Harry

by Fanny Wheeler Hart

PART III.

O the weary, dark, impossible days,

That have dragg'd their lingering length since then!

O the cruel sunshine's merciless blaze!

O the unnatural faces of men!

I was told it all—it was all explain'd;

And they all declar'd that I understood;

But only one knowledge on earth remain'd,

I knew that Harry was noble and good.

They had dined together—together play'd,

Together quarrell'd—who cares about what?

And somebody, speaking about them, said,

'They were out and out a thorough bad lot!'

'They left the village, they rush'd to the cliff,

A dissolute crew that good Christians condemn'—

This is the way they keep talking, as if

I did not know Harry was one of them!

'Shouting and swearing, and heated and flush'd,

All talking together, and running pell mell,

Out to the cliff from the village they rush'd,

And two men were fighting, and one man fell.'

And the man who fell over the dreadful edge,

For ever lost, and for ever must be;

There was never a sandbank, rock, or ledge,

There was nothing but the pitiless sea!

I hear it said, without doubt or surmise,

Over and over and over again,

The man who was murder'd was Jack Devize,

And the man who murder'd him, Harry Vane!

I dream I am standing on purple heights,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

The sun is shining with pitiless lights;

I pray that darkness may cover the sky.

I dream I am lying buried in sand,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

Parch'd and dry is the terrible land;

I pray but for water before I die.

I dream I am tossing on ocean waves,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

I shudder to think of the open graves;

Under daisy blossoms I pray to lie.

O daisy buds I am dreaming of you,

Alone and alone for ever and aye;

From a dream of daisies scatter'd with dew

I wake with a start, and a piercing cry.

Let me but dream of affliction and shame,

Of saints that punish and sinners that cower,

Of troubles by sickness and sword and flame,

And not of an innocent daisy flower!

I am haunted by words—by seven words—

Seven words echoing everywhere;

They are borne on breezes, and sung by birds,

They are written on earth and sea and air.

I think there is nothing else is my own;

I think there is nothing else is alive;

Seven words and I are always alone;

The world about me may hunger and strive.

I have heard that mystic meaning is hid,

I have heard that wonderful things are made,

Of the number seven—may God forbid—

For I cannot tell, and I feel afraid.

The sweetest poem that ever was writ—

Do you not know it?—is 'We are seven;'

For the dear little girl who talks in it,

Will not give up her brothers in Heaven.

What the stupid sense of the grown-up man

Urges, she cannot perceive; but prefers

The simple faith of her own sweet plan,

And the brothers in Heaven still are hers.

The very last day that Harry was here

I read him those verses, and Harry smil'd;

And we held some converse, divinely dear,

Which was all about that dear little child.

Is it for this that I think of it now?

Is it for this he let seven words fall?

O pulses are beating behind my brow,

And I think my heart is not beating at all!

And my brain, it keeps whirling round and round,

Like a sing-song wheel through a ship at night;

And the seven words that constantly sound

Are 'you shall follow me, sweet,' and 'I'll write.'

I wonder if I have been going mad,

In the strange wild world I am living in?

I think that I have—I hop'd that I had—

For I weary with wondering, what is sin?

There's blood on your hand—there's blood on your soul—

O lily-white hand—soul noble and true!

You murder'd him where the blue waters roll,

And he set the seal of his death on you.

I have sat so happily by your side,

I have lain so tranquilly on your breast;

But I think that you died, and I think that I died—

And death is the end of all, and the best.

It was God who created men and time;

And a better than you He could not need;

So if you did it, it was not a crime,

And if 'twas a crime, you did not the deed.

I am fighting with life, with death I strive;

Ready for neither; both crush with their might;

Only those seven words keep me alive—

You said 'you shall follow me,' and 'I'll write.'

They stealthily talk; I hear what they say—

Sharply she hears who each syllable dreads—

Glancing at me in significant way,

Touching their foreheads and shaking their heads.

'Mad?'—'not exactly—bewilder'd—confus'd;

Thoughts turn'd astray by grief's terrible force;

Not even by love is murder excus'd;

She cannot believe that he did it, of course.

She thinks him a hero, and so loves on;

Reason enthron'd would annihilate this;

Love would have nothing to nestle upon,

Did she perceive him the sinner he is.'

