*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54017 *** TWO WOMEN. TWO WOMEN: 1862. _A POEM._ BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. (REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.) NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 549 AND 551 BROADWAY. 1877. COPYRIGHT BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 1877. TWO WOMEN. 1862. _ONE._ Through miles of green cornfields that lusty And strong face the sun and rejoice In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty With pollen from flowers of their choice, ’Mong myriads down by the river Who offer their honey, the train Flies south with a whir and a shiver, Flies south through the lowlands that quiver With ripening grain-- Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, Who bends to the breeze, while the corn Held stiff all his stubborn green lances The moment his curled leaf was born; And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping The shores of the river whose tide-- Slow moving, brown tide--holds the keeping Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, Couched lions, each side. Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded, Blue innocent maidenly eyes, That gaze at the lawless rough-handed Young soldiers with grieving surprise At oaths on their lips, the deriding And jestings that load every breath, While on with dread swiftness are gliding Their moments, and o’er them is biding The shadow of death! Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender Small maiden with calm, home-bred air; No deep-tinted hues you might lend her Could touch the faint gold of her hair, The blue of her eyes, or the neatness Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun From threads of soft gray, whose completeness Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness-- A lily turned nun. Ohio shines on to her border, Ohio all golden with grain; The river comes up at her order, And curves toward the incoming train; “The river! The river! O borrow A speed that is swifter-- Afar Kentucky! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow!” Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow, The anguish of war. _THE OTHER._ West from the Capital’s crowded throng The fiery engine rushed along, Over the road where danger lay On each bridge and curve of the midnight way, Shooting across the rivers’ laps, Up the mountains, into the gaps, Through West Virginia like the wind, Fire and sword coming on behind, Whistling defiance that echoed back To mountain guerrillas burning the track, “Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do To the train that follows, but _I_ go through!” A motley crowd--the city thief; The man of God; the polished chief Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy; The correspondent with quick, sharp eye; The speculator who boldly made His fifty per cent. in a driving trade At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk Sent West for sanitary work; The bounty-jumper; the lordling born Viewing the country with wondering scorn-- A strange assemblage filled the car That dared the midnight border-band, Where life and death went hand-in-hand Those strange and breathless days of war. The conductor’s lantern moves along, Slowly lighting the motley throng Face by face; what sudden gleam Flashes back in the lantern’s beam Through shadows down at the rearward door? The conductor pauses; all eyes explore The darkened corner: a woman’s face Thrown back asleep--the shimmer of lace, The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold, The flash of jewels, the careless fold Of an India shawl that half concealed The curves superb which the light revealed; A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm, A perfect hand that lay soft and warm On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare Of a Milo Venus slumbered there ’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold Subordinate seemed--unnoticed mould For the form beneath. The sumptuous grace Of the careless pose, the sleeping face, Transfixed all eyes, and together drew One and all for a nearer view: The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod On the heels of the gazing man of God; The correspondent took out his book, Sharpened his pencil with eager look; The soldiers fought as to who should pass The first; the lord peered through his glass, But no sooner saw the sleeping face Than he too hasted and left his place To join the crowd. Then, ere any spoke, But all eager gazed, the lady woke. Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes, Lifted up in soft surprise, A wealth of hair of auburn red, Falling in braids from the regal head Whose little hat with waving plume Lay on the floor--while a faint perfume, The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed, Tangled within the loosened braid; Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin Creamy pallid, the red within Mixed with brown where the shadow lies Dark beneath the lustrous eyes. She smiles; all hearts are at her feet. She turns; each hastens to his seat. The car is changed to a sacred place Lighted by one fair woman’s face; In sudden silence on they ride, The lord and the gambler, side by side, The traitor spy, the priest as well, Bound for the time by a common spell, And each might be in thought and mien A loyal knight escorting his queen, So instant and so measureless Is the power of a perfect loveliness. _THE MEETING._ The Western city with the Roman name, The vine-decked river winding round the hills, Are left behind; the pearly maid who came Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea, Is riding southward on the cautious train, That feels its way along, and nervously Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge, Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge-- The wild adventurous cavalry campaign That Morgan and his men, bold riders all, Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years, So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears, That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall, When men in city offices feel yet The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!” The dashing raid they cannot quite forget Despite the hasty graves that silent lie Along its route; at home the women sigh, Gazing across the still untrodden ways, Across the fields, across the lonely moor, “O for the breathless ardor of those days When we were all so happy, though so poor!” The maiden sits alone; The raw recruits are scattered through the car, Talking of all the splendors of the war, With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone. In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view, Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew, She shines among them in her radiance pure, Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure They’re very wicked--hoping that the day Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away, And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies, To the far farm-house where her lover lies, Wounded--alone. The rattling speed turns slow, Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go, The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down; The young conductor comes--(there was a face He noted in the night)--“Madam, your place Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town We take on other soldiers. If you change Your seat and join that little lady, then It will not seem so lonely or so strange For you, as here among so many men.” Lifting her fair face from the battered seat, Where she had slumbered like a weary child, The lady, with obedience full sweet To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way; She followed in her lovely disarray. The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot, Hidden within the dainty satin boot, Dead-black against the dead-white even hue Of silken stocking, gleaming into view One moment; then the lady sleepily Adjusted with a touch her drapery, And tried to loop in place a falling braid, And smooth the rippling waves the night had made; While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane Set her bright gems to flashing back again; And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done On the night-train that brought her from afar, Over the mountains west from Washington. THE LADY (_thinking_). Haply met, This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, No doubt the pride of some small Western town:-- Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, So prim--so dull--a fashion five years old! THE MAIDEN (_thinking_). How odd, how bold, That silken robe--those waves of costly lace, That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes, Surely those diamonds are out of place-- Strange, that a lady should in such a guise Be here alone! THE LADY. Allow me, mademoiselle, Our good conductor thinks it would be well That we should keep together, since the car Will soon be overcrowded, and we are The only women.--May I have a seat In this safe little corner by your side? Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!