Chapter D: Appleton and Company, (2)

Art faint?

THE MAIDEN.

’Twill pass. Lady, I enter first--
First and alone!

THE LADY.

Child, if I thought his heart
Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go;
Nay, I would make you! As it is--
But no,
It cannot be.

THE MAIDEN (_clasping her hands_).

Lord, give me strength! I yield;
Go you the first. Ah! [_Sobs._

THE LADY.

Yours the nobler part;
_I_ cannot yield. (And yet it is for him
I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield
With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim
Mine eyes--
There; we will go together--thus!
God help us both! [_They enter the house._
Yes, we have come, we two,
His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous,
The fever? Where--above? That stair? We go--
Come, child--come, child.

WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

Dear ladies, you should know
Before--

THE LADY.

Come!

WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.

He--

THE LADY.

Child, must I wait for you
Here at his door!

THE MAIDEN.

I come; but something cold
Has touched my heart.

THE LADY.

Then stay, coward!

THE MAIDEN.

Nay, hold;
I come. [_They mount the stairs together._
(_Crying out above._) But he is dead--my Willie!

THE LADY (_above_).

Fate,
You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead!

_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.

THE LADY.

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--
Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak--
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.

THE MAIDEN.

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
Of thy deserted body. Oh! most fair
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!
She is not thine,
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
Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts
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
E’en you, O King of Terrors! You shall turn
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.

SURGEON.

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.

THE LADY.

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--

SURGEON.

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.
(_Speaks._) 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.

Ah! you love me there
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.

THE LADY.

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
Your gentle arms around me--thus. And so
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.

THE MAIDEN.

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.

THE LADY (_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
Together by his side--thus, hand-in-hand--
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?

_EARTH TO EARTH._

Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn,
The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength,
Young manhood’s prime. The heavy fold withdrawn
Showed his calm face; while all his rigid length
Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet
Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played
Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet
Of the wild-brier roses incense made,
And one bird sang a chant.
Yet recks it not,
This quiet body going to its grave,
Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave
Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot
Hath it with men--the tale is told, all’s o’er;
Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more;
Its memory shall pass away; its name,
For all its evil or for all its worth,
Whether bedecked with reverence or blame,
Shall soon be clean forgotten.--
Earth to earth!

The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair
Still held its roses crushed; the chill despair
That numbed her being could not dim the light
Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright
Sheen of her draperies.
The summer sun
Rose in the east and showed the open grave
Close at her feet; but, ere the work begun--
Lowering the clay (O proud humanity!
Is this thy end?)--she gentle signal gave
To lay the body down, and, by its side
Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride
Might kiss; and, as she clung there, secretly
A shining ring left on the cold dead hand,
And covered it from view; then slowly rose
And gave them place.
But ere the tightening rope
Had done its duty, o’er the eastern slope
Rode horsemen, and the little group of those
Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band.
They turned, they drew their reins--a sight to see
Indeed, this lady clad so royally,
Alone, beside a grave.
She raised her eyes,
And the bold leader bared his lofty head
Before her to his saddle-bow; the guise
Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide
The gallant grace that thus its homage paid
To so much beauty. At his signal mute,
The little band, Kentucky’s secret pride,
His daring followers in many a raid
And many a hair-breadth ’scape, made swift salute,
And, all dismounting, honor to the dead
Paid silently, not knowing ’twas their own
Bullet by night that laid him there:--so strange
The riddle of men’s life, its little range
Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone
To mortal eyes.
The rope slackened, the clay
Had reached its final resting-place. Then she
Who loved him best, in all her rich array
Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast
The first clod on his heart. “I yield to thee,
Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast
As sacred trust!
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!’”
Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned
To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned,
“I know that my Redeemer lives,” she said;
“He that believes on him, though he were dead,
Yet shall he live!”
And so passed from their sight.

The troopers ride away,
On to the south; the men who fill the grave
With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say,
“That’s part of Morgan’s band.” And one, a slave,
Looks down the road, and mutters: “That was him--
Young Cap’en Morgan’s self! These eyes is dim,
But they knows Morgan! Morgan!--what! why, bless
Your hearts, _I_ know him, and I know Black Bess--
’Twas Bess he rode.”

