The Widow's Tale and other Poems. By the Author of Ellen Fitzarthur [i.e. by C. A. Bowles] |
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| I. | SCENE I. |
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 | The Widow's Tale |  |
155
SCENE I.
A breakfast parlour in a country house. Afternoon.Hargrave. Helena.
Har.
Oh, Helena! whoe'er hath torn the veil
From errors long renounced—atoned for long,
If ever deep contrition made atonement—
Hath acted in his zeal.
Hel.
A true friend's part—
And saved me from the misery—the guilt
(Howe'er unconsciously incurred) of plighting,
At God's high altar, a pure, spotless faith,
156
Approach with me the holy sanctuary,
That consciousness of guilt upon thy soul?
Har.
Yes, Helena! I should have ventured there
In humble confidence—God sees the heart,
And long ago His searching eye hath read
The deep, unfeigned penitence of mine—
He knew my purpose, ever to have proved
To thee a very faithful, tender husband—
He knew—yet, Helena! I do confess,
That in one point I still, still greatly erred—
I should have told thee all.
Hel.
Aye—that indeed
Had been a noble act of high souled candour!
Of brave unblushing boldness!—You'd have said—
“Helen! I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows
Of love, and love's true faith—and called on Heaven
To witness what I spoke, and prosper me
Here and hereafter, as I kept it sacred.
157
Mocking thy foolish, fond credulity—
And so I left thee, and in little space
Gat me another love, and laughed with her
At those unmeaning vows, and the weak girl—”
Har.
Injurious Helena! hast thou the heart—
Have I deserved—Oh, yes!—I have deserved
Rebuke, reproach, but not those bitter taunts—
'Tis true, “I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows,
And called on Heaven to witness what I spoke,”
And still I call on Heaven, offended Heaven,
(For Helen! I have sinned 'gainst it and thee,)
To witness for me, never truer heart
Poured out sincerer, purer vows than those—
I left thee, Helen!—and a soldier's fate
Led me to foreign lands, through many scenes
Of hardship, danger, death,—and thou wert still
The solitary star that on mine heart
Beamed consolation, when no ray beside
Broke thro' the darkened heavens.—At last I came
Where death in all his terrors reigned supreme,
Reaping the spotted harvest of the plague—
His garners overflowed—the people fell,
Rank after rank, till scarcely some were left
To gather in the sheaves. All Nature's ties,
All human sympathies, were broken down—
Friends forsook friends—fond husbands left their wives,
And wives their husbands—children fled away
From their expiring parents—mothers heard
Their dying infants wail, and started from them—
And I, a stranger—I, unknown—unloved—
Caught the infection—and I should have perished,
I must have perished—but that one kind wretch,
One faithful creature, risked her life for mine—
A poor Mulatto girl—a slave—oh, Helen!
Be not offended, if my voice, e'en now,
Ev'n before thee, with falt'ring gratitude,
Pronounces Abra's name.
Have I deserved—Oh, yes!—I have deserved
Rebuke, reproach, but not those bitter taunts—
'Tis true, “I left thee my betrothed wife,
And pledged, at parting, many solemn vows,
And called on Heaven to witness what I spoke,”
And still I call on Heaven, offended Heaven,
(For Helen! I have sinned 'gainst it and thee,)
To witness for me, never truer heart
Poured out sincerer, purer vows than those—
I left thee, Helen!—and a soldier's fate
Led me to foreign lands, through many scenes
Of hardship, danger, death,—and thou wert still
The solitary star that on mine heart
Beamed consolation, when no ray beside
158
Where death in all his terrors reigned supreme,
Reaping the spotted harvest of the plague—
His garners overflowed—the people fell,
Rank after rank, till scarcely some were left
To gather in the sheaves. All Nature's ties,
All human sympathies, were broken down—
Friends forsook friends—fond husbands left their wives,
And wives their husbands—children fled away
From their expiring parents—mothers heard
Their dying infants wail, and started from them—
And I, a stranger—I, unknown—unloved—
Caught the infection—and I should have perished,
I must have perished—but that one kind wretch,
One faithful creature, risked her life for mine—
A poor Mulatto girl—a slave—oh, Helen!
Be not offended, if my voice, e'en now,
Ev'n before thee, with falt'ring gratitude,
Pronounces Abra's name.