-- That is, if yours be long? THE MAIDEN. To Benton’s Mill. THE LADY. I go beyond, not far--I think we pass Your station just before Waunona Hill; But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. Do you not love that land? THE MAIDEN. I do not know Aught of it. THE LADY. Yes; but surely you have heard Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred For victory--the rare Kentucky speed That wins the races? THE MAIDEN. Yes; I’ve heard it said They were good worthy horses.--But indeed I know not much of horses. THE LADY. Then the land-- The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand That scarce an English dukedom may surpass In velvet beauty--while its royal sweep Over the country miles and miles away, Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep Their distance from each other, proud array Of single elms that stand apart to show How gracefully their swaying branches grow, While little swells of turf roll up and fall Like waves of summer sea, and over all You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.-- But you will see it. THE MAIDEN. No; I cannot stay But a few hours--at most, a single day. THE LADY (_unheeding_). I think I like the best, Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, The Arab courser of our own new West, The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still? THE MAIDEN. I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race. THE LADY. I crave your pardon; in your gentle face I read reproof. THE MAIDEN. I judge not any man. THE LADY. Nor woman? THE MAIDEN. If you force reply, I can Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race, For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place For women--nor for men, indeed, if they Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play, The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance, The deadly poison of all games of chance-- All these are sinful. THE LADY. Ah! poor sins, how stern The judge! I knew ye not for sins--I learn For the first time that ye are evil. Go, Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe-- Alas! And David Garrick!--Where’s the harm In David? THE MAIDEN. I know not the gentleman. THE LADY. Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm, So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, _I_ weep. And must I yield my crystal glass, Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine, That makes a dreary dinner-party pass In rosy light, where after-fancies shine-- Things that one might have said?--And then the dance, The _valse à deux temps_, if your partner chance To be a lover-- THE MAIDEN. Madam, pray excuse My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse To dwell on themes like these. THE LADY. Did I begin The themes, or you? THE MAIDEN. But _I_ dwelt on the sin, And you-- THE LADY. Upon the good. Did I not well? I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle. THE MAIDEN. Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest, I bear too anxious heart within my breast; One dear to me lies wounded, and I go To find him, help him home with tender care-- To home and health, God willing. THE LADY. Is it so? Strange--but ah! no. The wounded are not rare, Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.-- But he will yet recover; I feel sure That one beloved by heart so good, so pure As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star Is fortunate. THE MAIDEN. Not in the stars, I trust. We are but wretched creatures of the dust, Sinful, and desperately wicked; still, It is in mercy our Creator’s will To hear our prayers. THE LADY. And do you then believe He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive A case: Suppose a loving mother prays For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways, Entreats his God for death with equal power And fervor. THE MAIDEN. It is wrong to pray for death. THE LADY. I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath A mother, hastening to a dying child, Prays for fair weather?--But you do not deign To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled That little, silver smile! I might explain My meaning further; but why should I shake Your happy faith? THE MAIDEN. You could not. THE LADY. Nay, that’s true; You are the kind that walks up to the stake Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue For pardon, and I pray you tell me all This tale of yours. When did your lover fall-- What battle-field? THE MAIDEN. Not any well-known name; It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame Of well-known battle should be his. A band Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land, Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way. THE LADY. Guerrillas? THE MAIDEN. Yes; John Morgan’s. THE LADY. Maybe so, And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow, Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may-- Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks Where they have been; now near, now miles away, From river lowland to the mountain-gap, Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks When _they_ ride by, no well-versed tongues betray Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own, Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass Across her borders north from Tennessee, Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass, The land of home, the land they long to see, The lovely rolling land. We might have known That come they would! THE MAIDEN. You are Kentucky-bred? THE LADY. I come from Washington. Nay--but I read The doubt you try to hide. Be frank--confess-- I am that mythical adventuress That thrives in Washington these troublous days-- The country correspondent’s tale? THE MAIDEN. Your dress-- And--something in your air-- THE LADY. I give you praise For rare sincerity. Go on. THE MAIDEN. Your tone, Your words, seem strange.--But then, I’ve never known A woman like you. THE LADY (_aside_). Yet we are not few, Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve If gray was all its color, and the dew Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste It seeks the royal purples, and draws down The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste, And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve The vine-leaves into marble. But the hue Of thoughts like these she knows not--and in vain To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain Hear her small story. (_Speaks._) Did he fall alone, Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you Came the sad news? THE MAIDEN. A farmer heard him moan While passing--bore him to the camp, and there A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard, I left my mother, ill, for in despair He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know That they had written, for hot fever drove His thoughts with whips of flame.--O cruel woe,--O my poor love-- My Willie! THE LADY. Do not grieve, fair child. This day Will see you by his side--nay, if you will, Then lay your head here--weep your grief away. Tears are a luxury--yes, take your fill; For stranger as I am, my heart is warm To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm That holds you is a loyal one and kind. (_Thinking._) O gentle maiden-mind, How lovely art thou--like the limpid brook In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look In the spring days! Thy little simple fears Are wept away. Ah! could _I_ call the tears At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart! --O beautiful lost Faith, I knew you once--but now, like shadowy wraith, You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes, And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise At the great gulf between us. Far apart, In truth, we’ve drifted--drifted. Gentle ghost Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out My eyes to live with you again. The doubt, The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth Of the strong mind--the struggle of the seed Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth Of the blind clods around it sees no need For change--nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime; “All things remain as in our fathers’ time-- What gain ye then by growing?” “Air--free air! E’en though I die of hunger and despair, I go,” the mind replies. THE MAIDEN (_thinking_). How kind, how warm Her sympathy! I could no more resist Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell With so much ill. This shining, costly dress, A garb that shows a sinful worldliness, Troubles my heart. Ah, I remember well How hard I worked after that letter came Telling of Willie--and my sisters all, How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame At traveling in house-garb. --I feel a call To bring this wanderer back into the fold, This poor lost sinner straying in the cold Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try To show her all the sad deficiency, The desperate poverty of life like hers, The utter falseness of its every breath, The pity that within my bosom stirs For thinking of the horrors after death Awaiting her? THE LADY. Quite calm, again? That’s well. Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell, This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost That mythic Asian land of Paradise For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach, Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach, Might well have tempted her. Oh, these long hours!-- Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers-- Tea-roses? THE MAIDEN. Tangled in your loosened hair Are roses. THE LADY (_thinking_). Nita must have twined them there-- The opera--I know now; I have sped So swift across the country, my poor head Is turned.--The opera? Yes; then--O heart, How hast thou bled! [_Dashes away tears._] (_Speaks._) Sweet child, I pray you tell Again your budding romance, all the part Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well, Your Willie? THE MAIDEN. Yes; in childhood we had been Two little lovers o’er the alphabet; Then one day--I had grown to just sixteen-- Down in the apple-orchard--there--we met, By chance--and-- THE LADY (_thinking_). Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek, It comforts me to see that e’en thy meek Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush. (_Speaks._) Nay, you flush So prettily! Well, must _I_ tell the rest? You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best, This gallant Willie? THE MAIDEN (_thinking_). What has come to me That I do answer, from reserve so free, This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance My confidence shall win hers in return? I must press on, nor give one backward glance-- Must follow up my gain by words that burn With charity and Christian zeal. (_Speaks._) Yes; then We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,-- And Willie joined the church; before all men He made the promises and vows which bring A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength From Heaven came to us. Could I endure This absence, silence, all the weary length Of hours and days and months, were I not sure That God was with my Willie? If on you Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true, In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears; Yield all your troubles to your God’s control, And He will bless you. Ah! where should _I_ be Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul Came first the love of God, then love for me? THE LADY. His love for you comes _second_? THE MAIDEN. Would you have A mortal love come first? THE LADY. Sweet heart, I crave Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal I thank you. Wear this gem--’twill make me feel That I am something to you when we part. But what the “silence?” THE MAIDEN. Ten months (they seem years!) Since Willie joined the army; and my heart Bore it until his letters ceased; then tears Would come--would come! THE LADY. Why should the letters cease? THE MAIDEN. I know not; I could only pray for peace, And his return. No doubt he could not write, Perplexed with many duties; his the care Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight, The new recruits are drilled. THE LADY (_thinking_). Oh, faith most rare! (_Speaks._) Had you no doubts? THE MAIDEN. Why should I doubt? We are Betrothed--the same forever, near or far! --He knew my trust Was boundless as his own. THE LADY. But still you must In reason have known something--must have heard Or else imagined-- THE MAIDEN. For three months no word Until this letter; from its page I learned That my poor Willie had but just returned To the brigade, when struck down unaware. It seems he had been three months absent. THE LADY. --Where? THE MAIDEN. They did not say. I hope to bear him home To-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come, So ill my mother, and so full my hands Of household cares; but, Willie understands. THE LADY (_thinking_). _Ciel!_ faith like this is senseless--or sublime! Which is it? (_Speaks_). But three months--so long a time-- THE MAIDEN. Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The troth We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both Our true hearts came. THE LADY (_thinking_). And may as freely go-- Such things have happened! But I will not show One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust She cherishes; as soon my hand could thrust A knife in the dove’s breast. (_Speaks._) You’ll find him, dear; All will go well; take courage. Not severe His wound? THE MAIDEN. Not unto death; but fever bound His senses. When the troops moved on, they found A kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill; And there he lies, poor Willie, up above In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill: “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”-- Here is his picture. THE LADY. What! ’tis Meredith! The girl is mad!--Give it me forthwith! How came you by it? THE MAIDEN. Madam, you will break The chain. I beg-- THE LADY. Here is some strange mistake. This picture shows me Meredith Reid. THE MAIDEN. Yes, Reid Is Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed, Is his name also--Meredith Wilmer. I Like not long names, so gave him, lovingly, The pet name Willie. THE LADY. O ye Powers above! The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chain Phœbus Apollo with your baby-love And baby-titles? Scarce can I refrain My hands from crushing you!-- You are that girl, Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the tale He tried to tell me; but it was so old, So very old! I stopped him with a curl Laid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold! Enough, enough,” I said; “of what avail The rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the same Old story of the country lad’s first flame That burns the stubble out. Now by this spell Forget it all.” He did; and it was well He did. THE MAIDEN. Never! oh, never! Though you prove The whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receive One word. As in my life, so I believe In Willie! THE LADY. Fool and blind! your God above Knows that I lie not when I say that he You dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine! He worships me--dost hear? He worships _me_, Me only! What art thou, a feeble child, That _thou_ shouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside, Lest we should drown you in the torrent wild Of our strong meeting loves, that may not bide Nor know your dying, even; feeble weed Tossed on the shore--[_The maiden faints._ Why could I not divine The truth at first? [_Fans her._ Fierce love, why shouldst thou kill This little one? The child hath done no ill, Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pour My gentlest pity-- THE MAIDEN (_recovering_). Madam, thanks; no more Do I require your aid. THE LADY (_aside_). How calm she seems, How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart. The pity of it! all its happy dreams, With a whole life’s idolatry to part In one short moment. (_Speaks._) Child, let us be friends; Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate. And now, before your hapless journey ends, Say, in sweet charity, you do not hate Me for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well; As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for him Till strong again. Then shall he come and tell The whole to you--the cup from dregs to brim-- How, with undoubting faith In the young fancy that he thought was love For you, he came a-down the glittering path Of Washington society; above The throng I saw his noble Saxon head, Sunny with curls, towering among the rest In calm security--scorn that is bred Of virtue, and that largeness which your West With its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons-- A certain careless largeness in the look, As though a thousand prairie-miles it took Within its easy range. Ah! blindly runs Our fate. We met, we two so far apart In every thought, in life, in soul, in heart-- Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe; I, dark and free; his days a routine clear, Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dream Of colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers, The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam, A cloud of romance heavy on the air, The boudoir curtained from the light of day, Where all the highest came to call me fair, And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away. Was it my fault that Nature chose to give The splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes, This creamy skin? And if the golden prize Of fortune came to me, should I not live In the rich luxury my being craved? I give my word, I no more thought of time-- Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved, Than the red rose in all her damask prime. Each day I filled with joys full to the brim-- The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace, The ecstasy of music, every whim For some new folly gratified, the grace Of statues idealized in niches, touch Of softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds much For those who love her; and I never heard In all my happy glowing life one word Against her, till--he came! We met, we loved, Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky, So sudden, strange, the white intensity-- Intensity resistless! Swift there moved Within his heart a force unknown before, That swept his being from that early faith Across a sea, and cast it on the shore Prone at my feet. He minded not if death Came, so he could but gaze upon my face. --But, bending where he lay (the youthful grace Of his strong manhood, in humility Prone, by love’s lightnings), so I bended me Down to his lips, and gave him--all! Sweet girl, Forgive me for the guiltless robbery, Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny! He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth; I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth, No barrier, had it been a thousand-fold Stronger than boyish promise, e’er could hold Natures like ours! You see it, do you not? You understand it all. --I had forgot, But this the half-way town; the train runs slow, No better place than this. But, ere you go, Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl. I ask you not to speak, for words would seem Too hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dream Of girlhood has dissolved before the heat Of real love, you will forgive me, sweet. THE MAIDEN. I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where? THE LADY. Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train; ’Twill bear you safely. To go on were pain Most needless--cruel. THE MAIDEN. I am not aware That I have said aught of returning. Vain Your false and evil story. I have heard Of such as you; but never, on my word As lady and as Christian, did I think To find myself thus side by side with one Who flaunts her ignominy on the brink Of dark perdition! Ah! my Willie won The strong heart’s victory when he turned away From your devices, as I _know_ he turned. Although you follow him in this array Of sin, I _know_ your evil smiles he spurned With virtuous contempt--the son of prayers, The young knight of the church! My bosom shares His scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go! Move from my side. THE LADY. Dear Heaven, now I know How pitiless these Christians! Unfledged girl, Your little, narrow, pharisaic pride Deserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirl Excuse might be, since that is born of love; But _this_ is scorn, and, by the God above, I’ll set you in your place! Do _you_ decide The right and wrong for this broad world of ours, Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes Veiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wise That they must judge the earth, and call it good Or evil as it follows their small rules, The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools That hang on Calvin! Doubtless prairie-flowers Esteem the hot-house roses evil all; But yet I think not that the roses should Go into mourning therefor! Oh, the small, Most small foundation for a vast conceit! Is it a merit that you never learned But one side of this life? Because you dwelt Down in a dell, there were no uplands sweet, No breezy mountain-tops? _You_ never yearned For freedom, born a slave! You never felt The thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasy Of mere existence that strong natures know, The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glow Of blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell, You said: “This is the world. If all, like me, Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!” O fool! O blind! O little ant toiling along the ground! You cannot see the eagle on the wind Soaring aloft; and so you go your round And measure out the earth with your small line, An inch for all infinity! “Thus mine Doth make the measure; thus it is.” Proud girl! You call me evil. There is not a curl In all this loosened hair which is not free From sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me! I flout you with my beauty! From my youth Beside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth, I’ve led a life as sinless as your own. Your innocence is ignorance; but I Have seen the Tempter on his shining throne, And said him nay. You craven weaklings die From fear of dangers I have faced! I hold Those lives far nobler that contend and win The close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin, Than those that go untempted to their graves, Deeming the ignorance that haply saves Their souls, some splendid wisdom of their own! You fold Yourself in scornful silence? I could smile, O childish heart, so free from worldly guile, Were I not angered by your littleness. You judge my dress The garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heard The opera; by chance there fell a word Behind me from a group of men who fill Night after night my box. My heart stood still. I asked--they told the name. “Wounded,” they said, “A letter in the journal here.” I read, Faced them with level eyes; they did not know, But wondered, caught the truth, to see me go Straight to my carriage. “Drive! The midnight train.” We reached it, breathless. Had I worn fair white, A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gain One moment more of time. THE MAIDEN. And by what right-- Are you his wife? THE LADY. I am not; but to-night I shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child, Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath, I would not keep him. No Omphale I, Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth, And then, when called, he went from me--to die If need be. I remember that I smiled When they marched by! Love for my country burns Within my heart; but this was love for him. I could not brook him, one who backward turns For loving wife; his passion must not dim The soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth, The golden wealth left me by that old man Who called me wife for four short months; by stealth He won me, but a child; the quiet plan Was deftly laid. I do not blame him now. My mother dead--one kind thought was to save My budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vow I made was soon dissevered by the grave, And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathed All pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun, At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathed My careless life with roses, till the one Came! Then the red turned purple deep, the hope Found itself love; the rose was heliotrope. There needed much To do with lawyers’ pens ere I could give My hand again; so that dear, longed-for touch Was set by me for the full-blooming day When Peace shall drive the demon War away Forever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live, Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more--no more. All my own heart’s life will I gladly pour For one small hour of his.--Wait--wait--I fly To thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cry The depths of grief too hot for tears doth move: “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!” THE MAIDEN. It was not you he called! THE LADY. Ah! yes. THE MAIDEN. He is _Not_ false; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman. THE LADY. His The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn By the great flood, and onward madly borne With the wild, foaming torrent miles away.-- No doubt he loved the violet that grew In the still woods ere the floods came; he knew Not then of roses! THE MAIDEN. Cruel eyes, I say But this to all your flashings--you have lied To me in all! THE LADY. Look, then, here at my side His letters--read them. Did he love me? Read! Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no need To show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek. See, here his picture; could I make it speak, How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it there Close to my heart. Know you this golden hair That lies beside it? THE MAIDEN. Should he now confess The whole--yes, tell me all your tale was true, I would not leave him to you, sorceress! I’d snatch him from the burning--I would sue His pardon down from heaven. I shall win Him yet, false woman, and his grievous sin Shall be forgiven. (_Bows her head upon her hands._) O God let him die Rather than live for one who doth belie All I have learned of Thee! _Train stops suddenly._--_Enter_ CONDUCTOR. CONDUCTOR. The bridge is down, The train can go no farther. Morgan’s band Were here last night! There is a little town Off on the right, and there, I understand, You ladies can find horses. Benton’s Mill Is but a short drive from Waunona Hill.-- Can I assist you? THE MAIDEN. Thanks; I must not wait. [_Exit._ THE LADY. Yes; that my basket--that my shawl. O Fate! How burdened are we women! Sir, you are Most kind; and may I trouble you thus far? Find me the fleetest horses; I must reach Waunona Hill this night. I do beseech All haste; a thousand dollars will I give For this one ride. [_Exeunt._ A SOLDIER. Say, boys, I’d like to live Where I could see that woman! I could fight A regiment of rebels in her sight-- Couldn’t you? THE OTHERS. Yes--yes! [_Exeunt omnes._ _THE DRIVE._ THE LADY (_thinking_). O fair Kentucky! border-land of war, Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy will Between the angry South and stubborn North. Across thy boundaries many times from far Sweep Morgan’s men, the troopers bold who fill Ohio with alarm; then, marching forth In well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum, From camp and town the steady blue-coats come, March east, march west, march north, march south, and find No enemy except the lawless wind. No sooner gone--Lo! presto through the glen Is heard the midnight ride of Morgan’s men: They ford the rivers by the light of stars, The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass; They draw not rein until their glad huzzas Are echoing through the land of the Blue Grass. --O lovely land, O swell of grassy billows far and near, O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expand As if to clasp me, hold my love as dear As thine own son! I hasten to his side-- Ye roads, lie smooth; ye streams, make safe the ford; O chivalrous Kentucky, help the bride Though thou hast wounded with thy rebel sword The foeman bridegroom! * * * * * .... Can it be that girl Who rides in front? I thought her left behind In that small town. _Ciel!