University of Virginia Library

She wore a look of sorrow in her face,
Had eyes that seemed long used to weep.
Young was she, with a sweet and gentle grace,
Which through such griefs as hers 'twas hard to keep.
Pale as a lily, wan, and worn, and thin,—
A woman who had borne and suffered long,—
Had passed through scenes of sorrow and of sin,
And known not only trial, but some wrong.
There ran a sad, deep undertone
Through all her broken, plaintive words,
Like music struck from trembling chords,
Which lives and lingers when the tune is done,
And soundeth still upon the ear
In echoes soft, and sweet, and clear.

A flush rose to her white and faded cheek,
As in low accents faint, and sad and weak,
She said, with heart that inly bled,
“Sir, you would hear my piteous tale?”
Then 'gan her voice with sudden break to fail;
The words refused to come,
And she was dumb.
After a moment's pause she said again,
With a sharp spasm of the keenest pain,
“'Tis a sad story, sir, in truth.
One grief has withered all my youth;
Before my time has made me old,
Both heart and hope are dead and cold;
The sunshine gone for ever—passed away—
Life is a night, on which shall dawn no day.”

Just as she spake the cold moon gleamed
From out a cloud, and with her light
Blanched all the bed whereon she lay,
And o'er it fully streamed,
Making the chamber bright;
Then came a cloud that hid the moon from sight,
And now a gusty, angry breeze
Swayed the strong branches of the leafy trees,
And mingled with the sobbing of the rain
That swept in driving and in heavy showers,
And beat against the window-pane,
And on the drooping petals of the sleeping flowers.
Thus she began once more:
“Sir, would you hear it all? My struggle, painful, sore?
Well, then, you shall. O angels that above
Are touched by human sin and human woe,
Is this all man's return for woman's love—
Starvation, curses,—now a kick,—or blow?
See here;”
Then from her eyes she dashed a tear,
And throwing back the cloud of golden hair
That covered all her bosom soft and fair,
She stripped her arm, and to the shoulder laid it bare;
Then showed me there—and there—and there—
Many a bruise and many a scar;
And one large, deep, and ugly wound,
With a red circle running round,
In shape like to a rayed and jaggèd star.
“Oh, what is this?” I asked with 'bated breath:
And 'mid a silence deep,
As deep as death,
She in a voice that made me creep,
Said slow,—“My husband—William—he!
I cried to him, and prayed him to be kind,
And to have pity, mercy on the wife
Who gave to him her all, her love, her life.
But he was not in his right mind—
Mad, I think. A devil had entered in—
A cruel fiend men know as gin.
The demon looked from out his bloodshot eyes;
It scathed me in his hot and thirsty breath,
Spake in his voice with loud and angry cries,
And threatened me with death!
For he was drunk. He snatched the cruel knife,
And struck me here; me—me—his wife!
He struck me, and the blood came welling fast.
I fell, all sick and faint, upon the bed,
And there I lay in agony and dread,
And thought that this hour surely was my last.
Certain I feel he would have killed me there;
Had God not, in this moment of despair,
Sent a friendly neighbour in
To save him from such dark and damning sin.”
Her voice here failed with such a piteous moan,
I felt my swelling heart was all aglow
With horror, indignation, and deep shame.
And now my passion broke, with anger in each tone,
As I beheld her rocking to and fro,
While thick and fast the hot tears quickly came:
“What! is man's heart, then, colder than a stone?
As cruel as the tiger, or the bear
Bereavèd of her whelps, that from her lair
Springs with fierce leap on all who venture near,
Insensible to ruth and ignorant of fear?”

I spake out from my wrath, and from my pain;
And then there was deep silence once again.
In that dead hush I looked, and saw the pale moonbeams
Shining from out the clouds in wan and fitful gleams;
I heard the sighing of the wind; the rain
Beat loud in passionate gusts against the pane,
Then ceased,—and all once more was still;
The fire was burning low, the night was chill.

