Poems (Procter)/A New Mother
A NEW MOTHER.
WAS with my lady when she died:I it was who guided her weak hand For a blessing on each little head, Laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.And I drew them round my knee that night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say They would keep her words with loving tears, They would not forget her dying fearsLest the thought of her should fade away.
I, who guessed what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face, That her children's hearts, at any cost, Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.
And I knew so much! for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: known What her young and happy days had been, And the grief no other eyes had seenI had watched and sorrowed for alone.
Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried: Six short years before, her eyes were bright As her little blue-eyed May's that night,When she stood by her dead mother's side.
No, I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise. He was somewhat grave,—perhaps, in truth, Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.
She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor, as in grace,— She, whose will had once ruled all around, Queen and darling of us all,—she foundChange indeed in that cold, stately place.
Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone; But she could not hide it near her death, When she said with her last struggling breath."Let my babies still remain my own!"
I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife's face. That test Seemed to strike right to his heart. He said, In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,"God knows, love, I did it for the best!"
And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there, Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes; And he soothed them with his fond replies,Bidding me give double love and care.
Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake;Little Arthur, with his serious air; May, with all her mother's pretty ways, Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.
And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life. Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady's name, When the baby's gloomy christening came,And he called her "Olga—like my wife!"
Save that time, he never spoke of her:He grew graver, sterner, every day; And the children felt it, for they dropped Low their voices, and their laughter stopped,While he stood and watched them at their play.
No, he never named their mother's name.But I told them of her: told them all She had been; so gentle, good, and bright; And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.
There she stood: white daisies in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speak With a smile; the blue and sunny air Seemed to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.
Well, so time passed on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away. Then the news came! I shed many tears When I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.
Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady loved her as her friend. Through their childhood and their early youth, How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!
Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied, She would give advice, and praise, and blame, And my lady leant on Margaret's name,As her dearest comfort, help, and guide.
I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her too, Since her marriage; for she named her less, Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong I never knew.
That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead, With the pomp and splendor of a bride: Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?
So, the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children's black aside; And I held each little trembling hand, As I strove to make them understandThey must greet their father's new-made bride.
Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady's eyes might well grow dim, When the children shrank in fear away,— Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.
When Sir Arthur bade them greet their "mother,"I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear How my little loving May replied, With her mother's pretty air of pride,—"Our dear mother has been dead a year!"
Ah, the lady's tears might well fall fast,As she kissed them, and then turned away. She might strive to smile or to forget, But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.
She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by day, By the nursery door, or garden gate, With a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the three children at their play.
But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms, And their grave, cold silence to beguile: Even little Olga's baby-smileQuivered into tears when in her arms.
I could never chide them: for I sawHow their mother's memory grew more deep In their hearts. Each night I had to tell Stories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.
But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He, who had been always stern and sad In my lady's time, seemed to rejoice Each day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.
He might perhaps have blamed them, but his wifeNever failed to take the children's part: She would stay him with her pleading tone, Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.
And she strove indeed, and seemed to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain; Yet, when May had most her mother's look, Then the lady's calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.
Little May would never call her mother:So, one day, the lady, bending low, Kissed her golden curls, and softly said, "Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so."
She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart. Ah, their mother's gentle memory dwelt Near them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their heart.
So three years passed; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise; First we guessed what sorrow must befall, Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.
Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,— Now he seemed to know with double pain The cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.
Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear, When, one night, the children at my knee Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.
There they knelt with folded hands, and saidLow, soft words in stammering accents sweet; In the firelight shone their golden hair And white robes: my darlings looked so fair,With their little bare and rosy feet!
There he waited till their low "Amen!"—Stopped the rosy lips raised for "Good night!"— Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near, As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.
Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes Lifted up in patient, calm surprise,—I can almost hear his words to-day.
"Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she came From her Northern home, and here she met Love for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.
"And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by day The new home grew happy, joy complete, Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows passed away.
"And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain. For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!) Gave the sweet, and took the bitter part,—Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.
"Years passed on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair, Your sweet mother's bright and blushing face, Or the graver Margaret's stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.
"Then it happened, by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul: Joy for one—if for the other pain; Loss for one—if for the other gain:One must lose, and one possess the whole.
"And so this—this—what they cared for—cameAnd belonged to Margaret: was her own. But she laid the gift aside, to take Pain and sorrow for your mother's sake,And none knew it but herself alone.
"Then she travelled far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew. Margaret's secret thought was never told: Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.
"She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret laid aside: Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not; What it was had better be forgot . . .It was just then she became my bride.
"Now, I think May knows the hope I have.Arthur, darling, can you guess the rest? Even my little Olga understands Great gifts can be given by little hands,Since of all gifts Love is still the best.
"Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claim From your hearts, dear ones, a loving debt I can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother's name.
"Earth spoils even Love, and here a shadeOn the purest, noblest heart may fall; Now your mother dwells in perfect light, She will bless us, I believe, to-night,—She is happy now, and she knows all."
Next day was farewell,—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur, as he rode away, And turned back to see his lady stand With the children clinging to her hand,Looked as if it were a happy day.
Ah, they loved her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest; Arthur always with her now; and May Growing nearer to her every day:——Well, I loved my own dear lady best.