_ would I could hurl The slim thing down this bank! Would I could bind Those prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hers Behind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back, And send her home! A heart like that transfers Its measured, pale affections readily, If the small rules it calleth piety Step in between them. Otherwise, the crack Of doom would not avail to break the cord Which is not love so much as given word And fealty, that conscientiousness Which weigheth all things be they more or less, From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow, With self-same scales of duty. Shall I now Ride on and pass her--for her horse will fail Before the hour is out? Of what avail Her journey? (_Speaks._) Driver, press forward.--Nay, stop-- (_Aside._) O what a child am I to waver thus! I know not how to be ungenerous, Though I may try--God knows I truly tried. What’s this upon my hand? Did a tear drop? (_Speaks._) By your side Behold me, maiden; will you ride with me? My horses fleet and strong. THE MAIDEN. I thank you--no. THE LADY (_aside_). She said me nay; then why am I not free To leave her here, and let my swift steeds go On like the wind? (_Speaks._) Ho! driver-- (_Aside._) But, alas! I cannot. (_Speaks._) Child, my horses soon will pass In spite of me; they are so fleet they need The curb to check them in their flying speed. Ours the same journey: why should we not ride Together? THE MAIDEN. Never! THE LADY. Then I must abide By your decision.--Driver, pass. (_Thinking._) I take Her at her word. In truth, for her own sake ’Twere charity to leave her, hasten on, Find my own love, and with him swift be gone Ere she can reach him; for his ardor strong (Curbed, loyal heart, so long!), Heightened by fever, will o’ersweep all bounds, And fall around me in a fiery shower Of passion’s words.-- And yet--this inner power-- This strange, unloving justice that surrounds My careless conscience, _will_ not let me go! (_Speaks._) Ho! Driver, turn back. --Maiden, I ask again-- I cannot take advantage. Come with me; That horse will fail you soon--ask; both these men Will tell you so.--Come, child--we will agree The ride shall count as naught; nay, when we reach The farm-house, all shall be as though no speech Had ever passed between us--we will meet Beside his couch as strangers. (_Speaks._) There’s defeat For thee, O whispering tempter! THE MAIDEN (_to the men_). Is it true? Will the horse fail? ONE OF THE MEN. Yes. THE MAIDEN. Madam, then with you I needs must ride.--I pray you take my share Of payment; it were more than I could bear To be indebted to you. THE LADY. Nay--the sum Was but a trifle. (_Aside._) Now forgive me, truth. But was it not a trifle to such wealth-- Such wealth as mine? (_Speaks._) Heard you that distant drum Borne on the wind a moment? Ah! our youth Is thrilled with the great pulses of this war. How fast we live--how full each crowded hour Of hot excitements! Naught is done by stealth, The little secrecies of other days Thrown to the winds; the clang and charge afar On the red battle-field, the news that sways Now to, now fro, ’twixt victory and defeat; The distant cry of “Extra!” down the street In the gray dawnings, and our breathless haste To read the tidings--all this mighty power Hath burned in flame the day of little things, Curled like a scroll--and now we face the kings, The terrible, the glorious gods of war. --The maid forgets her shyness; wherefore waste One moment when the next may call him forth Ne’er to return to her? The dear old North May take her lover--but he shall not go With lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe; Her last embrace will cheer him on his round Now back, now forth, over the frozen ground Through the long night. --And when the hasty word “Only one day; be ready, love,” is heard, The soft consent is instant, and there swells Amid the cannonade faint wedding-bells From distant village; then, as swift away The soldier bridegroom rides--he may not stay. And she?--She would not keep him, though the tears Blind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fears Crowd her faint heart and take away her breath, As on her white robe falls the shade of Death That waits for him at Shiloh! O these days! When we have all gone back to peaceful ways, Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull? --You do not speak. THE MAIDEN. Madam, my heart is full Of other thoughts. THE LADY. Of love?--Pray--what is love? How should a woman love?--Although we hate Each other well, we need not try to prove Our hate by silence--for there is a fate Against it in us women; speak we must, And ever shall until we’re turned to dust, Nay--I’m not sure but even then we talk From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk-- Whose bones last longest--whose the finest shroud-- And--is there not a most unseemly crowd In pauper’s corner yonder? --You are shocked? You do not see, then, that I only mocked At my own fears--as those poor French lads sang Their gayest songs at the red barricade, Clear on the air their boyish voices rang In chorus, even while the bayonet made An end of them.--He may be suffering now-- He may be calling-- There! I’ve made a vow To keep on talking. So, then--tell me, pray, How should a woman love? THE MAIDEN. I can but say How I do love. THE LADY. And how? THE MAIDEN. With faith and prayer. THE LADY. I, too; my faith is absolute. We share That good in common. I believe his love Is great as mine, and mine--oh, could I prove My love by dying for him, far too small The test; I’d give my love, my soul, my all, In life, in death, in immortality, Content in hell itself (if there be hells-- Which much I doubt)--content, so I could be With him! THE MAIDEN. Is it a woman’s tongue that tells This blasphemy? When I said faith, I meant A faith in God. THE LADY. And God is love! He sent This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine-- Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things, A love that passeth self--a love like mine That passeth understanding. The bird sings Because it is the only way he knows To praise his Maker; and a love that flows Like mine is worship, too--a hymn that rolls Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice; It formed a part of worship once, and I Do hold it now the part that deepest lies In woman’s love, the dim sanctuary Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept E’en from the one she loves: all told, except This mystic feeling which she may not know How to express in words--the martyr’s glow Idealized--the wish to give him joy Through her own suffering, and so destroy All part that self might play--to offer pure Her love to her heart’s idol. Strange, obscure, Sacred, but mighty, is this longing; I Can feel though not define it. I would die To make him happy! THE MAIDEN. As his happiness Depends on me, then can you do no less Than yield him to me--if you love him thus. THE LADY (_thinking_). “As,” said she? Heart, but this is fabulous, This calm security of hers! (_Speaks._) Why, child, Hast never heard of passion, and its wild, Impetuous, unreasoning assault On souls that know not their own depths? The fault Not his: he was but young, he did not know Himself. Might he not love me even though Thou wert the best? Have pity! I appeal To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel That one touch of his hand would call the blood Out from thy heart in an o’erwhelming flood To meet it? THE MAIDEN. Nay, I know not what you speak. THE LADY. Thou dost not, that I see. Thy pearly cheek Keeps its fair white. Sweet child, he’s that and more To me. Ah, let me kneel; thus I implore That thou wouldst yield him to me--all the right His boyhood promise gave thee. THE MAIDEN. In the sight Of Heaven we are betrothed; I cannot break My word. THE LADY. Oh, not for mine, but for _his_ sake! He loves me! THE MAIDEN. Only madness, that will burn And die to ashes; but, the fever past, The old, pure love will steadfastly return And take its rightful place. THE LADY. But should it last, This fever-madness? should he ask your grace, And say he loved me best? THE MAIDEN. Then, to his face I’d answer, Never! What! leave him to sin? THE LADY. And what the sin? THE MAIDEN. You! you! You have no faith, No creed, that I can learn. The Bible saith All such are evil. THE LADY (_aside_). Why did I begin Such hopeless contest? (_Speaks._) Child, if he should lie Before us now, and one said he must die Or love me, wouldst thou yield? THE MAIDEN. Never; as dead He would be in God’s hands; living-- THE LADY. In mine. THE MAIDEN. That is, in atheism. THE LADY. Have I said Aught atheistical? Because my faith Is broader than its own, this conscience saith I am an atheist! Ah, child, is thine A better faith? Yet, be it what it may, Should he now lie before us here, and say He loved thee best, I’d yield him though my heart Should stop--though I should die. Yea, for his sake, To make him happy, I would even take Annihilation!