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Title: Two Women, 1862; a Poem

Author: Constance Fenimore Woolson

Release Date: January 23, 2017 [EBook #54017]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

T W O   W O M E N.

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Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness—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.

T W O   W O M E N :

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.

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Table of Contents

TWO WOMEN: 1862. A POEM.

TWO WOMEN. 1862.

ONE.

THE OTHER.

THE MEETING.

THE DRIVE.

THE FARM-HOUSE.

EARTH TO EARTH.

1864. WASHINGTON.

LAKE ERIE.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE