 | Two women : 1862 |  |
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.
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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—
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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.
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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
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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!
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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—
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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(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
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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?
| Two women : 1862 | |