I had resolved to yield up to my friend
The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so
I saw no other way in honour left.
She was so weak and fragile, once bereft
Of this great hope, that held her with such power,
She would
wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower,
And swift, untimely death would be the end.
But I was strong; and hardy plants, which grow
In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow
From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath
Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death.
The hours went by, too slow, and yet too
fast.
All day I argued with my foolish heart
That bade me play the shrinking coward’s part
And hide from pain. And when the day had past
And time for Vivian’s call drew near and nearer,
It pleaded, “Wait until the way seems clearer;
Say you are ill—or busy; keep away
Until you gather strength enough to play
The part you have resolved on.”
“Nay,
not so,”
Made answer clear-eyed Reason; “do you go
And put your resolution to the test.
Resolve, however nobly formed, at best
Is but a still-born babe of Thought until
It proves existence of its life and will
By sound or action.”
So when Helen
came
And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame
With sudden blushes, whispering, “My sweet!
My heart can hear the music of his feet,
Go down
with me to meet him,” I arose,
And went with her all calmly, as one goes
To look upon the dear face of the dead.
That eve I know not what I did or said.
I was not cold—my manner was not strange;
Perchance I talked more freely than my wont,
But in my speech was naught could give affront;
Yet I conveyed, as only woman can,
That nameless something which bespeaks a change.
’Tis in the power of woman, if she be
Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry—
Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,
To make herself and feelings understood
By nameless acts, thus sparing what to man,
However gently answered, causes pain,
The offering of his hand and heart in vain.
She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind
Assume no airs of pride or arrogance;
But in her voice, her manner, and her glance,
Convey that mystic something, undefined,
Which men fail not to understand and read,
And, when not blind with egoism, heed.
My task was harder—’twas the slow undoing
Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.
It was to
hide and cover and conceal
The truth, assuming what I did not feel.
It was to dam love’s happy singing tide
That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone
By feigned indiff’rence, till it turned aside
And changed its channel, leaving me alone
To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught
My lips had tasted, but another quaffed.
It could be done, for no words yet were spoken—
None to recall—no pledges to be broken.
“He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then
cross,”
I reasoned, thinking what would be his part
In this strange drama. “Then, because he
Feels something lacking, to make good his loss
He’ll turn to Helen, and her gentle grace
And loving acts will win her soon the place
I hold to-day; and like a troubled dream
At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem.”
That evening passed with music, chat, and
song,
But hours that once had flown on airy wings
Now limped on weary, aching limbs along,
Each moment like some dreaded step that brings
A twinge of pain.
As Vivian rose
to go,
Slow bending to me from his greater height,
He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes,
With
tender questioning and pained surprise,
Said, “Maurine, you are not yourself to-night;
What is it? Are you ailing?”
“Ailing? No,”
I answered, laughing lightly, “I am not;
Just see my cheek, sir—is it thin, or pale?
Now, tell me, am I looking very frail?”
“Nay, nay,” he answered, “it cannot be
seen,
The change I speak of—’twas more in your
mien—
Preoccupation, or—I know not what!
Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine
Seem to have something on her mind this eve?”
“She does,” laughed Helen, “and I do believe
I know what ’tis! A letter came to-day
Which she read slyly, and then hid away
Close to her heart, not knowing I was near,
And since she’s been as you have seen her here.
See how she blushes! so my random shot
We must believe has struck a tender spot.”
Her rippling laughter floated through the
room,
And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise,
Then surge away, to leave me pale as death
Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom
Of Vivian’s questioning, accusing eyes,
That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath
That stern, fixed gaze, and stood spellbound until
He turned
with sudden movement, gave his hand
To each in turn, and said: “You must not stand
Longer, young ladies, in this open door.
The air is heavy with a cold, damp chill.
We shall have rain to-morrow, or before.
Good-night.”
He vanished in the darkling
shade;
And so the dreaded evening found an end,
That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade,
And strike a blow for honour and for friend.
“How swiftly passed the evening!”
Helen sighed.
“How long the hours!” my tortured heart replied.
Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide
By Father Time, and, looking in his face,
Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair roadside,
“I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace.”
The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,
Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,
Looks to some distant hilltop, high and calm,
Where he shall find not only rest, but balm
For all his wounds, and cries, in tones of woe,
“Oh, Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?”
Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain,
Went sobbing by, repeating o’er and o’er
The miserere, desolate and drear,
Which every human heart must sometime hear.
Pain is
but little varied. Its refrain,
Whate’er the words are, is for aye the same.
The third day brought a change, for with it came
Not only sunny smiles to Nature’s face,
But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more
We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,
Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise
In no way puzzled her, for one glance told
What each succeeding one confirmed, that he
Who bent above her with the lissome grace
Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be
No other than the Roy Montaine of old.
It was a sweet reunion, and he brought
So much of sunshine with him that I caught,
Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness
To make my heart forget a time its sadness.
We talked together of the dear old days:
Leaving the present, with its depths and heights
Of life’s maturer sorrows and delights,
I turned back to my childhood’s level land,
And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand,
Wandered in mem’ry through the olden ways.
It was the second evening of his coming.
Helen was playing dreamily, and humming
Some wordless melody of white-souled thought,
While Roy
and I sat by the open door,
Re-living childish incidents of yore.
My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot
With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain
Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.
Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,
And bringing vividly before my gaze
Some old adventure of those halcyon days,
When suddenly, in pauses of the talk,
I heard a well-known step upon the walk,
And looked up quickly to meet full in mine
The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash
Shot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of light
Like that swift followed by the thunder’s crash,
Which said, “Suspicion is confirmed by sight,”
As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene.
Then o’er his clear-cut face a cold, white look
Crept, like the pallid moonlight o’er a brook,
And, with a slight, proud bending of the head,
He stepped toward us haughtily, and said:
“Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine,
I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book
She spoke of lending me; nay, sit you still,
And I, by grant of your permission, will
Pass by to where I hear her playing.”
“Stay,”
I said, “one moment, Vivian, if you please;”
And
suddenly bereft of all my ease,
And scarcely knowing what to do or say,
Confused as any schoolgirl, I arose,
And some way made each to the other known.
They bowed, shook hands, then Vivian turned away
And sought out Helen, leaving us alone.
“One of Miss Trevor’s or of
Maurine’s beaux?
Which may he be, who cometh like a prince
With haughty bearing and an eagle eye?”
Roy queried, laughing; and I answered, “Since
You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor’s side,
I leave your own good judgment to reply.”
And straightway caused the tide of talk to
glide
In other channels, striving to dispel
The sudden gloom that o’er my spirit fell.
We mortals are such hypocrites at best!
When Conscience tries our courage with a test,
And points to some steep pathway, we set out
Boldly, denying any fear or doubt;
But pause before the first rock in the way,
And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say:
“We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would
Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good;
But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so
Thou must point out some other way to go.”
Yet
secretly we are rejoicing: and,
When right before our faces, as we stand
In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,
Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain,
And, loth to go, by every act reveal
What we so tried from Conscience to conceal.
I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do
With scarce an effort what had seemed a strife
That would require the strength of my whole life.
Women have quick perceptions, and I knew
That Vivian’s heart was full of jealous pain,
Suspecting—nay, believing—Roy Montaine
To be my lover. First my altered mien—
And next the letter—then the doorway scene—
My flushed face gazing in the one above
That bent so near me, and my strange confusion
When Vivian came all led to one conclusion:
That I had but been playing with his love,
As women sometimes cruelly do play
With hearts when their true lovers are away.
There could be nothing easier than just
To let him linger on in this belief
Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust
Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief.
Compared
with me, so doubly sweet and pure
Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure
And certain of completion in the end.
But now, the way was made so straight and clear,
My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear,
Till Conscience whispered with her “still small
voice,”
“The precious time is passing—make thy
choice—
Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend.”
The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes
Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies,
Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation,
To whom all eyes are turned in expectation.
A woman who possesses tact and art
And strength of will can take the hand of doom,
And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes,
With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom,
Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows
The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart.
And so I joined in Roy’s bright changing chat;
Answered his sallies—talked of this and that,
My brow unruffled as the calm, still wave
That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave
Beneath its surface.
Then we heard,
ere long,
The sound of Helen’s gentle voice in song,
And, rising, entered where the subtle power
Of
Vivian’s eyes, forgiving while accusing,
Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;
But Roy, always polite and debonair
Where ladies were, now hung about my chair
With nameless delicate attentions, using
That air devotional, and those small arts
Acquaintance with society imparts
To men gallant by nature.
’Twas my
sex
And not myself he bowed to. Had my place
Been filled that evening by a dowager
Twice his own age, he would have given her
The same attentions. But they served to vex
Whatever hope in Vivian’s heart remained.
The cold, white look crept back upon his face,
Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained.
Little by little all things had conspired
To bring events I dreaded, yet desired.
We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides,
Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather,
And almost hourly we were thrown together.
No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn:
Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides
This land and that, though lying side by side,
So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—
The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn
And noon and night.
Free and
informal were
These picnics and excursions. Yet, although
Helen and I would sometimes choose to go
Without our escorts, leaving them quite free,
It happened alway Roy would seek out me
Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.
I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just
Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot
The kinship was so distant it was not
Safe to rely upon in perfect trust,
Without reserve or caution. Many a time,
When there was some steep mountain-side to climb
And I grew weary, he would say, “Maurine,
Come rest you here.” And I would go and lean
My head upon his shoulder, or would stand
And let him hold in his my willing hand,
The while he stroked it gently with his own.
Or I would let him clasp me with his arm,
Nor entertained a thought of any harm,
Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone
In his suspicions. But ere long the truth
I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth
And Helen honestly, in faith, believed
That Roy and I were lovers.
Undeceived,
Some careless words might open Vivian’s eyes
And spoil
my plans. So reasoning in this wise,
To all their sallies I in jest replied,
To naught assented, and yet naught denied,
With Roy unchanged remaining, confident
Each understood just what the other meant.
If I grew weary of this double part,
And self-imposed deception caused my heart
Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze
On Helen’s face: that wore a look ethereal,
As if she dwelt above the things material
And held communion with the angels. So
I fed my strength and courage through the days.
What time the harvest moon rose full and clear
And cast its ling’ring radiance on the earth,
We made a feast; and called from far and near,
Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.
Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;
But none more sweet than Helen’s. Robed in white,
She floated like a vision through the dance.
So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,
She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,
And was pursued by many an anxious glance
That looked to see her fading from the sight
Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.
And noble
men and gallants graced the scene:
Yet none more noble or more grand of mien
Than Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tall
And finely formed, as any Grecian god
Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.
His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those
Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,
Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair
Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes
That could be cold as steel in winter air,
Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.
