One golden twelfth‑part of a checkered year;One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirthWith not a hint of shadows lurking near,Or storm‑clouds brewing.'T was a royal day:Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,And twined herself about him, as he laySmiling and panting in his dream‑stirred rest.She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,And hid him with her trailing robe of green,And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen,And rained her ardent kisses on his face.Through the glad glory of the summer landHelen and I went wandering, hand in hand.In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat‑field,White with the promise of a bounteous yield,Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,Red with the tiger‑lily blossoms, tillWe stood upon the borders of the lake,That like a pretty, placid infant, sleptLow at its base: and little ripples creptAlong its surface, just as dimples chaseEach other o'er an infant's sleeping faceHelen in idle hours had learned to makeA thousand pretty, feminine knick‑knacks:For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—Labor just suited to her dainty hands.That morning she had been at work in wax,Molding a wreath of flowers for my room,—Taking her patterns from the living blows,In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,Resembling the living plants as muchAs life is copied in the form of death:These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.And now the wreath was all completed, saveThe mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,A water‑lily, dripping from the wave.And 'twas in search of it that we had comeDown to the lake, and wandered on the beach,To see if any lilies grew in reach.Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,We found, but not the treasure that we soughtAnd then we turned our footsteps to the spotWhere, all impatient of its chain, my boat,"The Swan," rocked, asking to be set afloatIt was a dainty row‑boat—strong, yet light;Each side a swan was painted snowy white:A present from my uncle, just beforeHe sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,But none return to tell us of the land.I freed the "Swan," and slowly rowed about,Wherever sea‑weeds, grass, or green leaves liftedTheir tips above the water. So we drifted,While Helen, opposite, leaned idly outAnd watched for lilies in the waves below,And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,That soothed me like a mother's lullabies.I dropped the oars, and closed my sun‑kissed eyes,And let the boat go drifting here and there.Oh, happy day! the last of that brief timeOf thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,Ere that disguisèd angel men call WoeLeads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,Up to the heights exalted and sublime.On each blest, happy moment, I am fainTo linger long, ere I pass on to painAnd sorrow that succeeded.From day‑dreams,As golden as the summer noontide's beams,I was awakened by a voice that cried:"Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?"And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,And saw a sail‑boat o'er the water glideClose to the "Swan," like some live thing of grace;And from it looked the glowing, handsome faceOf Vivian."Beauteous sirens of the sea,Come sail across the raging main with me!"He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boatBeside his own. "There, now! step in!" he said,"I'll land you anywhere you want to go—My boat is safer far than yours, I know:And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.The Swan? We'll take the oars, and let it floatAshore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there—Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes!I've reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.Adieu despondency! farewell to care!"'T was done so quickly: that was Vivian's way.He did not wait for either yea or nay.He gave commands, and left you with no choiceBut just to do the bidding of his voice.His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly faceLent to his quick imperiousness a graceAnd winning charm, completely stripping itOf what might otherwise have seemed unfit.Leaving no trace of tyranny, but justThat nameless force that seemed to say, "You must."Suiting its pretty title of "The Dawn,"(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with "Swan,")Vivian's sail‑boat, was carpeted with blue,While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;A poet's fancy in an hour of ease.Whatever Vivian had was of the best.His room was like some Sultan's in the East.His board was always spread as for a feast.Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.He would go hungry sooner than he'd dineAt his own table if 'twere illy set.He so loved things artistic in design—Order and beauty, all about him. YetSo kind he was, if it befell his lotTo dine within the humble peasant's cot,He made it seem his native soil to be,And thus displayed the true gentility.Under the rosy banners of the "Dawn,"Around the lake we drifted on, and on.It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.And so we floated on in silence, eachWeaving the fancies suiting such a day.Helen leaned idly o'er the sail‑boat's side,And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;And I among the cushions half reclined,Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at playWhile Vivian with his blank‑book, opposite,In which he seemed to either sketch or writeWas lost in inspiration of some kind.No time, no change, no scene, can e'er effaceMy mind's impression of that hour and place;It stands out like a picture. O'er the years,Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.Just as the last of Indian‑summer days,Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,Followed by dark and desolate December,Through all the months of winter we remember.The sun slipped westward. That peculiar changeWhich creeps into the air, and speaks of nightWhile yet the day is full of golden light,We felt steal o'er us.Vivian broke the spellOf dream‑fraught silence, throwing down his book:"Young ladies, please allow me to arrangeThese wraps about your shoulders. I know wellThe fickle nature of our atmosphere,—Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—And go prepared for changes. Now you look,Like—like—oh, where's a pretty simile?Had you a pocket mirror here you'd seeHow well my native talent is displayedIn shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;Blue on the blonde—and quite without design(Oh, whereisthat comparison of mine?)Well—like a June rose and a violet blueIn one bouquet! I fancy that will do.And now I crave your patience and a boon,Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,A floating fancy of the summer time.'Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,So listen kindly—but don't criticiseMy maiden effort of the afternoon:"If all the ships I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the harbor could not holdSo many sails as there would beIf all my ships came in from sea."If half my ships came home from sea,And brought their precious freight to me,Ah, well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king who sits in state—So rich the treasures that would beIn half my ships now out at sea."If just one ship I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the storm‑clouds then might frown:For if the others all went downStill rich and proud and glad I'd be,If that one ship came back to me."If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,With glory, honor, riches, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd beIf that one ship came not to me."O skies be calm? O winds blow free—Blow all my ships safe home to me.But if thou sendest some a‑wrackTo never more come sailing back,Send any—all, that skim the sea,But bring my love‑ship home to me."Helen was leaning by me, and her headRested against my shoulder: as he read,I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.I felt too happy and too shy to meetHis gaze just then. I said, "'Tis very sweet,And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?"But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear."'Tis strange," I added, "how you poets singSo feelingly about the very thingYou care not for! and dress up an idealSo well, it looks a living, breathing real!Now, to a listener, your love song seemedA heart's out‑pouring; yet I've heard you sayAlmost the opposite; or that you deemedPosition, honor, glory, power, fame,Gained without loss of conscience or good name,The things to live for.""Have you? Well you may,"Laughed Vivian, "but 'twas years—or months ago!And Solomon says wise men change, you know!I now speak truth! if she I hold most dearSlipped from my life, and no least hope were left,My heart would find the years more lonely here.Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,And sent an exile to a foreign land."His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke,New, unknown chords of melody awokeWithin my soul. I felt my heart expandWith that sweet fullness born of love. I turnedTo hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.She lay so motionless I thought she slept:But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,And o'er her face a sudden glory swept,And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame."Sweet friend," I said, "your face is full of light:What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?"She only smiled for answer, and aroseFrom her reclining posture at my side,Threw back the clust'ring ringlets from her faceWith a quick gesture, full of easy grace,And, turning, spoke to Vivian. "Will you guideThe boat up near that little clump of greenOff to the right? There's where the lilies grow.We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,And our few moments have grown into hours.What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling'ring so?There—that will do—now I can reach the flowers.""Hark! just hear that!" and Vivian broke forth singing,"Row, brothers, row." "The six o'clock bell's ringing!Who ever knew three hours to go so fastIn all the annals of the world, before?I could have sworn not over one had passed.Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore!I thank you for the pleasure you have given;This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven.Good night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave,I'll pay my compliments to‑morrow eve."A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way:And, in the waning glory of the day,Down cool, green lanes, and through the length'ning shadows,Silent, we wandered back across the meadows.The wreath was finished, and adorned my room;Long afterward, the lilies' copied bloomWas like a horrid specter in my sight,Staring upon me morning, noon, and night.The sun went down. The sad new moon rose up,And passed before me, like an empty cup,The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss,And gives His children, saying, "Drink of this."A light wind, from the open casement, fannedMy brow and Helen's, as we, hand in hand,Sat looking out upon the twilight scene,In dreamy silence. Helen's dark blue eyes,Like two lost stars that wandered from the skiesSome night adown the meteor's shining track,And always had been grieving to go back,Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven's dome,And seemed to recognize and long for home.Her sweet voice broke the silence: "Wish, Maurine,Before you speak! you know the moon is new,And anything you wish for will come trueBefore it wanes. I do believe the sign!Now tell me your wish, and I'll tell you mine."I turned and looked up at the slim young moon;And, with an almost superstitious heart,I sighed, "Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art,To grow all grace and goodness, and to beWorthy the love a true heart proffers me."Then smiling down, I said, "Dear one! my boon,I fear, is quite too silly or too sweetFor my repeating: so we'll let it stayBetween the moon and me. But if I mayI'll listen now to your wish. Tell me, please!"All suddenly she nestled at my feet,And hid her blushing face upon my knees.Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek,And, leaning on my breast, began to speak,Half sighing out the words my tortured earReached down to catch, while striving not to hear."Can you not guess who 'twas about, Maurine?Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seenThe love I tried to cover from all eyesAnd from myself. Ah, foolish little heart!As well it might go seeking for some artWhereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.When first the strange sound of his voice I heard,Looked on his noble face, and touched his hand,My slumb'ring heart thrilled through and through, and stirredAs if to say, 'I hear, and understand.'And day by day mine eyes were blest beholdingThe inner beauty of his life, unfoldingIn countless words and actions, that portrayedThe noble stuff of which his soul was made.And more and more I felt my heart upreachingToward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching,As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grewA strange, shy something in its depths, I knewAt length was love, because it was so sad,And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad,Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame,Lest all should read my secret and its name.I strove to hide it in my breast away,Where God could see it only. But each dayIt seemed to grow within me, and would rise,Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes,Defying bonds of silence; and would speak,In its red‑lettered language, on my cheek,If but his name was uttered. You were kind,My own Maurine! as you alone could be,So long the sharer of my heart and mind,While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.In all the years we have been friends, my own.And loved as women very rarely do,My heart no sorrow and no joy has knownIt has not shared at once, in full, with youAnd I so longed to speak to you of this,When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,In pity for my folly—'Lack‑a‑day!You are undone: because no mortal artCan win the love of such a lofty heart.'And so I waited, silent and in pain,Till I could know I did not love in vain.And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.Did he not say, 'If she I hold most dearSlipped from my life, and no least hope were left,My heart would find the years more lonely hereThan if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,And sent, an exile, to a foreign land'?Oh, darling, you mustlove, to understandThe joy that thrilled all through me at those words.It was as if a thousand singing birdsWithin my heart broke forth in notes of praise.I did not look up, but I knew his gazeWas on my face, and that his eyes must seeThe joy I felt almost transfigured me.He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing,And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.If there were added but one drop of bliss,No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve,I made a wish that I might feel his kissUpon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leaveThe stars all lonely, having waned away,Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay."Her voice sighed into silence. While she spokeMy heart writhed in me, praying she would cease—Each word she uttered falling like a strokeOn my bare soul. And now a hush like death,Save that 'twas broken by a quick‑drawn breath,Fell 'round me, but brought not the hoped‑for peace.For when the lash no longer leaves its blows,The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.She nestled on my bosom like a child.And 'neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wildWith pain and pity. She had told her tale—Her self‑deceiving story to the end.How could I look down on her as she laySo fair, and sweet, and lily‑like, and frail—A tender blossom on my breast, and say,"Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!'Tis I am loved, not you"? Yet that were truth,And she must know it later.Should I speak,And spread a ghastly pallor o'er the cheekFlushed now with joy?—And while I, doubting, pondered,She spoke again. "Maurine! I oft have wonderedWhy you and Vivian were not lovers. HeIs all a heart could ask its king to be;And you have beauty, intellect and youth.I think it strange you have not loved each other—Strange how he could pass by you for anotherNot half so fair or worthy. Yet I knowA loving Father pre‑arranged it so.I think my heart has known him all these years,And waited for him. And if when he cameIt had been as a lover of my friend,I should have recognized him, all the same,As my soul‑mate, and loved him to the end,Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tearsTill on my heart, slow dropping, day by day,Unseen they fell, and wore it all away.And so a tender Father kept him free,With all the largeness of his love, for me—For me, unworthy such a precious gift!Yet I will bend each effort of my lifeTo grow in grace and goodness, and to liftMy soul and spirit to his lofty height,So to deserve that holy name, his wife.Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delightTo breathe its long hid secret in your ear.Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!"The while she spoke, my active brain gave riseTo one great thought of mighty sacrificeAnd self‑denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek,And wrung my soul; and from my heart it droveAll life and feeling. Coward‑like, I stroveTo send it from me; but I felt it clingAnd hold fast on my mind like some live thing;And all the Self within me felt its touchAnd cried, "No, no! I cannot do so much—I am not strong enough—there is no call."And then the voice of Helen bade me speak,And with a calmness born of nerve, I said,Scarce knowing what I uttered, "Sweetheart, allYour joys and sorrows are with mine own wed.I thank you for your confidence, and prayI may deserve it always. But, dear one,Something—perhaps our boat‑ride in the sun,Has set my head to aching. I must goTo bed directly; and you will, I know,Grant me your pardon, and another dayWe'll talk of this together. Now good nightAnd angels guard you with their wings of light."I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,And viewed her as I ne'er had done before.I gazed upon her features o'er and o'er;Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;Saw she was fairer in her new‑found joyThan e'er before; and thought, "Can I destroyGod's handiwork, or leave it at the bestA broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?"I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,And sought my room, and found there such reliefAs sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight,And left the stars to watch away the night.O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.The languid moon, e'en if she deigns to rise,Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;But from the early gloaming till the daySends golden‑liveried heralds forth to sayHe comes in might; the patient stars shine on,Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,And watched the struggle of a God‑like soul,Now from the same far height they shone on me,And saw the waves of anguish o'er me roll.The storm had come upon me all unseen:No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;No cloud arose to tell me it was near;But under skies all sunlit, and serene,I floated with the current of the stream,And thought life all one golden‑haloed dream.When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,Swept swift upon its devastating course,Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the waveWhere all my hopes had found a sudden grave.Love makes us blind and selfish: otherwiseI had seen Helen's secret in her eyes;So used I was to reading every lookIn her sweet face, as I would read a book.But now, made sightless by love's blinding rays,I had gone on unseeing, to the endWhere Pain dispelled the mist of golden hazeThat walled me in, and lo! I found my friendWho journeyed with me—at my very side,Had been sore wounded to the heart, while IBoth deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.And then I sobbed, "O God! I would have diedTo save her this." And as I cried in pain,There leaped forth from the still, white realm of ThoughtWhere Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spotAs widely different from the heart's domainAs north from south—the impulse felt before,And put away; but now it rose once more,In greater strength, and said, "Heart, would'st thou proveWhat lips have uttered? Then go lay thy loveOn Friendship's altar, as thy offering.""Nay!" cried my heart, "ask any other thing—Ask life itself—'twere easier sacrifice.But ask not love, for that I cannot give.""But," spoke the voice, "the meanest insect dies,And is no hero! heroes dare to liveWhen all that makes life sweet is snatched away."So with my heart, in converse, till the dayIn gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.Love warred with Friendship: heart with Conscience fought,Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,Sighed, "Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?Can wrong make right?""Nay!" Conscience said, "but PrideAnd Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.While Friendship's wounds gape wide and yet more wide,And bitter fountains of the spirit prove."At length, exhausted with the wearing strife,I cast the new‑found burden of my lifeOn God's broad breast, and sought that deep reposeThat only he who watched with sorrow knows.
One golden twelfth‑part of a checkered year;One summer month, of sunlight, moonlight, mirthWith not a hint of shadows lurking near,Or storm‑clouds brewing.'T was a royal day:Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,With her warm arms, upon her glowing breast,And twined herself about him, as he laySmiling and panting in his dream‑stirred rest.She bound him with her limbs of perfect grace,And hid him with her trailing robe of green,And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen,And rained her ardent kisses on his face.Through the glad glory of the summer landHelen and I went wandering, hand in hand.In winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat‑field,White with the promise of a bounteous yield,Across the late shorn meadow—down the hill,Red with the tiger‑lily blossoms, tillWe stood upon the borders of the lake,That like a pretty, placid infant, sleptLow at its base: and little ripples creptAlong its surface, just as dimples chaseEach other o'er an infant's sleeping faceHelen in idle hours had learned to makeA thousand pretty, feminine knick‑knacks:For brackets, ottomans, and toilet stands—Labor just suited to her dainty hands.That morning she had been at work in wax,Molding a wreath of flowers for my room,—Taking her patterns from the living blows,In all their dewy beauty and sweet bloom,Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,Resembling the living plants as muchAs life is copied in the form of death:These lacking but the perfume, and that, breath.And now the wreath was all completed, saveThe mermaid blossom of all flowerdom,A water‑lily, dripping from the wave.And 'twas in search of it that we had comeDown to the lake, and wandered on the beach,To see if any lilies grew in reach.Some broken stalks, where flowers late had been;Some buds, with all their beauties folded in,We found, but not the treasure that we soughtAnd then we turned our footsteps to the spotWhere, all impatient of its chain, my boat,"The Swan," rocked, asking to be set afloatIt was a dainty row‑boat—strong, yet light;Each side a swan was painted snowy white:A present from my uncle, just beforeHe sailed, with Death, to that mysterious strand,Where freighted ships go sailing evermore,But none return to tell us of the land.I freed the "Swan," and slowly rowed about,Wherever sea‑weeds, grass, or green leaves liftedTheir tips above the water. So we drifted,While Helen, opposite, leaned idly outAnd watched for lilies in the waves below,And softly crooned some sweet and dreamy air,That soothed me like a mother's lullabies.I dropped the oars, and closed my sun‑kissed eyes,And let the boat go drifting here and there.Oh, happy day! the last of that brief timeOf thoughtless youth, when all the world seems bright,Ere that disguisèd angel men call WoeLeads the sad heart through valleys dark as night,Up to the heights exalted and sublime.On each blest, happy moment, I am fainTo linger long, ere I pass on to painAnd sorrow that succeeded.From day‑dreams,As golden as the summer noontide's beams,I was awakened by a voice that cried:"Strange ship, ahoy! Fair frigate, whither bound?"And, starting up, I cast my gaze around,And saw a sail‑boat o'er the water glideClose to the "Swan," like some live thing of grace;And from it looked the glowing, handsome faceOf Vivian."Beauteous sirens of the sea,Come sail across the raging main with me!"He laughed; and leaning, drew our drifting boatBeside his own. "There, now! step in!" he said,"I'll land you anywhere you want to go—My boat is safer far than yours, I know:And much more pleasant with its sails all spread.The Swan? We'll take the oars, and let it floatAshore at leisure. You, Maurine, sit there—Miss Helen here. Ye gods and little fishes!I've reached the height of pleasure, and my wishes.Adieu despondency! farewell to care!"'T was done so quickly: that was Vivian's way.He did not wait for either yea or nay.He gave commands, and left you with no choiceBut just to do the bidding of his voice.His rare, kind smile, low tones, and manly faceLent to his quick imperiousness a graceAnd winning charm, completely stripping itOf what might otherwise have seemed unfit.Leaving no trace of tyranny, but justThat nameless force that seemed to say, "You must."Suiting its pretty title of "The Dawn,"(So named, he said, that it might rhyme with "Swan,")Vivian's sail‑boat, was carpeted with blue,While all its sails were of a pale rose hue.The daintiest craft that flirted with the breeze;A poet's fancy in an hour of ease.Whatever Vivian had was of the best.His room was like some Sultan's in the East.His board was always spread as for a feast.Whereat, each meal, he was both host and guest.He would go hungry sooner than he'd dineAt his own table if 'twere illy set.He so loved things artistic in design—Order and beauty, all about him. YetSo kind he was, if it befell his lotTo dine within the humble peasant's cot,He made it seem his native soil to be,And thus displayed the true gentility.Under the rosy banners of the "Dawn,"Around the lake we drifted on, and on.It was a time for dreams, and not for speech.And so we floated on in