159
She tended me
(My nurse, physician,) when all others fled
The pestilential chamber where I lay.
She watched the crisis—fanned into a flame,
The pale, uncertain, glimm'ring sparks of life—
Nursed my long weakness—with exhaustless art
Devised a thousand comforts, and at last,
Led me, supported by her faithful arm,
To taste the blessed air; which but for her,
I never, never should have breathed again—
The joy that sparkled in her large dark eyes,
When she espied health's kindling rays in mine!
But when I spoke of gratitude, reward,
Dimmed with a sudden mist, they sought the ground,
And when I pressed her further, all she said,
Was “Think of Abra, when you're far away,
In your own country—in your English land—
Remember Abra.”
(My nurse, physician,) when all others fled
The pestilential chamber where I lay.
She watched the crisis—fanned into a flame,
The pale, uncertain, glimm'ring sparks of life—
Nursed my long weakness—with exhaustless art
Devised a thousand comforts, and at last,
Led me, supported by her faithful arm,
To taste the blessed air; which but for her,
I never, never should have breathed again—
The joy that sparkled in her large dark eyes,
When she espied health's kindling rays in mine!
But when I spoke of gratitude, reward,
Dimmed with a sudden mist, they sought the ground,
And when I pressed her further, all she said,
Was “Think of Abra, when you're far away,
In your own country—in your English land—
Remember Abra.”
Then, a sudden thought
Flashed o'er my mind—a sudden, painful thought,
And I looked earnestly into her eyes,
Fearing to read—Alas! I read too much—
There was a troubled pause—no word was spoken—
No sigh was breathed—no look was interchanged—
Only the arm fleant on, slightly trembled—
At last, I broke the silence—broke it, Helen!
To speak of thee, of thee! to the poor Abra—
I told her, that my future wife would pray
For blessings on my kind deliv'rer's head—
But at the name of wife, her dusky cheek
Grew to an earthier darkness, and her lip
Quivered a moment—her white ashy lip—
But not a word she uttered—till at last,
Raising her eyes, (oh, Helen! I were less
Than human had I met that look unmoved,)
“Perhaps,” she said, “if you would ask it of her,
The English lady—your—your wife, would take
Abra for slave.”
Flashed o'er my mind—a sudden, painful thought,
160
Fearing to read—Alas! I read too much—
There was a troubled pause—no word was spoken—
No sigh was breathed—no look was interchanged—
Only the arm fleant on, slightly trembled—
At last, I broke the silence—broke it, Helen!
To speak of thee, of thee! to the poor Abra—
I told her, that my future wife would pray
For blessings on my kind deliv'rer's head—
But at the name of wife, her dusky cheek
Grew to an earthier darkness, and her lip
Quivered a moment—her white ashy lip—
But not a word she uttered—till at last,
Raising her eyes, (oh, Helen! I were less
Than human had I met that look unmoved,)
“Perhaps,” she said, “if you would ask it of her,
The English lady—your—your wife, would take
Abra for slave.”
But I have told enough;
Officious malice hath possessed thine ear
With the unhappy sequel; with—my guilt—
But, Helena! it hath not told thee all—
It hath not told thee how repentance struck,
(Bitter repentance of the wrong to thee,)
At last, I offered for atonement up
The broken heart of Abra. Yes, she died!
Died uncomplaining; blessing me she died,
Me, her destroyer—for the stroke was home,
Unerring when I told her we must part;
And e'er I sailed for England, in the grave
I saw her laid at rest—But, oh! her wrongs,
Helen! her wrongs have not been buried with her—
There is a secret chamber in mine heart
Where they are stampt in fiery characters—
And there are moments—
Officious malice hath possessed thine ear
With the unhappy sequel; with—my guilt—
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It hath not told thee how repentance struck,
(Bitter repentance of the wrong to thee,)
At last, I offered for atonement up
The broken heart of Abra. Yes, she died!
Died uncomplaining; blessing me she died,
Me, her destroyer—for the stroke was home,
Unerring when I told her we must part;
And e'er I sailed for England, in the grave
I saw her laid at rest—But, oh! her wrongs,
Helen! her wrongs have not been buried with her—
There is a secret chamber in mine heart
Where they are stampt in fiery characters—
And there are moments—
'Twas my first design
To have laid open my whole heart to thee:
Its guilt, its anguish, its remorse—Oh, Helen!
