University of Virginia Library

Dressed, like a penitent, in sombre black
That hung about her limp and scrimp, and all
Without relief of ribbon, lace, or tucker,
Collar, or cuff, or any lightsome thing;
Her hair, that wont in regal braid to fold
A shining coronet around her brow,
Stuffed loosely in a net; nor ring nor jewel
Gracing the hand that trembled as it lifted
A book, a pencil, or an ornament,
And could not help but lift them; so arrayed,
A nun-like woman over all dull and sad,
In tragic dress of studied negligence,
Which covered not the less a tragic pain,—
For there are souls that live in symbolisms,
And are most true in most dramatic seeming,—
Thus Rose awaited for the sacrifice.

She could not rest, but paced about the room;
Now drawing curtains close, to dim the light;
Now watching the slow movement of the clock,
Uncertain whether to chide its tardy pace,
Or its unfeeling haste; now sitting down,
Holding her side, or white, spasm-choking throat;
And anon starting up to stamp and frown,
With flashing look defiant, saying “I will”;
But soon she drooped her head, and sobbed, “I cannot;
God, pity me, a creature pitiful;
I dare not say, God help me, for this business
Is one He cannot help in. I am to choose
Deliberately the mean life I have proven,
And knowing it so hollow, heartless, vain,
And knowing, too, the better life of love,
And knowing it may break a noble heart,
And make mine own a lean and barren heart,
I am to seal a covenant with darkness,
And sign mine own death-warrant. Can I do it?
Is there no hope, no other way but this,
As they all tell me?—how I hate them all!
Why was there none to back my better thought,
And help the struggling spirit to do right?
O father, mother, brother, why do all
Forsake me? ply me so with reasons strong
To play the baser part? Was ever girl
So hard beset with preachers of a lie?
Was ever girl so drawn by cords of love
To break the cord of Love? Or can it be,
As they do all aver, and I myself
Half feel, yet hate myself for feeling it,
That this poor world of Custom is my Fate;
That I must be what yet I scorn to be;
That empty as it is, it is my all;
That I should only wreck another soul,
Trying another life;—that I have lost,
With their upbringing, simple womanhood
And patient strength of love? Too late, too late!
That is his step, his ring. I know them well,
As the fond wife her husband's foot-fall kens,
Home-coming while she watches for his coming.
Ah me! how often I have sat intent
To hear it, while they thought I heeded them
Dully haw-hawing, which he never did;
Stupidly flattering, which he never did;
Or peddling in the devil's small-ware, gossip
And innuendo, which he never did;
For he is gracious, generous, and true:
And all the time my spirit was not here,
But hovering by the door, and out and in,
And, hungering for him, hated them the more.
And now I shake and shiver like a rush
To hear the step which I shall hear no more.
No more! he will not see me any more!
No more! and I must snap with mine own hand
The gold-thread in my life, and make it all
Leaden and passionless for evermore!
I hate it all; I'll do some wicked thing,
I know, ere all is ended. How I dread
The future they have fashioned out for me,
And fierce rebellion of the best in me
Against the doing what is bound on me!
Heaven help me to be true at least to him
When falsest to myself; my way is hard.”
Then she sat down, and was composed and calm
To look at, as a marble monument.