Harry

by Fanny Wheeler Hart

PART II.

When turf is level how rapid the pace!

Linger ye moments!—be patient my life!

Marriage is only an idyl of grace,

What knows a bride of the bliss of a wife?

Are all things the dearer for growing old?

As flowers are sweeter deep in a wood;

Will the warmth of May in July seem cold?

Was earth less perfect when God call'd it 'good'?

Even roses when young are only green,

And the exquisite perfume faint and small,

If roses are lovely when just half seen,

When blown they are sweetest and best of all.

Time passes on, and they open too much;

Still the rich fragrance about them is shed;

Delicate petals fall off with a touch;

Happy and mourn'd for, the roses are dead!

And when we die (if death ever can be,

Life leaping in me, it sounds like a jest),

May it be thus with my Harry and me—

Love's latest perfume its sweetest and best.

He, whom I speak to, smiles into my face,

Crying, with kisses, that life would restore,

'All that you say has a feminine grace;

But hasn't Moore said something like it before?'

From the piano I draw forth a peal,

Greeting the sound with a smile and a sigh,

Singing 'The Last Rose of Summer,' I feel

That summer and roses can never die!

'Twas a beautiful evening, fresh and fair,

Earth sweeter far than impossible skies;

My heart beating light as a bird in air,

When Harry brought home with him Jack Devize.

Did no presentiment touch me that day?

Never a soupçon of evil or ill?

No, the world was bright with Harry away,

And when Harry came back it was brighter still.

The man stood there, and his shadow was laid

Straight at my feet by the sunset decrees;

I mark'd it well, and I was not afraid;

And when Harry nam'd him I smil'd with ease.

The roses poured out their exquisite scent,

Birds gave us the sweetest music they had,

And the little grasses daintily bent

In the tender breeze, as if they were glad.

Are there not angels to guard us and keep?

Are spirits not round us hidden from sight?

Oh! angels and spirits were all asleep,

Or they must have warn'd me that fatal night.

I have wak'd with the thought of an absent friend

(And others I know who have done the same),

And have felt 'ere I see the daylight's end,

Her letter must come—and her letter came.

I have run indoors with the happy thought

That something pleasant was going to be,

And—coincidence strange!—my eye has caught

The sight of the thing it desired to see.

I have felt a depression all the day,

A dullness for which I could not account,

And a flower has died—a dog run away—

Or a horse gone lame that I wish'd to mount.

And if from the regions of mysteries

Something can warn us of trifles like these;

How could it be I met Mr. Devize

With a smiling face and a heart at ease?

No dream at night, when by wonderful laws

The bodies are dead, the spirits alive;

No little heart—sinking without a cause

When the perfect sunshine made nature thrive;

No omen or signal, little or great,

Not a quicken'd pulse or a flutter'd breath;—

So Harry and I rush'd on to our fate,

And the unseen world was passive as Death.

We stroll'd through the gardens till dinner came,

The scented breezes were faultlessly sweet;

The sun went suddenly down in a flame,

While the birds their jubilant hymns repeat,

We chatted at dinner, and afterwards,

And the moments pleasantly slid away,

But when Mr. Devize suggested cards,

I laughingly told him I could not play.

The cards are produced; the men begin;

I sit by Harry and watch his hand;

I am very eager that he should win,

And when he does so, I feel very grand.

'Twas all very well for once you see;

Its novelty made it a thing to praise;

It was quite a joke for a girl like me,

Living with men and observing their ways.

But when Jack had dined again and again,

And with others enjoy'd the cards and fare.

With a little shiver that felt like pain,

I would say 'good night' and leave Harry there.

Cool is the chamber and pleasant the light,

Tranquil and innocent, tender and calm;

Sweet are the thoughts that approach us at night,

Sweet as the breeze with its perfumy balm.

And if I am reading the happy Word,

Or saying my prayers by the taper's glow,

I wish that my Harry had this preferr'd

To the painted toys and the men below.

---

'I wish that my Harry had this preferr'd'—

But ought I to wish it, if he does not?

Has my foolish heart from its duty err'd,

And the soft compliance of love forgot?

There can be no question 'twixt wrong and right;

And surely we all can be brave and strong;

Yet I seem a little perplex'd to-night,

And hardly to know what is right or wrong.

I'm very young to be anyone's wife,

And to know about serious things like these—

Must my little hand touch my husband's life

With a thought of something more than to please?

