"Kenrick next day renewed his suit by letter;
He begged I would not give a hasty 'No,'
But wait and grant him opportunities
To prove that he was worthy and sincere,
And to procure the requisite divorce.
While I was answering his letter, he
Drove out with Percival. My brief reply
Told him there could be no decision other
Than a complete and final negative.
"Then I sat down and ran my fingers over
The keys of the piano; and my mood
At length expressed itself in that wild burst
Of a melodious anguish, which Edgardo
Gives vent to in 'Lucia.' Words could add
Nothing to magnify the utter heart-break
Of that despair; and Donizetti's score
Has made the cry audible through the ages.
Less from the instrument than from my heart
Was wrung the passionate music.
"At its close,
A long-drawn breath made me look round, and there
Whom should I see but Percival, as if
Transfixed in mute surprise! 'I did not know
There was a listener,—had supposed you gone,'
Said I; and he replied: 'I thought you'd have
Some word for Kenrick: so our drive was short.'
'Nothing but this.' I handed him my letter;
He took it, bowed, and left me.
"The next day
I learnt that Kenrick had engaged his passage
In Wednesday's steamer for New York. My stay
Must now be brief; my services no longer
Could be of any use; and so I wrote
Some formal lines, addressed to Percival,
Asking for my dismissal, and conveying
To both the gentlemen my thanks sincere
For all their kindness and munificence.
Two days I waited, but no answer came.
"The third day Kenrick sought an interview.
We met, and freely talked of this and that.
Said he, at last: 'Into what false, false ways
We plunge because we do not care to think!
We shudder at Chinese morality
When it allows a parent to destroy
Superfluous female children. Look at home!
Have we no ancient social superstitions
Born of the same old barbarous family?
My life, Miss Merivale, has been so crowded
That I've had little time to trace opinion
Down to its root before accepting it.
In giving opportunity for thought,
Sickness has been a brisk iconoclast.
Behold the world's ideal of a wife![4]
'Tis something like to this:
"'She marries young,
Perhaps in meek submission to the will
Parental, or in hope of a support;
In a few years,—as heart and brain mature,
And knowledge widens,—finds her lord and master
Is a wrong-headed churl, a selfish tyrant,
A miser, or a blockhead, or a brute;
Her love for him, if love there ever was,
Is turned to hatred or indifference:
What shall she do? The world has one reply:
You made your bed, and you must lie in it;
True, you were heedless seventeen—no matter!
True, a false sense of duty urged you on,
And you were wrongly influenced—no matter!
Be his wife still; stand by him to the last;
Do not rebel against his cruelty;
The more he plays the ruffian, the more merit
In your endurance! Suffering is your lot;
It is the badge and jewel of a woman.
Shun not contamination from his touch;
Keep having children by him, that his traits
And his bad blood may be continuous.
Think that you love him still; and feed your heart
With all the lies you can, to keep it passive!
"'So say the bellwethers who lead the many
Over stone walls into the thorns and ditches,
Because their fathers took that way before them.
Such is the popular morality!
But is it moral? Nay; when man or woman
Can look up, with the heart of prayer, and say,
Forbid it, Heaven, forbid it, self-respect,
Forbid it, merciful regard for others,
That this one should be parent to my child,—
That moment should the intimate relations
Of marriage end, and a release be found![5]
"'How many blunder in mistaking Passion,
Mixed with a little sentiment, for Love!
Passion may lead to Love, as it may lead
Away from Love, but Passion is not Love;
It may exist with Hate; too often leads
Its victim blindfold into hateful bonds,
Under the wild delusion that Love leads.
Love's bonds are adamant, and Love a slave;
And yet Love's service must be perfect freedom.
Candor it craves, for Love is innocent,—
But no enforced fidelity, no ties
Such as the harem shelters. Dupes are they
Who think that Love can ever be compelled!
Only what's lovely Love can truly love,
And fickleness and falsehood are deformed.
Reveal their features, Love may mourn indeed,
But will not rave. Love, even when abandoned,
Feels pity and not anger for the heart
That could not prize Love's warm fidelity.
But Passion, selfish, proud, and murderous,
Seizes the pistol or the knife, and kills;—
And cozened juries make a heroine
Of her who, stung with jealousy or pride,
Or, by some meaner motive, hurled a wreck,
Assassinates her too inconstant wooer.
"'Now do I see how little, in my case,
There was of actual love, how much of passion!
Love's day for me, if it may ever come
In this brief stage, is yet to dawn. You smile;
Love must have hope, a ray of hope, at least,
To catch the hue of life; and so, Miss Mary,
I'll not profess to love you; all I say
Is, that a little hope from you would make me!
But, since we can't be lovers, let's be friends;
Here, in this little wallet, is a check
For an amount that will secure your future
From serious want,—a sum I shall not miss.
But which—'
"With many thanks I answered 'No!'
'What can I do?' he asked, 'to show my debt
To you and Percival?' I shook my head,
And something in the sadness of my smile
Arrested his attention. But that moment
A girl rushed in with cry of 'O, he's killed—
Killed, the poor man!'—'Who?'—'Mr. Percival!'
The name was like a blow upon my heart,
And Kenrick saw it, and supported me.