silence, eachWeaving the fancies suiting such a day.Helen leaned idly o'er the sail‑boat's side,And dipped her rosy fingers in the tide;And I among the cushions half reclined,Half sat, and watched the fleecy clouds at playWhile Vivian with his blank‑book, opposite,In which he seemed to either sketch or writeWas lost in inspiration of some kind.No time, no change, no scene, can e'er effaceMy mind's impression of that hour and place;It stands out like a picture. O'er the years,Black with their robes of sorrow—veiled with tears,Lying with all their lengthened shapes between,Untouched, undimmed, I still behold that scene.Just as the last of Indian‑summer days,Replete with sunlight, crowned with amber haze,Followed by dark and desolate December,Through all the months of winter we remember.The sun slipped westward. That peculiar changeWhich creeps into the air, and speaks of nightWhile yet the day is full of golden light,We felt steal o'er us.Vivian broke the spellOf dream‑fraught silence, throwing down his book:"Young ladies, please allow me to arrangeThese wraps about your shoulders. I know wellThe fickle nature of our atmosphere,—Her smile swift followed by a frown or tear,—And go prepared for changes. Now you look,Like—like—oh, where's a pretty simile?Had you a pocket mirror here you'd seeHow well my native talent is displayedIn shawling you. Red on the brunette maid;Blue on the blonde—and quite without design(Oh, whereisthat comparison of mine?)Well—like a June rose and a violet blueIn one bouquet! I fancy that will do.And now I crave your patience and a boon,Which is to listen, while I read my rhyme,A floating fancy of the summer time.'Tis neither witty, wonderful, nor wise,So listen kindly—but don't criticiseMy maiden effort of the afternoon:"If all the ships I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the harbor could not holdSo many sails as there would beIf all my ships came in from sea."If half my ships came home from sea,And brought their precious freight to me,Ah, well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king who sits in state—So rich the treasures that would beIn half my ships now out at sea."If just one ship I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the storm‑clouds then might frown:For if the others all went downStill rich and proud and glad I'd be,If that one ship came back to me."If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,With glory, honor, riches, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd beIf that one ship came not to me."O skies be calm? O winds blow free—Blow all my ships safe home to me.But if thou sendest some a‑wrackTo never more come sailing back,Send any—all, that skim the sea,But bring my love‑ship home to me."Helen was leaning by me, and her headRested against my shoulder: as he read,I stroked her hair, and watched the fleecy skies,And when he finished, did not turn my eyes.I felt too happy and too shy to meetHis gaze just then. I said, "'Tis very sweet,And suits the day; does it not, Helen, dear?"But Helen, voiceless, did not seem to hear."'Tis strange," I added, "how you poets singSo feelingly about the very thingYou care not for! and dress up an idealSo well, it looks a living, breathing real!Now, to a listener, your love song seemedA heart's out‑pouring; yet I've heard you sayAlmost the opposite; or that you deemedPosition, honor, glory, power, fame,Gained without loss of conscience or good name,The things to live for.""Have you? Well you may,"Laughed Vivian, "but 'twas years—or months ago!And Solomon says wise men change, you know!I now speak truth! if she I hold most dearSlipped from my life, and no least hope were left,My heart would find the years more lonely here.Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,And sent an exile to a foreign land."His voice was low, and measured: as he spoke,New, unknown chords of melody awokeWithin my soul. I felt my heart expandWith that sweet fullness born of love. I turnedTo hide the blushes on my cheek that burned,And leaning over Helen, breathed her name.She lay so motionless I thought she slept:But, as I spoke, I saw her eyes unclose,And o'er her face a sudden glory swept,And a slight tremor thrilled all through her frame."Sweet friend," I said, "your face is full of light:What were the dreams that made your eyes so bright?"She only smiled for answer, and aroseFrom her reclining posture at my side,Threw back the clust'ring ringlets from her faceWith a quick gesture, full of easy grace,And, turning, spoke to Vivian. "Will you guideThe boat up near that little clump of greenOff to the right? There's where the lilies grow.We quite forgot our errand here, Maurine,And our few moments have grown into hours.What will Aunt Ruth think of our ling'ring so?There—that will do—now I can reach the flowers.""Hark! just hear that!" and Vivian broke forth singing,"Row, brothers, row." "The six o'clock bell's ringing!Who ever knew three hours to go so fastIn all the annals of the world, before?I could have sworn not over one had passed.Young ladies, I am forced to go ashore!I thank you for the pleasure you have given;This afternoon has been a glimpse of heaven.Good night—sweet dreams! and by your gracious leave,I'll pay my compliments to‑morrow eve."A smile, a bow, and he had gone his way:And, in the waning glory of the day,Down cool, green lanes, and through the length'ning shadows,Silent, we wandered back across the meadows.The wreath was finished, and adorned my room;Long afterward, the lilies' copied bloomWas like a horrid specter in my sight,Staring upon me morning, noon, and night.The sun went down. The sad new moon rose up,And passed before me, like an empty cup,The Great Unseen brims full of pain or bliss,And gives His children, saying, "Drink of this."A light wind, from the open casement, fannedMy brow and Helen's, as we, hand in hand,Sat looking out upon the twilight scene,In dreamy silence. Helen's dark blue eyes,Like two lost stars that wandered from the skiesSome night adown the meteor's shining track,And always had been grieving to go back,Now gazed up, wistfully, at heaven's dome,And seemed to recognize and long for home.Her sweet voice broke the silence: "Wish, Maurine,Before you speak! you know the moon is new,And anything you wish for will come trueBefore it wanes. I do believe the sign!Now tell me your wish, and I'll tell you mine."I turned and looked up at the slim young moon;And, with an almost superstitious heart,I sighed, "Oh, new moon! help me, by thine art,To grow all grace and goodness, and to beWorthy the love a true heart proffers me."Then smiling down, I said, "Dear one! my boon,I fear, is quite too silly or too sweetFor my repeating: so we'll let it stayBetween the moon and me. But if I mayI'll listen now to your wish. Tell me, please!"All suddenly she nestled at my feet,And hid her blushing face upon my knees.Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek,And, leaning on my breast, began to speak,Half sighing out the words my tortured earReached down to catch, while striving not to hear."Can you not guess who 'twas about, Maurine?Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seenThe love I tried to cover from all eyesAnd from myself. Ah, foolish little heart!As well it might go seeking for some artWhereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.When first the strange sound of his voice I heard,Looked on his noble face, and touched his hand,My slumb'ring heart thrilled through and through, and stirredAs if to say, 'I hear, and understand.'And day by day mine eyes were blest beholdingThe inner beauty of his life, unfoldingIn countless words and actions, that portrayedThe noble stuff of which his soul was made.And more and more I felt my heart upreachingToward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching,As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grewA strange, shy something in its depths, I knewAt length was love, because it was so sad,And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad,Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame,Lest all should read my secret and its name.I strove to hide it in my breast away,Where God could see it only. But each dayIt seemed to grow within me, and would rise,Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes,Defying bonds of silence; and would speak,In its red‑lettered language, on my cheek,If but his name was uttered. You were kind,My own Maurine! as you alone could be,So long the sharer of my heart and mind,While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.In all the years we have been friends, my own.And loved as women very rarely do,My heart no sorrow and no joy has knownIt has not shared at once, in full, with youAnd I so longed to speak to you of this,When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss;Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say,In pity for my folly—'Lack‑a‑day!You are undone: because no