LOCALITY—A chamber.
PRESENT—GRACE, MARY,and theBABY.
* * * * *
Grace.
[Sings.]Hither, Sleep! A mother wants thee!Come with velvet arms!Fold the baby that she grants theeTo thy own soft charms!
Bear him into Dreamland lightly!Give him sight of flowers!Do not bring him back till brightlyBreak the morning hours!
Close his eyes with gentle fingers!Cross his hands of snow!Tell the angels where he lingersThey must whisper low!
I will guard thy spell unbrokenIf thou hear my call;Come then, Sleep! I wait the tokenOf thy downy thrall.
Now I see his sweet lips moving;He is in thy keep;Other milk the babe is provingAt the breast of sleep!
Mary.
Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence!Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of lifeWith ardors quick and passionate shall rise,And, with hot kisses part the fragrant lips—The folded petals of thy soul! Alas!What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then!What pride and pain, ambition and despair,Desire, satiety, and all that fillWith misery life's fretful enterprise,Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last,Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth,To be apportioned to the elements!I marvel, baby, whether it were illThat He who planted thee should pluck thee now,And save thee from the blight that comes on all.I marvel whether it would not be wellThat the frail bud should burst in Paradise,On the full throbbing of an angel's heart!
Grace.
Oh, speak not thus! The thought is terrible.He is my all; and yet, it sickens meTo think that he will grow to be a man.If he were not a boy!
Mary.
Were not a boy?That wakens other thoughts. Thank God for that!To be a man, if aught, is privilegePrecious and peerless. While I bide contentThe modest lot of woman, all my soulGives truest manhood humblest reverence.It is a great and god-like thing to do!'Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man.Man fells the forests, plows and tills the fields,And heaps the granaries that feed the world.At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings,And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies,Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime.Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand,And roar through ages with the din of trade.Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his will,Joining the angel of the Apocalypse'Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous circumstance,And with one foot upon the conquered seaAnd one upon the subject land, proclaimsThat space shall be no more. The lightnings veilTheir fiery forms to wait upon his thought,And give it wing, as unseen spirits pauseTo bear to God the burden of his prayer.God crowns him with the gift of eloquence,And puts a harp into his tuneful hands,And makes him both his prophet and his priest.'Twas in his form the great ImmanuelRevealed himself; the Apostolic Twelve,Like those who since have ministered the Word,Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man.
Grace.
And fortunate to have an advocateAcross whose memory convenient cloudsCome floating at convenient intervals.The harvest fields that man has honored mostAre those where human life is reaped like grain.There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail,Nor sprang a great invention into birth,By other motive than man's love of gold.It is for wrong that he is eloquent;For lust that he indites his sweetest songs.Christ was betrayed by treason of a man,And scourged and hung upon a tree by men;And the sad women who were at his cross,And sought him early at the sepulcher,And since that day, in gentle multitudesHave loved and followed him, have been man's slaves,—The victims of his power and his desire.
Mary.
And you, a wedded wife-well wedded, too,Can say all this, and say it bitterly!
Grace.
Perhaps because a wife; perhaps because—
Mary.
Hush, Grace! No more! I beg you, say no more.Nay! I will leave you at another word;For I could listen to a blasphemy,Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chillThan to the mad complainings of a soulWhich God has favored as he favors few.I dare not listen when a woman's voice,Which blessings strive to smother, flings them offIn mad contempt. I dare not hear the wordsWhose utterance all the gentle loves dissuadeBy kisses which are reasons, while a throngOf friendships, comforts, and sweet charities—The almoners of the All-Bountiful—With folded wings stand sadly looking on.Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment—Ordained, commissioned—is Ingratitude;For where it moves, good withers; blessings die;Till a clean path is left for Providence,Who never sows a good the second timeTill the torn bosom of the graceless soilIs ready for the seed.
Grace.
Oh, could you knowThe anguish of my heart, you would not chide!If I repine, it is because my lotIs not the blessed thing it seems to you.O Mary! Could you know! Could you but know!
Mary.
Then why not tell me all? You know me, love.And know that secrets make their graves with me.
So, tell me all; for I do promise youSuch sympathy as God through sufferingHas given me power to grant to such as you.I bought it dearly, and its largess waitsThe opening of your heart.
Grace.
I am ashamed,—In truth I am ashamed—to tell you all.You will not laugh at me?
Mary.
I laugh at you?
Grace.
Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak;Distrustful of itself and all the world.Ah, well! To what strange issues leads our life!It seems but yesterday that you were broughtTo this old house, an orphaned little girl,Whose large shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrinking waysFilled all our hearts with wonder, as we stoodAnd stared at you, until your heart o'erfilledWith the oppressive strangeness, and you wept.Yes, I remember how I pitied you—I who had never wept, nor even sighed,Save on the bosom of my gentle mother;For my quick heart caught all your historyWhen with a hurried step you sought the sun,And pressed your eyes against the windowpaneThat God's sweet light might dry them. Well I knewThough all untaught, that you were motherless.And I remember how I followed you,—Embraced and kissed you—kissed your tears away—Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lipsThat would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads;And then we wound our arms around each other,And passed out-out under the pleasant sky,And stood among the lilies at the door.
I gave no formal comfort; you, no thanks;For tears had been your language, kisses mine,And we were friends. We talked about our dolls,And all the pretty playthings we possessed.Then we revealed, with childish vanity,Our little stores of knowledge. I was fullOf a sweet marvel when you pointed outThe yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep,Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells,And called the golden pigment honeycomb.And your black eyes were opened very wideWhen I related how, one sunny day,I found a well, half covered, down the lane,That was so deep and clear that I could seeStraight through the world, into another sky!
Mary.
Do you remember how the Guinea hensSet up a scream upon the garden wall,That frightened me to running, when you screamedWith laughter quite as loud?
Grace.
