Fantasy and Passion :: :: University of Virginia Library

I have not blamed him; I shall not blame;
It is best for him, though bitter for me,
Whose poor heart holds the past the same
As a box of gems with a missing key!

For Philip was born to shine, you know;
I can never help, through my darkest pain,
Being glad he should win the world, and so
Gain early all that he ought to gain.

It used to seem, in the old dead days,
A marvel that he should find one trace
Of charm in a girl with my plain ways,
And timidly unimportant face.

His frame for a sculptor might have served;
His hair, over deep-blue eyes and clear,
Grew high on the temples ere it curved
In rich crisp gold round the shapely ear.

And I think there are few things like his smile,
Or his laugh's full mellow sweetness, too;
And then, in his own wild self-taught style,
He was clever beyond all men I knew.

And often, indeed, throughout each year,
He would read his poems to me alone,
While I tried to make my whole soul hear,
With his strong man's hand in both my own!

And some I would find most grave and grand,
And some to my eyes the hot tears sent,
And some I would ache to understand,
But not know a word of what they meant!

For Phil was to me like a land that keeps
High cliffs it dazzles the eye to trace,
Though I cared not much for the lofty steeps,
While violets blossomed about their base!

But 'twas pleasure to know him well above
The throng of his fellows, I avow;
For woman's pride is to woman's love
More closely wedded than leaf to bough!

And so when that summer came at last
Which made the old house on the hill look gay,
Its silence being a thing of the past
And its shadowy chambers blest with day,

Why, what seemed likelier to my thought,
If I stayed to think, than that my dear Phil,
For the graceful gifts his presence brought,
Should be welcomed at the house on the hill?

And his welcomers chose, for their fine part,
So to scatter favors about his feet,
That I grew at length to be sure in heart
Of just the nights when we would not meet.

He would tell me of their soft household ease
And their manners, touched with a fine repose,
And of all they had borne across the seas
From lands of sun and from lands of snows.

And deep was my pleasure to hear him speak
Of how warmly all would greet him there,
From the proud old dame with the faded cheek
To the rosy pet with the reckless hair.

But as summer died amid waning wealth,
A something in Phil seemed also dead,
And now and then I would weep by stealth,
For my soul grew dark with a nameless dread!

He was shadowed with gloomy change and cold,
That made, while it put the past to scorn,
His kiss of now by his kiss of old
Seem a wilted rose by a rose just born!

And the change grew worse; but I played a part,
And gave no sign, in my stubborn pride,
While doubt knocked loud at the door of my heart,
Like a guest that will not be denied!

But at last it was all made plain as day! ...
Though she who told it me meant the best,
How the gold in the sunny air turned gray,
How the youth died out from my aching breast!

'Twas my old friend, Ellen, who spoke and showed
The truth, one morn, with her true bold tongue,
As we met on the same elm-bordered road
Which had led to school when we both were young.

“You have keen eyes, Kate, but you will not see,
Quick ears, yet you strangely fail to hear!
Your Philip is false as a man may be,
For all that you hold his love so dear!

“I will speak the truth, though its shock should kill;
God help me, too, if I go amiss!
They greet him well at the house on the hill,
Yet ah! ... there is something more than this!

“There is one who rules him with fatal sway,
Who turns his heart from its loyal place;
A girl with brown hair waving away
From a clear-cut pale patrician face.

“The babbled lies of the gossip-cliques
I meet with loathing, I stand above;
But, Kate, what it all has meant for weeks
Heaven only knows if it be not love!

“They were strolling slowly, this very morn,
On the lonely roadside where I came,
And before my kindling look of scorn
He dropt his eyes with a flush of shame.

“Oh, Kate, he is faithless through and through;
'Tis a base mean game that he plays by stealth;
For he turns like a churl away from you,
To fawn with a smile at the feet of wealth!”

So Ellen spoke; and an eager kiss
Came warm from her lips against my own;
But nothing is quite clear, after this,
Till I stood in my little room alone.

I stood, and all in a moment brief,
With a cry my lips could not control,
Sank quivering to the floor, and grief
Wrung up the sobs from my secret soul!