mortal artCan win the love of such a lofty heart.'And so I waited, silent and in pain,Till I could know I did not love in vain.And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.Did he not say, 'If she I hold most dearSlipped from my life, and no least hope were left,My heart would find the years more lonely hereThan if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft,And sent, an exile, to a foreign land'?Oh, darling, you mustlove, to understandThe joy that thrilled all through me at those words.It was as if a thousand singing birdsWithin my heart broke forth in notes of praise.I did not look up, but I knew his gazeWas on my face, and that his eyes must seeThe joy I felt almost transfigured me.He loves me—loves me! so the birds kept singing,And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.If there were added but one drop of bliss,No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve,I made a wish that I might feel his kissUpon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leaveThe stars all lonely, having waned away,Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay."Her voice sighed into silence. While she spokeMy heart writhed in me, praying she would cease—Each word she uttered falling like a strokeOn my bare soul. And now a hush like death,Save that 'twas broken by a quick‑drawn breath,Fell 'round me, but brought not the hoped‑for peace.For when the lash no longer leaves its blows,The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.She nestled on my bosom like a child.And 'neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wildWith pain and pity. She had told her tale—Her self‑deceiving story to the end.How could I look down on her as she laySo fair, and sweet, and lily‑like, and frail—A tender blossom on my breast, and say,"Nay, you are wrong—you do mistake, dear friend!'Tis I am loved, not you"? Yet that were truth,And she must know it later.Should I speak,And spread a ghastly pallor o'er the cheekFlushed now with joy?—And while I, doubting, pondered,She spoke again. "Maurine! I oft have wonderedWhy you and Vivian were not lovers. HeIs all a heart could ask its king to be;And you have beauty, intellect and youth.I think it strange you have not loved each other—Strange how he could pass by you for anotherNot half so fair or worthy. Yet I knowA loving Father pre‑arranged it so.I think my heart has known him all these years,And waited for him. And if when he cameIt had been as a lover of my friend,I should have recognized him, all the same,As my soul‑mate, and loved him to the end,Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tearsTill on my heart, slow dropping, day by day,Unseen they fell, and wore it all away.And so a tender Father kept him free,With all the largeness of his love, for me—For me, unworthy such a precious gift!Yet I will bend each effort of my lifeTo grow in grace and goodness, and to liftMy soul and spirit to his lofty height,So to deserve that holy name, his wife.Sweet friend, it fills my whole heart with delightTo breathe its long hid secret in your ear.Speak, my Maurine, and say you love to hear!"The while she spoke, my active brain gave riseTo one great thought of mighty sacrificeAnd self‑denial. Oh! it blanched my cheek,And wrung my soul; and from my heart it droveAll life and feeling. Coward‑like, I stroveTo send it from me; but I felt it clingAnd hold fast on my mind like some live thing;And all the Self within me felt its touchAnd cried, "No, no! I cannot do so much—I am not strong enough—there is no call."And then the voice of Helen bade me speak,And with a calmness born of nerve, I said,Scarce knowing what I uttered, "Sweetheart, allYour joys and sorrows are with mine own wed.I thank you for your confidence, and prayI may deserve it always. But, dear one,Something—perhaps our boat‑ride in the sun,Has set my head to aching. I must goTo bed directly; and you will, I know,Grant me your pardon, and another dayWe'll talk of this together. Now good nightAnd angels guard you with their wings of light."I kissed her lips, and held her on my heart,And viewed her as I ne'er had done before.I gazed upon her features o'er and o'er;Marked her white, tender face—her fragile form,Like some frail plant that withers in the storm;Saw she was fairer in her new‑found joyThan e'er before; and thought, "Can I destroyGod's handiwork, or leave it at the bestA broken harp, while I close clasp my bliss?"I bent my head and gave her one last kiss,And sought my room, and found there such reliefAs sad hearts feel when first alone with grief.The moon went down, slow sailing from my sight,And left the stars to watch away the night.O stars, sweet stars, so changeless and serene!What depths of woe your pitying eyes have seen!The proud sun sets, and leaves us with our sorrow,To grope alone in darkness till the morrow.The languid moon, e'en if she deigns to rise,Soon seeks her couch, grown weary of our sighs;But from the early gloaming till the daySends golden‑liveried heralds forth to sayHe comes in might; the patient stars shine on,Steadfast and faithful, from twilight to dawn.And, as they shone upon Gethsemane,And watched the struggle of a God‑like soul,Now from the same far height they shone on me,And saw the waves of anguish o'er me roll.The storm had come upon me all unseen:No sound of thunder fell upon my ear;No cloud arose to tell me it was near;But under skies all sunlit, and serene,I floated with the current of the stream,And thought life all one golden‑haloed dream.When lo! a hurricane, with awful force,Swept swift upon its devastating course,Wrecked my frail bark, and cast me on the waveWhere all my hopes had found a sudden grave.Love makes us blind and selfish: otherwiseI had seen Helen's secret in her eyes;So used I was to reading every lookIn her sweet face, as I would read a book.But now, made sightless by love's blinding rays,I had gone on unseeing, to the endWhere Pain dispelled the mist of golden hazeThat walled me in, and lo! I found my friendWho journeyed with me—at my very side,Had been sore wounded to the heart, while IBoth deaf and blind, saw not, nor heard her cry.And then I sobbed, "O God! I would have diedTo save her this." And as I cried in pain,There leaped forth from the still, white realm of ThoughtWhere Conscience dwells, that unimpassioned spotAs widely different from the heart's domainAs north from south—the impulse felt before,And put away; but now it rose once more,In greater strength, and said, "Heart, would'st thou proveWhat lips have uttered? Then go lay thy loveOn Friendship's altar, as thy offering.""Nay!" cried my heart, "ask any other thing—Ask life itself—'twere easier sacrifice.But ask not love, for that I cannot give.""But," spoke the voice, "the meanest insect dies,And is no hero! heroes dare to liveWhen all that makes life sweet is snatched away."So with my heart, in converse, till the dayIn gold and crimson billows, rose and broke,The voice of Conscience, all unwearied, spoke.Love warred with Friendship: heart with Conscience fought,Hours rolled away, and yet the end was not.And wily Self, tricked out like tenderness,Sighed, "Think how one, whose life thou wert to bless,Will be cast down, and grope in doubt and fear!Wouldst thou wound him, to give thy friend relief?Can wrong make right?""Nay!" Conscience said, "but PrideAnd Time can heal the saddest hurts of Love.While Friendship's wounds gape wide and yet more wide,And bitter fountains of the spirit prove."At length, exhausted with the wearing strife,I cast the new‑found burden of my lifeOn God's broad breast, and sought that deep reposeThat only he who watched with sorrow knows.
"If all the ships I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the harbor could not holdSo many sails as there would beIf all my ships came in from sea."If half my ships came home from sea,And brought their precious freight to me,Ah, well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king who sits in state—So rich the treasures that would beIn half my ships now out at sea."If just one ship I have at seaShould come a‑sailing home to me,Ah, well! the storm‑clouds then might frown:For if the others all went downStill rich and proud and glad I'd be,If that one ship came back to me."If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,With glory, honor, riches, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd beIf that one ship came not to me."O skies be calm? O winds blow free—Blow all my ships safe home to me.But if thou sendest some a‑wrackTo never more come sailing back,Send any—all, that skim the sea,But bring my love‑ship home to me."