Aye, very well;But better still the scene that followed all.Oh, that has lingered in my memoryLike that divinest dream of Raphael—The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print—That watched with me in sickness through long weeks,And from its frame upon the chamber-wallBreathed constant benedictions, till I learnedTo love the presence like a Roman saint.
My mother called us in; and at her knee,Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smileShine on our upturned faces like the lightOf the soft summer moon. And then she stooped;And when she kissed us, I could see the tearsBrimming her eyes. O sweet experiment!To try if love of Jesus and of meCould make our kisses equal to her lips!Then straight my prescient heart set up a song,And fluttered in my bosom like a bird.
I knew a blessing was about to fall,As robins know the coming of the rain,And bruit the joyous secret, ere its stepsAre heard upon the mountain tops. I knewYou were to be my sister; and my heartWas almost bursting with its love and pride.I could not wait to hear the kindly wordsOur mother spoke—her counsels and commands—For you were mine—my sister! So I toreYour clinging hand from hers with rude constraint,And took you to my chamber, where I playedWith you, in selfish sense of property,The whole bright afternoon.
And here again,Within this same old chamber we are met.We told our secrets to each other then;Thus let us tell them now; and you shall beTo my grief-burdened soul what you have said,So many times that I have been to yours.
Mary.
Alas! I never meant to tell my taleTo other ear than God's; but you have claimsUpon my confidence,—claims just rehearsed,And other claims which you have never known.
Grace.
And other claims which I have never known!You speak in riddles, love. I only knowYou grew to womanhood, were beautiful,Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest;—
That after passage of mysterious yearsWe heard sad stories of your misery,And rumors of desertion; but your penRevealed no secrets of your altered life.Enough for me that you are here to-night,And have an ear for sorrow, and a heartWhich disappointment has inhabited.My history you know. A twelvemonth sinceThis fearful, festive night, and in this house,I gave my hand to one whom I believedTo be the noblest man God ever made;—A man who seemed to my infatuate heartHeaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soulThe choicest harmonies of life should flow,Growing articulate upon his lipsIn numbers to enchant a willing world.I cannot tell you of the pride that filledMy bosom, as I marked his manly form,And read his soul through his effulgent eyes,And heard the wondrous music of his voice,That swept the chords of feeling in all heartsWith such a divine persuasion as might growUnder the transit of an angel's hand.And, then, to think that I, a farmer's child,Should be the woman culled from all the worldTo be that man's companion,—to abideThe nearest soul to such a soul—to sitClose by the fountain of his peerless life—The welling center of his loving thoughts—And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best,—To lay my head upon his breast, and feelThat of all precious burdens it had borneThat was most precious—Oh! my heart was wildWith the delirium of happiness—But, Mary, you are weeping!
Mary.
Mark it not.Your words wake memories which you may guess,And thoughts which you may sometime know—not now.
Grace.
Well, we were married, as I said; and IWas not unthankful utterly, I think;Though, if the awful question had come then,And stood before me with a brow severeAnd steady finger, bidding me decideWhich of the two I loved the more, the GodWho gave my husband to me, or his gift,I know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes.
We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere,Flooded with inspiration, and embracedBy a wide sky set full of starry thoughts,And constellated visions of delight,Still wraps me in my dreams—itself a dream.The full moon waned at last, and in my sky,With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears;And then, when wasted to a skeleton,It sank into a heaving sea of tearsThat caught its tumult from my sighing soul.My husband, who had spent whole months with me,Till he was wedded to my every thought,Left me through dreary hours,—nay, days,—alone!He pleaded business—business day and night;Leaving me with a formal kiss at morn,And meeting me with strange reserve at eve;And I could mark the sea of tendernessUpon whose beach I had sat down for life,Hoping to feel for ever, as at first,The love-breeze from its billows, and to claspWith open arms the silver surf that ranTo wreck itself upon my bosom, ebb,Day after day receding, till the sandGrew dry and hot, and the old hulls appearedOf hopes sent out upon that faithless mainSince woman loved, and he she loved was false.Night after night I sat the evening out,And heard the clock tick on the mantel-treeTill it grew irksome to me, and I grudgedThe careless pleasures of the kitchen maidsWhose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours.
Mary.
But did your husband never tell the causeOf this neglect?
Grace.
Never an honest word.He told me he was writing; and, at home,Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look.I was offended, and upbraided him.I knew he had a secret, and that fromThe center of its closely coiling foldsA cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue,Swayed with a double story—one for me,And one for whom I knew not—whom he knew.His words, which wandered first as carelesslyAs the free footsteps of a boy, were trainedTo the stern paces of a sentinelGuarding a prison door, and never trippedWith a suggestion.
I despaired at lastOf winning what I sought by wiles and prayers;So, through long nights of sleeplessness I lay,And held my ear beside his silent lips—An eager cup—ready to catch the gushOf the pent waters, if a dream-swung rodShould smite his bosom. It was all in vain.And thus months passed away, and all the whileAnother heart was beating under mine.May Heaven forgive me! but I grieved the charmsThe unborn thing was stealing, for I feltThat in my insufficiency of powerI had no charm to lose.
Mary.
And he did not,In this most tender trial of your heart,Turn in relenting?—give you sympathy?
Grace.
No—yes! Perhaps he pitied me, and thatIndeed was very pitiful; for whatHas love to do with pity? When a wifeHas sunk so hopelessly in the regardOf him she loves that he can pity her,—Has sunk so low that she may only shareThe tribute which a mute humanityBestows on those whom Providence has struckWith helpless poverty, or foul disease;She may he pitied, both by earth and heaven,Because he pities her. A pitied childThat begs its bread from door to door is blest;A wife who begs for love and confidence,And gets but alms from pity, is accurst.