What shall I do with this ghost of a care

That makes my silly heart flutter and sink?

I will first kneel down and will say a prayer,

And then I'll ask Harry what I should think!

Harry stalk'd into my room in a rage—

'Hilton and Wilton have clear'd me out quite;

A run of ill luck at every stage—

Fifty pounds lost since you left us to-night!

I'll have my revenge on the rogues I vow!'

Marks of strange anger disfigure his face,

A dry parch'd lip and a thundery brow,

And a sharp bright eye that has lost its grace.

So a lov'd little hand comes smoothing down—

Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;

The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,

And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.

'Ah, dearest,' I whisper, 'mourn not for this,

On a summer day with a heap of flowers;

This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,

It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.'

All the strange passion had vanish'd, I ween;

The Harry I knew had come back again;

And on his sweet face I had never seen

A sweeter smile than illumin'd it then.

With smiles he caress'd me: 'you little thing—

You dear little thing,' he tenderly said;

'We have banish'd you by the cards we bring;

Let us banish cards and have you instead.'

I clapp'd my hands, and my heart beat light,

As I softly whisper'd, 'Indeed you may,

For I'm certain, Harry, it is not right

To spend so much money and time at play.'

He gave me an odd little look askance,

And mutter'd, 'A man must do something though;'

I answer'd the look with a loving glance,

'But the something need not be cards, you know;

There is plenty to do before we die,

That may suit a gay and a careless mood;

We are so happy, Harry, you and I,

That I think we ought to be ever so good.

Playing at cards for money, I'm clear,

Is an alien thing in beautiful lives'—

He grumbled, 'The fellows will think me queer;

But then the poor fellows have not got wives.'

We talk'd the matter delightfully out;

Our words were earnest and bright and free;

We twisted it round, we turn'd it about,

And we both agreed that it should not be.

'You are my angel,' he cried, with a kiss;

'I fear lest your wings are spreading to fly,'

And his angel I ought to be, in this,

For 'tis he who is tempted, and not I.

O, women have no temptations at all;

They have only to keep their white lives white;

But men are so tempted, that men must fall—

O wonderful Harry who stands upright!

---

Again the sweet evenings we had at first:

He reads, and I work; or we play and sing;

And looks and words that, if life were accurs'd,

In memory only, would rapture bring.

Engagements of course will sometimes arise;

But the joy is still in the coming back;

And sometimes he dines with us (Jack Devize),

And sometimes my husband dines out with Jack.

Under the cliff with its towering crest,

Where the wandering sea has fill'd the space,

A sweet little village has made its nest,

A sort of miniature watering place.

Scarcely a mile by the upper cliff way—

Further of course by the beach-shaded road—

Little Bellhaven contentedly lay,

Easily reached from our pleasant abode.

Therein a Church, and a place of Dissent,

A shop where we purchase our sugar and shoes,

Therein a Library ladies frequent;

Therein a club where the men read the news;

Also a chamber where, lit from above,

Balls white and crimson disport on green baize,

That capital game which gentlemen love,

Where Harry conquers whenever he plays.

Billiards require grace, agility, skill;

No one without them can hope to excel;

But Harry never did anything ill

That it is manly and right to do well.

In my pretty turn-out with ponies gray,

At a rattling pace to the club I come,

And feel like a queen triumphantly gay,

As I drive my conquering Hero home.

I like him to play; I like him to win;

I like to wait by the Ocean expanse,

To watch its wild waves come careering in,

In regular order unknown to chance.

I like the scent of the weeds that they bear,

And their rolling sound on the pebbly beach;

I like the touch of the salt-flavour'd air;

There is beauty, pleasure, and health in each.

A little hotel in Bellhaven stands,

Where dinners are serv'd remarkably well,

And sometimes Harry slips out of my hands

And dines with Jack at this little hotel.

I'm not very fond of the place, I own;

Ought I to mind it, if Harry's amused?

But I feel so lonely when I'm alone,

And sometimes I feel a little ill-used.

'Tis seldom my husband deserts me thus,

He is always home ere the clock strikes ten;

So I won't be foolish and make a fuss,

But try to remember that men are men.

Sitting and waiting for Harry alone,

Watching the minutes, and wanting him back—

Why are you absent, my Harry, my own?

Am not I nicer than billiards and Jack?

Traitress to ask such a question! for shame!

Thou art, thou knowest, beginning and end!