"Maurine, Maurine! 'tis ten o'clock! arise,My pretty sluggard! open those dark eyes,And see where yonder sun is! Do you knowI made my toilet just four hours ago?"'T was Helen's voice: and Helen's gentle kissFell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss,I drew my weary self from that strange sleepThat rests not, nor refreshes. Scarce awakeOr conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weightBound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,When suddenly the truth did o'er me break,Like some great wave upon a helpless child.The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,And God gave back the burden of the lifeHe kept what time I slumbered."You are ill,"Cried Helen, "with that blinding headache still!You look so pale and weary. Now let mePlay nurse, Maurine, and care for you to‑day!And first I'll suit some dainty to your taste,And bring it to you, with a cup of tea."And off she ran, not waiting my reply.But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cryFor help and guidance."Show Thou me the way,Where duty leads; for I am blind! my sightObscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright!Help me see the path: and if it may,Let this cup pass:—and yet Thou heavenly OneThy will in all things, not mine own, be done."Rising, I went upon my way, receivingThe strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.I felt that unseen hands were leading me,And knew the end was peace."What! are you up?"Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,Of tender toast, and fragrant smoking tea."You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bedUntil you ate your breakfast, and were betterI've something hidden for you here—a letter.But drink your tea before you read it, dear!'Tis from some distant cousin, Auntie said,And so you need not hurry. Now be good,And mind your Helen."So, in passive mood,I laid the still unopened letter near,And loitered at my breakfast more to pleaseMy nurse, than any hunger to appease.Then listlessly I broke the seal and readThe few lines written in a bold free hand:"New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine!(In spite of generations stretched betweenOur natural right to that most handy claimOf cousinship, we'll use it all the same)I'm coming to see you! honestly, in truth!I've threatened often—now I mean to act.You'll find my coming is a stubborn fact.Keep quiet though, and do not tell Aunt RuthI wonder if she'll know her petted boyIn spite of changes. Look for me untilYou see me coming. As of old I'm stillYour faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy."So Roy was coming! He and I had playedAs boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,Full half our lives together. He had been,Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kinGave both kind shelter. Swift years sped awayEre change was felt: and then one summer dayA long lost uncle sailed from India's shore—Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more."He'd write us daily, and we'd see his faceOnce every year." Such was his promise givenThe morn he left. But now the years were sevenSince last he looked upon the olden place.He'd been through college, traveled in all lands,Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,Would write again from Egypt or Hong Kong—Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.So years had passed, till seven lay betweenHis going and the coming of this note,Which I hid in my bosom, and repliedTo Aunt Ruth's queries, "What the truant wrote?"By saying he was still upon the wing,And merely dropped a line, while journeying,To say he lived: and she was satisfied.Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange,A human heart will pass through mortal strife,And writhe in torture: while the old sweet lifeSo full of hope, and beauty, bloom and grace,Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—A ghastly, pallid specter of the slain.Yet those in daily converse see no changeNor dream the heart has suffered.So that dayI passed along toward the troubled wayStern duty pointed, and no mortal guessedA mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.I had resolved to yield up to my friendThe man I loved. Since she, too, loved him soI saw no other way in honor left.She was so weak and fragile, once bereftOf this great hope, that held her with such powerShe would wilt down, like some frost‑bitten flowerAnd swift untimely death would be the end.But I was strong: and hardy plants, which growIn out‑door soil, can bear bleak winds that blowFrom Arctic lands, whereof a single breathWould 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 heartThat bade me play the shrinking coward's partAnd hide from pain. And when the day had pastAnd time for Vivian's call drew near and nearer,It pleaded. "Wait, until the way seems clearer:Say you are ill—or busy: keep awayUntil you gather strength enough to playThe part you have resolved on.""Nay, not so,"Made answer clear‑eyed Reason, "Do you goAnd put your resolution to the test.Resolve, however nobly formed, at bestIs but a still born babe of Thought, untilIt proves existence of its life and willBy sound or action."So when Helen cameAnd knelt by me, her fair face all aflameWith 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 goesTo 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 namelesssomething, which bespeaks a change.'Tis in the power of woman, if she beWhole‑souled and noble, free from coquetry—Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,To make herself and feelings understoodBy 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. 'T was the slow undoingOf long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.It was to hide and cover and concealThe truth—assuming, what I did not feel.It was to dam love's happy singing tideThat blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone,By feigned indiff'rence, till it turned aside,And changed its channel, leaving me aloneTo walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draughtMy 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 partIn this strange drama. "Then, because his heFeels something lacking, to make good his loss,He'll turn to Helen: and her gentle graceAnd loving acts will win her soon the placeI hold to‑day: and like a troubled dreamAt 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 wingsNow limped on weary, aching limbs along,Each moment like some dreaded step that bringsA 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 can not beseen,The change I speak of—'twas more in your mien:Preoccupation, or—I know not what!Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does MaurineSeem to have something on her mind this eve?""She does!" laughed Helen, "and I do believeI know what 'tis! A letter came to‑dayWhich she read slyly, and then hid awayClose 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 shotWe 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 gloomOf Vivian's questioning, accusing eyes,That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneathThat stern, fixed gaze; and stood spellbound untilHe turned with sudden movement, gave his handTo each in turn, and said, "You must not standLonger, 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 honor 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 glideBy Father Time, and, looking in his face,Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair road‑side,"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 hill‑top, high and calm,Where he shall find not only rest, but balmFor all his wounds, and cries in tones of woe,"O 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'erThe 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 cameNot only sunny smiles to Nature's face,But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once moreWe looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surpriseIn no way puzzled her: for one glance toldWhat each succeeding one confirmed, that heWho bent above her with the lissome graceOf his fine form, though grown so tall, could beNo other than the Roy Montaine of old.It was a sweet reunion: and he broughtSo much of sunshine with him, that I caught,Just from his smile alone, enough of gladnessTo make my heart forget a time its sadness.We talked together of the dear old days:Leaving the present, with its depths and heightsOf 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 hummingSome 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 hotWith warm young blood; excitement, joy, or painAlike would send swift coursing through each vein.Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,And bringing vividly before my gazeSome 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 mineThe eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flashShot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of lightLike that swift followed by the thunder's crash,Which said, "Suspicion is confirmed by sight,"As they fell on the pleasant door‑way scene.Then o'er his clear‑cut face, a cold white lookCrept, 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 bookShe spoke of lending me: nay, sit you still!And I, by grant of your permission, willPass 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 school‑girl, I arose,And some way made each to the other knownThey bowed, shook hands: then Vivian turned awayAnd sought out Helen, leaving us alone."One of Miss Trevor's, or of Maurine's beaux?Which may he be, who cometh like a princeWith haughty bearing, and an eagle eye?"Roy queried, laughing: and I answered, "SinceYou 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 glideIn other channels, striving to dispelThe 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 outBoldly, 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 wouldMost gladly do what to thee seemeth good;But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, soThou must point out some other way to go."Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and,When right before our faces, as we standIn seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain!And loth to go, by every act revealWhat we so tried from Conscience to conceal.I saw that hour, the way made plain, to doWith scarce an effort, what had seemed a strifeThat would require the strength of my whole life.Women have quick perceptions: and I knewThat Vivian's heart was full of jealous pain,Suspecting—naybelievingRoy MontaineTo be my lover.—First my altered mien—And next the letter—then the door‑way scene—My flushed face gazing in the one aboveThat bent so near me, and my strange confusionWhen Vivian came, all led to one conclusion:That I had but been playing with his love,As women sometimes cruelly do playWith hearts when their true lovers are away.There could be nothing easier, than justTo let him linger on in this beliefTill hourly‑fed Suspicion and DistrustShould turn to scorn and anger all his grief.Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pureWould 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 eyesOf 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 artAnd 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 knowsThe 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 waveThat tells not of the wrecked ship, and the graveBeneath its surface.Then we heard, ere long,The sound of Helen's gentle voice in song,And, rising, entered where the subtle powerOf Vivian's eyes, forgiving while accusing,Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;But Roy, alway polite and debonairWhere ladies were, now hung about my chairWith nameless delicate attentions, usingThat air devotional, and those small artsAcquaintance with society impartsTo men gallant by nature.'T was my sexAnd not myself he bowed to. Had my placeBeen filled that evening by a dowager,Twice his own age, he would have given herThe same attentions. But they served to vexWhatever 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 dividesThis land and that, though lying side by side,So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly mornAnd noon and night.Free and informal wereThese picnics and excursions. Yet, althoughHelen and I would sometimes choose to goWithout our escorts, leaving them quite free.It happened alway Roy would seek out meEre passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.I had no thought of flirting. Roy was justLike some dear brother, and I quite forgotThe kinship was so distant it was notSafe to rely upon in perfect trust,Without reserve or caution. Many a timeWhen 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 leanMy head upon his shoulder, or would standAnd 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 aloneIn his suspicions. But ere long the truthI learned in consternation! both Aunt RuthAnd Helen, honestly, in faith believedThat Roy and I were lovers.Undeceived,Some careless words might open Vivian's eyesAnd 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, confidentEach understood just what the other meant.If I grew weary of this double part,And self‑imposed deception caused my heartSometimes to shrink, I needed but to gazeOn Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal,As if she dwelt above the things materialAnd held communion with the angels. SoI fed my strength and courage through the days.What time the harvest moon rose full and clearAnd 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 glanceThat looked to see her fading from the sightLike figures that a dreamer sees at night.And noble men and gallants graced the scene:Yet none more noble or more grand of mienThan Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tallAnd finely formed, as any Grecian godWhose high‑arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.His clear‑cut face was beardless; and, like thoseSame Grecian statues, when in calm repose,Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hairDark and abundant; lighted by large eyesThat could be cold as steel in winter air,Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.Weary of mirth and music, and the soundOf tripping feet, I sought a moment's restWithin the lib'ry, where a group I foundOf guests, discussing with apparent zestSome 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. "WeHave 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 contendThe poem is a libel and untrueI hold the fickle women are but few,Compared with those who are like yon fair moonThat, ever faithful, rises in her placeWhether 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 yieldThe crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain,Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane."All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to meI answered lightly, "My young friend, I fearYou chose a most unlucky simileTo prove the truth of woman. To her placeThe moon does rise—but with a different faceEach time she comes. But now I needs must hearThe poem read, before I can consentTo pass my judgment on the sentiment."All clamored that the author was the manTo read the poem: and, with tones that saidMore than the cutting, scornful words he read,Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:HER LOVE.The sands upon the ocean sideThat 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 strainTo every grass blade on the plain—A woman's love is nothing more.The sunshine of an April dayThat 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 hearThe praise he whispers in her ear,Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—O fool! to be deceived by her.To sate her selfish thirst she quaffsThe love of strong hearts in sweet draughtsThen throws them lightly by and laughs,Too weak to understand their pain.As changeful as the winds that blowFrom every region, to and fro,Devoid of heart, she cannot knowThe suffering of a human heart.I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyesSaw the slow color 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 thingAnd 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 soWe call strong‑limbed New Love to lay it low:Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sendsTo do this service for her earthly friends,The trusty fellow digs the grave so deepNothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep."The laugh that followed had not died awayEre Roy Montaine came seeking me, to sayThe band was tuning for our waltz, and soBack to the ball‑room bore me. In the glowAnd heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,And I grew faint and dizzy, and we wentOut on the cool moonlighted portico,And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid headUpon the shelter of his breast, and bentHis smiling eyes upon me, as he said,"I'll try the mesmerism of my touchTo 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 faceTo catch the teasing and mischievous glanceOf 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 toneOf his low voice. "I think we do intrude."Bowing, they turned, and left us quite aloneEre I could speak, or change my attitude.