Well, time passed on; and rumor came at lastTo tell the story of my husband's shameAnd my dishonor. He was seen at night,Walking in lonely streets with one whose eyesWere blacker than the night,—whose little handWas clinging to his arm. Both were absorbedIn the half-whispered converse of the time;And both, as if accustomed to the path,Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps,Entered a door, and closed it after them—A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me.I had my secret; and I kept it, too.I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me,Till doubt and prayers for doubt,—pale flowersI nourished with my tears—were crushedBy the relentless hand of Certainty.
Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days.My wrongs and all their shameful historyWere opened to me daily, leaf by leaf,Though he had only shown their title-page:That page was his; the rest were in my heart.I knew that he had left my home for hers;I knew his nightly labor was to feedOther than me;—that he was loaded downWith cares that were the price of sinful love.
Mary.
Grace, in your heart do you believe all this?I fear—I know—you do your husband wrong.He is not competent for treachery.He is too good, too noble, to desertThe woman whom he only loves too well.You love him not!
Grace.
I love him not? Alas!I am more angry with myself than himThat, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows,And spite my hate, I love the traitor still.I love him not? Why am I here to-night—Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are strewnThrough every room for him to trample on—But in my pride to show him to you all,With the dear child that publishes a loveThat blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now?You know I do my husband wrong! You think,Because he can talk smoothly, and befoolA simple ear with pious sophistries,He must be e'en the saintly man he seems.We heard him talk to-night; it was done well.I saw the triumph of his argument,And I was proud, though full of spite the while.His stuff was meant for me; and, with intentFor selfish purpose, or in irony,He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet.My heart rebelled, and now you know the causeOf my harsh words to him.
Mary.
'Tis very sad!Oh very—very sad! Pray you go on!Who is this woman?
Grace.
I have never learned.I only know she stole my husband's heart,And made me very wretched. I supposeThat at the time my little babe was born,She went away; for David was at homeFor many days. That pain was bliss to me—I need no argument to teach me that—Which caused neglect of her, and gave offense.Since then, he has not where to go from me;And, loving well his child, he stays at home.
So he lugs round his secret, and I mine.I call him husband; and he calls me wife;And I, who once was like an April day,That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeledMy heart against my fate, and now am calm.I will live on; and though these simple folkWho call me sister understand me not,It matters little. There is one who does;And he shall have no liberty of loveBy any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot,And man's most weak and wicked wantonness.Mine is like other husbands, I suppose;No worse—no better.
Mary.
Ask you sympathyOf such as I? I cannot give it you,For you have shut me from the privilege.
Grace.
I asked it once; you gave me unbelief.I had no choice but to grow hard again.'Tis my misfortune and my miseryThat every hand whose friendly ministryMy poor heart craves, is held—withheld—by him;And I must freeze that I may stand alone.
Mary.
And so, because one man is false, or youImagine him to be, all men are false;Do I speak rightly?
Grace.
Have it your own way.Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved,Are prone to falsehood. I will not gainsayThe common virtue of the common herd.I prize it as I do the goodish menWho hold the goodish stuff, and know it not.These serve to fill an easy-going world,And that to clothe it with complacency.
Mary.
I had not thought misanthropy like thisCould lodge with you; so I must e'en confessA tale which never passed my lips before,Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine.In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I loseThe friendship which demands the sacrifice.
I have come back, a worse than widowed wife;Yet I went out with dream as bright as yours,—Nay, brighter,—for the birds were singing then,And apple-blossoms drifted on the groundWhere snow-flakes fell and flew when you were wed.The skies were soft; the roses budded full;The meads and swelling uplands fresh and green;—The very atmosphere was full of love.It was no girlish carelessness of heartThat kept my eyes from tears, as I went forthFrom this dear shelter of the orphan child.I felt that God was smiling on my lot,And made the airs his angels to conveyTo every sense and sensibilityThe message of his favor. Every soundWas music to me; every sight was peace;And breathing was the drinking of perfume.I said, content, and full of gratitude,"This is as God would have it; and he speaksThese pleasant languages to tell me so."
But I had no such honeymoon as yours.A few brief days of happiness, and thenThe dream was over. I had married oneWho was the sport of vagrant impulses.We had not been a fortnight wed, when heCame home to me with brandy in his brain—A maudlin fool—for love like mine to hideAs if he were an unclean beast. O Grace!I cannot paint the horrors of that night.My heart, till then serene, and safely keptIn Trust's strong citadel, quaked all night long,As tower and bastion fell before the rushOf fierce convictions; and the tumbling wallsBoomed with dull throbs of ruin through my brain.And there were palaces that leaned on this—Castles of air, in long and glittering lines,Which melted into air, and pierced the blueThat marks the star-strewn vault of heaven;—all fell,With a faint crash like that which scares the soulWhen dissolution shivers through a dreamSmitten by nightmare,—fell and faded allTo utter nothingness; and when the mornFlamed up the East, and with its crimson wingsBrushed out the paling stars that all the nightIn silent, slow procession, one by one,Had gazed upon me through the open sash,And passed along, it found me desolate.
The stupid dreamer at my side awoke,And with such helpless anguish as they feelWho know that they are weak as well as vile.I saw, through all his forward promises,Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths(What he, poor boaster, thought I could not see),That he was shorn of will, and that his heartWas as defenseless as a little child's;—That underneath his fair good fellowshipHe was debauched, and dead in love with sin;—That love of me had made him what I loved,—That I could only hold him till the waveOf some overwhelming impulse should sweep in,To lift his feet and bear him from my arms.I felt that morn, when he went trembling forth,With bloodshot eyes and forehead hot with woe,That henceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me—The odds against me—for my husband's soul.
Grace.
Poor dove! Poor Mary! Have you suffered thus?You had not even pride to keep you up.Were he my husband, I had left him then—The ingrate!
Mary.