That I had yielded to the warning voice
Of my good angel! But an evil genius,
(Has not the same been busy with thine ear?)
Wearing the mask of friendship, came betwixt us,
And counselled me, that I should spare myself
The shame, and thee the insult of a story,
Already shrouded in the night of death—
I listened—wavered—and the wrong prevailed
Over the better reason; and I met thee
(For the first time) with conscience-clouded looks,
And with a heart that had its dark reserves—
How many a time have I repented since
That guilty weakness! Ev'ry word and look
That spoke the innocent confidence of thy heart
Pierced mine as with a dagger. Now at last,
Tho' late, (and thou wilt say compelled,) I've spread
Its inmost foldings open to thy view—
Oh, Helena! bruise not the broken reed—
Whom God hath stricken, be not thou extreme
To judge and punish. Helena! this hand
Should have been mine to-morrow—Oh! be noble,
Withdraw it not, and—What! you snatch it from me?
To have laid open my whole heart to thee:
Its guilt, its anguish, its remorse—Oh, Helen!
That I had yielded to the warning voice
Of my good angel! But an evil genius,
(Has not the same been busy with thine ear?)
162
And counselled me, that I should spare myself
The shame, and thee the insult of a story,
Already shrouded in the night of death—
I listened—wavered—and the wrong prevailed
Over the better reason; and I met thee
(For the first time) with conscience-clouded looks,
And with a heart that had its dark reserves—
How many a time have I repented since
That guilty weakness! Ev'ry word and look
That spoke the innocent confidence of thy heart
Pierced mine as with a dagger. Now at last,
Tho' late, (and thou wilt say compelled,) I've spread
Its inmost foldings open to thy view—
Oh, Helena! bruise not the broken reed—
Whom God hath stricken, be not thou extreme
To judge and punish. Helena! this hand
Should have been mine to-morrow—Oh! be noble,
Withdraw it not, and—What! you snatch it from me?
163
I take it from you, Hargrave—not believe me
Now in the heat of anger—that is past,
And I have listened with attentive patience,
(Strange calmness, some would call it,) to a story
That had I learnt from your own lips at first—
From your own honorable impulse—then—
Yet even then, it had been weak in me,
Degrading weakness, to have gathered up
The shreds and relics of a broken faith—
But I was spared the trial: you were still
Consistent in deception, and for me
No more remains, than now, for the last time—
Har.
Stop, Helen! take a moment's time to think,
Before you utter what—Oh, Helen! Helen!
Be not too hasty—we are all of us
(The very best) weak, frail, offending creatures,
Yet God forgives! and you His creature also,
And, therefore, Helen! liable to err,
Have you no mercy? no relenting softness?
164
Absolving pity? Think, oh think a moment,
How blessed to forgive!
Hel.
I do forgive—
E'en as I hope to be myself forgiven—
I do forgive you—pity you—if possible,
Would part from you in peace and charity:
But, Hargrave—thence I swerve not—we must part—
Har.
And you can say it!—you can speak the word
With that composed voice, “and that calm eye;”
And you are she that for so many years!
Oh, Helen! Helen! is it come to this?—
With that composed voice, “and that calm eye;”
And you are she that for so many years!
Oh, Helen! Helen! is it come to this?—
But now I see it all—you never loved me,
Or, if you did, some other, newer choice—
Or, if you did, some other, newer choice—
Hel.
Dare not insult me with the thought—another!
And have I never loved thee? Hargrave! Hargrave!
I know my faults—I have a passionate spirit
A passionate, proud, spirit—proudly cold,
Reserved, indiff'rent to the common eye—
Not prone to sudden friendship—easy trust—
Affection, hov'ring, like an idle moth,
From flower to flower—but once attached, more firm
Than rock of adamant—once fixed in faith,
More unsuspicious than a little child's
Confiding fondness!—And I have loved thee!—
I would have followed thee thro' all the world,
I would have borne all evils for thy sake,
All degradations, not by guilt incurred:
Thy honor was my honor—I was proud
(Too proud) of what my fancy painted thee—
Had all the world accused thee, I alone
Had stood out singly against all the world.
