Maurine and Other Poems | Page 7

we yet strayed at will
About the yard in
morning dishabille,
When Aunt Ruth came, with apron o'er her head,

Holding a letter in her hand, and said,
"Here is a note, from Vivian
I opine;
At least his servant brought it. And now, girls,
You may
think this is no concern of mine,
But in my day young ladies did not
go
Till almost bed-time roaming to and fro
In morning wrappers,
and with tangled curls,
The very pictures of forlorn distress.
'Tis
three o'clock, and time for you to dress.
Come! read your note and
hurry in, Maurine,
And make yourself fit object to be seen."
Helen was bending o'er an almond bush,
And ere she looked up I had
read the note,
And calmed my heart, that, bounding, sent a flush
To
brow and cheek, at sight of aught HE wrote.
"Ma Belle Maurine:" (so
Vivian's billet ran,)
"Is it not time I saw your cherished guest?
'Pity
the sorrows of a poor young man,'
Banished from all that makes
existence blest.
I'm dying to see--your friend; and I will come
And
pay respects, hoping you'll be at home
To-night at eight. Expectantly,
V. D."
Inside my belt I slipped the billet, saying,
"Helen, go make yourself
most fair to see:
Quick! hurry now! no time for more delaying!
In
just five hours a caller will be here,
And you must look your prettiest,
my dear!
Begin your toilet right away. I know
How long it takes
you to arrange each bow -
To twist each curl, and loop your skirts
aright.
And you must prove you are au fait to-night,
And make a
perfect toilet: for our caller
Is man, and critic, poet, artist, scholar,

And views with eyes of all."
"Oh, oh! Maurine,"
Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,

"You've frightened me so I shall not appear:
I'll hide away, refusing
to be seen

By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft
Of all my friends, my
peaceful home I've left,
And strayed away into the dreadful wood


To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.
No, Maurine, no! you've
given me such a fright,
I'll not go near your ugly wolf to-night."
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