"But in a moment I was strong. I heard
A scuffling noise of people at the door,
And then a form—'twas Percival's—was borne
Into a room, and placed upon a bed.
Pale and insensible he lay; a surgeon
Came in; at last we got an explanation:
In rescuing from a frightened horse the child
Of a poor woman, Percival had been
Thrown down, an arm been broken, and the pain
Had made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy,
When I was sure that this was the extreme
Of injury, betrayed my reckless heart,
And Kenrick had my secret. Percival
Was soon himself; the broken limb was set,
And I, engaged to stay another week
To wait on the new patient—nothing loath.
"The day of his departure, Kenrick drew me
Aside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!'
'Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breast
To keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?'
'Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick,
'If by communication of your secret,
I changed the desolation of his life
To sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.'
'A moment only?'—'Soon his scruples rose:
It cannot be! he said; two mountains lie
Between my fate and hers.—Two bubbles rather!
Retorted I; let's take their altitude.—
One is my age.—That mountain is already
Tunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.—
The other is that infamous decree
Against me at the period of my suit,
Granting the guilty party a divorce,
But me prohibiting to wed again.—
Well, that decree (I answered bitterly)
Would have with me the weight of a request
That I'd hereafter quaff at common puddles
And not at one pure fount; I'd heed the bar
As I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer;
I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellers
Than outrage sacred nature.—If that bench
Could have you up for bigamy, what then?—
The dear old dames! they should not have the means
To prove it on me: for the pact should be
'Twixt me and her who would accept my troth
Freely before high heaven and all its angels:
Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon,
Could not, at least, produce.—But, Kenrick, you
Do not consider all the risk and pain;
The social stigma, and, should children come,
The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.—
To which I answered: God's great gift of life,
Coming through parentage select and pure,
To me is such a sacred, sacred thing,
So precious, so inestimably precious,
That your objections seem of small account;
Since only stunted hearts and slavish minds
Could visit on your children disrepute,
Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism,
Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains.
"'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected,
Is all in honor, purged of selfishness,
Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame?
But understand me: Would I cheapen form?
Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it,
Without a reason potent as your own,
Trifled with danger. But I cannot make
A god of form, an idol crushing me.
Unlike the church, I look on marriage as
A civil contract, not a sacrament,[6]
Indissoluble, spite of every wrong;
The high and holy purposes of marriage
Are not fulfilled in instances where each
Helps to demoralize or blight the other;
Let it then stand, like other contracts, on
A basis purely personal and legal.
"'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to!
Challenging never, never testing them;
Accepting them as irreversible;
Part of God's order, not to be improved;
Placing the form above the informing spirit,
The outward show above the inward life;
A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out,
Above the pure, the everlasting truth;
Fancying Nature is not Nature still,
Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed;
Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child,
Yet unperverted, readily would pierce!
"'Consider my own case: a month ago,
See me a maniac, rushing forth to find
A wife who loved me not; my heart all swollen
With rage against the man to whom I owed
Exposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind!
To chase a form from which the soul had fled!
If I grew sane at length, you, Percival,
And the mere presence of our little nurse
Have brought me light and healing. I am cured,
Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release.
"'Here I paused. Percival made no reply,
But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floor
Awhile, and then confronting him resumed:—
Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a way
To free you from the meshes of the law:
On my return, I'll go to Albany,
Where war's financial sinews, as you know,
Are those of legislation equally;
I'll have a law put through to meet your case;
To strip away these toils. I can; I will!—
Percival almost stunned me with his No!
Make me a gutter, adding more pollution
To the fount of public justice? Never! No!
I would not feed corruption with a bribe,
To win release to-morrow. Such a cure
Would be, my friend, far worse than the disease.—
Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell!
The carriage waits to take me to the station.—
I shall not say farewell until we part
Beside the carriage-door, said he: you'll take
Your leave of Mary?—Yes, I go to seek her.—
And this, Miss Mary, is a full report
Of all that passed between my friend and me.'
"Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought,
Thus copious, in the hope his argument
Would make me look as scornfully as he
On obstacles that Percival would raise.
I thanked him for his courtesy, and then,
Not without some emotion, we two parted.
When the last sound of the retiring wheels
Was drowned in other noises, Percival
Came in, and found me waiting in the parlor.
'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said.
So, in the little parlor we sat down.
I see it now, all vividly before me!
The carpet—ay, its very hues and figures:
The chandelier, the sofa, the engraving
Of Wellington that hung above the mantel;
The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving,
And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters;
And, in a vase, upon the marble stand,
An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day—
Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope!
"Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each other
With words indifferent; and we'll allow
Small opportunity for hearts to speak:
We know what they would utter, might we dare
To give them audience. Let Reason rule.
What I propose is this: that we now part—
Part for two years; and when that term shall end,
If we are still in heart disposed as now,
Then can we orient ourselves anew,
And shape our course as wary conscience bids.
Till then, no meeting and no correspondence!
"'Now for conditions more particular:
You have a sister—Mrs. Hammersley—
Julia, I think you said,—an elder sister,
Resident here, and in society,
But fretted by her lord's extravagance
And her own impecuniosity.
You at her house shall be a visitor,
But not without the means of aiding her;
And who but I can now supply the means?
Here's the dilemma: how can you be free
If you're my debtor? Yet you must be free,
And promise to be free; nor let my gift
Sway you one jot in trammelling your heart.
Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley;
Accepting all Society can offer
To welcome youth and beauty to its lap;
Keeping your heart as open as you can
To influences and impressions new;
For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are!
So much for you. On my part, I'll return
To my own country, and endeavor there
Once more to rectify the wretched wrong
That circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps—
But we can be prepared for either issue.'
"Here he was silent, and I said: 'You're right,
And I accept your terms without reserve.'
We parted, and except a clasp of hands
That lingered in each other, and a glance
That flashed farewell from eyes enthroning truth,
There was no outward token of our love.