief is _Fancy's_ scheming, And all the Change can be but dreaming!'

He could not believe that her resolve was serious. Time taught him better.

Love died, and friendship took its place. The same love that tempted her to sin was that true love that works out its redemption.

Between April 15 and 21, 1816, before signing the deed of separation, Byron went into the country to take leave of Mary Chaworth. It was their last meeting, and the parting must have been a sad one. The hopes that Mary had formed for his peace and happiness in marriage had suddenly been dashed to the ground. And now he was about to leave England under a cloud, which threatened for a time to overwhelm them both. A terrible anxiety as to the issue of investigations, which were being made into his conduct previous to and during his marriage, oppressed her with the gravest apprehension. Everything seemed to depend upon the silence both of Byron and Augusta. Under this awful strain the mind of Mary Chaworth was flickering towards collapse. By the following verses, which must have been written soon after their final meeting, we find Byron,

'Seared in heart--and lone--and blighted,'

reproaching, with a lover's injustice, the woman he adored, for that act of renunciation which, under happier auspices, might have proved his own salvation:

I.

'When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

II.

'The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

III.

'They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me-- Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

IV.

'In secret we met-- In silence I grieve, _That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive_.

If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.'

In the first draft Byron had written, after the second verse, the following words:

'_Our secret lies hidden, But never forgot._'

In 'Fare Thee Well,' written on March 17, 1816, there are only four lines which have any bearing on the point under consideration.

Byron tells his wife that if she really knew the truth, if every inmost thought of his breast were bared before her, she would _not_ have forsaken him.

That is true. Lady Byron might, in time, have forgiven everything if the doctors had been able to declare that her husband was not wholly accountable for his actions. But when they p.r.o.nounced him to be of sound mind, and, as will be seen presently, she subsequently convinced herself that he had committed, and might even then be committing adultery with his sister under her own roof, she resolved never again to place herself in his power. If, in the early stages of disagreement, without betraying Mary Chaworth, it could have been avowed that Mrs. Leigh _was not the mother of Medora_, Lady Byron might not have seen in her husband's strange conduct towards herself 'signs of a deep remorse.' She would certainly have been far more patient under suffering, and the separation might have been avoided. But this avowal was impracticable. Augusta had committed herself too far for that, and the idle gossip of her servants _subsequently_ convinced Lady Byron that Byron was the father of Augusta's child. It is clear that neither Augusta nor Byron made any attempts to remove those suspicions; in fact, they acted in a manner most certain to confirm them.

Whether the secret, which they had pledged themselves to keep, could long have been withheld from Lady Byron, if matters had been patched up, is doubtful. Meanwhile, as everything depended on _premat nox alta_, they dared not risk even a partial avowal of the truth.

The separation was inevitable, and in this case it was eternal. It is hard to believe that there had ever been any real love on either side. Under these circ.u.mstances we feel sure that any attempts at reconciliation would have ended disastrously for both. Byron's love for Mary Chaworth was strong as death. Many waters could not have quenched it, 'neither could the floods drown it.'

The last verses written by Byron before he left England for ever were addressed to his sister. The deed of separation had been signed, and Augusta Leigh, who had stood at his side in those dark hours when all the world had forsaken him, was about to leave London.

'When all around grew drear and dark, And Reason half withheld her ray-- And Hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my lonely way; When Fortune changed, and Love fled far, And Hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star Which rose, and set not to the last.

And when the cloud upon us came _Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray_-- Then purer spread its gentle flame And dashed the darkness all away.

Still may thy Spirit dwell on mine, _And teach it what to brave or brook_-- There's more in one soft word of thine Than in the world's defied rebuke.

_Then let the ties of baffled love Be broken_--thine will never break; Thy heart can feel.'

These ingenuous words show that Byron's affection for his sister, and his grat.i.tude for her loyalty, were both deep and sincere. If, as Lord Lovelace a.s.serts, Byron had been her lover, we know enough of his character to be certain that he would never have written these lines. He was not a hypocrite--far from it--and it was foreign to his naturally combative nature to attempt to conciliate public opinion. These lines were written _currente calamo_, and are only interesting to us on account of the light they cast upon the situation at the time of the separation.

Evidently Byron had heard a rumour of the baseless charge that was afterwards openly made. He reminds Augusta that a cloud threatened to darken her existence, but the bright rays of her purity dispelled it. He hopes that even in absence she will guide and direct him as in the past; and he compliments her by saying that one word from her had more influence over him than the whole world's censure. Although his love-episode with Mary was over, yet so long as Augusta loves him he will still have something to live for, as she alone can feel for him and understand his position.

In speaking of his sister, in the third canto of 'Childe Harold,' he says:

'For there was soft Remembrance, _and sweet Trust_ In one fond breast, to which his own would melt.'

'_And he had learned to love_--I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood-- _The helpless looks of blooming Infancy_, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipped affections have to grow, In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.'

If these words bear any significance, Byron must mean that, since the preceding canto of 'Childe Harold' was written, he had formed (learned to love) a strong attachment to some child, and, in spite of absence, this affection still glowed. That child may possibly have been Ada, as the opening lines seem to suggest. But this is not quite certain. According to Lord Lovelace, Byron never saw his child after January 3, 1816, when the babe was only twenty-four days old. Byron himself states that it was not granted to him 'to watch her dawn of little joys, or hold her lightly on his knee, and print on her soft cheek a parent's kiss.' All this, he tells us, 'was in his nature,' but was denied to him. His sole consolation was the hope that some day Ada would learn to love him. On the other hand, the child mentioned in 'Childe Harold' had won his love by means which 'it little boots to know.' If Byron had alluded to his daughter Ada, there need have been no ambiguity. Possibly the child here indicated may have been little Medora, then three years old, with whom he had often played, and who was then living with that sister of 'Soft Remembrance and sweet Trust.'