University of Virginia Library

Together in the gloaming light they sat,
The silence breaking now and then to speak
Of things they cared not for, or breaking it
With sighs of weariness; for in their hearts
One matter at the moment sat supreme,
Demanding all their thoughts. At length, “What day
Is this?” said Lily. Well she knew what day,
But with a little artifice thus chose
To speak of it. And Mary said, “What day?
I think it is the tenth, and yesterday
Was Friday. Friday, was it?” Simply thus
Announcing that the day was nought to her.
“Ay, Mary, and to-day's my wedding-day!
Three years to-day! A weary length of years,
Although they can be measured by a glance,
As if they were but moments. Three long years!
I never thought the stream of life could move
So slowly, and not cease to move at all.
How long I've lived since then! But all this day
I've thought of you and Walter, and of what
Was said when you were pleading for him last.
So when I heard you coming in to-day,—
‘She comes with Walter in her heart,’ I said,
‘To plead again.’ But, Mary, ere you speak,
First hear. You know that Willie has come home,
And is at peace for ever. Had he lived,
We would have been together man and wife:
It could not but be so; for while the sea
Divided us we still were man and wife.
So, Mary, for your brother plead no more,
For only widowhood remains for me.”
“I think 'tis for yourself that I should plead,
And for the dignity of womankind,”
Said Mary. “Months have passed since angry Heaven
Forbade his coming here, and still you mope.”
“Oh, do not call it moping, Mary, dear!”
“What else then, Lily? Shall I say you dream?
Dream of a man who smote you with his scorn,
Until your heart was frozen in despair!
What! Has he power to reach you from the grave?
Must you be smitten by a dead man's hand?
Let us be women, with a woman's pride,
Not worms that will not turn when trampled on.”
“Ah, Mary! will you too become unkind?”
“Forgive me. But I fret to see you pine
And waste away your life in loneliness,
While there is one that loves and longs for you.”
“Alas! I know too well he loves and longs,
But I have done with love, and it were sin
To marry him because I pity him.”
“Ah, Lily! surely he is worth your love,
Even were he not my brother. Is he not?”
“Oh, he is worth a world of such as me,”
Said Lily; “but you do not understand:
It seems to me that she who once has wed
Must wed no more—must know no other man,
But think herself a being set apart
To holy memories and departed joys.”
“A rule to make and break,” said Mary.

“Yes!
For though a woman loved with all her soul
That one she vowed to honour and obey,
Yet if, when Death took from her arms the man,
He also took his image from her heart,
And left it vacant as it was before
She knew him, then indeed, it seems to me,
It would not be a sin to wed again.”
“Then, Lily, it will always be a sin,
For when was there a heart so vacant left?”
“No heart so vacant, Mary; so I say,
That if upon her memory his face
Has been love-limned, and not to be removed
As faces from a picture may be rubbed,
Then, if she wed another, it is but
To have two husbands, and the second's kiss
Should make her shudder, as the thought makes me.”
“I cannot tell,” said Mary; “but I thought
My brother had your promise: has he not?”
“Oh, never, never, Mary. Yet I fear
I have said that which like a promise seemed
When he was to interpret; but, oh no!
I never promised. So if he believes
I am his plighted wife, he has but heard
With ear too open for such sweet deceit.
And if he comes to me—I fear he will—
To mind me of my promise, I will say
I am not free,—that I am still a wife.”
“But, Lily, Walter will but smile at that.
You know he cannot think you still a wife:
You know—”

“He thinks I never was a wife.
But I will undeceive him when he comes,
And I will tell him all the world is wrong
In thinking that the grave can souls divide;
That none of all the dead that once we loved
Is e'er forgotten, and, till we forget,
The dead are but as emigrants who go
To lands primeval, woods to clear away,
And cabins to prepare for coming friends.”
“It may be so,” said Mary; “yet I think
It would have pleased me more, had it been said
By other lips than yours. The dead we loved
Let us remember fondly till the end;
But none the less the faithful man that lives,
Should be rewarded with a living love.”
“Ah, Mary! till the air no more vibrates
With voices of the dead, and gives no proof
Of their dear presence,—till their eyes no more
Look into ours and sparkle as of old,—
Till never more they come at dead of night,
And take our hands in theirs, and fondle them,—
The grave is but a place of parting, Death
The merest semblance of a severance.”
“It may be true,” said Mary; “and if you
But think it true, my brother need not hope,
For all so kindly as he thinks of you.”
“Oh that there were no kindness in his eyes,
My sister! Oh, if they would only flash
Contempt on me! If he would come and say,
‘I have not come to woo: I would not wed—
No, not for worlds—a wanton such as you,’
I would be pleased with that. Oh, tell him so,
My sister! tell him anything you will,
If you but make him think no more of me.”
“Nay, Lily, it was you who said to him,
With eye or smile—I cannot tell you which—
That if he had but patience he might hope.
So if you have repented, or if that
Which keeps his hope alive is but a thing
He fancied, you yourself must tell him so.
Why should you bid me break my brother's heart?
I could not tell him this; and so good night.
But if I were a fairy, I would stand
Beside your bed and make you dream of him,
And there would be a wedding after all.”