And now the work is done;
On from their northern raid the troopers pass
Fleet to the south; the grave is filled, and gone
Even the slave.
Forever still, alone,
Her letters and bright picture on his breast,
Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand,
The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest
Where o’er his head the steely shadows pass,
Far in the fair Kentucky border-land,
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass.

1864.

_WASHINGTON._

THE LADY (_with an open letter_).

Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear
That troubled the calm hollow of my grief
With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear
The certainty--she never loved him. Brief
Her forgetting--brief!--But I will not chide;
All happiness go with thee, gentle bride,
And of my gold a sister’s share!
To wed
Another, and once his! O golden head
Under the grass, how jealous is my heart
Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad
She loved thee not, for then no evil part
I played, e’en though unconsciously.
Oh, mad,
Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day--
The same, the same. I could not be a wife--
I could not stop the sun! No love but thee,
My own, my own! no kiss but thine--no voice
To call me those sweet names that memory
Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice,
I still must love thee down beneath the sod
More than all else--though grandest soul that God
Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart
Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name
Is branded there!
Yet must I live my life.

SERVANT (_announcing_).

The Count.

THE LADY.

Another? Ah! poor fools. The game
Doth while away my time. Yes, I do play
My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned,
For life is strong, and I am young.--There reigned
A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down
Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown
Upon her head, she sat and meted out
Reward and justice; nor did any doubt
Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same--
Her jewels bright? And had she not a name
Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness?
She could not stop--she needs must reign--_noblesse
Oblige_! So I.
But she--married! a wife!
Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life
Of treason to his memory, a long
Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. _I_
Do hold myself as his, and loyally,
Royally, keep my vow.

SERVANT.

What shall I say,
Madam?

THE LADY (_speaks_).

Show in the Count.
(_Aside._) Ah! well-a-day!
One must do something.

THE COUNT (_entering_).

_Madame, je viens_--

_LAKE ERIE._

THE MAIDEN (_rising from her knees_).

My marriage-morning! Lord, give me thy grace
For the new duties of a wedded life.
The letters have I burned;
And now--the picture. Oh, dear boyish face,
One look--the last! Yet had I been thy wife,
Willie, I had been true to thee--returned
All thy affection to the full.
She said
Love was “a sacrifice.” It is; as--thus:
Get thee behind me, Past! [_Burns the picture._
--Which one of us
Was truest? But why ask? She wronged the dead
With many lovers--nay, her very dress
Showed not one trace of sorrow.
--I confess
I never thought her fair, although the throng
Do call her so, they tell me.
--Long, how long
I wore the heavy crape that checked my breath,
And went about as one who sorroweth;
And I did sorrow! Slow months passed, and I
Gave every thought to tearful memory;
My grief grew selfish.
Then--he brought his suit--
My mother wept and prayed. What right had I
To crush two lives? If by the sacrifice
I make them happy, is it not large price
For my poor, broken years? How earnestly
I strove to do the right!
The patient fruit
Of years of prayer came to my aid, and now
I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow:
Oh, may I make him happy! Not a thought
Of any other love shall mar the troth
I give for _this_ life. Evils, troubles, naught
But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath.
But after--_then_--O Willie!

THE MOTHER (_entering_).

Art thou dressed?
That’s well, dear one. Never has mother blessed
A child more dutiful, more good.
Come, love,
The bridegroom waits.

THE END.

* * * * *

TWO WOMEN:

_A POEM_.

BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

[REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.]

_From the Springfield Republican._

“Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson’s poem, ‘Two Women,’ begun in the January and finished in the February number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, is of such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults--which are principally those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology--a sense of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dramatic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth’s memory forever--is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self-absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that receive it.”

_From the New York Evening Post._

“In the poem ‘Two Women,’ the first half of which appeared in the January number of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, and the last half of which has just now come to us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and entitles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a writer of very considerable dramatic power.”

_From the Providence Journal._

“A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, ... produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the writer.”

_From the Detroit Post._

“One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in a long time.... Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen.”

One Volume. Cloth. 12mo.