* * * * *

Words striking my brain like sunshine on ice,

Bursting the bulwarks that kept the flood in;

Is love only madness? Will reason suffice

To crucify love at the presence of sin?

Reason comes back with all honours she had,

Calmly accepting my life as it is;

I will not go mad—I dare not go mad—

I must prove love is not treason like this!

Is he not all that I thought him? Be still

O treacherous heart—then you were to blame:

I married my Harry for good or ill,

And through good and ill I love him the same.

If God died for us, and lay in a grave,

Leaving His mansions of glory for this;

It must have been from a longing to save

Such a noble sinner as Harry is.

In His own image created He him,

And He called man 'good' on the virgin sod;

And when He beheld His image grow dim,

He died to redeem it—the gracious God!

Rebuking myself with an angry pain—

What was I wishing for? What would I have?

A paragon fram'd by my shallow brain,

And not the sinner God died to save?

I have driven madness out of my brain,

Studying life with intolerant eyes;

Praying and weeping and praying again—

Earth is good for nothing but prayers and sighs.

We all are made up of follies and faults,

That, if time but serv'd, would lead us to crime;

And for every time my darling halts,

I am sure I have halted fifty times!

I am not blinded or prejudiced here;

I have sought the truth and found what I sought;

I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;

You should not have play'd and quarrell'd and fought.

Had you been here on that evening—a cry

Comes out of my heart as one grace I implore:

Let me not think of our evenings, or I

Shall suddenly die, and see him no more.

I know you were wrong, my darling; I know

That we all do wrong, and must all repent;

But this horrible depth of nameless woe

Was nothing on earth but an accident.

With your tender heart and your gracious way,

And your temper as gay as cloudless skies,

You would sooner have died that fatal day

Than taken the life of Jack Devize.

O tender heart, art thou lonely and cold,

With no one to comfort or take thy part?

O sweet gay words in the days that are old!

And oh, to be clasp'd to that tender heart!

I am so afraid that you feel remorse

For an end that indeed you could not prevent;

And I am not there to put gentle force

On what you should and should not repent.

I am so afraid that you grieve too much,

With a sorrow that nothing will stop or stay:

O Harry, don't let your sorrow be such;

O darling, you shall be happy some day!

They want to have you; they hunt you to death:

They cannot believe that you meant the deed!

Have they no sense? no perception? no faith?

Are they helmless boats, without God or Creed?

Waiting, waiting, waiting, Harry, for you,

While the dreadful days drag wearily by;

I cannot wait longer—what shall I do?

For till I have kiss'd you I cannot die.

Frighten'd at every movement or sound—

Every thing except one thing forgot—

Always in terror that you have been found—

Would the first moment be rapture or not?

Wandering aimlessly everywhere,

Upstairs and downstairs, from room into room,

Searching for nothing—for nothing is there,

Only the changeless impregnable gloom.

Stifled within, the cool gardens I seek;—

Like poor human souls the flowers all die;

Even the birds are refusing to speak,

Crush'd by the weight of a leaden-gray sky.

Is this the whole of it? is this the end?

Life finish'd off by a heartless Amen?

When will you write to me? when will you send?

When shall I follow you, Harry?—Ah when?

I wander'd far from my hateful abode;

The hour was becoming a little late;

Just there a gate open'd into a road,

And a boy was leaning upon the gate.

Faithful old Rover, who follow'd me out,

Went perfectly frantic beholding this boy,

Sniff'd at his coat, leaping wildly about,

And danced like a dog that dances for joy.

He was a stripling both slender and tall

(My idle eyes vacantly take the view),

His coat was too large, or he was too small,

His nose was a snub, and his eyes were blue.

Angry I felt to see Rover rejoice,

But he suddenly stopp'd, began to quake,

And howl'd in a most deplorable voice,

As if his dog-heart was ready to break.

Then the boy, stooping down, something slipp'd in

(The something was little and square and white)

Between the steel collar and hairy skin,

Saw that I saw it, and so took to flight.

Wagging his tail, a hurrah in each beat,

Expanding his chest with a gesture grand,

Rover ran back to crouch down at my feet,

Licking my eager incredulous hand.

* * * * *

It was in my hands—I tore it apart,

This letter that Harry had writ to me;

My head turn'd giddy, and so did my heart,

And turn'd my eyes blind that I could not see.

O wicked blind eyes, will you not be clear?