Not if you had loved as I;Yet what you know is but a bitter dropOf the full cup of gall that I have drained.Had he left me unstained,—had I rebelledAgainst the influence by which he soughtTo bring me to a compromise with him,—To make my shrinking soul meet his half way,It had been better; but he had an art,When appetite or passion moved in him,That clothed his sins with fair apologies,And smoothed the wrinkles of a haggard guiltWith the good-natured hand of charity.He knew he was a fool, he said, and said again;But human nature would be what it was,And life had never zest enough to bearToo much dilution; those who work like slavesMust have their days of frolic and of fun.He doubted whether God would punish sin;God was, in fact, too good to punish sin;For sin itself was a compounded thing,With weakness for its prime ingredient.And thus he fooled a heart that loved him well;And it went toward his heart by slow degrees,Till Virtue seemed a frigid anchorite,And Vice, a jolly fellow—bad enough,But not so bad as Christian people think.
This was the cunning work of months—nay, years;And, meantime, Edward sank from bad to worse.But he had conquered. Wine was on his board,Without my protest—with a glass for me!His boon companions came and went, and madeMy home their rendezvous with my consent.The doughty oath that shocked my ears at first,The doubtful jest that meant, or might not mean,That which should set a woman's brow aflame,Became at last (oh, shame of womanhood!)A thing to frown at with a covert smile;Anything to smile at with a decent frown;A thing to steal a grace from, as I feignedThe innocence of deaf unconsciousness.And I became a jester. I could jestIn a wild way on sacred things and themes;And I have thought that in his better moodsMy husband shrank with horror from the workWhich he had wrought in me.
I do not knowIf, during all these downward-tending years,Edward kept well his faith with me. I knowHe used to tell me, in his boastful way,How he had broke the hearts of pretty maids.And that if he were single—well-a-day!The time was past for thinking upon that!And I had heart to toss the badinageBack in his teeth, with pay of kindred coin;And tell him lies to stir his bestial mirth;And make my boast of conquests; and pretendThat the true heart I had bestowed on himHad flown, and left him but an empty hand.
I had some days of pain and penitence.I saw where all must end. I saw, too well,Edward was growing idle,—that his formWas gathering disgustful corpulence,—That he was going down, and dragging meTo shame and ruin, beggary and death.But judgment came, and overshadowed us;And one quick bolt shot from the awful cloudSevered the tie that bound two worthless lives.What God hath joined together, God may part:—Grace, have you thought of that?
Grace.
You scare me, Mary!Nay! Do not turn on me with such a look!Its dread suggestion gives my heart a pangThat stops its painful beating.
Mary.
Let it pass!One morn we woke with the first flush of light,Our windows jarring with the cannonadeThat ushered in the nation's festal day.The village streets were full of men and boys,And resonant with rattling mimicryOf the black-throated monsters on the hill,—A crashing, crepitating war of fire,—And as we listened to the fitful feud,Dull detonations came from far away,Pulsing along the fretted atmosphere,To tell that in the ruder villagesThe day had noisy greeting, as in ours.
I know not why it was, but then, and there,I felt a sinking sadness, passing tears—A dark foreboding I could not dissolve,Nor drive away. But when, next morn, I wokeIn the sweet stillness of the Sabbath day,And found myself alone, I knew that heartsWhich once have been God's temple, and in whichSomething divine still lingers, feel the throbAlong the lines that bind them to the ThroneWhen judgment issues; and, though dumb and blind,Shudder and faint with prophecies of ill.How—by what cause—calamity should come,I could not guess; that it was imminentSeemed just as certain as the morning's dawn.We were to have a gala day, indeed.There were to be processions and parades;A great oration in a mammoth tent,With dinner following, and toast and speechBy all the wordy magnates of the town;A grand balloon ascension afterwards;And, in the evening, fireworks on the hill.I knew that drink would flow from morn till nightIn a wild maelstrom, circling slow aroundThe village rim, in bright careering waves,But growing turbulent, and changed to inkAround the village center, till, at last,The whirling, gurgling vortex would engulfA maddened multitude in drunkenness.And this was in my thought (the while my heartWas palpitating with its nameless fear),As, wrapped in vaguest dreams, and purposeless,I laced my shoe and gazed upon the sky.Then strange determination stirred in me;And, turning sharply on my chair, I said,"Edward, where'er you go to-day, I go!"If I had smitten him upon the face,It had not tingled with a hotter flame.He turned upon me with a look of hate—A something worse than anger—and, with oaths,Raved like a fiend, and cursed me for a fool.But I was firm; he could not shake my will;So, through the morning, until afternoon,He stayed at home, and drank and drank again,Watching the clock, and pacing up and down,Until, at length, he came and sat by me,To try his hackneyed tricks of blandishment.He had not meant, he said, to give offense;But women in a crowd were out of place.He wished to see the aeronauts embark,And meet some friends; but there would be a throngOf boys and drunken boors around the car,And I should not enjoy it; more than this,The rise would be a finer spectacleAt home than on the ground. I gave assent,And he went out. Of course, I followed him;For I had learned to read him, and I knewThere was some precious scheme of sin on foot.
The crowd was heavy, and his form was lostQuick as it touched the mass; but I pressed on,Wild shouts and laughter punishing my ears,Till I could see the bloated, breathing cone,As if it were some monster of the skyCaught by a net and fastened to the earth—A butt for jeers to all the merry mob.But I was distant still; and if a manIn mad impatience tore a passage fromThe crowd that pressed upon him, or a girl,Frightened or fainting, was allowed escape,I slid like water to the vacant space,And thus, by deftly won advances, gainedThe stand I coveted.
We waited long;And as the curious gazers stood and talkedAbout the diverse currents of the air,And wondered where the daring voyagersWould find a landing-place, a young man said,In words intended for a spicy jest,A man and woman living in the townHad taken passage overland for hell!
