Maurine and Other Poems Part 8

But I remembered, when through every nerve Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began To love you with that human love of man For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, You won your way into my heart of hearts, And all Platonic feelings put to rout.

A maid should never lay aside reserve With one who's not her kinsman, out and out.

But as we now, with measured steps, retrace The path we came, e'en so my heart I'll send, At your command, back to the olden place, And strive to love you only as a friend."

I felt the justice of his mild reproof, But answered laughing, "'Tis the same old cry: 'The woman tempted me, and I did eat.'

Since Adam's time we've heard it. But I'll try And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof The fruit I never once had thought so sweet 'Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner.

And guard each act, that no least look betray What's pa.s.sed between us."

Then I turned away And sought my room, low humming some old air That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes Fell on a face so glorified and fair All other senses, merged in that of sight, Were lost in contemplation of the bright And wond'rous picture, which had otherwise Made dim my vision.

Waiting in my room, Her whole face lit as by an inward flame That shed its halo 'round her, Helen stood; Her fair hands folded like a lily's leaves Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves.

Upon her cheek the color went and came As sunlight flickers o'er a bed of bloom; And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair Fell 'round her loosely, in long curling strands All unconfined, and as by loving hands Tossed into bright confusion.

Standing there, Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem Like some unearthly creature of a dream; Until she started forward, gliding slowly, And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, Bowing before some new and mighty power.

"Maurine, Maurine!" she murmured, and again, "Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!"

And then, Laying her love light hands upon my head, She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said With voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone, As winds that blow across a garden bed Are weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone, And I am his--all his--his very own.

So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie Save one beneath G.o.d's over-arching sky.

I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss."

So hiding my heart's trouble with a smile, I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, When my lips fell where his so late had been.

And all day long I bore about with me A sense of shame--yet mixed with satisfaction, As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.

That ev'ning when the house had settled down To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.

"Sweetheart," she murmured softly, "ere I sleep, I needs must tell you all my tale of joy.

Beginning where you left us--you and Roy.

You saw the color flame upon my cheek When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;-- And, when we were alone, he gazed at me With such a strange look in his wond'rous eyes.

The silence deepened; and I tried to speak Upon some common topic, but could not, My heart was in such tumult.

In this wise Five happy moments glided by us, fraught With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair.

And, in his low voice, o'er and o'er again, Said, 'Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.'

Then took my face, and turned it to the light, And looking in my eyes, and seeing what Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, 'Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight.

You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?'

And I made answer straightway, 'With my life And soul and strength I love you, O my love!'

He leaned and took me gently to his breast, And said, 'Here then this dainty head shall rest Henceforth forever: O my little dove!

My lily-bud--my fragile blossom-wife!'

"And then I told him all my thoughts; and he Listened, with kisses for his comments, till My tale was finished. Then he said, 'I will Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, And hide no secret from you in my heart.

I love you, Helen, but you are not first To rouse that love to being. Ere we met I loved a woman madly--never dreaming She was not all in truth she was in seeming.

Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed Of G.o.d and man--a wily vain coquette.

I hate myself for having loved her. Yet So much my heart spent on her, it must give A love less ardent, and less prodigal, Albeit just as tender and as true-- A milder, yet a faithful love to you.

Just as some evil fortune might befall A man's great riches, causing him to live In some low cot, all unpretending, still As much his home--as much his loved retreat, As was the princely palace on the hill, E'en so I give you all that's left, my sweet!

Of my heart-fortune.'

'That were more to me,'

I made swift smiling answer, 'than to be The worshiped consort of a king.' And so Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.

And I am sad because you go away Before that time. I shall not feel half wed Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, And be my bridesmaid."

"Nay, I cannot, dear!

'Twould disarrange our plans for half a year.

I'll be in Europe New Year day," I said, "And send congratulations by the cable."

And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing The festal garments of a wedding scene, While all my heart was hung with sorrow's sable.

Forgetting for a season, that between The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, I lived in my near future, confident All would be as I planned it; and, across The briny waste of waters, I should find Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind.

The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, Pa.s.sed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.

Roy left us for a time, and Helen went To make the nuptial preparations. Then, Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill Of two physicians could not stem the tide.

The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds; and when The Autumn day, that I had thought to be Bounding upon the billows of the sea, Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, Striving to keep away that unloved guest Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.

Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside The suff'rer's couch, Roy was my help and stay; Others were kind, but he alone each day Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place Like rays of light upon a darkened way.