His whole life is thine—he is not to blame!

May not thy husband go out with a friend?

Thou art the false one, and he is the true—

Fretful and idle, unworthy thy king!

Hast thou not anything useful to do,

Thou good-for-nothing and cross little thing?

Scolding myself, I spring up from my chair,

Calling out loud that the time is not long;

March down the room with a resolute air,

Seize my guitar, and burst out into song!

Poor little girl, sitting singing alone,

Pretty guitar round a slender neck hung,

Smiles on thy lips, but a sad little moan,

Deep in a heart that is foolish and young.

Song.

To one whose footsteps fall

Upon a mountain's height,

Earth must seem very small,

And heaven infinite.

Then why do misty tears

Conceal each lofty crest,

If earth so far appears,

So near the land of rest?

Hush! for the mists withdraw

The Hidden shines in bliss;

Who in a valley saw

A heaven-light like this?

I think when earth can speak

(She will one of these days),

That every mountain-peak

Will give a shout of praise.

I did not care for the song that I sang;

I was not thinking of mountains at all;

Tiresome and strange in mine ears the words rang—

'Heaven is infinite, earth is so small'—

Rang in that eerie monotonous way

Words sometimes will, when we don't will one bit.

Which proves they're alive—It is hard in the day,

But in the night who can battle with it?

And a little sob rose up in my throat—

'Harry, Harry, Harry,' thrill'd through the sob;

I touch'd the guitar, and its answering note

Came unexpected, and made my heart throb.

Song.

It was once upon a time,

Ere the roses bud and blow,

Underneath the scented lime,

Long ago, ah, long ago!

Is it I that was so fair,

When the sun is slanting low,

With a lily in my hair,

Ah, so very long ago?

Was my heart as light as this

Was the lily white as snow?

What a happy hour it is,

Long ago, ah, long ago?

Then the lily bloom'd to save,

Ere a tear had learn'd to flow

Now it lies upon a grave,

Ah, so very long ago!

While I sat singing, steps came on the path,

Outside the window—what marvel is this?

Steady and solemn, they make my heart wrath,

Steps come towards me, and they are not his!

Steps in the night time pass up to my door;

Then comes a knocking might waken the dead:

Instead of one Harry there must be four,

Only not one has his light springy tread.

My old nurse's son to sea ran away—

At a 'Norwester,' or gale from the South,

I've heard the poor woman tremblingly say

The sound 'brought her heart up into her mouth!'

I, little prattler, crouched down at her feet,

Would stop aghast in my innocent play,

Wondering, will she be able to eat,

Supposing her heart in her mouth shall stay?

Strange are our minds and their workings, I'm sure

Studying them might drive Solomon wild:

At the loud knocking, I ran to the door

With a sudden thought of that nurse and child.

I saw her rocking herself in her chair,

While the mad wind blew 'neath the stormy sky;

I saw the little child watching her there,

And knew, with a pang, that the child was I.

(Strange are the pangs, that, when life is most fair,

With not a regret to shadow the scene,

Seize on the heart with a sudden despair,

From a passing mem'ry of what has been.)

And while to the door I ran with a start,

Frighten'd to death at the knocking without,

I was thinking of my old nurse's heart,

And not of what all the noise was about!

Four men without peering sharply within;

One girl within looking out at the men;

Silence at first—you might have heard a pin

Drop on the doorsteps—silence—and then,

'What do you want?' cried the girl. She spoke loud,

In a voice that sounded unlike her own.

'We want Mr. Vane,' said a man, who bowed,

And uttered the words in a gentle tone.

They were very well dressed—they were not poor—

They had shining hats and cloaks wrapp'd about,

These men who stood at the happy hall-door,

Where Harry and I run in and run out.

(You want him? I want him, I might have said;

But only to say so seem'd like a sin):

'He is not within'; and I shook my head,

And while I yet spoke the men were within.

They did not appear to wish to intrude;

They did not attempt to frighten me now;

They did not push by me; they were not rude;—

But somehow they enter'd—I know not how.

'It's no use trying to 'ide 'im, my dear,'

Said one, in a really fatherly way;

'In course we knows that the gen'leman's 'ere;

And till he turns up we shall 'ave to stay.'

'The gentleman's here? but no one has come;

And no one can come—it is much too late.

Mr. Vane is out—he will soon be home;

But I really must ask you not to wait.'