Then at a distance rose a scattering shoutThat fixed the vision of the multitude,Standing on eager tiptoe, and afarI saw the crowd give way, and make a pathFor the pale heroes of the crazy hour.Hats were tossed wildly as they struggled on,And the gap closed behind them, till, at length,They stood within the ring. Oh, damning sight!The woman was a painted courtezan;The man, my husband! I was dumb as death.My teeth were clenched together like a vise,And every heavy heart-throb was a chill.But there I stood, and saw the shame go on.They took their seats; the signal gun was fired;The cords were loosed; and then the billowy bulkShot toward the zenith!
Never bent the skyWith a more cloudless depth of blue than then;And, as they rose, I saw his faithless armSlide o'er her shoulder, and her dizzy headDrop on his breast. Then I became insane.I felt that I was struggling with a dream—A horrid phantasm I could not shake off.The hollow sky was swinging like a bell;The silken monster swinging like its tongue;And as it reeled from side to side, the roarOf voices round me rang, and rang again,Tolling the dreadful knell of my despair.
At the last moment I could trace his form,Edward leaned over from his giddy seat,And tossed out something on the air. I sawThe little missive fluttering slowly down,And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew,Or thought I knew, that it would come to me.And it did come to me—as if it slidUpon the cord that bound my heart to his—Strained to its utmost tension—snapped at last.I marked it as it fell. It was a rose.I grasped it madly as it struck my hand,And buried all its thorns within my palm;But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice,And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell.
That night was brushed from life. A passing friendDirected those who bore me rudely off;And I was carried to my home, and laidEntranced upon my bed. The Sabbath mornThat followed all this din and devilrySwung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light,And in the hallowed stillness I awoke.My heart was still; I could not stir a hand.I thought that I was dying, or was dead.—That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousnessInto the everlasting silences.I could not speak; but winning strength, at last,I turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face,And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gone!
I was oppressed with awful sense of loss;And, as a mother, by a turbid seaThat has engulfed her fairest child, sits downAnd moans over the waters, and looks outWith curious despair upon the waves,Until she marks a lock of floating hair,And by its threads of gold draws slowly in,And clasps and presses to her frenzied breastThe form it has no power to warm again,So I, beside the sea of memory,Lay feebly moaning, yearning for a clewBy which to reach my own extinguished life.It came. A burning pain shot through my palm,And thorns awoke what thorns had put to sleep.It all came back to me—the roar, the rush,The upturned faces, the insane hurrahs,The skyward-shooting spectacle, the shame—And then I swooned again.
Grace.
But was he killed?Did his foolhardy venture end in wreck?Or did it end in something worse than wreck?Surely, he came again!
Mary.
To me, no more.He had his reasons, and I knew them soon;But, first, the fire enkindled in my brainBurnt through long weeks of fever—burnt my frameUntil it lay upon the sheet as whiteAs the pale ashes of a wasted coal.Then, when strength came to me, and I could sit,Braced by the double pillows that were mine,A kind friend took my hand, and told me all.
The day that Edward left me was the lastHe could have been my husband; for the nextDisclosed his infamy and my disgrace.He was a thief, and had been one, for years,—Defrauding those whose gold he held in trust;And he was ruined—ruined utterly.The very bed I sat on was not his,Nor mine, except by tender charity.A guilty secret menacing behind,A guilty passion burning in his heart,And, by his side, a guilty paramour,He seized upon this reckless whim, and fledFrom those he knew would curse him ere he slept.
My cup was filled with wormwood; and it grewBitter and still more bitter, day by day,Changing from shame and hate, to stern revenge.Life had no more for me. My home was lost;My heart unfitted to return to this;And, reckless of the future, I went forth—A woman stricken, maddened, desperate.I sought the city with as sure a scentAs vultures track a carcass through the air.I knew him there, delivered up to sin,And longed to taunt him with his infamy,—To haunt his haunts; to sting his perjured soulWith sharp reproaches; and to scare his eyes—With visions of his work upon my face.
But God had other means than my revengeTo humble him, and other thought for me.I saw him only once; we did not meet;There was a street between us; yet it seemedWide as the unbridged gulf that yawns betweenThe rich man and the beggar.
'Twas at dawn.I had arisen from the sleepless bedWhich my scant means had purchased, and gone forthTo taste the air, and cool my burning brow.I wandered on, not knowing where I went,Nor caring whither. There were few astir;The market wagons lumbered slowly in,Piled high with carcasses of slaughtered lambs,Baskets of unhusked corn, and mint, and allThe fresh, green things that grow in country fields.I read the signs—the long and curious names—And wondered who invented them, and ifTheir owners knew how very strange they were.A corps of weary firemen met me once,Late home from service, with their gaudy car,And loud with careless curses. Then I stopped,And chatted with a frowsy-headed girlWho knelt among her draggled skirts, and scrubbedThe heel-worn doorsteps of a faded house.Then, as I left her, and resumed my walk,I turned my eyes across the street, and sawA sight which stopped my feet, my breath, my heart.It was my husband. Oh, how sadly changed!His bloodshot eyes stared from an anxious face;His hat was battered, and his clothes were tornAnd splashed with mud. His poisoned frameHad shrunk away, until his garments hungIn folds about him. Then I knew it all:His life had been a measureless debauchSince his most shameless flight; and in his eye,Eager and strained, and peering down the stairsThat tumbled to the anterooms of hell,I saw the thirst which only death can quench.He did not raise his eyes; I did not speak;There was no work for me to do on him;And when, at last, he tottered down the stepsOf a dark gin-shop, I was satisfied,And half relentingly retraced my way.