Weary of mirth and music, and the sound
Of tripping feet, I sought a moment’s rest
Within the lib’ry, where a group I found
Of guests, discussing with apparent zest
Some theme of interest—Vivian, near the while,
Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.
“Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,”
Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. “We
Have been discussing right before his face,
All unrebuked by him, as you may see,
A poem lately published by our friend:
And we are quite divided. I contend
The poem is a libel and untrue.
I hold the fickle women are but few,
Compared with those who are like yon fair moon
That, ever
faithful, rises in her place
Whether she’s greeted by the flowers of June
Or cold and dreary stretches of white space.”
“Oh!” cried another, “Mr.
Dangerfield,
Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield
The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,
Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”
All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to
me,
I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear
You chose a most unlucky simile
To prove the truth of woman. To her place
The moon does rise—but with a different face
Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear
The poem read, before I can consent
To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”
All clamoured that the author was the man
To read the poem: and, with tones that said
More than the cutting, scornful words he read,
Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:
HER LOVE.
The sands upon the ocean side
That change about with every tide,
And never true to one abide,
A woman’s love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain,
That sing the same alluring strain
To every grass blade on the plain—
A woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day
That comes to warm you with its ray,
But while you smile has flown away—
A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart,
But gave her skill, and tact, and art,
And so she lives, and plays her part.
We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man—but just to hear
The praise he whispers in her ear,
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—
Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,
Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
Too weak to understand their pain.
As changeful as the winds that blow
From every region, to and fro,
Devoid of heart, she cannot know
The suffering of a human heart.
I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian’s
eyes
Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise;
But lightly answered, toying with my fan,
“That sentiment is very like a man!
Men call
us fickle, but they do us wrong;
We’re only frail and helpless, men are strong;
And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing
And make a shroud out of their suffering,
And drag the corpse about with them for years.
But we?—we mourn it for a day with tears!
And then we robe it for its last long rest,
And being women, feeble things at best,
We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so
We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:
Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends
To do this service for her earthly friends,
The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep
Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep.”
The laugh that followed had not died away
Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say
The band was tuning for our waltz, and so
Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow
And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,
And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went
Out on the cool moonlighted portico,
And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head
Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent
His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:
“I’ll try the mesmerism of my touch
To work a
cure: be very quiet now,
And let me make some passes o’er your brow.
Why, how it throbs! you’ve exercised too much!
I shall not let you dance again to-night.”
Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,
Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face
To catch the teasing and mischievous glance
Of Helen’s eyes, as, heated by the dance,
Leaning on Vivian’s arm, she sought this place.
“I beg your pardon,” came in that
round tone
Of his low voice. “I think we do intrude.”
Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone
Ere I could speak or change my attitude.
PART V
A visit to a cave some miles away
Was next in order. So, one sunny day,
Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load
Of merry pleasure-seekers o’er the road.
A basket picnic, music, and croquet
Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear,
And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near.
The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure:
Some floated to the music’s rhythmic measure,
Some played, some promenaded on the green.
Ticked off
by happy hearts, the moments passed.
The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came.
Helen and Roy were leaders of some game,
And Vivian was not visible.
“Maurine,
I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me!
And who shall tire, or reach the summit last
Must pay a forfeit,” cried a romping maid.
“Come! start at once, or own you are afraid.”
So challenged I made ready for the race,
Deciding first the forfeit was to be
A handsome pair of bootees to replace
The victor’s loss who made the rough ascent.
The cliff was steep and stony. On we went
As eagerly as if the path was Fame,
And what we climbed for, glory and a name.
My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent,
But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry,
“Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent!
You’ve won the boots! I’m going
back—good-bye!”
And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer.
I reached the summit: and its solitude,
Wherein no living creature did intrude,
Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near,
I found far sweeter than the scene below.
Alone with One who knew my hidden woe,
I did not
feel so much alone as when
I mixed with th’ unthinking throngs of men.
Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile
place
I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed,
That in our lives, albeit dark with shade
And rough and hard with labour, yet may grow
The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.
As I walked on in meditative thought,
A serpent writhed across my pathway; not
A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight
Filled me with ghastly terror and affright.
I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes—
And I fell fainting ’neath the watchful skies.
I was no coward. Country-bred and
born,
I had no feeling but the keenest scorn
For those fine lady “ah’s” and
“oh’s” of fear
So much assumed (when any man is near).
But God implanted in each human heart
A natural horror, and a sickly dread
Of that accursèd, slimy, creeping thing
That squirms a limbless carcass o’er the ground.
And where that inborn loathing is not found
You’ll find the serpent qualities instead.
Who fears
it not, himself is next of kin,
And in his bosom holds some treacherous art
Whereby to counteract its venomed sting.
And all are sired by Satan—Chief of Sin.
Who loathes not that foul creature of the
dust,
However fair in seeming, I distrust.
I woke from my unconsciousness, to know
I leaned upon a broad and manly breast,
And Vivian’s voice was speaking, soft and low,
Sweet whispered words of passion, o’er and o’er.
I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden’s shore?
Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss?
“My love,” he sighed, his voice like winds that
moan
Before a rain in Summer-time, “my own,
For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest
Upon this heart that loves and hates you both!
O fair false face! Why were you made so fair!
O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss
That hangs upon you, I do take an oath
His lips shall never gather. There!—and
there!
I steal it from him. Are you his—all his?
Nay, you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed—
Blind fool—believing you were what you seemed—
You would be mine in all the years to come.
Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath.