Then spake she once again,
With a voice that shook with pain,
And her tones made me shrink:
“It was the drink! the drink!
No kinder man, no better man than he
When he is sober; none, sir, there can be
More tender. Ah! those happy, happy days
When he was steady, and our home was blest!
Love dwelt in it, and peace, and rest,
And sunshine brightened all our household ways.
'Tis true we worked for daily bread—were poor;
But sorrow never came within our door.
Then the dear time, when all the work was done,
And we together walked in the fair summer eves
Amidst the ripe and yellow harvest sheaves.
I mind me how we wandered one sweet spring,
When mating birds made all the copses ring,
Our way lay through the meadow 'neath the hill,
Where ran o'er pebbly bed the tuneful rill.
The sky was glowing like to molten fire,
As in a golden glory set the sinking sun;
If ever wife was happy, I, sir, was that one.
We saw the lark rise higher, ever higher,
Soaring to mid-heaven with pinions strong and fleet,
Ere dropped he to his nest within the wheat.
All fragrant scents came from the hedgerows green,
The happy world seemed free from pain and teen.
We thought too quickly went the swift-winged time,
As on our ears the clock began to chime
The hour,
From the old church tower.

“But now, alas! 'tis strange, 'tis strange!
How there could come this cruel change;
These bare, unfurnished walls; this room
So dark, and drear, and full of gloom!
Alas! that I have lived to see this hour!
Oh, better had I perished in the flower
Of my first sweet wedded bliss,
Ere it had come to this! to this!”

A shudder o'er her crept:
She bowed her head upon her hands and wept;
And her hot tears, like showers of rain,
Flowed down again, and yet again.

“But worse than all,” she said, “my child! my child
He lies there in that cradle bruised and maimed.
O God, I am ashamed!
My boy, pure, sweet, and undefiled!
The other night came William, wild with drink.
Oh, that night! that night!
I,—I was sitting there,
In yonder chair,
Watch keeping by the flickering candle-light.
He snatched my little one from out its bed,
And with an oath that made me shrink
And smote my heart with awe and dread,
He raised him high upon his arm.
I cried, “For God's sake, William, do the child no harm!”
And the poor boy—he gave a scream so shrill,
And angered William so—
He struck it one fierce blow,
Then all was still.
O woe! woe!
I too was stricken; heart-broken by that blow—
The child I thought was killed, no more it cried.
I took it from him, white as winter snow,
Its blue eyes closed: a look like death it wore;
I scanned and scanned its features o'er and o'er,
And tears ran down at will.
What could I do but weep, and wipe the blood
That oozed from the pale lips? My husband stood,
And looked with wild and wandering gaze,
And eyes with some strange fire ablaze;
And then he passed and staggered through the door,
And I was left with the poor child once more.
I took it to my breast; it stirred, it breathed again,
And from my heart was loosed the tightening pain.
I nursed it through the long, long night,
Until the cold wan morning light
Shone through the window. And my boy—my boy
Revived—my sad heart's only joy.

“But when the parish doctor came,
I felt a sudden heat of shame,
To lay at William's door the blame.
I said, ‘The little thing has had a fall.’
May God forgive me for that lie—
Forget it, blot it out, and pass it by!
I could not, dare not, tell him all.
I saw at once he doubted what he heard;
He looked his doubt, but did not say a word;
And in his eyes sorrow and pity stirred.
A kindly man that doctor; none could be
More gentle with the little one than he.
He nursed it, sir, as any mother might,
And came to see him often, day and night.
The boy got well; the Lord's be all the praise!
But he was ill for days, and days, and days:
Hung long 'twixt death and life;
At last youth conquered in the bitter strife.
He is not what he was before that awful night;
Then he was strong and active, happy, bright;
Now he is sickly, with a scared look in his face,
And large sad eyes. I often fear
He will not long be with me here.
I fain would keep him: but is this true love?
Were it not best for him to pass to heaven above?”