The man laid a finger against his nose;

With a horrible slyness look'd at me:

'We understands all that 'ere, I suppose;

But you'd better come to terms,' said he.

I stared at the man with my vacant eyes,

That dreamily question'd him how he dared?

And suddenly saw, with extreme surprise,

It was a policeman at whom I stared.

The five of us stood in the pleasant hall;

And four were policemen, and one was I;

And Harry had never come home at all;

And the clock struck one with a gasping sigh.

My heart grew cold, and my courage ran down;

I pinch'd my finger—I tried not to scream—

I felt like a creature about to drown,

And I cried aloud 'It must be a dream!'

I angrily spoke,—and I spoke out loud;

I knew 'twas a dream and nothing in it;

I spurn'd the dream with a gesture proud,

And ordered myself to wake that minute.

Of course, I just fell asleep where I sat,

And this is a dream—yes I know it is—

But O it is stranger than dreaming, that

Harry has not waken'd me with a kiss!

I looked at the men, who are searching round,

And taking a note of all they can find;

Examining ceiling and walls and ground,—

—I am surely going out of my mind!

I said to myself in a coaxing way—

'I am wide awake, and he has come back;

Harry is acting a sort of a play:

He has dress'd himself up, and so has Jack.'

A glance or a signal dispers'd the men:

Two went upstairs, and another below;

The leader sat down in the hall; and then—

What am I to do? Where am I to go?

I rush'd to the door, and I flung it wide—

A frighten'd creature can anything dare—

And I saw the darkness that lay outside,

And I heard the silence—and nothing was there.

'Harry! Harry! Harry!' was all my cry,

As I stood alone at the open door;

And the night heard me—and so did the sky,

And the wind and the earth—and nothing more.

I turn'd from the door with a sad surprise:

I could call for my love and call in vain;

And I met that horrid policeman's eyes,

Keenly and quietly watching my pain.

He suddenly called for his men to come;

So they made their appearance one by one,

And he said, 'The gen'leman's not been 'ome,

And she 'asn't a notion what he's done.

And he won't come now, you may swear to that;

I rayther think he'll look arter a ship:

I rayther suspect we've been rayther flat,

And the gen'leman's given us the slip!'

With a regular march they trod the ground,

Suddenly left me alone in the hall;

In the dreadful silence that settled round,

Again I knew I was dreaming it all?

A voice that can banish my sleep I know;

I know a voice that could wake me if dead;

A loud cheery voice, but it might speak low,

And 'May, little May,' it whispering said.

I stand like a statue of silence. Hush!

I listen not with my ears, but my soul;

And I feel the sudden accustom'd blush,

As again the whisper reaches its goal.

I open the window. 'Mid blossom and bough

Of clustering laurel and Daphne white,

I am showering kisses on Harry's brow,

And dropping the first tears I've shed to-night.

His face is as white as the Daphne-bud;

He is hiding down on the hidden sward;

He is wan and haggard, and splashed with mud;

He is crouching frighten'd—my king and lord!

He whisper'd, and fill'd my heart with dismay,—

Scared by the sounds that used once to rejoice!—

O Harry, my Harry, speak loudly, I pray,

And not in that shocking whispering voice.

He whisper'd, 'I've got in a horrid scrape;

Fetch me some money, and bid me good-bye;

I must run away, and make my escape,'—

'I shall run with you, my darling,' said I.

'You cannot,' he murmur'd;—a speechless love

Shone out of his eyes; he return'd my kiss—

'I never intended—Great Father above,

You know that I never intended this.

Fetch me some money—the desk and the key—

You know them—be quick! or dearly you'll rue—

My life's in your hands!—have mercy on me—

Fetch me some money—It's all you can do.'

A horrible haste in manner and voice,

A desperate hungry imploring haste;

I rush'd up the stairs—I had not a choice,

And I snatch'd the notes from where they were plac'd

All that I had—to the window I rush'd—

With kisses and tears in his hands I laid;

He return'd the kisses, with lips that crush'd

Their vehement kisses on lips dismay'd.

He was almost gone; but I held him tight,

And cried in my anguish, 'You have forgot—

When shall I follow you, darling? to-night?'

He shook his head, and he answer'd me not!

He threw off my hands in a savage way;

He cried, 'I adore you,' in fondest tone;

'You shall follow me, sweet—I dare not stay—

I'll write to you, darling;' and he is gone!