O God! if
this white pallor were but death,
And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb,
My arms about you, so—in fond embrace!
My lips pressed, so—upon your dying face!”
“Woman, how dare you bring me to such
shame!
How dare you drive me to an act like this,
To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss
You lured me on to think my rightful claim!
O frail and puny woman! could you know
The devil that you waken in the hearts
You snare and bind in your enticing arts,
The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow
Would freeze in terror.
Strange
you have such power
To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things—
Devoid of passion as a senseless flower!
Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings.
There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour,
And hate myself for having talked of love!”
He pushed me from him. And I felt as
those
Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above
Are closed against them.
With
a feigned surprise
I started up and opened wide my eyes,
And looked
about. Then in confusion rose
And stood before him.
“Pardon
me, I pray!”
He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago
I left you with the company below,
And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried,
It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm.
I came in time to see you swoon away.
You’ll need assistance down the rugged side
Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.”
So, formal and constrained, we passed along,
Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng
To have no further speech again that day.
Next morn there came a bulky document,
The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent,
Containing news unlooked for. An estate
Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great
Or princely—had in France been left to me,
My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought
A sense of joy and freedom in the thought
Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be
A panacea for my troubled mind,
That longed to leave the olden scenes behind
With all their recollections, and to flee
To some strange country.
I was in such
haste
To put between me and my native land
The briny ocean’s desolating waste,
I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned
To sail that week, two months: though she was fain
To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine
Would be our guide and escort.
No
one dreamed
The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed
To think good fortune had quite turned my brain.
One bright October morning, when the woods
Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods
In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came,
Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,—
First trophies of the Autumn time.
And
Roy
Made a proposal that we all should go
And ramble in the forest for a while.
But Helen said she was not well—and so
Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile,
Responded, “I will stay and talk to you,
And they may go;” at which her two cheeks grew
Like twin blush roses—dyed with love’s red wave,
Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.
And Vivian saw—and suddenly was grave.
Roy took
my arm in that protecting way
Peculiar to some men, which seems to say,
“I shield my own,” a manner pleasing, e’en
When we are conscious that it does not mean
More than a simple courtesy. A woman
Whose heart is wholly feminine and human,
And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be
The object of that tender chivalry,
That guardianship which man bestows on her,
Yet mixed with deference; as if she were
Half child, half angel.
Though
she may be strong,
Noble and self-reliant, not afraid
To raise her hand and voice against all wrong
And all oppression, yet if she be made,
With all the independence of her thought,
A woman womanly, as God designed,
Albeit she may have as great a mind
As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm,
His muscle and his boldness she has not,
And cannot have without she loses what
Is far more precious, modesty and grace.
So, walking on in her appointed place,
She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend
But that she needs him for a guide and friend,
To shield her with his greater strength from harm.
We reached
the forest; wandered to and fro
Through many a winding path and dim retreat,
Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat
Upon an oak-tree, which had been laid low
By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke.
And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge
On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge
Of sunny meadows lying at my feet.
One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb
That cast its checkered shadows over him;
And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised
And fixed upon me, silently he gazed
Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke:
“Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise,
And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes.”
The smooth and even darkness of his cheek
Was stained one moment by a flush of red.
He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood
Still clinging to the branch above his head.
His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said,
With sudden passion, “Do you bid me speak?
I cannot, then, keep silence if I would.
That hateful fortune, coming as it did,
Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew
A harsh-tongued world would quickly misconstrue
My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet,
So big my
heart has grown with love for you
I cannot shelter it or keep it hid.
And so I cast it throbbing at your feet,
For you to guard and cherish, or to break.
Maurine, I love you better than my life.
My friend—my cousin—be still more, my wife!
Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?”
I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and
numb
With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb
With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes
That looked no feeling but complete surprise.
He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek.
“Maurine, Maurine,” he whispered, “will you
speak?”
Then suddenly, as o’er some magic
glass
One picture in a score of shapes will pass,
I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze.
First, as the playmate of my earlier days—
Next, as my kin—and then my valued friend,
And last, my lover. As when colours blend
In some unlooked-for group before our eyes,
We hold the glass, and look them o’er and o’er,
So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise,
In which he ne’er appeared to me before.
His form was like a panther’s in its
grace,
So lithe and supple, and of medium height,
And garbed
in all the elegance of fashion.
His large black eyes were full of fire and passion,
And in expression fearless, firm, and bright.
His hair was like the very deeps of night,
And hung in raven clusters ’round a face
Of dark and flashing beauty.
He
was more
Like some romantic maiden’s grand ideal
Than like a common being. As I gazed
Upon the handsome face to mine upraised,
I saw before me, living, breathing, real,
The hero of my early day-dreams: though
So full my heart was with that clear-cut face,
Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero’s place,
I had not recognised him so before,
Or thought of him, save as a valued friend.
So now I called him, adding,
“Foolish
boy!
Each word of love you utter aims a blow
At that sweet trust I had reposed in you.
I was so certain I had found a true,
Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend,
And go on wholly trusting to the end.
Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy,
By turning to a lover?”
“Why,
indeed!
Because I loved you more than any brother,
Or any
friend could love.” Then he began
To argue like a lawyer, and to plead
With all his eloquence. And, listening,
I strove to think it was a goodly thing
To be so fondly loved by such a man,
And it were best to give his wooing heed,
And not deny him. Then before my eyes,
In all its clear-cut majesty, that other
Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise
And rob my purpose of all life and strength.
Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could,
With that impetuous, boyish eloquence.
He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should
Give some least hope; till, in my own defence,
I turned upon him, and replied at length:
“I thank you for the noble heart you offer:
But it deserves a true one in exchange.
I could love you if I loved not another
Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer.”
Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I
said:
“Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange;
But I love one I cannot hope to wed.
A river rolls between us, dark and deep.
To cross it—were to stain with blood my hand.
You force my speech on what I fain would keep
In my own bosom, but you understand?
My heart
is given to love that’s sanctified,
And now can feel no other.
Be
you kind,
Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,
Lest pleading and denying should divide
The hearts so long united. Let me find
In you my cousin and my friend of yore.
And now come home. The morning, all too soon
And unperceived, has melted into noon.
Helen will miss us, and we must return.”
He took my hand, and helped me to arise,
Smiling upon me with his sad, dark eyes,
Where passion’s fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.
“And so,” he said, “too soon
and unforeseen
My friendship melted into love, Maurine.
But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame
For what you term my folly. You forgot,
So long we’d known each other, I had not
In truth a brother’s or a cousin’s claim.
But I remembered, when through every nerve
Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began
To love you with that human love of man
For comely woman. By your coaxing arts,
You won your way into my heart of hearts,
And all Platonic feelings put to rout.
A maid
should never lay aside reserve
With one who’s not her kinsman, out and out.
But as we now, with measured steps, retrace
The path we came, e’en so my heart I’ll send,
At your command, back to the olden place,
And strive to love you only as a friend.”
I felt the justice of his mild reproof,
But answered, laughing, “’Tis the same old cry:
‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’
Since Adam’s time we’ve heard it. But
I’ll try
And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof
The fruit I never once had thought so sweet
’Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner,
Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner.
And guard each act, that no least look betray
What’s passed between us.”
Then
I turned away
And sought my room, low humming some old air
That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes
Fell on a face so glorified and fair
All other senses, merged in that of sight,
Were lost in contemplation of the bright
And wond’rous picture, which had otherwise
Made dim my vision.
Waiting
in my room,
Her whole face lit as by an inward flame
That shed its halo ’round her, Helen stood;
Her fair
hands folded like a lily’s leaves
Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves.
Upon her cheek the colour went and came
As sunlight flickers o’er a bed of bloom;
And, like some slim young sapling of the wood,
Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair
Fell ’round her loosely, in long curling strands
All unconfined, and as by loving hands
Tossed into bright confusion.
Standing
there,
Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem
Like some unearthly creature of a dream;
Until she started forward, gliding slowly,
And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly,
As one grown meek, and humble in an hour,
Bowing before some new and mighty power.
“Maurine, Maurine!” she murmured,
and again,
“Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!”
And
then,
Laying her love-light hands upon my head,
She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said
With voice that bore her joy in ev’ry tone,
As winds that blow across a garden bed
Are weighed with fragrance, “He is mine alone,
And I am his—all his—his very own.
So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie
Save one
beneath God’s over-arching sky.
I could not wait to tell you of my bliss:
I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss.”
So hiding my heart’s trouble with a smile,
I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while
I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin,
When my lips fell where his so late had been.
And all day long I bore about with me
A sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction,
As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be
Sad with the guilt resulting from her action,
While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.
That ev’ning when the house had settled down
To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept
A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown:
With steps like fall of thistle-down she came,
Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name,
Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet.
“Sweetheart,” she murmured softly,
“ere I sleep,
I needs must tell you all my tale of joy.
Beginning where you left us—you and Roy.
You saw the colour flame upon my cheek
When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;—
And, when we were alone, he gazed at me
With such a strange look in his wond’rous eyes.
The
silence deepened; and I tried to speak
Upon some common topic, but could not,
My heart was in such tumult.
In
this wise
Five happy moments glided by us, fraught
With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then,
And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair.
And, in his low voice, o’er and o’er again,
Said, ‘Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.’
Then took my face, and turned it to the light,
And looking in my eyes, and seeing what
Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low,
‘Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight.
You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?’
And I made answer straightway, ‘With my life
And soul and strength I love you, O my love!’
He leaned and took me gently to his breast,
And said, ‘Here then this dainty head shall rest
Henceforth for ever: O my little dove!
My lily-bud—my fragile blossom-wife!’
And then I told him all my thoughts; and he
Listened, with kisses for his comments, till
My tale was finished. Then he said, ‘I will
Be frank with you, my darling, from the start,
And hide no secret from you in my heart.
I love you, Helen, but you are not first
To rouse that love to being. Ere we met
I loved a
woman madly—never dreaming
She was not all in truth she was in seeming.
Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed
Of God and man—a wily vain coquette.
I hate myself for having loved her. Yet
So much my heart spent on her, it must give
A love less ardent, and less prodigal,
Albeit just as tender and as true—
A milder, yet a faithful love to you.
Just as some evil fortune might befall
A man’s great riches, causing him to live
In some low cot, all unpretending, still
As much his home—as much his loved retreat,
As was the princely palace on the hill,
E’en so I give you all that’s left, my sweet!
Of my heart-fortune.’
‘That
were more to me,’
I made swift smiling answer, ‘than to be
The worshipped consort of a king.’ And so
Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go
Until I vowed to wed him New Year day.
And I am sad because you go away
Before that time. I shall not feel half wed
Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay,
And be my bridesmaid.”
“Nay,
I cannot, dear!
’Twould disarrange our plans for half a year.