--let the vital spark Called soul be turned to nothing. THE MAIDEN. Far apart Our motives; mine is clear with duty-- THE LADY. Dark And heavy mine with love. THE MAIDEN. You talk of death With frequent phrase, as though a little thing, A matter merely of the will and breath, It were to face the judgment, and the King Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue Rolls out its offers as a song is sung, And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now But rarely in this life that you and I Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow Do _I_ repeat; and yet, I surely know, At duty’s call right calmly could I go Up the red scaffold’s stairs. THE LADY. I well believe Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive _My_ love, _thy_ duty, are alike--the same Self-sacrifice under a various name According to our natures. I would yield, And thou refuse to yield, from the same love; I’d have him happy here, and thou--above. For thus we look at life. The book is sealed That holds our fate--we may not look within; But this I know, that, be it deadly sin Or highest good, he loves me! THE MAIDEN. There are loves-- And loves! THE LADY. So be it. All this word-work proves Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm In speech--but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed (Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox. THE MAIDEN. Indeed, I need not rest. THE LADY. Well, then, I’m half asleep Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.-- (_Thinking._) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God, Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod The toiling moments through my heart! I pray (For I believe that prayer may aid the soul, Though not the body nor the fixed control Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet, He lavished his young heart in burning tide Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy, But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy All my own part in it.--Ah, love, full sweet Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride Comes--of her own accord. There is no bliss, Even in heaven, greater than the kiss That I do keep for thee! THE MAIDEN (_thinking_). O God, thy will Be done--yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still, Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant This grace to me, a lowly supplicant. My mind is vexèd, evil thoughts do rage Within my soul; O Merciful, assuage The suffering I endure!--If it is true My poor boy loves this woman--and what is Is ever for the best--create anew Her soul that it may surely leaven his With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm And win her to Thy fold, that she may be A godly woman, graced with piety, Turned from the error of her ways, the harm Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I Think her too brown) changed by humility To decorous sweetness.-- Lord, look in my heart; I may not know myself; search every part, And give me grace to say that I will yield My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed In his swift preference. Yet, in pity, hear-- Change her, Lord--make her good! [_Weeps._ THE LADY (_thinking_). Is that a tear On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs, Then, as the children have; their small beliefs Are sometimes brought to naught--no fairies live, And dolls are sawdust!-- Love, I do forgive Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair; But no more could content you now than dew Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare, Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue, Upon the brink.--Dearest, I call! Oh, see How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait, E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate Let out its light: angels might envy thee Such love as I shall give thee--wait! oh, wait! _THE FARM-HOUSE._ THE LADY. The sun is setting, we have passed the mill Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill, But the road smooth this way--which doth account For the discrepancy of names. The gleam Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount This little swell of land, its slanting beam Will light up all the lances of the grass, The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass. * * * * * That is the house off on the right; I know By intuition. THE MAIDEN. It may hold--the worst! THE LADY. Art faint? THE MAIDEN. ’Twill pass. Lady, I enter first-- First and alone! THE LADY. Child, if I thought his heart Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go; Nay, I would make you! As it is-- But no, It cannot be. THE MAIDEN (_clasping her hands_). Lord, give me strength! I yield; Go you the first. Ah! [_Sobs._ THE LADY. Yours the nobler part; _I_ cannot yield. (And yet it is for him I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim Mine eyes-- There; we will go together--thus! God help us both! [_They enter the house._ Yes, we have come, we two, His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous, The fever? Where--above? That stair? We go-- Come, child--come, child. WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. Dear ladies, you should know Before-- THE LADY. Come! WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. He-- THE LADY. Child, must I wait for you Here at his door! THE MAIDEN. I come; but something cold Has touched my heart. THE LADY. Then stay, coward! THE MAIDEN. Nay, hold; I come. [_They mount the stairs together._ (_Crying out above._) But he is dead--my Willie! THE LADY (_above_). Fate, You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead! _BY THE DEAD._ WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. He died last night at three--quite easily. THE LADY. Alone? WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. A surgeon from the camp was here. THE LADY. Where is the man? WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. Gone back. THE LADY. Send for him. See, Here is a trifle; though it cannot clear Our debt to you, yet take it. WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. But you give Too much. THE LADY. Keep it. THE MAIDEN (_kneeling by the bedside_). O Willie! can I live Without you? Love, my love, why are you dead And I alive? O noble, golden head, Whose every curl I know, how still you lie On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly You sleep! But waken now; look on me, dear; Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here-- Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak-- Speak to me, Willie.--Ah, how cold his cheek-- How icy cold! O God! he’s dead, he’s dead! WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. Yes, he is dead, dead as King David. Truth He was right handsome for a Yankee youth-- Rode his horse well. THE LADY (_aside_). I love you, Meredith. THE MAIDEN. What’s this upon the table near his hand? [_Opens the package._ My picture--yes, my letters--all! Herewith I know--I know he loved me! THE LADY (_thinking_). Cover worn, Creased in its folds, unopened, and forlorn-- Yes, I remember it. I would not look Within;--unopened since that day. He took The poor thing forth with dying loyalty To send to her. THE MAIDEN. O Lord, I understand Thy purpose; ’twas to try my faith. I kneel To thank thee that mercy doth reveal The whole to my poor heart. He loved me--me, Me only! WOMAN OF THE HOUSE. Would you like to see the wound Here in his arm?--Why, if she hasn’t swooned! THE LADY. Take her below, and care for her, poor child! [_Exit woman, carrying the maiden in her arms._ Brain, art thou wild, Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart Stands still, and cold through every vital part Death breathes his icy breath? Oh, my own love! I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me! O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear As ever! Come! Thy idol waits for thee, Waits--weeps. Dost thou not hear me there above Where thou hast gone? Come back and take the bride Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last, Thy head upon my breast. O brownèd cheek! Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak-- Speak to me, Meredith! Poor wounded arm, Dear blood; here will I hold thee close and warm Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now? And now? And now? Do I not hold thee fast? Hast thou not longed for me? I gave my vow To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me! Command My every breath; full humbly I obey, The true wife longs to feel a master’s sway, Longs to do homage, so her idol prove Ruler--nay, despot of her willing love. Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake. “I love thee--oh, I love thee, Meredith?” I would not that her childish grief should break Thy peace up in thy heaven; even there Thou longest for my love, and near the stair Where souls come up from earth thou’rt standing now Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow I catch the radiance! She is not thine, Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith She strives to hold thee was the radiancy Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun Hath swept away in fervent heat; nor thee Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run Its swift course to some other love; Fate Ne’er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may try; A few months lent to tearful constancy, The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline To resignation; then, the well-masked bait Of making some one happy, though at cost Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost In that content which, if not real love, Looks strangely like it! But why should I prove What thou dost know already, freed from time And finite bonds, my darling? Love sublime, Art thou not God? Then let him down to me For one short moment. See! in agony I cling to the cold body; let him touch Me once with this dear hand; it is not much I ask--one clasp, one word. What! nothing? Then I call down vengeance on this God of men Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts Only to rend them in a hundred parts, And see them quiver--bleed! I, creature, dare To call aloud for justice; my despair Our great far-off Creator doth arraign Before the bar to answer for the pain I suffer now. It is too much--too much! O woe! woe! woe! the human soul can such Intensity of sorrow not withstand, But, lifting up on high its fettered hand, Can only cry aloud in agony, And blindly, wildly curse its God and die! How dare you take, You Death, my love away from me? The old, The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there In crowds, and none to miss them. But your cold And heartless eye did mark that he was fair, And that I loved him? From your dreadful hold I snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake From out your sleep by my caresses. See, See how I love him! Ah, shall I not win His life back with my lips, that lovingly Do cling to his? And, though you do begin Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm-- Nay, more: my loving verily disarm E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn And give him back to me; a heart shall burn Under your ribs at last from very sight Of my fierce, tearless grief. --O sorry plight Of my poor darling in this barren room, Where only his gold curls do light the gloom! But we will change all that. This evening, dear, Shall be our bridal: wilt thou take me, here, And thus?--in this array--this falling hair-- Crushed robes? And yet, believe me, I am fair As ever. Love, love, love! oh, speak to me! I will not listen in my misery If thy heart beat-- God! it is cold! [_Falls to the floor._ _Enter the_ SURGEON. SURGEON. Art ill, Madam?-- THE LADY (_rising_). Thanks, sir. But sorrow cannot kill. Would that it could! Nay, I sit by his side-- Thus. Now tell all--all--all. SURGEON. You cannot hide The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek; Let me get-- THE LADY. Nothing. Nothing can avail, Good sir; my very heart’s blood has turned pale. Struck by God’s lightning, do you talk to me Of faintness? Only tell your tale--speak, speak; You saw him die? SURGEON. I did; right tranquilly He passed away this morning, with your name Upon his lips--for you are Helena? THE LADY. I am. SURGEON. I saw your picture. (_Aside._) Yes, the same. Hair, eyes. What Titian tints! (_Speaks._) He made me lay Your letters and your picture on his heart Before he died; he would not from them part For e’en one moment. THE LADY. Lift them not, they’re mine; My hand alone must touch the holy shrine Of love and death where the poor relics lie-- Darling (_bends, and kisses the letters_), because you loved them! Let them die, Go to the grave with him, there on his breast, Where I would gladly die too--be at rest Forever.--And he spake of me? SURGEON. He said That you would come, for he had sent you word. THE LADY. I ne’er received it; ’twas by chance I heard, A passing chance. SURGEON. The lines were down-- THE LADY. And may They never rise again that failed that day, And left him dying here! Go on; he said-- SURGEON. That you would come, and grieved that o’er his head The turf might close ere you could reach his side And give him one last kiss. And then--he died. THE LADY. No more? SURGEON. No more. Ah, yes, one other thing: Short time before, he feebly bade me bring That package on the table--but ’tis torn-- Some one has opened it! It looked well worn, In old, unbroken foldings when I brought It from his satchel. Who could thus have wrought On other’s property? THE LADY. The owner.--Then He said-- SURGEON. To give it you, for you would know Its history, and where it swift should go; The name was writ within. THE LADY (_aside_). Yes, love; amen! Be it according to thy wish. (_Speaks._) Pray take This fee, good sir. I would that for his sake-- Your kindness to him--I could send your name Ringing through all the West in silver fame.-- At dawn, you said, the burial? Then leave Me here alone with him. I well believe You’ll show me further kindness. Speak no word Beyond your doctor’s art to that poor child Who weeps below. I would not that she heard Aught more of grief. [_Exit_ SURGEON. Ah! all my passion wild Has gone; now come the softening woman tears.-- Forgive me, great Creator, that I spake In my sharp agony. O do thou take The bitterness from out my soul; I know Naught, but thou knowest all! Then let my woe, The poor blind woe we short-lived mortals bear, Be my sad plea.-- I knew, through my despair, You loved me to the last. Death had no fears For you, my love; you met him with my name, As talisman of the undying flame That leaps o’er the black chasm of the grave And mounts to heaven. But I will not rave, When you died softly. Ah! you love me there As well as here. God never made me fair For nothing; now, I know the gift he gave That I might take my place with you at last, Equal in loveliness, though years had passed Since you first breathed the air above the skies, The beauty-giving air of paradise. Fair are you now, my love, but not like me: Mine is the goddess-bloom, the rarity Of perfect loveliness; yours, the bright charm Of strong young manhood, whose encircling arm Could bend me like a reed. Oh, for one clasp Of that strong arm!-- Hist! was not that the hasp Of the old door below? She comes; I hear Her light step on the stair. Darling, no fear Need trouble you upon your couch; to me A sacred trust this gentle girl shall be Through life. Did you not love her once? THE MAIDEN (_entering_). I pray Forgiveness thus to leave you here so long; I did not mean it, but I swooned away Before I knew it. THE LADY. Thanks. There was no wrong; I liked the vigil. THE MAIDEN (_going to the bedside_). Sweet those eyes--the brow How calm! I would not bring life to him now E’en if I could; gone to his God--at rest From all earth’s toil. Dear love, upon thy breast I lay my hand; I yield thee back to Him Who gave thee to me; and, if thou hast wrought Wrong to our troth in deed, or word, or thought, I now forgive thee. Sleep in peace; the dim, Dark grave has its awaking. As the hart Longed for the water-brooks, so have I yearned For token, Willie, that thy love returned To me at last. Lo! now I can depart In peace.--My picture, letters! Thou wast true, Wast true to me, thank God!-- (_Turning._) Madam, to you I owe apology. THE LADY. Never! But throw Your gentle arms around me--thus. And so Give me a blessing. THE MAIDEN. But I’ve robbed you--you Who loved him also; though to me was due This love of his; at least-- THE LADY. Sweet doubter, yes; I grant thee all. But, as I kneel, O bless This heart that bows before thee; all its sin-- If it be sin--forgive; and take, within Thy pure love, me, thy sister, who must live Long years--long years! O child, who dost forgive More than thou knowest, lay thy sister-hand In blessing! THE MAIDEN. Though I do not understand, Yet will I thus content thee: Now the Lord Bless thee, and keep thee by his holy word; Be gracious to thee, that thy faith increase; Lift up his countenance, and give thee peace, Now and forever! THE LADY. Amen. May it prove-- This peace--what thou dost think it. THE MAIDEN. I must go; The horses wait for me. Now that I know He’s safe with God, the living claim my care.-- My mother--ah, full selfish was the love That made me leave her so; I could despair Of mine own self, if God were not so good, Long-suffering, and kind. O could I stay! But I must reach the train at break of day. I take my letters and the picture.--Should Your duties call you not so soon, oh wait, See his dear head laid low by careful hand, And say a prayer above the grave. THE LADY (_aside_). O Fate, How doth she innocently torture--rack My soul with hard realities! I stand And hear her talk of graves!--O God, the black, Damp earth over my darling! THE MAIDEN (_turning to the bedside_). Love, farewell! I kiss thee once.