In faith unshaken—even now—just now,
I silenced thine accuser, and to thee
Came in the pride of boundless confidence—
And have I never loved thee? Hargrave! Hargrave!
I know my faults—I have a passionate spirit
165
Reserved, indiff'rent to the common eye—
Not prone to sudden friendship—easy trust—
Affection, hov'ring, like an idle moth,
From flower to flower—but once attached, more firm
Than rock of adamant—once fixed in faith,
More unsuspicious than a little child's
Confiding fondness!—And I have loved thee!—
I would have followed thee thro' all the world,
I would have borne all evils for thy sake,
All degradations, not by guilt incurred:
Thy honor was my honor—I was proud
(Too proud) of what my fancy painted thee—
Had all the world accused thee, I alone
Had stood out singly against all the world.
In faith unshaken—even now—just now,
I silenced thine accuser, and to thee
Came in the pride of boundless confidence—
166
Oh, Hargrave! Hargrave! thine own lips alone
Should have convinced me—And ev'n now, methinks
I do but dream.—Oh! tell me 'tis a dream,
Tell me thou hast not wronged, abused my love—
Tell me thou'rt still what I have ever thought thee,
And I'll believe thee—still believe thee, Hargrave!
Should have convinced me—And ev'n now, methinks
I do but dream.—Oh! tell me 'tis a dream,
Tell me thou hast not wronged, abused my love—
Tell me thou'rt still what I have ever thought thee,
And I'll believe thee—still believe thee, Hargrave!
Har.
Oh! spare me, Helen—dearest, blessed Helen!
Spare me this torture—is there not—there is!
There is a melting softness in thine eyes!
Oh! do not hide it—do not dash away
That gracious tear—'tis Heav'n's own messenger,
Of peace and hope, to a repentant soul.
Hel.
'Tis the last coward sign of woman's weakness—
But we have talked too long—for both our sakes,
Best speak at once, the word that must be spoken
Hargrave!—farewell.
Har.
Obdurate, heartless woman!—
Helen! the time may come that you will wish—
Think what it is to drive me to despair—
From all hope here, and it may be—oh, Helen!
While there is time—there is yet time—reflect—
Nay, I will take your hand—E'en friends at parting—
You said that we should part in charity!
167
Think what it is to drive me to despair—
From all hope here, and it may be—oh, Helen!
While there is time—there is yet time—reflect—
Nay, I will take your hand—E'en friends at parting—
You said that we should part in charity!
Part! part! from whom?—thee, my to-morrow's bride,
And you might yet recall with one poor word—
Might save me yet—and God would bless you for it—
Oh speak it Helena!—one word!—
And you might yet recall with one poor word—
Might save me yet—and God would bless you for it—
Oh speak it Helena!—one word!—
Hel.
Farewell!—
[Hargrave lets fall her hand, looks on her steadfastly for a moment, and rushes from the room. Helena makes a motion as if to recall him,—but quickly recovers herself, and turning to the mantle-piece leans on it
168
Enter Sophia.
Sophia.
Misguided sister!—Oh! for all the world
I would not have to answer as you may,
For the unhappy fruits of this rash action.
Hel.
Well, well, your conscience is not burthened with it.
Leave mine to its own reck'ning—leave me, sister!
It had been more considerate, more kind,
Not to have broken in upon a moment
Of feeling—somewhat painful.—
Soph.
Somewhat painful!
Helen! I've been your comforter before
In many sorrows—nay, you've often wept,
And said it did you good, upon my bosom—
What have I done to forfeit now mine office?
Hel.
Nothing, dear sister! nothing, my kind sister!
169
(Ev'n yours, Sophia,) jars my very soul—
In pity, leave me now to mine own thoughts.
Soph.
Not without one attempt—one last endeavour
To win thee from thy heart's, severe resolve—
Oh, sister! had you seen his agony!—
I met him rushing wildly from the house:
He would have passed me, but I spoke, and then
He started, stopt, and caught, and wrung my hand:
Began some rapid, incoherent sentence,
I scarce know what—then broke it off abruptly,
Grasped my hand hard, and in a smothered voice
Said, “Farewell, sister!” and was gone—Oh Helen!
How could you drive him forth in such a state?
Has he not grown up almost like a brother
With you and I!—Our mother loved him dearly!
