University of Virginia Library

Yet He, the Almighty Lord of this our breath,
Did see and hear, and surely pitied too,
If God can pity,—but He works as God,
Not man, and so we cannot understand.

No whisper of reproach, no spoken word,
Troubled with memories of her sinfulness
The suffering woman; yet her daily life
Became a quiet sorrow. In the house
She labour'd with her hands from morn to night,
Seeing few faces save the pensive ones
Whose yellow holiness she bow'd before;
And tacitly they suffer'd her to sink
Into the household drudge.—with privilege
Upon the Sabbath day to dress in black,
Sit in the sunless house or go to prayer,—
So idle, that her thoughts could travel back
To shame and bitterness. Her only joy
Was when she gave her little girl the breast,
(They dared not rob her weary heart of that,)
When, seated all alone, she felt it suck,
And, as the little lips drew forth the milk,
Felt drowsily resign'd, and closed her eyes,
And trembled, and could feel the happy tears.

There came a quiet gathering in the house,
And by the gloomy minister the child
Was christen'd; and the name he gave to her
Was ‘Margaret Lewson.’ For the sisters said,
‘Her mother being buried, as it were,
The girl shall take our name.’ And Jane sat by,
And heard the pious lie with aching heart,
And ever after that her trouble grew.

Soon, when the sound of little feet were heard
In the dull dwelling, and a baby-voice
Call'd at the mother's heart, Jane thrill'd and heard,
But even as she listen'd the sweet sounds
Would seem to die into the cloud that hid
The great cold God above her. Margaret
Grew to a little wildling, quick and bright,
Black-eyed, black-hair'd, and passionate and quick,
Not like its mother; fierce and wild when chid,
So that the gloomy sisters often thought,
‘There is a curse upon it;’ yet they grew
To love the little wildling unaware,
Indulged it in their stern and solemn way,
More cheer'd than they believed by its shrill laugh
Within the dismal dwelling. But the child
Clung most to Jane, and though, when first it learn'd
To call her by her Christian name, the sound
Bruised the poor suffering heart, that wore away;
And all the little troubles of the child,
The pretty joys, the peevish fits, the bursts
Of passion, work'd upon her nature so,
That all her comfort was to snatch it up,
And cover it with kisses secretly.
Wilful and passionate, yet loving too,
Grew Margaret,—an echo in a cave
Of human life without; clinging to Jane,
Who never had the heart to fondle it
Before her sisters; not afraid at times
To pinch the thin, worn arms, or pull the hairs
Upon the aching head, but afterwards
Curing the pain with kisses and with tears.
So that as time wore on the mother's heart
Grew tenderer to its trouble than before.

Then later, when the little girl went forth
To school hard by, the motion and the light
Hied from the house; and all the morning hours
The thin face came and went against the panes,
Looking out townward,—till the little shape
Appear'd out of the cloud, and pale eyes grew
Dim to its coming. As the years went on,
The mother, with the agony in her heart
She could not utter, quietly subdued
Her nature to a listening watchfulness:
Her face grew settled to expectant calm,
Her vision penetrated things around
And gazed at something lying far beyond,
Her very foot linger'd about the house,
As if she loiter'd hearkening for a sound
Out of the world. For Margaret, as she grew,
Was wilder and more wilful, openly
Master'd the gloomy virgins, and escaped
The pious atmosphere they daily breathed
To gambol in a freër, fresher air;
And Jane would think, ‘'Twill kill me, if my child
Should turn out wicked.’ Mindless though she was,
And feeble, yet the trouble made her sense
Quick, sharp, and subtle to perceive and watch.
A little word upon the girlish tongue
Could sting her,—nay, a light upon the face,
A kindling of the eye, a look the child
Wore when asleep, would trouble her for days,
Carrying strangest import. So she waited,
Watching and listening,—while the young new life
Drew in the air, and throve, absorbing hues
Out of a thousand trivial lights and shades
That hover'd lightly round it. Still to Jane
The habit of submission clung: she watch'd
The wiser sterner faces oftentimes,
Trembling for confirmation of her fears;
And nightly pray'd that God, who was so just,
So hard to those who went astray at all,
Would aid her sisters, helping them to make
The little Margaret better as she grew,—
Waking her secret trouble evermore
With countless, nameless acts of help and love,
And humble admonition,—comforted
By secret fondlings of the little arms,
Or kisses on the tiny, wilful mouth
Apart in childish slumber.