November pa.s.sed; and Winter, crisp and chill, In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill.

Returning light and life dispelled the gloom That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb.

Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better-- Was dressed each day, and walked about the room.

Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, A little white-winged birdling of a letter.

I broke the seal and read, "Maurine, my own!

I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad.

I felt so sorry for you; and so sad To think I left you when I did--alone To bear your pain and worry, and those nights Of weary, anxious watching.

Vivian writes Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail Before the Springtime. So you'll come and be My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay.

But three weeks more of girlhood left to me.

Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, And make your preparations here. My sweet!

Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill-- I'm sorry she has suffered so; and still I'm thankful something happened, so you stayed.

I'm sure my wedding would be incomplete Without your presence. Selfish, I'm afraid You'll think your Helen. But I love you so, How can I be quite willing you should go?

Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know And I will meet you, dearie! at the train.

Your happy, loving Helen."

Then the pain That, hidden under later pain and care, Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep My tortured heart in anguish and despair.

I had relied too fully on my skill In bending circ.u.mstances to my will: And now I was rebuked and made to see That G.o.d alone knoweth what is to be.

Then came a messenger from Vivian, who Came not himself, as he was wont to do, But sent his servant each new day to bring A kindly message, or an offering Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom To brighten up the convalescent's room.

But now the servant only brought a line From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, "Dear Sir, and Friend"--in letters bold and plain, Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: "It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, And therefore doubly so a wish of mine, That you shall honor me next New Year Eve, My wedding hour, by standing as best man.

Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe.

Being myself a novice in the art-- If I should fail in acting well my part, I'll need protection 'gainst the regiment Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent To stand by me in time of need, and shield Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield."

The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, E'en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.

_PART VI._

There was a week of bustle and of hurry; A stately home echoed to voices sweet, Calling, replying; and to tripping feet Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro, With all that girlish fluttering and flurry Preceding such occasions.

Helen's room Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom, Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.

My robe was fashioned by swift, skillful hands-- A thing of beauty, elegant and rich, A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands; And as I watched it growing, st.i.tch by st.i.tch, I felt as one might feel who should behold With vision trance-like, where his body lay In deathly slumber, simulating clay, His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.

I lived with ev'ry nerve upon the strain, As men go into battle; and the pain, That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed, Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed From mortal eyes by superhuman power, That G.o.d bestowed upon me, hour by hour.

What night the Old Year gave unto the New The key of human happiness and woe, The pointed stars, upon their field of blue, Shone, white and perfect, o'er a world below, Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed In gleaming garments, decked with diadems, Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest, Coming o'er-laden with a gift of gems.

The bustle of the dressing room; the sound Of eager voices in discourse; the clang Of "sweet bells jangled"; thud of steel-clad feet That beat swift music on the frozen ground-- All blent together in my brain, and rang A medley of strange noises, incomplete, And full of discords.

Then out on the night Streamed from this open vestibule, a light That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod, With all the hues of those that deck the sod.

The grand cathedral windows were ablaze With gorgeous colors; through a sea of bloom, Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom, The bridal cortege pa.s.sed.

As some lost soul Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze Upon its coffined body, so I went With that glad festal throng. The organ sent Great waves of melody along the air, That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray, On happy hearts that listened. But to me It sounded faintly, as if miles away, A troubled spirit, sitting in despair Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea, Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.

We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers, The white-robed man of G.o.d stood forth.

I heard The solemn service open; through long hours I seemed to stand and listen, while each word Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay Upon the coffin of the worshiped dead.

The stately father gave the bride away: The bridegroom circled with a golden band The taper finger of her dainty hand.

The last imposing, binding words were said-- "What G.o.d has joined let no man put asunder"-- And all my strife with self was at an end; My lover was the husband of my friend.

How strangely, in some awful hour of pain, External trifles with our sorrows blend!

I never hear the mighty organ's thunder, I never catch the scent of heliotrope, Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light, Without that dizzy whirling of the brain, And all the ghastly feeling of that night, When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.

The pain we feel so keenly may depart, And e'en its memory cease to haunt the heart; But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound Will probe the closed recesses of the wound, And for a moment bring the old-time smart.

Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles, Good-byes and farewells given; then across The snowy waste of weary wintry miles, Back to my girlhood's home, where, through each room, For evermore pale phantoms of delight Should aimless wander, always in my sight, Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.