Have I not told you 'tis written by him?

'Tis a piece of Heaven I am holding here,

And my horrible earthly eyes are dim!

The cruel letters run out and run in,

Fluttering, tottering, stammering by,

Mixing together like threads that you spin,

Flying apart, as birds recklessly fly.

Is it for years that I helplessly stand,

While tremulous lights into shadows flit,

With a piece of Heaven held in my hand,

Which is mine—and I cannot enter it!

At last—O my wonderful dear at last!

Thou always comest, howe'er it is—

The senseless signs into symmetry pass'd,

For a few short seconds it must be bliss!

And so standing there in the twilight's fall

(What happen'd is nothing but what must be)

I read the first words that ever at all

My Harry (God bless him!) has written me.

Harry's Letter.

'O Child, when my words your sweet youth beguil'd

I meant to make you the happiest child!

I meant that no earthly life should be known

As bless'd as the life I had made my own;

My weakness and follies I had forgot—

But you were happy with me, were you not?

I am not worthy my Love should come,

Forsaking for my sake her English home;

Exiled from all that is happy and good,

Caress'd by a hand that is stain'd with blood.

Your innocent face shall never be kiss'd

By him who his Heaven and Hope has miss'd!

I suffer for sin, as I ought to do;

But, my darling, it shall not fall on you.

'I am safely hous'd by a faithful friend,

And the letter I write his hands will send;

I'm at Clarendon Crescent, Liverpool

(I've told you, Love, of the dear old school);

Clarence will help me all ways that he can

(Though a good tutor, he is a good man).

I shall sail for another hemisphere,

Leaving behind me my anguish and fear;

Leaving behind me my joy and my grace,

I shall soon pass over limitless space.

'Could I but have seen you but once again!

It is hard to suffer and not complain!

'Tis my sin against you I most repent

(I did make you happy? you were content?)

'O fool, who possessing all man may win,

Could not keep his fool-nature free from sin!

Love must have changed to a useless regret;

You cannot forgive me—can you forget?'

---

Without an hour's or a minute's delay

All is arranged, I decide what to do;

My brain is at work, my heart is at play,

I am running, flying, Harry, to you.

O stricken woman, whose life is all black,

Wearily walking in sorrow and shame!

O gay little girl who comes running back,

You are not, I'm certain, one and the same!

The sky is hid in its lead-coloured pall,

Not a bird utters the least little tone;

The blossoms about me wither and fall;

The change must be in me—and me alone!

* * * * *

I tell them I cannot endure it more;

That the empty house is killing my heart;

They have done their best to assist before,

And they eagerly help me to depart.

The world is very good-natured, I find

(Why do worldlings often their home condemn?)

And servants are always extremely kind,

If mistresses only are kind to them.

'I go to London to meet a friend'—

They are all agreed I want change and rest—

I give a direction where they may send,

I take my own maid, and I leave the rest.

I know that detectives are on my track,

Watching the house—watching all that I do—

I have to pretend I am coming back,

And enact this drama, Harry, for you.

I am sorry to say goodbye to all—

For all had been kind in days that are dead;

But the only tear that my eyes let fall

Was dropp'd upon Rover's shaggy old head.

My London friend I can trust; she is one

That I knew at school, and have lov'd for years—

O happy school-days that are past and done!

O beautiful friendship, unsoiled by tears!

Restlessly, wearily eager am I—

(Do girls feel thus when about to elope?)—

I leave Harry's home 'neath a star-lit sky,

And my heart beats high with a single hope.

And my heart beats high with a single hope,

Which has come on a sudden when unsought;

In all the wide world there is only scope

For a single hope and a single thought.

O why should a wide world have more than this?

When after all has been done and been said,

'Tis a single grief or a single bliss

That rekindles a life or strikes it dead.

Clasp'd in her arms, with her tears on my cheek,

Her kind husband warmly grasping my hand,

In statue-like calm, I move not nor speak—

A silent machine for one purpose plann'd.

'O white little face,' she tremblingly cries,

'It cannot be yours, that white little face;

O when did you get those far-seeking eyes?

And the stillness in lieu of girlish grace?'

And looking at me she drew back alarm'd,

She felt that something divided us;

She, who lived the life of the happy charm'd,

And I, who am battling with fortune thus.