I’ll
be in Europe New Year day,” I said,
“And send congratulations by the cable.”
And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing
The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing,
The festal garments of a wedding scene,
While all my heart was hung with sorrow’s sable.
Forgetting for a season, that between
The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss,
I lived in my near future, confident
All would be as I planned it; and, across
The briny waste of waters, I should find
Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind.
The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed
And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed,
Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb
Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.
Roy left us for a time, and Helen went
To make the nuptial preparations. Then,
Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill:
Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill
Of two physicians could not stem the tide.
The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest,
Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds: and when
The Autumn day, that I had thought to be
Bounding upon the billows of the sea,
Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn,
Striving
to keep away that unloved guest
Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.
Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside
The suff’rer’s couch, Roy was my help and stay;
Others were kind, but he alone each day
Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face,
And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place
Like rays of light upon a darkened way.
November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill,
In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill.
Returning light and life dispelled the gloom
That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb.
Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better—
Was dressed each day, and walked about the room.
Then came one morning in the Eastern mail,
A little white-winged birdling of a letter.
I broke the seal and read,
“Maurine,
my own!
I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad.
I felt so sorry for you; and so sad
To think I left you when I did—alone
To bear your pain and worry, and those nights
Of weary, anxious watching.
Vivian
writes
Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail
Before the Springtime. So you’ll come and be
My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay.
But three
weeks more of girlhood left to me.
Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day,
And make your preparations here. My sweet!
Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill—
I’m sorry she has suffered so; and still
I’m thankful something happened, so you stayed.
I’m sure my wedding would be incomplete
Without your presence. Selfish, I’m afraid
You’ll think your Helen. But I love you so,
How can I be quite willing you should go?
Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know,
And I will meet you, dearie! at the train.
Your happy, loving Helen.”
Then
the pain
That, hidden under later pain and care,
Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep,
Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep
My tortured heart in anguish and despair.
I had relied too fully on my skill
In bending circumstances to my will:
And now I was rebuked and made to see
That God alone knoweth what is to be.
Then came a messenger from Vivian, who
Came not himself, as he was wont to do,
But sent his servant each new day to bring
A kindly message, or an offering
Of juicy
fruits to cool the lips of fever,
Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom
To brighten up the convalescent’s room.
But now the servant only brought a line
From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine,
“Dear Sir, and Friend”—in letters bold and
plain,
Written on cream-white paper, so it ran:
“It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor,
And therefore doubly so a wish of mine,
That you shall honour me next New Year Eve,
My wedding hour, by standing as best man.
Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe.
Being myself a novice in the art—
If I should fail in acting well my part,
I’ll need protection ’gainst the regiment
Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent
To stand by me in time of need, and shield
Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield.”
The last least hope had vanished; I must
drain,
E’en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.
PART VI
There was a week of bustle and of hurry;
A stately home echoed to voices sweet,
Calling, replying; and to tripping feet
Of busy bridesmaids, running to and fro,
With all that girlish fluttering and flurry
Preceding such occasions.
Helen’s
room
Was like a lily-garden, all in bloom,
Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.
My robe was fashioned by swift, skilful hands—
A thing of beauty, elegant and rich,
A mystery of loopings, puffs and bands;
And as I watched it growing, stitch by stitch,
I felt as one might feel who should behold
With vision trance-like, where his body lay
In deathly slumber, simulating clay,
His grave-cloth sewed together, fold on fold.
I lived with ev’ry nerve upon the
strain,
As men go into battle; and the pain,
That, more and more, to my sad heart revealed
Grew ghastly with its horrors, was concealed
From mortal eyes by superhuman power,
That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.
What night
the Old Year gave unto the New
The key of human happiness and woe,
The pointed stars, upon their field of blue,
Shone, white and perfect, o’er a world below,
Of snow-clad beauty; all the trees were dressed
In gleaming garments, decked with diadems,
Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest,
Coming o’erladen with a gift of gems.
The bustle of the dressing-room; the sound
Of eager voices in discourse; the clang
Of “sweet bells jangled”; thud of steel-clad feet
That beat swift music on the frozen ground—
All blent together in my brain, and rang
A medley of strange noises, incomplete,
And full of discords.
Then
out on the night
Streamed from the open vestibule, a light
That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod,
With all the hues of those that deck the sod.
The grand cathedral windows were ablaze
With gorgeous colours; through a sea of bloom,
Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom,
The bridal cortège passed.
As
some lost soul
Might surge on with the curious crowd, to gaze
Upon its coffined body, so I went
With that
glad festal throng. The organ sent
Great waves of melody along the air,
That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray,
On happy hearts that listened. But to me
It sounded faintly, as if miles away,
A troubled spirit, sitting in despair
Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea,
Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.
We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers,
The white-robed man of God stood forth.
I
heard
The solemn service open; through long hours
I seemed to stand and listen, while each word
Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay
Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.
The stately father gave the bride away:
The bridegroom circled with a golden band
The taper finger of her dainty hand.
The last imposing, binding words were said—
“What God has joined let no man put
asunder”—
And all my strife with self was at an end;
My lover was the husband of my friend.
How strangely, in some awful hour of pain,
External trifles with our sorrows blend!
I never hear the mighty organ’s thunder,
I never catch the scent of heliotrope,
Nor see
stained windows all ablaze with light,
Without that dizzy whirling of the brain,
And all the ghastly feeling of that night,
When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.