I cannot tell the story of the monthsThat followed this. I toiled and toiled for bread,And for the shelter of one stingy room.Temptation, which the hand of povertyBears oft seductively to woman's lips,To me came not. I hated men like beasts;Their flattering words, and wicked, wanton leers,Sickened me with ineffable disgust.At length there came a change. One warm Spring eve,As I sat idly dreaming of the past,And questioning the future, my quick earCaught sound of feet upon the creaking stairs,And a light rap delivered at my door.I said, "Come in!" with half-defiant voice,Although I longed to see a human face,And needed labor for my idle hands.But when the door was opened, and there stoodA man before me, with an eye as pureAnd brow as fair as any little child's,Matched with a form and carriage which combinedAll manly beauty, dignity, and grace,A quick blush overwhelmed my pallid cheeks,And, ere I knew, and by no act of will,I rose and gave him gentle courtesy.
He took a seat, and spoke with pleasant voiceOf many pleasant things—the pleasant sky,The stars, the opening foliage in the park;And then he came to business. He would haveA piece of exquisite embroidery;My hand was cunning if report were true;Would it oblige him? It would do, I said,That which it could to satisfy his wish;And when he took the delicate pattern out,And spread the dainty fabric on his knees,I knew he had a wife.
He went awayWith kind "Good night," and said that, with my leave,He'd call and watch the progress of the work.I marked his careful steps adown the stairs,And then, his brisk, firm tread upon the pave,Till in the dull roar of the distant streetsIt mingled and was lost. Then I was lost,—Lost in a wild, wide-ranging reverie—From which I roused not till the midnight hushWas broken by the toll from twenty towers.This is a man, I said; a man in truth;My room has known the presence of a man,And it has gathered dignity from him.I felt my being flooded with new life.My heart was warm; my poor, sore-footed thoughtsSprang up full fledged through ether; and I feltLike the sick woman who had touched the hemOf Jesus' garment, when through all her veinsLeaped the swift tides of youth.
He had a wife!Why, to a wrecked, forsaken thing like meDid that thought bring a pang? I did not know;But, truth to tell, it gave me stinging pain.If he was noble, he was naught to me;If he was great, it only made me less;If he loved truly, I was not enriched.So, in my selfishness, I almost cursedThe unknown woman, thought for whom had broughtHer loving husband to me. What was ITo him? Naught but a poor unfortunate,Picking her bread up at a needle's point.He'll come and criticise my handiwork,I said, and when it is at last complete,He'll draw his purse and give me so much gold;And then, forgetting me for ever, goAnd gather fragrant kisses for the boon,From lips that do not know their privilege.I could be nothing but the mediumThrough which his love should pass to reach its shrine;The glass through which the sun's electric beamsKindles the rose's heart, and still remainsChill and serene itself—without reward!Then came to me the thought of my great wrong.A man had spoiled my heart, degraded me;A wanton woman had defrauded me;I would get reparation how I could!He must be something to me—I to him!All men, however good, are weak, I thought;And if I can arrest no beam of loveBy right of nature or by leave of law,I'll stain the glass! And the last words I said,As I lay down upon my bed to dream,Were those four words of sin: "I'll stain the glass!"
Grace.
Mary, I cannot hear you more; your tale,So bitter and so passing pitifulI have forgotten tears, and feel my eyesBurn dry and hot with looking at your face,Now gathers blackness, and grows horrible.
Mary.
Nay, you must hear me out; I cannot pause;And have no worse to say than I have said—Thank God, and him who put away my toils!He came, and came again; and every charmGod had bestowed on me, or art could frame,I used with keenest ingenuitiesTo fascinate the sensuous elementO'er which, mistrusted, and but half asleep,His conscience and propriety stood guard.I told with tears the story of my woe;He listened to me with a thoughtful face,And sadly sighed; and thus I won his ruth,And then I told him how my life was lost;—How earth had nothing more for me but pain;Not e'en a friend. At this, he took my hand,And said, out of his nobleness of heart,That I should have an honest friend in him;On which I bowed my head upon his arm,And wept again, as if my heart would breakWith the full pressure of his gratitude.He put me gently off, and read my face:I stood before him hopeless, helpless, his!His swift soul gathered what I meant it should.He sighed and trembled; then he crossed the floor,And gazed with eye abstracted on the sky;Then came and looked at me; then turned,As if affrighted at his springing thoughts,And, with abruptest movement, left the room.
This time he took with him the broidered thingThat I had wrought for him; and when I opedThe little purse that he rewarded me,I found full golden payment five times told.Given for pity? thought I,—that alone?Is manly pity so munificent?Pity has mixtures that it knows not of!
It was a cruel triumph, and I speakOf it with utter penitence and shame.I knew that he would come again; I knewHis feet would bring him, though his soul rebelled;I knew that cheated heart of his would toyWith the seductive chains that gave it thrall,And strive to reconcile its perjuryWith its own conscience of the better way,By fabrication of apologiesIt knew were false.
And he did come again;Confessing a strange interest in me,And doing for me many kindly deeds.I knew the nature of the sympathyThat drew him to my side, better than he;Though I could see that solemn change in himWhich every face will wear, when Heaven and HellAre struggling in the heart for mastery.He was unhappy; every sudden soundStartled his apprehensions; from his heartRose heavy suspirations, charged with prayer,Desire, and deprecation, and remorse;—Sighs like volcanic breathings—sighs that scorchedHis parching lips and spread his face with ashes,—Sighs born in such convulsions of the soulThat his strong frame quaked like Vesuvius,Burdened with restless lava.
Day by dayI marked this dalliance with sinful thought,Without a throb of pity in my heart.I took his gifts, which brought immunityFrom toil and care, as if they were my right.Day after day I saw my power increase,Until that noble spirit was a slave—A craven, helpless, self-suspected slave.
