Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 29

It was the middle of the night: The sea upon the garden leapt, And my son's wife in quiet slept, And I, his mother, waked and wept, When lo! there came a sudden light.

And there he stood! His seaman's dress All wet and dripping seemed to be; The pale blue fires of the sea Dripped from his garments constantly,-- I could not speak through cowardness.

"I come through night and storm," he said.

"Through storm and night and death," said he, "To kiss my wife, if it so be That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, For all beyond is peace," he said.

"The sea is His, and He who sent The wind and wave can soothe their strife And brief and foolish is our life."

He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, Then sighed, and like a dream he went.

Now, when my darling kissed not me, But her--his wife--who did not wake, My heart within me seemed to break; I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake Of what my clearer eyes did see.

And when the slow weeks brought him not, Somehow we spake of aught beside: For she--her hope upheld her pride; And I--in me all hope had died, And my son pa.s.sed as if forgot.

It was about the next springtide: She pined and faded where she stood, Yet spake no word of ill or good; She had the hard, cold Edwards' blood In all her veins--and so she died.

One time I thought, before she pa.s.sed, To give her peace; but ere I spake Methought, "HE will be first to break The news in heaven," and for his sake I held mine back until the last.

And here I sit, nor care to roam; I only wait to hear his call.

I doubt not that this day next fall Shall see me safe in port, where all And every s.h.i.+p at last comes home.

And you have sailed the Spanish Main, And knew my Jacob?... Eh! Mercy!

Ah! G.o.d of wisdom! hath the sea Yielded its dead to humble me?

My boy!... My Jacob!... Turn again!

GUILD'S SIGNAL

[William Guild was engineer of the train which on the 19th of April, 1813, plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he pa.s.sed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]

Two low whistles, quaint and clear: That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love-song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say: "To my trust true, So, love, to you!

Working or waiting, good-night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead, Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned; Sang as it flew, "To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good-night!" it said.

And then, one night, it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island sh.o.r.e, And the folk in Providence smiled and said As they turned in their beds, "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."

ONE only knew, To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine, dead.

ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE

(A CHEMICAL NARRATIVE)

Certain facts which serve to explain The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, Who, as the common reports obtain, Surpa.s.sed in complexion the lily and rose; With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose; A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves In a milliner's window, and partially solves That question which mentor and moralist pains, If grace may exist minus feeling or brains.

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, All that she wanted,--what girl could ask more?

Lovers that sighed and lovers that swore, Lovers that danced and lovers that played, Men of profession, of leisure, and trade; But one, who was destined to take the high part Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,-- This lover, the wonder and envy of town, Was a practicing chemist, a fellow called Brown.

I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any; But no one could look in that eloquent face, With its exquisite outline and features of grace, And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of pa.s.sion or pride,-- None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, And as far as complexion went she had a heart.

But this par parenthesis. Brown was the man Preferred of all others to carry her fan, Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle May demand of the lover she wants to treat well.

Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown-- Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop-- Should appear as her escort at party or hop.

Some swore he had cooked up some villainous charm, Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense, Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense; Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie In a magical wash or indelible dye; While Society, with its censorious eye And judgment impartial, stood ready to d.a.m.n What wasn't improper as being a sham.

For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog With a party, the finest the season had seen, To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen.

The guests were invited; but one night before A carriage drew up at the modest back door Of Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare Of a big purple bottle, some closely veiled fair Alighted and entered: to make matters plain, Spite of veils and disguises, 'twas Addie De Laine.

As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won: No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme; But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, And salts, which your chemist delights to explain As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain.

Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness! and know What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud.

I pa.s.s by the greetings, the transports and bliss, Which of course duly followed a meeting like this, And come down to business,--for such the intent Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime,-- And give but her words, as she coyly looked down In reply to the questioning glances of Brown: "I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, And the depilatory, and also the dye, And I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear Brown, I have one other favor,--now, ducky, don't frown,-- Only one, for a chemist and genius like you But a trifle, and one you can easily do.

Now listen: to-morrow, you know, is the night Of the birthday soiree of that Pollywog fright; And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear Is TOO lovely; but"-- "But what then, ma chere?"

Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop.

"Well, I want--I want something to fill out the skirt To the proper dimensions, without being girt In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop; Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, With a freedom that none but you masculine folk Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, She's always bound down to the earth by these wires.

Are you listening? Nonsense! don't stare like a spoon, Idiotic; some light thing, and s.p.a.cious, and soon-- Something like--well, in fact--something like a balloon!"

Here she paused; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, Gave a doubting a.s.sent with still wondering eyes, And the lady departed. But just at the door Something happened,--'tis true, it had happened before In this sanctum of science,--a sibilant sound, Like some element just from its trammels unbound, Or two substances that their affinities found.

The night of the anxiously looked for soiree Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array; With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, And the "How do ye do's" and the "Hope you are well's;"

And the crush in the pa.s.sage, and last lingering look You give as you hang your best hat on the hook; The rush of hot air as the door opens wide; And your entry,--that blending of self-possessed pride And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare At the folk, as if wondering how they got there; With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair.

Meanwhile, the safe topic, the beat of the room, Already was losing its freshness and bloom; Young people were yawning, and wondering when The dance would come off; and why didn't it then: When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, Lo! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud!

And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine.

She entered; but oh! how imperfect the verb To express to the senses her movement superb!

To say that she "sailed in" more clearly might tell Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell.

Her robe was a vague circ.u.mambient s.p.a.ce, With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace; The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy The power of critical feminine eye To define or describe: 'twere as futile to try The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky.

'Midst the humming of praises and glances of beaux That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, With a look of anxiety, close in her track.

Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear A sentence of warning,--it might be of fear: "Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life."

(Nothing more,--such advice might be given your wife Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) But hark to the music; the dance has begun.

The closely draped windows wide open are flung; The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night.

Round about go the dancers; in circles they fly; Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by; And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, Whisks the fair circ.u.mvolving Miss Addie De Laine.

Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined For the vigor and ease that her movements combined; E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe.

'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous; lost in surprise, Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes.

But hark! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse Which brought her fair form to the window again, From the arms of her partner incautiously slips!

And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill Into s.p.a.ce and the night; for Miss Addie was gone!

Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun; Gone like the grain when the reaper is done; Gone like the dew on the fresh morning gra.s.s; Gone without parting farewell; and alas!

Gone with a flavor of hydrogen gas!