“Your husband,” said I, “does he not relent?
Saved from a deed of blood, he must repent?
Is he not now a changed, a better man?”
Then through her weakened frame a shiver ran:
“No change,” she said, in whisper of despair—
“No change—my life”—she paused. Upon the stair
A step was heard—a man's. “There—hear!
He comes! Oh, save me, sir, from what I fear!
Oft in his cups he'll bruise, or maim, or kill,
Do any desperate deed or work of ill.
When he has drank out all the night
I dread him—dread his drunken sight.
Save me, for God's sake save my child!
For him I fear the most, some outrage rough:
Save me and him,—I've borne enough—enough!”

She clung to me with looks distracted, wild;
The latch was lifted—in her husband came;
And on his cheek there burnt a spot like flame.
But he was sober, and his step and gait
Were steady. Downcast was his look,
And all his frame with some strange passion shook.
“Ah, parson, is it you? I'm something late;
I've not been home for two days and a night;
And was she anxious what might be my fate?
No! no! no good I brought to her; or to her home;
Was it not fitting I should shun her sight?
Better to keep away; why should I come?
I'm glad you're here, sir. What! she's told you all?
My sin, my cruelty, my wickedness and fall?
O Mary, Mary! patient, loving wife,
I've been thy bane, have blighted thy young life;
And the fair child, our darling and our joy,
I might have killed him—killed my sweetest boy!
Ah! sir, they know it well,
I've turned this house into a living hell.”

He sobbed convulsively, the strong man shook,
Remorse and anguish in his voice and look.
“William, dear William,” the poor wife began,
And then adown her cheeks the hot tears ran:
“William, it was not you—it was the gin;
In your right mind you'd never do such sin.
The past is past—we will forgive, forget—
Come, dear, we may—we will be happy yet.”

“Hold, wife,” he said, “until my story's told,
And then, but not before, I'll dare to hold
Thee to my heart, and all shall be
As in the dear old days for thee and me.
I turned to-night into a Hall—a place
Where, love! a man, and heaven was in his face,
Spoke of the drink, and how it brings a curse,
Brings shame, and ruin, and disgrace,
Works madness, and disease, and worse.
At me he looked, and pierced me to the soul,
Painted my home—a drunkard's—and the shame,
The sorrow, that it brings on name and fame;
And one by one he did unroll
The thousand ills that from this fountain flow,
‘The mourning, lamentation, and the woe.’
In fear I cowered, blasted by each word,
That burnt into my soul, and horror stirred,
And from my heart arose a cry for grace,
As I sat, conscience-stricken, in my place.
The good Lord heard me—me, in that vast crowd,
As there, unheard by all, I inly vowed
Never to touch or taste again the drink,
That led me onward to the dreadful brink
Of hell,—that placed its brand
Upon my brow, and raised this hand
Against thee, Mary, 'gainst the darling boy,
Whom the good Lord in heaven above
Lent to our home to be its hope and joy.
Ah, wife! ah, love! ah, love!
You look half scared; you think I mad must be.
I am not mad—I was—not now. I'm sane and free;
Sweetheart, there is a better life for thee and me,
And for this child, dearer than I can tell.
Save him, great God! he must, he will get well.
O Christ! I kneel to Thee, my voice I raise;
Here I renounce my sin, and sinful ways:
Forgive the past; send peace to this poor home;
In Thy good grace let mercy to it come;
My sins are crimson, let Thy pardon flow,
And red shall be as wool, scarlet as white as snow!”

He knelt, and there was peace, and joy, and praise;
The night had passed; the dawn of better days
Was breaking like the dayspring of the morn,
And with it light, and life, and hope were born.

The purpling day stole through the window-pane,
The wind had ceased; no longer beat the rain.
The distant hills were touched with radiance fair,
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant came the air.
And as I left the house, and homeward took my way,
'Mid dewy lanes, and in the broadening day,
I thought with joy of one more soul at rest;
Of one more home that grace had richly blest;
And seemed to hear the harps of heaven resound,
“My son, once dead, now lives; the lost is found!”