But this was not to last—thank God and him!One night he came, and there had been a change.My hand was kindly taken, but not heldIn the way wonted. He was self-possessed;The powers of darkness and his Christian heartHad had a struggle—his the victory;And on his manly brow the benisonOf a majestic peace had been imposed.Was I to lose the guerdon of my guile?He was my all, and by the only meansLeft to a helpless, reckless thing, like me:My heart made pledge the strife should be renewed.I took no notice of his altered mood,But strove, by all the tricks of tenderness,To fan to life again the drooping flameWithin his heart;—with what success, at last,The sequel shall reveal.
Strange fire came downResponsive to my call, and the quick flashThat shriveled resolution, vanquished will,And with a blood-red flame consumed the crownOf peace upon his brow, taught him how weak—How miserably imbecile—he had become,Tampering with temptation. Such a groan,Wrung from such agony, as then he breathed,Pray Heaven my ears may never hear again!He smote his forehead with his rigid palm,And sank, as if the blow had stunned him, to his knees,And there, with face pressed hard upon his handsGave utterance to frenzied sobs and prayers—The wild articulations of despair.I was confounded. He—a man—thought I,Blind with remorse by simple look at sin!And I—a woman—in the devil's hands,Luring him Hellward with no blush of shame!The thought came swift from God, and pierced my heart,Like a barbed arrow; and it quivered thereThrough whiles of tumult—quivered—and was fast.Thus, while I stood and marked his kneeling form,Still shocked by deep convulsions, such a lightIllumed my soul, and flooded all the room,That, without thought, I said, "The Lord is here!"Then straight my spirit heard these wondrous words:"Tempted in all points like ourselves, was He—Tempted, but sinless." Oh, what majestyOf meaning did those precious words convey!'Twas through temptation, thought I, that the Lord—The mediator between God and men—Reached down the hand of sympathetic loveTo meet the grasp of lost Humanity;And this man, kneeling, has the Lord in him,And comes to mediate 'twixt Christ and me,"Tempted, but sinless;"—one hand grasping mine,The other Christ's.
Why had he suffered thus?Why had his heart been led far down to mine,To beat in sinful sympathy with mine,But that my heart should cling to his and him,And follow his withdrawal to the heightsFrom whence he had descended? Then I learnedWhy Christ was tempted; and, as broad and full,The heart of the great secret was revealed,And I perceived God's dealings with my soul,I knelt beside the tortured man and wept,And cried to Heaven for mercy. As I prayed,My soul cast off its shameful enterprise;And when it fell, I saw my godless self—My own degraded, tainted, guilty heart,Which it had hidden from me. Oh, the pang—The poignant throe of uttermost despair—That followed the discovery! I feltThat I was lost beyond the grace of God;And my heart turned with instinct sure and swiftTo the strong struggler, praying at my side,And begged his succor and his prayers. I feltThat he must lead me up to where the handOf Jesus could lay hold on me, or I was doomed.Temptation's spell was past. He took my hand.And, as he prayed that we might be forgiven,And pledged our future loyalty to GodAnd His white throne within our hearts, I gaveResponses to each promise; then I crownedHis closing utterance with such AmenAs weak hearts, conscious of their weakness, giveWhen, bowed to dust, and clinging to the robesOf outraged mercy, they devote themselvesOnce and for ever to the pitying Christ.
Then we arose and stood upon our feet.He gave me no reproaches, but with voiceAttempered to his altered mood, confessedHis own blameworthiness, and pressed the prayerThat I would pardon him, as he believedThat God had pardoned; but my heart was full,—So full of its sore sense of wrong to him,Of the deep guilt of shameful purposesAnd treachery to worthy womanhood,That I could not repeat his Christian words,Asking forbearance on my own behalf.
He sat before me for a golden hour;And gave me counsel and encouragement,Till, like broad gates, the possibilitiesOf a serener and a higher lifeWere thrown wide open to my eager feet,And I resolved that I would enter in,And, with God's gracious help, go no more out.
For weeks he watched me with stern carefulness,Nourished my resolution, prayed with me,And led me, step by step, to higher ground,Till, gathering impulse in the upward walk,And strength in purer air, and keener sightIn the sweet light that dawned upon my soul,I grasped the arm of Jesus, and was safe.And now, when I look back upon my life,It seems as if that noble man were sentTo give me rescue from the pit of death.But from his distant height he could not reachAnd act upon my soul; so Heaven allowedTemptation's ladder 'twixt his soul and mineThat they might meet and yield his mission thrift.I doubt not in my grateful soul to-nightThat had he stayed within his higher world,And tried to call me to him, I had spurnedAlike his mission and his ministry.That he was tempted, was at once my sinAnd my salvation. That he sinned in thought,And fiercely wrestled with temptation, wonFor his own spirit that humilityWhich God had sought to clothe him with in vain,By other measures, and that strength which springsFrom a great conflict and a victory.We talked of this; and on our bended kneesWe blessed the Great Dispenser for the meansBy which we both had learned our sinful selves,And found the way to a diviner life.So, with my chastened heart and life, I comeBack to my home, to live—perhaps to die.God's love has been in all this discipline;God's love has used those awful sins of mineTo make me good and happy. I can mournOver my husband; I can pray for him,Nay, I forgive him; for I know the powerWith which temptation comes to stronger men.I know the power with which it came to me.
And now, dear Grace, my story is complete.You have received it with dumb wonderment,And it has been too long. Tell me what thoughtStirs in your face, and waits for utterance.
Grace.
That I have suffered little—trusted less;That I have failed in charity, and beenUnjust to all men—specially to one.I did not think there lived a man on earthWho had such virtue as this friend of yours,—Weak, and yet strong. 'Twas but humanityTo give him pity in his awful strife;To stint the meed of reverence and praiseFor his triumphant conquest of himself,Were infamy. I love and honor him;And if I knew my husband were as strong,I could fall down before, and worship him;I could fall down, and wet his feet with tears—Tears penitential for the grievous wrongThat I have done him. But alas! alas!The thought comes back again. O God in heaven!Help me with patience to await the hourWhen the great purpose of thy disciplineShall be revealed, and, like this chastened one,I can behold it, and be satisfied.