--Lady, you do not mind? It was but once. I would not seem unkind; I would not wound you needlessly. THE LADY (_aside_). O swell, Proud heart, to bursting, but gainsay her not! THE MAIDEN. I know full well that yours the harder lot, Dear lady; but, forgive me, he was mine Long, long before. It were too much to ask That I should not be glad his heart returned To me, his bride betrothed--to know he yearned For me before he died. I cannot mask My joy because you loved him too. THE LADY. Nay, thine All joy that thou canst take; I would not rob Thee of one little hair’s-breadth. THE MAIDEN (_laying her head on the pillow_). Oh, farewell, My love! my love! my love! [_Weeps._ THE LADY. Child, do not sob. Come to me--let me hold you; who can tell, Perhaps he hears you, though so still. We’ll stand Together by his side--thus, hand-in-hand-- And gaze on his calm face. WOMAN OF THE HOUSE (_below_). The wagon’s here. THE MAIDEN. Alas! and I must hasten. Kiss me, dear; Indeed, I love you now. THE LADY. And I have tried To make you. [_They embrace.--Exit_ MAIDEN. THE LADY (_throwing herself down beside the body_). Meredith, art satisfied? _EARTH TO EARTH._ Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn, The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength, Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawn Showed his calm face; while all his rigid length Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet Of the wild-brier roses incense made, And one bird sang a chant. Yet recks it not, This quiet body going to its grave, Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot Hath it with men--the tale is told, all’s o’er; Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more; Its memory shall pass away; its name, For all its evil or for all its worth, Whether bedecked with reverence or blame, Shall soon be clean forgotten.-- Earth to earth! The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair Still held its roses crushed; the chill despair That numbed her being could not dim the light Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright Sheen of her draperies. The summer sun Rose in the east and showed the open grave Close at her feet; but, ere the work begun-- Lowering the clay (O proud humanity! Is this thy end?)--she gentle signal gave To lay the body down, and, by its side Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride Might kiss; and, as she clung there, secretly A shining ring left on the cold dead hand, And covered it from view; then slowly rose And gave them place. But ere the tightening rope Had done its duty, o’er the eastern slope Rode horsemen, and the little group of those Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band. They turned, they drew their reins--a sight to see Indeed, this lady clad so royally, Alone, beside a grave. She raised her eyes, And the bold leader bared his lofty head Before her to his saddle-bow; the guise Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide The gallant grace that thus its homage paid To so much beauty. At his signal mute, The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride, His daring followers in many a raid And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute, And, all dismounting, honor to the dead Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own Bullet by night that laid him there:--so strange The riddle of men’s life, its little range Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone To mortal eyes. The rope slackened, the clay Had reached its final resting-place. Then she Who loved him best, in all her rich array Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee, Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast As sacred trust! ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’” Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned, “I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said; “He that believes on him, though he were dead, Yet shall he live!” And so passed from their sight. The troopers ride away, On to the south; the men who fill the grave With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say, “That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave, Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him-- Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim, But they knows Morgan! Morgan!--what! why, bless Your hearts, _I_ know him, and I know Black Bess-- ’Twas Bess he rode.” And now the work is done; On from their northern raid the troopers pass Fleet to the south; the grave is filled, and gone Even the slave. Forever still, alone, Her letters and bright picture on his breast, Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand, The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass, Far in the fair Kentucky border-land, The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass. 1864. _WASHINGTON._ THE LADY (_with an open letter_). Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear That troubled the calm hollow of my grief With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear The certainty--she never loved him. Brief Her forgetting--brief!--But I will not chide; All happiness go with thee, gentle bride, And of my gold a sister’s share! To wed Another, and once his! O golden head Under the grass, how jealous is my heart Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad She loved thee not, for then no evil part I played, e’en though unconsciously. Oh, mad, Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day-- The same, the same. I could not be a wife-- I could not stop the sun! No love but thee, My own, my own! no kiss but thine--no voice To call me those sweet names that memory Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice, I still must love thee down beneath the sod More than all else--though grandest soul that God Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name Is branded there! Yet must I live my life. SERVANT (_announcing_). The Count. THE LADY. Another? Ah! poor fools. The game Doth while away my time. Yes, I do play My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned, For life is strong, and I am young.--There reigned A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown Upon her head, she sat and meted out Reward and justice; nor did any doubt Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same-- Her jewels bright? And had she not a name Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness? She could not stop--she needs must reign--_noblesse Oblige_! So I. But she--married! a wife! Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life Of treason to his memory, a long Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. _I_ Do hold myself as his, and loyally, Royally, keep my vow. SERVANT. What shall I say, Madam? THE LADY (_speaks_). Show in the Count. (_Aside._) Ah! well-a-day! One must do something. THE COUNT (_entering_). _Madame, je viens_-- _LAKE ERIE._ THE MAIDEN (_rising from her knees_). My marriage-morning! Lord, give me thy grace For the new duties of a wedded life. The letters have I burned; And now--the picture. Oh, dear boyish face, One look--the last! Yet had I been thy wife, Willie, I had been true to thee--returned All thy affection to the full. She said Love was “a sacrifice.” It is; as--thus: Get thee behind me, Past! [_Burns the picture._ --Which one of us Was truest? But why ask? She wronged the dead With many lovers--nay, her very dress Showed not one trace of sorrow. --I confess I never thought her fair, although the throng Do call her so, they tell me. --Long, how long I wore the heavy crape that checked my breath, And went about as one who sorroweth; And I did sorrow! Slow months passed, and I Gave every thought to tearful memory; My grief grew selfish. Then--he brought his suit-- My mother wept and prayed. What right had I To crush two lives? If by the sacrifice I make them happy, is it not large price For my poor, broken years? How earnestly I strove to do the right! The patient fruit Of years of prayer came to my aid, and now I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow: Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thought Of any other love shall mar the troth I give for _this_ life. Evils, troubles, naught But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath. But after--_then_--O Willie! THE MOTHER (_entering_). Art thou dressed? That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessed A child more dutiful, more good. Come, love, The bridegroom waits. THE END. [Illustration: text decoration] * * * * * TWO WOMEN: _A POEM_. BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. [REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.] _From the Springfield Republican._ “Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults--which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology--a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever--is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that receive it.” _From the New York Evening Post._ “In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the January number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, and the last half of which has just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power.” _From the Providence Journal._ “A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, ... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the writer.” _From the Detroit Post._ “One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.” One Volume. Cloth. 12mo. D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Women, 1862; a Poem, by Constance Fenimore Woolson *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54017 ***