She placed your hand in his upon her death-bed,
170
Pledged vows of mutual faith, which—
Hel.
He has broken—
You plead well, sister—against Hargrave's cause.
Soph.
I ever thought you gen'rous, noble minded:
Yet you give credence to the vile aspersions
Of that insidious wretch! that base Trevylian!—
Hel.
He! the contemptible! I spurned him from me,
He and his lies with such indignant scorn!—
Soph.
Then it was false!—I knew it!
Hel.
Partly false,
But much remained, I never had received
As truth, from any lips save Hargrave's own—
He! he! confessed—telling the tale, indeed,
With such extenuating circumstance,
That had I learnt it first from his own act
Of honorable, self-accusing candor—
171
I could forgive the crime—but its effect,
That mean deception! Can I swear to honor
The man whose disengenuous artifice
My soul despises?—And the insult, too—
The fond, deceived, confiding fool he thought me!
Soph.
Sister! there is a heinous sin called Pride—
It pulled the angels down from Heaven to Hell.—
Hel.
Art thou an angel, to rebuke me thus?
Soph.
No angel, Helen! but thine only sister,
The daughter of thy mother, from our birth,
The faithful sharer of thy pains and pleasures—
The humble sharer, for I always knew
Thou had'st a mind and fancy soaring far
Above the lowly, common track of mine—
But, sister! “'tis not always to the swift
The race is giv'n—the battle to the strong”—
I have no wisdom save the borrowed light
Reflected from my Bible—there I read
172
From our long suff'ring Judge—'tis written, too,
That “blessed are the peace-makers,” and therefore,
My sister! I have ventured to assume
That holy office—Oh! for words of power—
To melt, persuade, subdue thy stubborn heart!
Hel.
I cannot quote as thou dost, sacred texts
To illustrate all subjects—yet I read
And reverence the Scriptures—and I think
'Tis somewhere written—“Have no fellowship
With the deceitful.”—
Soph.
Are you not afraid—
(If he has erred, so much the more afraid)
To bar him out from hope—perhaps from virtue?
Say, that, to drown reflection, he should plunge
Into a gulf of riotous excess,
Of desp'rate courses. Could you hear it, Helen!
Without a pang? a self-convicting pang
And he is warm and hasty.—Like yourself
Acutely sensitive, and over apt
To leave the rein of his high spirit loose
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He has been ill so lately, and so ill!
What if the agitation of his mind
Should re-excite the scarcely smothered sparks
Of that brain fever!
Hel.
Peace!—you'll drive me mad!
Go—leave me, I command you—vex me not
Beyond my patience—What! you will not go?—
Then I must fly from persecution.—
Soph.
Stay!—
[Sophia catches the gown of Helena to detain her. Helena strikes down her sister's hand with violence.]
Hel.
Obstinate fool! how dare you tempt me thus? [Sophia shrinks back, her eyes sorrowfully fixed upon the ground. Helena stands
174
Oh, sister! sister!—but my heart was breaking—
Soph.
My poor, poor Helena! thy sister's heart
Bleeds for thy anguish.
Hel.
What! can you forgive me?—
And yet I struck you!—I believe I struck you—
Struck down the gentle hand of the best sister!
Soph.
I was in part to blame—I should have waited
Till thy vexed spirit had regained a tone
Of more composure.
Hel.
Ever thus, my sister!
Thou art thyself—thy mild forgiving self!
Arraigning always for another's fault
Thy dove-like nature—I, alas! have heired
The fiery rashness of my father's spirit—
Our gentle mother bequeathed hers to thee.
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Come, dearest! be composed—no more of this—
Not if you love me.—Let me tempt you forth
Into the garden, with the balmy air
To inhale (as 'twere) calm thoughts—There's not, methinks,
A more reviving cordial, for a sick
And harassed spirit, than the sight of Nature:
Her rural aspect of untroubled beauty,
The holy music of her eloquent voice,
Whispering in every breeze. Come, Helen, dear!
To our own seat beneath the twin Acacias—
Thou can'st refuse me nothing in their shade,
For they were planted by our infant hands,
And our dear mother christened them the sisters—
And bade us grow like those young trees together,
Pure as their snowy blossoms—in our hearts
United like their interwoven boughs.
[Exeunt.
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