That night he came, and I met him just
At the old porch-steps, worn wry with years.
The air was keen, but I would not trust
A light on the traces of my tears.

As he took my tremulous hand, I spoke:
“Let us walk for a little while” ... But here
My voice into wretched tremor broke,
Though I tried so hard to make it clear.

Then he knew that I knew it all at last,
And with bowed head murmured, “As you please;”
And down through the garden-paths we past,
In silence under the sighing trees.

I remember the night so well, so well! ...
The foliage moved with a sad unrest,
And a large deep-crimson crescent fell
Through the pale-blue air of the starry West.

And heavy and cold as a hand of doom
Had the Autumn dewfall come to set
Its chill on the chaste tuberose's bloom
And the low close copse of the mignonette.

And haunting the dark, and seeming thus
To hold it in sad mysterious thrall,
The voice of the katydid came to us
In weird, monotonous, plaintive call.

He walked with his head bent, still as stone,
And now, since I saw he would not speak,
I spoke myself, with a quivering tone
And a great hot tear on either cheek.

“Philip,” I said, “'twas a bitter wrong
To have done your soul that for such as I
You should trifle with sacred truth so long,
And soil white honor, and live a lie!

“Had you frankly warned me when love first died,
While you turned in spirit from her to me,
Can you doubt what my lips had then replied,
Though it dealt me death to set you free?

“Yet I must not chide you for changing, Phil;
I know my worth; can I fail to know
How all along we were mated ill,
You that are lofty, I that am low?

“I shall prize my past, though its light will seem
As the flash of a bird's wing seen afar,
For old love remembers young love's dream
As twilight remembers the morning-star!

“All thought should be dear of its lost repose
To the aching frame of the storm-worn ship,
And dear all thought to the thirsty rose
Of the dew once glittering at its lip!

“And to me shall be dear all thought of yore,
As its green to the leaf now gray with frost,
As the crown to the brow it girds no more,
As the sea to the pearl it loved and lost!”

Now I paused, and now for a little space
I watched him tremble and try to speak,
And saw, as the moonlight struck his face,
The white we see on a dead man's cheek.

“Ah, Kate,” he murmured, “you cannot guess
How this heart of mine, as it hears you, feels
To its guilty centre the shock and stress
Of the blow your noble pardon deals!

“Having so wronged you, I could but count
That a righteous wrath in your look would shine,
Nor ever dream that your soul would mount
To grasp at a vengeance so divine!

“But, Kate, if shame can the past repair,
From this life you were blameless to despise
Take all that your just contempt can spare,
And let it serve you until it dies!

“And perhaps your love, with its deeps untold,
Shall have gained the power, I dream not how,
To see the man you knew me of old
In the worthless traitor you know me now!”

As he ceased, I thrilled with a yearning thrill,
But I said, in words that were cold and slow,
“Answer me what I shall ask of you, Phil;
On your honor answer it,—yes or no!

“Which of us two has your heart this night?
Speak truth: is it here or yonder, Phil?
Here, where we stand in the mellow light,
Or yonder,—at the house on the hill?”

I questioned thus, though I did not dare
Look once on his white face, vague to see,
But with dropt eyes felt, as I waited there,
That the world stood still till he answered me!

So, waiting near him, with bended head
And with palm to palm held firm and tense,
I seemed, while the meagre moments fled,
To be living a lifetime of suspense!

And now, with a stifled sob, I sent
A prayer to the God who makes or mars,
That out from my longing bosom went,
Like a bird let forth from its prison-bars!

I prayed that my new hope might not flit
As a dream back to dreamland, past recall;
And I prayed ... but alas! what profits it
To remember now that I prayed at all?

My hand on a sudden he caught and pressed,
While he said, in a whisper strange and rough:
“Yes, Kate,—God help me!—I love her best.
You ask for truth: I have lied enough.”

(So the prayer was vain! So the hope was fled!)
Then I sighed, though he did not hear me sigh,
And I let him keep my hand as I said,
“The truth is better. Good-night,—good-bye.” ...

It was dark by this, for the moon hung low;
And I heard the katydid's wild clear cry,
As it rang from meadowy reaches, grow
Like an echoing voice ... Good-night! good-bye!