Out spake her husband—'I know what to do;

Put her to bed—she will wake by-and-by—

Then let her have, in the boudoir with you,

A hot cup of tea and thorough good cry.'

As a judge in court he summ'd up the whole;

I laugh'd my first laugh since the grief began;

For I thought, this is how a woman's soul

Is held at the hands of a worthy man!

I answer'd him with a sort of a scorn—

The least little bend from a haughty height—

'I left home last evening, was here at morn,

And shall be in Liverpool long ere night.'

They were startled, eager, anxious and kind

(They had read the papers and learn'd the fact),

But they question'd not, from the touch refin'd

Of a sweet good-nature that men call tact.

I told where he was—I trusted them both,

Sounding the depths of their souls in their eyes;

The man was too honest to need an oath,

And the woman too tender not to be wise.

They were ready to help with hand and heart

(And a kindness no balancing prudence bounds),

Fed me and petted me, let me depart,

And lent me at parting five hundred pounds.

We started as if for an airing gay,

No coachman or footman, not even Jane;

The husband drove us the whole of the way,

And saw me safe in the Liverpool train.

The tears of my friend lie wet on my cheek,

I pointed onward, and wistfully smil'd;

Her husband smil'd too, though he did not speak

And kiss'd me as if I had been his child.

Never a slumber the whole of the night,

Never a slumber with day in the skies;

Nature assumes preternatural light,

Set in sharp outlines that dazzle my eyes.

Blackness and whiteness—no colour there is—

Terrible contrast of lustre and shade—

Yet no surprise thrills my spirit at this

Wonderful world into silhouettes made.

Countries and cities rush hastily by,

Hedgerows and forests excitedly fly;

Rapidly earth pirouettes through the sky;

All things are madly in motion, but I—

If they would stop for one minute, but one,

Thought might return from spheres distant and dim;

Thought has forsaken me; I am alone,

With but one consciousness—nothing but him.

We have reach'd the station—the train is left:

What I am doing I know must be done;

I am a creature whose body's bereft

Of all sensations and feelings save one.

I don't think I see the streets and the lights,

Or hear the answers my questions brought;

Yet something guides me, and guides me aright—

Is mesmerism the nonsense I thought?

If the brain, engross'd by a single fact,

Fails the whole army of nerves to sustain,

The outposts perhaps, refusing to act,

Transmit neither sight nor sound to the brain.

But are souls dependent on eye and ear?

Does nothing come straight to them from above?

Are there no spirit-instincts, to see and hear,

And no miraculous power of Love?

I have found the Crescent, and number Two—

I have rung the bell—the servant has come—

I have opened my lips, and words run through,

And they ask 'Is Mr. Clarence at home?'

A man has appear'd from some inner place

(I heard him describ'd 'ere this trance began)—

Is he moving away into empty space?

I must come to life and must stop this man.

A terrible nightmare on throat and brain—

A body and soul in bewilder'd strife—

Shall I never be quite alive again?—

I'll make a desperate struggle for life!

I catch at his arm as he passes by,

As a drowning creature clutches at life;

And I whisper low as a lullaby—

'Give him me instantly—I am his wife!'

He stares in my face with nothing to say—

A tremor comes over his brow and lip—

He flings up his arms in a helpless way,

And stammers—'Alas! he's on board the ship!'

I am not fainting—I am not appall'd—

I am not beat down—I feel no despair:

It seems all expected and all forestall'd,

As I utter my three words, 'When and where?'

'Two hours ago at the Northern quay'—

He offers me food, and to rest and sit—

I have left the house—I am on my way—

I have hail'd a cab and jump'd into it.

O faster! O faster! O yet more fast!

There's nothing on earth but driving like this:

I know it will all come right at the last,

But I am not certain what the right is.

There is a river and there is a boat

(I read it all in a far-away tale)—

O faster! O faster! you do but float;

Pull away with your oars, shake out your sail!

A woman, I know, must sail in a skiff,

And reach a ship ere it reaches the sea;

But it is a wonderful matter if

The woman who sits here is really me!

O faster! O faster! you scarcely stir—

The ship has grown large that was but a speck!

We have reached the ship—we have boarded her—

And I see who is standing on her deck!

I see who stands there, I hear and see

His incredulous joy and startled cry,

His beautiful wonder at sight of me;

I feel his embraces, and then—I die!