Mary.
Hark! They are calling us below, I think.We must go down. We'll talk of this againWhen we have leisure. Kiss the little one,And thank his weary brain it sleeps so well.
[They descend.]
* * * * *
LOCALITY—The Kitchen.
PRESENT—JOSEPH, SAMUEL, REBEKAH,and otherCHILDREN.
* * * * *
Joseph.
Have we not had "Button-Button" enough,And "Forfeits," and all such silly stuff?
Samuel.
Well, we were playing "Blind-Man's-Buff"Until you fell, and rose in a huff,And declared the game was too rude and rough.Poor boy! What a pity he isn't tough!
All.
Ha! ha! ha! what a pretty boy!Papa's delight, and mamma's joy!Wouldn't he like to go to bed,And have a cabbage-leaf on his head?
Joseph.
Laugh, if you like to! Laugh till you're gray;But I guess you'd laugh another wayIf you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me,And cut a bloody gash in your knee,And bumped your nose and bruised your shin,Tumbling over the rolling-pinThat rolled to the floor in the awful dinThat followed the fall of the row of tinThat stood upon the dresser.
Samuel.
Guess again—dear little guesser!You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wing,Or whining over anything.So stir your stumps,Forget your bumps,Get out of your dumps,And up and at it again;For the clock is striking ten,And Ruth will come pretty soon and say,"Go to your bedsYou sleepy heads!"So—quick! What shall we play?
Rebekah.
I wouldn't play any more,For Joseph is tired and soreWith his fall upon the floor.
All.
Then he shall tell a story.
Joseph.
About old Mother Morey?
All.
No! Tell us another.
Joseph.
About my brother?
Rebekah.
Now, Joseph, you shall be good,And do as you'd be done by;We didn't mean to be rudeWhen you fell and began to cry:We wanted to make you forget your pain;But it frets you, and we'll not laugh again.
Joseph.
Well, if you'll all sit still,And not be frisking about,Nor utter a whisper tillYou've heard my story out,I'll tell you a tale as weirdAs ever you heard in your lives,Of a man with a long blue beard,And the way he treated his wives.
All.
Oh, that will be nice!We'll be still as mice.
Joseph.
[Relates the old story of Blue Beard, andDAVID,andRUTHenter from the cellarunperceived.]
Centuries since there flourished a man,(A cruel old Tartar as rich as the Khan),Whose castle was built on a splendid plan,With gardens and groves and plantations;But his shaggy beard was as blue as the sky,And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy.And had heard hard stories, by the by,About his domestic relations.
Just on the opposite side of the plainA widow abode, with her daughters twain;And one of them—neither cross nor vain—Was a beautiful little treasure;So he sent them an invitation to tea,And having a natural wish to seeHis wonderful castle and gardens, all threeSaid they'd do themselves the pleasure.
As soon as there happened a pleasant day,They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way,And rode to the castle as proud and gayAs silks and jewels could make them;And they were received in the finest style,And saw everything that was worth their while,In the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile,Where he was so kind as to take them.
The ladies were all enchanted quite;For they found old Blue Beard so politeThat they did not suffer at all from fright,And frequently called thereafter;Then he offered to marry the younger one,And as she was willing the thing was done,And celebrated by all the tonWith feasting and with laughter.
As kind a husband as ever was seenWas Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween;And she was as proud as any queen,And as happy as she could be, too;But her husband called her to him one day,And said, "My dear, I am going away;It will not be long that I shall stay;There is business for me to see to.
"The keys of my castle I leave with you;But if you value my love, be true,And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue!Farewell, Fatima! Remember!"Fatima promised him; then she ranTo visit the rooms with her sister Ann;But when she had finished the tour, she beganTo think about the Blue Chamber.
Well, the woman was curiously inclined,So she left her sister and prudence behind,(With a little excuse) and started to findThe mystery forbidden.She paused at the door;—all was still as night!She opened it: then through the dim, blue lightThere blistered her vision the horrible sightThat was in that chamber hidden.
The room was gloomy and damp and wide,And the floor was red with the bloody tideFrom headless women, laid side by side,The wives of her lord and master!Frightened and fainting, she dropped the key,But seized it and lifted it quickly; then sheHurried as swiftly as she could fleeFrom the scene of the disaster.
She tried to forget the terrible dead,But shrieked when she saw that the key was red,And sickened and shook with an awful dreadWhen she heard Blue Beard was coming.He did not appear to notice her pain;But he took his keys, and seeing the stain,He stopped in the middle of the refrainThat he had been quietly humming.
"Mighty well, madam!" said he, "mighty well!What does this little bloodstain tell?You've broken your promise; prepare to dwellWith the wives I've had before you!You've broken your promise, and you shall die."Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh,Fell on her knees and began to cry,"Have mercy, I implore you!"
"No!" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword;"You shall die this very minute," he roared."Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord,"The terrified woman entreated."Only ten minutes," he roared again;And holding his watch by its great gold chain,He marked on the dial the fatal ten,And retired till they were completed.
"Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower!Look for release from this murderer's power!Our brothers should be here this very hour;—Speak! Does there come assistance?""No. I see nothing but sheep on the hill.""Look again, sister!" "I'm looking still,But naught can I see, whether good or ill,Save a flurry of dust in the distance."
"Time's up!" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room;"This moment shall witness your terrible doom,And give you a dwelling within the roomWhose secrets you have invaded.""Comes there no help for my terrible need?""There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed.""Oh! tell them to ride very fast indeed,Or I must meet death unaided."
"Time's fully up! Now have done with your prayer,"Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair;Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair,Swung his glittering weapon around him;But a loud knock rang at the castle gate,And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate,For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late;And then the two soldiers found him.