The pain we feel so keenly may depart,
And e’en its memory cease to haunt the heart:
But some slight thing, a perfume, or a sound
Will probe the closed recesses of the wound,
And for a moment bring the old-time smart.
Congratulations, kisses, tears and smiles,
Good-byes and farewells given; then across
The snowy waste of weary wintry miles,
Back to my girlhoods’ home, where, through each room,
For evermore pale phantoms of delight
Should aimless wander, always in my sight,
Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tomb
Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.
The sleepless nights of watching and of
care,
Followed by that one week of keenest pain,
Taxing my weakened system, and my brain,
Brought on a ling’ring illness.
Day
by day,
In that strange, apathetic state I lay,
Of mental and of physical despair.
I had no
pain, no fever, and no chill,
But lay without ambition, strength, or will.
Knowing no wish for anything but rest,
Which seemed, of all God’s store of gifts, the best.
Physicians came and shook their heads and
sighed;
And to their score of questions I replied,
With but one languid answer, o’er and o’er,
“I am so weary—weary—nothing more.”
I slept, and dreamed I was some feathered
thing,
Flying through space with ever-aching wing,
Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white,
That sailed and sailed before me, just in sight,
But always one unchanging distance kept,
And woke more weary than before I slept.
I slept, and dreamed I ran to win a prize,
A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.
All eagerness I sought it—it was gone,
But shone in all its beauty farther on.
I ran, and ran, and ran, in eager quest
Of that great prize, whereon was written “Rest,”
Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam,
And wakened doubly weary with my dream.
I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain,
That saw a snow-white lily on the plain,
And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.
I fell and
fell, but nevermore found rest—
I fell and fell, but found no stopping place,
Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space,
While space illimitable stretched before.
And all these dreams but wearied me the more.
Familiar voices sounded in my room—
Aunt Ruth’s, and Roy’s, and Helen’s: but they
seemed
A part of some strange fancy I had dreamed,
And now remembered dimly.
Wrapped
in gloom,
My mind, o’ertaxed, lost hold of time at last,
Ignored its future, and forgot its past,
And groped along the present, as a light,
Carried, uncovered, through the fogs of night,
Will flicker faintly.
But
I felt, at length,
When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring,
A certain sense of “restlessness with rest.”
My aching frame was weary of repose,
And wanted action.
Then
slow-creeping strength
Came back with Mem’ry, hand in hand, to bring
And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast,
Grim-visaged Recollection’s thorny rose.
I gained,
and failed. One day could ride and walk,
The next would find me prostrate: while a flock
Of ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flit
About the chambers of my heart, or sit,
Pale spectres of the past, with folded wings,
Perched, silently, upon the voiceless strings,
That once resounded to Hope’s happy lays.
So passed the ever-changing April days.
When May came, lightsome footed, o’er the lea,
Accompanied by kind Aunt Ruth and Roy,
I bade farewell to home with secret joy,
And turned my wan face eastward to the sea.
Roy planned our route of travel: for all lands
Were one to him. Or Egypt’s burning sands,
Or Alps of Switzerland, or stately Rome,
All were familiar as the fields of home.
There was a year of wand’ring to and
fro,
Like restless spirits; scaling mountain heights;
Dwelling among the countless, rare delights
Of lands historic; turning dusty pages,
Stamped with the tragedies of mighty ages
Gazing upon the scenes of bloody acts,
Of kings long buried—bare, unvarnished facts,
Surpassing wildest fictions of the brain;
Rubbing
against all people, high and low,
And by this contact feeling Self to grow
Smaller and less important, and the vein
Of human kindness deeper, seeing God,
Unto the humble delver of the sod,
And to the ruling monarch on the throne,
Has given hope, ambition, joy, and pain,
And that all hearts have feelings like our own.
There is no school that disciplines the
mind,
And broadens thought, like contact with mankind.
The college-prisoned graybeard, who has burned
The midnight lamp, and book-bound knowledge learned,
Till sciences or classics hold no lore
He has not conned and studied, o’er and o’er,
Is but a babe in wisdom, when compared
With some unlettered wand’rer, who has shared
The hospitalities of every land;
Felt touch of brother in each proffered hand;
Made man his study, and the world his college,
And gained this grand epitome of knowledge:
Each human being has a heart and soul,
And self is but an atom of the whole.
I hold he is best learnèd and most wise
Who best and most can love and sympathize.
Book-wisdom makes us vain and self-contained;
Our banded
minds go round in little grooves;
But constant friction with the world removes
These iron foes to freedom, and we rise
To grander heights, and, all untrammelled, find
A better atmosphere and clearer skies;
And through its broadened realm, no longer chained,
Thought travels freely, leaving Self behind.
Where’er we chanced to wander or to roam,
Glad letters came from Helen; happy things,
Like little birds that followed on swift wings,
Bringing their tender messages from home.
Her days were poems, beautiful, complete.
The rhythm perfect, and the burden sweet.
She was so happy—happy, and so blest.
My heart had found contentment in that year.
With health restored, my life seemed full of cheer
The heart of youth turns ever to the light;
Sorrow and gloom may curtain it like night,
But, in its very anguish and unrest,
It beats and tears the pall-like folds away,
And finds again the sunlight of the day.
And yet, despite the changes without
measure,
Despite sight-seeing, round on round of pleasure;
Despite new friends, new suitors, still my heart
Was
conscious of a something lacking, where
Love once had dwelt, and afterward despair.
Now love was buried; and despair had flown
Before the healthful zephyrs that had blown
From heights serene and lofty; and the place
Where both had dwelt was empty, voiceless space.