Thus the years
Pass'd over her like pensive clouds, and melted
Into that dewy glimmer on the brain,
Which men call Memory. Wherefore recount
The little joys and sorrows of the time:
The hours when sickness came, and thought itself
Tick'd like a death-watch,—all the daily hopes
And impulses and fears? Enough to tell,
That all went onward like a troubled stream,
Until the sisters, worn and growing old,
Felt the still angel coming nearer, nearer,
Scattering sleep-dust on uplooking eyes;
And Jane, though in her prime, was turning gray;
And Margaret was a maiden flower fullblown.

A passion-flower!—a maiden whose rich heart
Burn'd with intensest fire that turn'd the light
Of the sweet eyes into a warm dark dew;
One of those shapes so marvellously made,
Strung so intensely, that a finger-press,
The dropping of a stray curl unaware
Upon the naked breast, a look, a tone,
Can vibrate to the very roots of life,
And draw from out the spirit light that seems
To scorch the tender cheeks it shines upon;
A nature running o'er with ecstasy
Of very being, an appalling splendour
Of animal sensation, loveliness
Like to the dazzling panther's; yet, withal,
The gentle, wilful, clinging sense of love,
Which makes a virgin's soul. It seem'd, indeed,
The gloomy dwelling and the dismal days,
Gloaming upon her heart, had lent this show
Of shining life a melancholy shade
That trebled it in beauty. Such a heart
Needed no busy world to make it beat:
It could throb burningly in solitude;
Since kindly Heaven gave it strength enough
To rock the languid blood into the brains
Of twenty smaller natures.

Then the pain,
The wonder, deepen'd on the mother's heart,—
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother. As she might have watch'd
A wondrous spirit from another world,
Jane Lewson watch'd her child. Could this fair girl,—
This wild and dazzling life, be born of her?—
A lightning flash struck from a pensive cloud
The wan still moon is drinking? Like a woman
Who has been sick in darkness many days,
And steps into the sunshine, Jane beheld
Her daughter, and felt blind. A terror grew
Upon her, that the smother'd sense of pride
Lack'd power to kill. She pray'd, she wept, she dream'd,
And thought, if Margaret's had been a face
More like the common faces of the streets,
'Twould have been better. With this feeling, grew
The sense of her own secret. Oftentimes
A look from Margaret brought the feeble blush
Into the bloodless cheek;—creeping away
Into her chamber, Jane would wring her hands,
Moaning in pain, ‘God help me! If she knew!
Ah, if she knew!’ And then for many days
Would haunt the dwelling fearfully, afraid
To look on what she loved,—till once again,
Some little kindness, some sweet look or tone,
A happy kiss, would bring her courage back
And cheer her.

Nor had Margaret fail'd to win
The hard-won sisters; oft their frosty eyes
Enlarged themselves upon her and grew thaw'd—
In secret she was mistress over both—
And in their loveless way, they also felt
A frighten'd pleasure in the beauteous thing
That brighten'd the dull dwelling.

Oftentimes,
The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth
In wilful act or speech or evil looks,
Deepen'd Jane's terror. Margaret heeded not
The sisters' pious teachings, did not show
A godly inclination,—nay, at times
Mock'd openly. Ah, had she guess'd the pain,
The fear, the agony, such mockings gave
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother! In her secret heart
Jane deem'd her own deep sorrows all had come
Because she had not, in her dreary youth,
Been godly; and as such flashes as she saw
Gleam from her girl, seem'd wicked things indeed;
And at such times the weary woman's eyes
Would seek the sunless faces, searching them
For cheer or warning.

In its season came
That light which takes from others what it gives
To him or her who, standing glorified,
Awaits it. 'Tis the old, sad mystery:
No gift of love that comes upon a life
But means another's loss. The new sweet joy,
That play'd in tender colours and mild fire
On Margaret's cheek, upon the mother's heart
Fell like a firebrand.

