Bitter-Sweet: A Poem Part 9

_Grace_.

Never an honest word.

He told me he was writing; and, at home, Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look.

I was offended, and upbraided him.

I knew he had a secret, and that from The center of its closely coiling folds A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, Swayed with a double story--one for me, And one for whom I knew not--whom he knew.

His words, which wandered first as carelessly As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained To the stern paces of a sentinel Guarding a prison door, and never tripped With a suggestion.

I despaired at last Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers; So, through long nights of sleeplessness I lay, And held my ear beside his silent lips-- An eager cup--ready to catch the gush Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain.

And thus months pa.s.sed away, and all the while Another heart was beating under mine.

May Heaven forgive me! but I grieved the charms The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt That in my insufficiency of power I had no charm to lose.

_Mary_.

And he did not, In this most tender trial of your heart, Turn in relenting?--give you sympathy?

_Grace_.

No--yes! Perhaps he pitied me, and that Indeed was very pitiful; for what Has love to do with pity? When a wife Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard Of him she loves that he can pity her,-- Has sunk so low that she may only share The tribute which a mute humanity Bestows on those whom Providence has struck With helpless poverty, or foul disease; She may he pitied, both by earth and heaven, Because he pities her. A pitied child That begs its bread from door to door is blest; A wife who begs for love and confidence, And gets but alms from pity, is accurst.

Well, time pa.s.sed on; and rumor came at last To tell the story of my husband's shame And my dishonor. He was seen at night, Walking in lonely streets with one whose eyes Were blacker than the night,--whose little hand Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed In the half-whispered converse of the time; And both, as if accustomed to the path, Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps, Entered a door, and closed it after them-- A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me.

I had my secret; and I kept it, too.

I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me, Till doubt and prayers for doubt,--pale flowers I nourished with my tears--were crushed By the relentless hand of Certainty.

Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days.

My wrongs and all their shameful history Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, Though he had only shown their t.i.tle-page: That page was his; the rest were in my heart.

I knew that he had left my home for hers; I knew his nightly labor was to feed Other than me;--that he was loaded down With cares that were the price of sinful love.

_Mary_.

Grace, in your heart do you believe all this?

I fear--I know--you do your husband wrong.

He is not competent for treachery.

He is too good, too n.o.ble, to desert The woman whom he only loves too well.

You love him not!

_Grace_.

I love him not? Alas!

I am more angry with myself than him That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, And spite my hate, I love the traitor still.

I love him not? Why am I here to-night-- Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are strewn Through every room for him to trample on-- But in my pride to show him to you all, With the dear child that publishes a love That blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now?

You know I do my husband wrong! You think, Because he can talk smoothly, and befool A simple ear with pious sophistries, He must be e'en the saintly man he seems.

We heard him talk to-night; it was done well.

I saw the triumph of his argument, And I was proud, though full of spite the while.

His stuff was meant for me; and, with intent For selfish purpose, or in irony, He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet.

My heart rebelled, and now you know the cause Of my harsh words to him.

_Mary_.

'Tis very sad!

Oh very--very sad! Pray you go on!

Who is this woman?

_Grace_.

I have never learned.

I only know she stole my husband's heart, And made me very wretched. I suppose That at the time my little babe was born, She went away; for David was at home For many days. That pain was bliss to me-- I need no argument to teach me that-- Which caused neglect of her, and gave offense.

Since then, he has not where to go from me; And, loving well his child, he stays at home.

So he lugs round his secret, and I mine.

I call him husband; and he calls me wife; And I, who once was like an April day, That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled My heart against my fate, and now am calm.

I will live on; and though these simple folk Who call me sister understand me not, It matters little. There is one who does; And he shall have no liberty of love By any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot, And man's most weak and wicked wantonness.

Mine is like other husbands, I suppose; No worse--no better.

_Mary_.

Ask you sympathy Of such as I? I cannot give it you, For you have shut me from the privilege.

_Grace_.

I asked it once; you gave me unbelief.

I had no choice but to grow hard again.

'Tis my misfortune and my misery That every hand whose friendly ministry My poor heart craves, is held--withheld--by him; And I must freeze that I may stand alone.

_Mary_.

And so, because one man is false, or you Imagine him to be, all men are false; Do I speak rightly?

_Grace_.

Have it your own way.

Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, Are p.r.o.ne to falsehood. I will not gainsay The common virtue of the common herd.

I prize it as I do the goodish men Who hold the goodish stuff, and know it not.

These serve to fill an easy-going world, And that to clothe it with complacency.

_Mary_.

I had not thought misanthropy like this Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess A tale which never pa.s.sed my lips before, Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine.

In this, I'll prove my friends.h.i.+p, if I lose The friends.h.i.+p which demands the sacrifice.

I have come back, a worse than widowed wife; Yet I went out with dream as bright as yours,-- Nay, brighter,--for the birds were singing then, And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground Where snow-flakes fell and flew when you were wed.

The skies were soft; the roses budded full; The meads and swelling uplands fresh and green;-- The very atmosphere was full of love.

It was no girlish carelessness of heart That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forth From this dear shelter of the orphan child.

I felt that G.o.d was smiling on my lot, And made the airs his angels to convey To every sense and sensibility The message of his favor. Every sound Was music to me; every sight was peace; And breathing was the drinking of perfume.

I said, content, and full of grat.i.tude, "This is as G.o.d would have it; and he speaks These pleasant languages to tell me so."

But I had no such honeymoon as yours.

A few brief days of happiness, and then The dream was over. I had married one Who was the sport of vagrant impulses.

We had not been a fortnight wed, when he Came home to me with brandy in his brain-- A maudlin fool--for love like mine to hide As if he were an unclean beast. O Grace!