FullReads

Meantime we’d left the garden; and I stood
In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself
Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf,
Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm,
Not in the least a portrait of alarm.
“Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be good!
Go curl your hair; and please your own Maurine,
By putting on that lovely grenadine.
Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban,
Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night,
But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’!
Yet one worth knowing–strong with health and might
Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise;
Moving among his kind with loving eyes,
And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined,
After the image of his Maker’s mind.”

“Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, “I believe
It is your lover coming here this eve.
Why have you never written of him, pray?
Is the day set?–and when? Say, Maurine, say!”

Had I betrayed by some too fervent word
The secret love that all my being stirred?
My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so;
But first HIS lips must win the sweet confession,
Ere even Helen be allowed to know.
I must straightway erase the slight impression
Made by the words just uttered.
“Foolish child!”
I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild.
Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name
Of maid and youth uttered about one time,
And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace,
Defying circumstances, reason, space –
And straightway builds romances so sublime
They put all Shakespeare’s dramas to the shame.
This Vivian Dangerfield is neighbour, friend,
And kind companion; bringing books and flowers.
And, by his thoughtful actions without end,
Helping me pass some otherwise long hours;
But he has never breathed a word of love.
If you still doubt me, listen while I prove
My statement by the letter that he wrote.
‘Dying to meet–my friend!’ (she could not see
The dash between that meant so much to me).
‘Will come this eve, at eight, and hopes we may
Be in to greet him.’ Now I think you’ll say
‘Tis not much like a lover’s tender note.”

We laugh, we jest, not meaning what we say;
We hide our thoughts, by light words lightly spoken,
And pass on heedless, till we find one day
They’ve bruised our hearts, or left some other broken.

I sought my room, and trilling some blithe air,
Opened my wardrobe, wondering what to wear.
Momentous question! femininely human!
More than all others, vexing mind of woman,
Since that sad day, when in her discontent,
To search for leaves, our fair first mother went.
All undecided what I should put on,
At length I made selection of a lawn –
White, with a tiny pink vine overrun:-
My simplest robe, but Vivian’s favourite one.
And placing a single flowret in my hair,
I crossed the hall to Helen’s chamber, where
I found her with her fair locks all let down,
Brushing the kinks out, with a pretty frown.
‘Twas like a picture, or a pleasing play,
To watch her make her toilet. She would stand,
And turn her head first this, and then that way,
Trying effect of ribbon, bow or band.
Then she would pick up something else, and curve
Her lovely neck, with cunning, bird-like grace,
And watch the mirror while she put it on,
With such a sweetly grave and thoughtful face;
And then to view it all would sway and swerve
Her lithe young body, like a graceful swan.