For to Jane, her friend,
Her dearest in the household from the first,
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother, Margaret first told
The terror—how she loved and was beloved;
And seated at Jane's feet, with eyes upturn'd,
Playing with the worn fingers, she exclaim'd,
‘I love him, Jane! and you will love him too!
I will not marry any other man!’
And suddenly Jane felt as if the Lord
Had come behind her in the dark and breathed
A burning fire upon her. For she thought,
‘My child will go away, and I shall die!’
But only murmur'd, ‘Marry, Margaret?
You are too young to marry!’—and her face
Was like a murder'd woman's.

And the pain,
The agony, deepen'd, when the lover's face
Came smiling to the dwelling, young and bright
With pitiless gladness. Jane was still, and moan'd,
‘My child will go away, and I shall die!’
And look'd upon her sisters, and could see
They pitied her; but their stetn faces said,
‘This is God's will! the just God governs all!
How should we cross such love?’ adding, ‘Beware,—
For our sakes, for your own, but chief of all
For her sake whom you love, remember now!
Pray, and be silent!’ And the wounded heart
Cried up to God again, and from the sky
No answer came; when, crush'd beneath her pain,
The woman sicken'd, lay upon her bed,
And thought her time was come.

Most tenderly
Her daughter nursed her; little fathoming
The meaning of the wild and yearning look
That made the white face sweet and beautiful;
For Jane was saying, ‘Lord, I want to die!
My child would leave me, or my useless life
Would turn a sorrow to her, if I stay'd:
Lord, let me die!’ Yea, the dull nature clung
Still into silence, with the still resolve
Of mightier natures. Thinking she would die,
Jane lay as in a painless dream, and watch'd
The bright face stir around her, following
The shape about the room, and praying still
For strength—so happy in her drowsy dream,
That she went chill at times, and felt that thoughts
So tranquil were a sin. A darker hour
Gloam'd soon upon her brain. She could not see
The face she loved; murmur'd delirious words;
And in the weary watches of the night,
Moaning and wringing hands, with closèd eyes,
Cried ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ Then the sisters sought
To lead the girl away, lest she should hear
The secret; but she conquer'd, and remain'd;
And one still evening, when the quiet fire
Was making ghosts that quiver'd on the floor
To the faint time-piece ticking, Jane awoke,
Gazed long and strangely at the shining face,
Waved her thin arms, cried, ‘Margaret! Margaret!
Where are you, Margaret? Have you gone away?
Come to your mother!’ The wild cry of pain
Startled the maiden, but she only thought
The fever'd woman raved. Twining her arms
Around Jane's neck, she murmur'd, ‘I am here!’
Weeping and kissing; but the woman sigh'd
And shiver'd, crying feebly, ‘Let me die!
My little girl has gone into the town,
And she has learn'd to call me wicked names,
And will not come again!’

When, wearied out,
Jane sank to troubled sleep, her child sat still,
Thinking of those strange words; and though at last
She shut them from her thought as idle dream,
Their pain return'd upon her. The next day
She spake unto the sisters of the same,
Adding, in a low voice, ‘She talk'd of me,
And moan'd out loudly for a little child—
Has she a child?’ The first quick flash of fear
Died from the yellow visages unseen,
And they were calm. ‘Delirium!’ Sarah said;
‘But you, my child, must watch her sickbed less—
You are too young, too weak, to bear such things.’
And this time Margaret did not say a word,
But yielded, thinking, ‘It is very strange!—
There is a mystery, and I will watch:
Can Jane have had a child?’

That very day
The dark mists roll'd from the sick woman's brain,
And she awoke, remembering nought, and saw
The sisters watching her. Two days they watch'd;
And spake but very little, though they saw
The wan eyes wander with a hungry look,
Seeking the face they loved. Then Sarah took
Jane's hand, and spake more gently, sisterly,
(Such natures, friend, grow kinder as they age,)
Than she had done for many years, and told
Of those wild words utter'd while she was ill;
Jane moan'd and hid her face; but Sarah said,
‘We do not blame you, and perchance the Lord
Spake through you! We have thought it o'er, and pray'd:
Now listen, Jane. Since that unhappy night,
We have not spoken of your shame, yet know
You have repented.’ With her face still hid,
Jane falter'd, ‘Let me die!’ but Sarah said,
‘We do not think, Jane Lewson, you will live;
So mark me well. If, ere you go away,
You feel that you could go more cheerfully,
If you are certain that it is not sin,
Poor Margaret shall know she is your child;
We will not, now you die, deny you this;
And Margaret will be silent of the shame,—
And, lest you break your oath upon the Word,
Our lips shall tell her.’ Still Jane Lewson hid
Her face; and all was quiet in the room,
Save for a shivering sound and feeble crying.
But suddenly Jane lifted up her face,
Beauteous beyond all beauty given to joy,
And quickly whispering, press'd the chilly hand—
‘I will not speak! I will not hurt my child
So cruelly!—the child shall never know!
And I will go in silence to my grave,
Leaving her happy,—and perhaps the Lord
Will pardon me!’ Then, for the first last time,
The sisters look'd on Jane with different eyes,
Admiring sternly, with no words of praise,
Her they had scorn'd for feebleness so long.

