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.
Helen was over medium height, and slender Even to frailty. Her great, wistful eyes Were like the deep blue of autumnal skies; And through them looked her soul, large, loving, tender.
Her long, light hair was lustreless, except Upon the ends, where burnished sunbeams slept, And on the earlocks; and she looped the curls Back with a shell comb, studded thick with pearls, Costly yet simple. Her pale loveliness, That night, was heightened by her rich, black dress, That trailed behind her, leaving half in sight Her taper arms, and shoulders marble white.
I was not tall as Helen, and my face Was shaped and coloured like my grandsire's race; For through his veins my own received the warm, Red blood of Southern France, which curved my form, And glowed upon my cheek in crimson dyes, And bronzed my hair, and darkled in my eyes.
And as the morning trails the skirts of night, And dusky night puts on the garb of morn, And walk together when the day is born, So we two glided down the hall and stair, Arm clasping arm, into the parlour, where Sat Vivian, bathed in sunset's gorgeous light.
He rose to greet us. Oh! his form was grand; And he possessed that power, strange, occult, Called magnetism, lacking better word, Which moves the world, achieving great result Where genius fails completely. Touch his hand, It thrilled through all your being--meet his eye, And you were moved, yet knew not how, or why.
Let him but rise, you felt the air was stirred By an electric current.
This strange force Is mightier than genius. Rightly used, It leads to grand achievements; all things yield Before its mystic presence, and its field Is broad as earth and heaven. But abused, It sweeps like a poison simoon on its course, Bearing miasma in its scorching breath, And leaving all it touches struck with death.
Far-reaching science shall yet tear away The mystic garb that hides it from the day, And drag it forth and bind it with its laws, And make it serve the purposes of men, Guided by common-sense and reason. Then We'll hear no more of seance, table-rapping, And all that trash, o'er which the world is gaping, Lost in effect, while science seeks the cause.
Vivian was not conscious of his power:
Or, if he was, knew not its full extent.
He knew his glance would make a wild beast cower, And yet he knew not that his large eyes sent Into the heart of woman the same thrill That made the lion servant of his will.
And even strong men felt it.
He arose, Reached forth his hand, and in it clasped my own, While I held Helen's; and he spoke some word Of pleasant greeting in his low, round tone, Unlike all other voices I have heard.
Just as the white cloud, at the sunrise, glows With roseate colours, so the pallid hue Of Helen's cheek, like tinted sea-shells grew.
Through mine, his hand caused hers to tremble; such Was the all-mast'ring magic of his touch.
Then we sat down, and talked about the weather, The neighbourhood--some author's last new book.
But, when I could, I left the two together To make acquaintance, saying I must look After the chickens--my especial care; And ran away and left them, laughing, there.
Knee-deep, through clover, to the poplar grove, I waded, where my pets were wont to rove:
