And I recall my calling out in prayer,
How long, how toilfully, how fruitlessly!
At last, my doubt had made me leave my beads,
And, moved as if to cool a feverish faith,
Pass out, the night air seeking. There I saw
The moon. It soothed me always with strange spells,
The moon. But now, as though all things would join
To rout my peace, I seem’d this moon to see
Caught up behind an angry horde of clouds,
Chased by the hot breath of a coming storm
That clang’d his thunder-bugle through the west.
When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt—
Or so it seem’d—and with a deafening peal
It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit,
Just in the path before me gleam’d a knife!
Held o’er a form of white! To see the thing
I scream’d aloud. It seem’d a ghost!
My scream
Awoke no echo save Doretta’s voice:—
“Pauline?—and were you frighten’d?”
Then to this,
In part because the shock had stunn’d me much,
In part because I felt me much provoked,
But most because my ears were deaf to sport,
I answer’d naught. Whereat, as now I think,
Though then in that unnatural, nervous mood
My mind surmised more horrid inference,
Her voice, in still more mischievous caprice,
Went on to vex me more.
“What?—Fear you me!
And have you done so much against me, then!
And if you have, why fear you here a knife?—
You think the blade might draw some little blood;—
Would that much signify?—the body pain’d?
Suppose that one should wield some subtler blade
And draw some tears, mere watery tears, weak things;—
Would they much signify?—a soul in pain?
And did you never now do that?—draw tears?—
And think, is not the soul much worse to harm
Than is the body?—Fy! why fear a knife?
If I supposed that through a lifetime long
My soul should bleed its dear strength out in tears,
Why would it not be mercy to myself
For me to check the longer, stronger woe
By shedding here some drops of weaker blood,
Now, once for all?”
“O dear Doretta mine,”
I cried, and still more anxious, “do you mean”—
“This,” answer’d she; “I mean that I would cut
My body’s life in two parts, rather than
My soul’s life.”
“Sister,” I could only gasp,
“Cease—do;—put by that knife”—
“Why?” answer’d she;—
“For what?—Your wish? Do you so often yield
When I wish aught?—Say now what would you give?”
“Give?—Any thing!” I answer’d.
“Be not rash,”
Came then. “It scarcely seems your way; besides,
The light is dim. How know you? may not ears
Not far off overhear us here? Beware!—
But stay!” she added, “I will go my way,
And you go yours. Who cares what either does?”