Even then the watchers in the chamber heard
A sound that thrill'd them through,—a rustling dress,
A deep hard breathing as of one in pain;
And pointing with her hand Jane scream'd aloud;
And turning suddenly the sisters saw
A face as white as marble, yet illumed
By great eyes flashing with a terrible flame
That made them quail. And in a dangerous voice,
As low as a snake's hissing, Margaret said,
‘I have heard all!’ Then the great eyes were turn'd
On Jane, and for a moment they were cold;
But all at once the breathless agony
Of recognition struck upon her heart,
The bosom heaved and moan'd, the bright tears burst,
And Margaret flung herself upon the bed,
Clasping her shivering mother; and at first
Jane shrank away,—but soon the wondrous love
Master'd her,—she could smile and kiss and cry—
And hear the dear wild voice cry, ‘Mother, mother!’
And see the bright face through her tears, and feel
That Love was there.

After the first strange bliss
Of meeting, both were stiller. Jane could weep,
And bear to feel so happy. Margaret
Clang to her mother, breathed her bliss upon her,
Fondling the silver'd tresses, covering
The thin hard hand with kisses and with tears,
Trying to say a thousand merry things
That died in sobs and tears, and only saying,
For all the utterance of her speechful heart,
‘Mother, my mother!’ Suddenly her shame
Came back upon the woman, and she turn'd
To seek her sisters' faces piteously,
But they had stolen from the happy room;
Whereon again she murmur'd, ‘Let me die!
I am a wicked woman, Margaret!
Why did you listen?’ But a second burst
Of love and blissful pain, and bitter things
Hurl'd at the cruel sisters, answer'd her;
And more tears flow'd, and more fond kisses brush'd
The tears away,—until at last Jane cried,
‘Dear, I could go away not weeping now—
God is so gentle with me!’

But He, who drew
Thus from His cloud at last and look'd so kind,
Will'd that Jane Lewson should not die so soon.
The agony did not kill her, and the joy
Sent a fresh life into her languid blood
And saved her. So that soon she rose from bed,
To see the sunshine on her daughter's face,
To see the sunless sisters, who again
Look'd cold as ever.

But a burning fire
From Margaret scorch'd them to the heart, because
They loved the girl; she heap'd upon their heads
Rage and reproaches, mockery and scorn,
Until they cried, ‘You are a wicked girl!
Jane Lewson's shame is on you. After this
We cannot dwell together any more.’
And Margaret would have answer'd fiercelier still,
But that her feeble mother, piteously
Gazing at them to whom in spite of all
Her heart was humble, begg'd her on her knees
For silence; and, thus conquer'd, Margaret
Answer'd her aunts with kisses and with tears
Shower'd on her mother's face.

That evening,
Margaret held her mother round the neck,
And led her to her lover in the house,
And with her lips set firm together, saying,
‘This is my dear, dear mother,’ told him all,
Concealing nothing. For a time, the man
Look'd startled and appall'd; but being made
Of clay not base, he smiling spake at last,
And stooping softly, kiss'd the thin worn hand—
‘She is my mother, too,—and we will dwell
Together!’

And they dwelt together,—leaving
The dismal dwelling in the smoky square,
To dwell within a cottage close to town;
But Jane lived with them only for a year,
And then, because the heart that had been used
To suffering so long could not endure
To be so happy, died; worn out and tired,
Kissing her child; and as her dying thoughts
Went back along the years, the suffering seem'd
Not such a thankless suffering after all,
But like a faded garment one has learn'd
To love through habit;—and the woman cried
On her stern sisters with her dying breath.