Well, Mabel, "tis over and ended-- The ball I wrote was to be; And oh! it was perfectly splendid-- If you _could_ have been here to see.
I"ve a thousand things to write you That I know you are wanting to hear, And one, that is sure to delight you-- I am wearing Joe"s diamond, my dear!
Yes, mamma is quite ecstatic That I am engaged to Joe; She thinks I am rather erratic, And feared that I might say "No."
But, Mabel, I"m twenty-seven (Though n.o.body _dreams_ it, dear), And a fortune like Joe"s isn"t given To lay at one"s feet each year.
You know my old fancy for Harry-- Or, at least, I am certain you guessed That it took all my sense not to marry And go with that fellow out west.
But that was my very first season-- And Harry was poor as could be, And mamma"s good practical reason Took all the romance out of me.
She whisked me off over the ocean, And had me presented at court, And got me all out of the notion That ranch life out west was my forte.
Of course I have never repented-- I"m not such a goose of a thing; But after I had consented To Joe--and he gave me the ring--
I felt such a queer sensation.
I seemed to go into a trance, Away from the music"s pulsation, Away from the lights and the dance.
And the wind o"er the wild prairie Seemed blowing strong and free, And it seemed not Joe, but Harry Who was standing there close to me.
And the funniest feverish feeling Went up from my feet to my head, With little chills after it stealing-- And my hands got as numb as the dead.
A moment, and then it was over: The diamond blazed up in my eyes, And I saw in the face of my lover A questioning, strange surprise.
Maybe "twas the scent of the flowers, That heavy with fragrance bloomed near, But I didn"t feel natural for hours; It was odd now, wasn"t it, dear?
Write soon to your fortunate Clara, Who has carried the prize away, And say you"ll come on when I marry,-- I think it will happen in May.
A HOLIDAY
THE WIFE
The house is like a garden, The children are the flowers, The gardener should come methinks And walk among his bowers, Oh! lock the door on worry And shut your cares away, Not time of year, but love and cheer, Will make a holiday.
THE HUSBAND
Impossible! You women do not know The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late, So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
THE WIFE
The feast will be like _Hamlet_ Without a Hamlet part: The home is but a house, dear, Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for You need not toil to buy; Oh! give me back one thing I lack-- The love-light in your eye.
THE HUSBAND
Of course I love you, and the children too Be sensible, my dear, it is for you I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
THE WIFE (_turning_)
He does not mean to wound me, I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure, A little time for play; A word to prove the life of love And frighten Care away!
Tho" poor my lot in some small cot _That_ were a holiday.
THE HUSBAND (_musing_)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex-- Zounds! but "tis difficult to please the s.e.x.
I"ve housed and gowned her like a very queen Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday: Some women are like that, do what you may.
FALSE
False! Good G.o.d, I am dreaming!
No, no, it never can be-- You who are so true in seeming, You, false to your vows and me?
My wife and my fair boy"s mother The star of my life--my queen-- To yield herself to another Like some light Magdalene!
Proofs! what are proofs--I defy them!
They never can shake my trust; If you look in my face and deny them I will trample them into the dust.
For whenever I read of the glory Of the realms of Paradise, I sought for the truth of the story And found it in your sweet eyes.
Why, you are the shy young creature I wooed in her maiden grace; There was purity in each feature, And my heaven I found in your face.
And, "not only married but mated,"
I would say in my pride and joy; And our hopes were all consummated When the angels gave us our boy.
Now you could not blot that beginning So beautiful, pure and true, With a record of wicked sinning As a common woman might do.
Look up in your old frank fashion, With your smile so free from art; And say that no guilty pa.s.sion Has ever crept into your heart.
How pallid you are, and you tremble!
You are hiding your face from view!
"Tho" a sinner, you cannot dissemble"-- My G.o.d! then the tale is true?
True, and the sun above us Shines on in the summer skies?
And men say the angels love us, And that G.o.d is good and wise.
Yet he lets a wanton thing like you Ruin my home and my name!
Get out of my sight or I strike you Dead in your shameless shame!
No, no, I was wild, I was brutal; I would not take your life, For the efforts of death would be futile To wipe out the sin of a wife.
Wife--why, that word has seemed sainted I uttered it like a prayer; And now to think it is tainted-- Christ! how much we can bear!
"Slay you!" my boy"s stained mother-- Nay, that would not punish, or save; A soul that has outraged another Finds no sudden peace in the grave.
I will leave you here to _remember_ The Eden that was your own, While on toward my life"s December I walk in the dark alone.