And so I took my long-loved study, art,
The dreary vacuum in my life to fill,
And worked, and laboured, with a right good will.
Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while Roy
Lingered in Scotland, with his new-found joy.
A dainty little lassie, Grace Kildare,
Had snared him in her flossy, flaxen hair,
And made him captive.
We
were thrown, by chance,
In contact with her people while in France
The previous season: she was wholly sweet
And fair and gentle; so naïve, and yet
So womanly, she was at once the pet
Of all our party; and, ere many days,
Won by her fresh face, and her artless ways,
Roy fell a helpless captive at her feet.
Her home was in the Highlands; and she came
Of good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.
Through all these months Roy had been true as
steel;
And by his every action made me feel
He was
my friend and brother, and no more,
The same big-souled and trusty friend of yore.
Yet, in my secret heart, I wished I knew
Whether the love he felt one time was dead,
Or only hidden, for my sake, from view.
So when he came to me one day, and said,
The velvet blackness of his eyes ashine
With light of love and triumph: “Cousin, mine,
Congratulate me! She whom I adore
Has pledged to me the promise of her hand;
Her heart I have already,” I was glad
With double gladness, for it freed my mind
Of fear that he, in secret, might be sad.
From March till June had left her moons
behind,
And merged her rose-red beauty in July,
There was no message from my native land.
Then came a few brief lines, by Vivian penned:
Death had been near to Helen, but passed by;
The danger was now over. God was kind;
The mother and the child were both alive;
No other child was ever known to thrive
As throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.
The infant was a wonder, every way.
And, at command of Helen, he would send
A lock of baby’s golden hair to me.
And did I, on my honour, ever see
Such
hair before? Helen would write, ere long:
She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong—
Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.
I took the tiny ringlet, golden—fair,
Mayhap his hand had severed from the head
Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek
And to my lips, and kissed it o’er and o’er.
All my maternal instincts seemed to rise,
And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes
Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.
The woman struggled with her heart before!
It was the mother in me now did speak,
Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not,
And crying out against her barren lot.
Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years
That stretched before me, dark with love’s eclipse;
And thought how my unmated heart would miss
The shelter of a broad and manly breast—
The strong, bold arm—the tender clinging kiss—
And all pure love’s possessions, manifold;
But now I wept a flood of bitter tears,
Thinking of little heads of shining gold,
That would not on my bosom sink to rest;
Of little hands that would not touch my cheek;
Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips,
That
never in my list’ning ear would speak
The blessed name of mother.
Oh,
in woman
How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere
Unto her wond’ring, untaught mind unfolds
The myst’ry that is half divine, half human,
Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls
Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps
Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps,
And grows and strengthens with each riper year.
As storms may gather in a placid sky,
And spend their fury, and then pass away,
Leaving again the blue of cloudless day,
E’en so the tempest of my grief passed by.
’Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned,
With the deliberate purpose of my mind,
To my sweet friend.
Relinquishing
my love,
I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.
If God, from out His boundless store above,
Had chosen added blessings to confer,
I would rejoice, for her sake—not repine
That th’ immortal treasures were not mine.
Better my lonely sorrow, than to know
My selfish joy had been another’s woe;
Better
my grief and my strength to control,
Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul;
Better to go on, loveless, to the end,
Than wear love’s rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.
Work is the salve that heals the wounded
heart.
With will most resolute I set my aim
To enter on the weary race for Fame,
And if I failed to climb the dizzy height,
To reach some point of excellence in art.
E’en as the Maker held earth
incomplete,
Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod,
The perfect, living image of his God,
All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight,
Wherein the human figure had no part.
In that, all lines of symmetry did meet—
All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought
Enthusiasm in abundance, thought,
Much study, and some talent, day by day,
To help me in my efforts to portray
The wond’rous power, majesty and grace
Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.
This was to be my specialty: To take
Human emotion for my theme, and make
The unassisted form divine express
Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress;
And thus
to build Fame’s monument above
The grave of my departed hope and love.
This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings
And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.
Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross,
Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss,
Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition,
Before it labours onward to fruition.
But, as the lark from beds of bloom will
rise
And sail and sing among the very skies,
Still mounting near and nearer to the light,
Impelled alone by love of upward flight,
So Genius soars—it does not need to climb—
Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime.
Some sportman’s shot, grazing the singer’s throat,
Some venomous assault of birds of prey,
May speed its flight toward the realm of day,
And tinge with triumph every liquid note.
So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet,
When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.
There is no balking Genius. Only death
Can silence it, or hinder. While there’s breath
Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod,
And lift itself to glory, and to God.
The
acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke
The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.
Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind
Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind
Its selfish love and sorrow.
Did
I strive
To picture some emotion, lo! his eyes,
Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,
Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain
Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.
Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line,
The glorious beauty of his face would shine.
So for a time my labour seemed in vain,
Since it but freshened, and made keener yet,
The grief my heart was striving to forget.
While in his form all strength and magnitude
With grace and supple sinews were entwined,
While in his face all beauties were combined
Of perfect features, intellect and truth,
With all that fine rich colouring of youth,
How could my brush portray aught good or fair
Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude
Of him my soul had worshipped?
But,
at last,
Setting a watch upon my unwise heart,
That
thus would mix its sorrow with my art,
I resolutely shut away the past,
And made the toilsome present passing bright
With dreams of what was hidden from my sight
In the far distant future, when the soil
Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.