"Maurine, Maurine! 'tis ten o'clock! arise,My pretty sluggard! open those dark eyes,And see where yonder sun is! Do you knowI made my toilet just four hours ago?"'T was Helen's voice: and Helen's gentle kissFell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss,I drew my weary self from that strange sleepThat rests not, nor refreshes. Scarce awakeOr conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weightBound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,When suddenly the truth did o'er me break,Like some great wave upon a helpless child.The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife—The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,And God gave back the burden of the lifeHe kept what time I slumbered."You are ill,"Cried Helen, "with that blinding headache still!You look so pale and weary. Now let mePlay nurse, Maurine, and care for you to‑day!And first I'll suit some dainty to your taste,And bring it to you, with a cup of tea."And off she ran, not waiting my reply.But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cryFor help and guidance."Show Thou me the way,Where duty leads; for I am blind! my sightObscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright!Help me see the path: and if it may,Let this cup pass:—and yet Thou heavenly OneThy will in all things, not mine own, be done."Rising, I went upon my way, receivingThe strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.I felt that unseen hands were leading me,And knew the end was peace."What! are you up?"Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,Of tender toast, and fragrant smoking tea."You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bedUntil you ate your breakfast, and were betterI've something hidden for you here—a letter.But drink your tea before you read it, dear!'Tis from some distant cousin, Auntie said,And so you need not hurry. Now be good,And mind your Helen."So, in passive mood,I laid the still unopened letter near,And loitered at my breakfast more to pleaseMy nurse, than any hunger to appease.Then listlessly I broke the seal and readThe few lines written in a bold free hand:"New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine!(In spite of generations stretched betweenOur natural right to that most handy claimOf cousinship, we'll use it all the same)I'm coming to see you! honestly, in truth!I've threatened often—now I mean to act.You'll find my coming is a stubborn fact.Keep quiet though, and do not tell Aunt RuthI wonder if she'll know her petted boyIn spite of changes. Look for me untilYou see me coming. As of old I'm stillYour faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy."So Roy was coming! He and I had playedAs boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,Full half our lives together. He had been,Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kinGave both kind shelter. Swift years sped awayEre change was felt: and then one summer dayA long lost uncle sailed from India's shore—Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more."He'd write us daily, and we'd see his faceOnce every year." Such was his promise givenThe morn he left. But now the years were sevenSince last he looked upon the olden place.He'd been through college, traveled in all lands,Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,Would write again from Egypt or Hong Kong—Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.So years had passed, till seven lay betweenHis going and the coming of this note,Which I hid in my bosom, and repliedTo Aunt Ruth's queries, "What the truant wrote?"By saying he was still upon the wing,And merely dropped a line, while journeying,To say he lived: and she was satisfied.Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange,A human heart will pass through mortal strife,And writhe in torture: while the old sweet lifeSo full of hope, and beauty, bloom and grace,Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place—A ghastly, pallid specter of the slain.Yet those in daily converse see no changeNor dream the heart has suffered.So that dayI passed along toward the troubled wayStern duty pointed, and no mortal guessedA mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.I had resolved to yield up to my friendThe man I loved. Since she, too, loved him soI saw no other way in honor left.She was so weak and fragile, once bereftOf this great hope, that held her with such powerShe would wilt down, like some frost‑bitten flowerAnd swift untimely death would be the end.But I was strong: and hardy plants, which growIn out‑door soil, can bear bleak winds that blowFrom Arctic lands, whereof a single breathWould 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 heartThat bade me play the shrinking coward's partAnd hide from pain. And when the day had pastAnd time for Vivian's call drew near and nearer,It pleaded. "Wait, until the way seems clearer:Say you are ill—or busy: keep awayUntil you gather strength enough to playThe part you have resolved on.""Nay, not so,"Made answer clear‑eyed Reason, "Do you goAnd put your resolution to the test.Resolve, however nobly formed, at bestIs but a still born babe of Thought, untilIt proves existence of its life and willBy sound or action."So when Helen cameAnd knelt by me, her fair face all aflameWith 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 goesTo 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 namelesssomething, which bespeaks a change.'Tis in the power of woman, if she beWhole‑souled and noble, free from coquetry—Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,To make herself and feelings understoodBy 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. 'T was the slow undoingOf long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.It was to hide and cover and concealThe truth—assuming, what I did not feel.It was to dam love's happy singing tideThat blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone,By feigned indiff'rence, till it turned aside,And changed its channel, leaving me aloneTo walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draughtMy 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 partIn this strange drama. "Then, because his heFeels something lacking, to make good his loss,He'll turn to Helen: and her gentle graceAnd loving acts will win her soon the placeI hold to‑day: and like a troubled dreamAt 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 wingsNow limped on weary, aching limbs along,Each moment like some dreaded step that bringsA 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 can not beseen,The change I speak of—'twas more in your mien:Preoccupation, or—I know not what!Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does MaurineSeem to have something on her mind this eve?""She does!" laughed Helen, "and I do believeI know what 'tis! A letter came to‑dayWhich she read slyly, and then hid awayClose 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 shotWe 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 gloomOf Vivian's questioning, accusing eyes,That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneathThat stern, fixed gaze; and stood spellbound untilHe turned with sudden movement, gave his handTo each in turn, and said, "You must not standLonger, 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 honor 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 glideBy Father Time, and, looking in his face,Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair road‑side,"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 hill‑top, high and calm,Where he shall find not only rest, but balmFor all his wounds, and cries in tones of woe,"O 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'erThe 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 cameNot only sunny smiles to Nature's face,But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once moreWe looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surpriseIn no way puzzled her: for one glance toldWhat each succeeding one confirmed, that heWho bent above her with the lissome graceOf his fine form, though grown so tall, could beNo other than the Roy Montaine of old.It was a sweet reunion: and he broughtSo much of sunshine with him, that I caught,Just from his smile alone, enough of gladnessTo make my heart forget a time its sadness.We talked together of the dear old days:Leaving the present, with its depths and heightsOf 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 hummingSome 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 hotWith warm young blood; excitement, joy, or painAlike would send swift coursing through each vein.Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,And bringing vividly before my gazeSome 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 mineThe eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flashShot from their depths:—a sudden blaze of lightLike that swift followed by the thunder's crash,Which said, "Suspicion is confirmed by sight,"As they fell on the pleasant door‑way scene.Then o'er his clear‑cut face, a cold white lookCrept, 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 bookShe spoke of lending me: nay, sit you still!And I, by grant of your permission, willPass 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 school‑girl, I arose,And some way made each to the other knownThey bowed, shook hands: then Vivian turned awayAnd sought out Helen, leaving us alone."One of Miss Trevor's, or of Maurine's beaux?Which may he be, who cometh like a princeWith haughty bearing, and an eagle eye?"Roy queried, laughing: and I answered, "SinceYou 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 glideIn other channels, striving to dispelThe 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 outBoldly, 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 wouldMost gladly do what to thee seemeth good;But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, soThou must point out some other way to go."Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and,When right before our faces, as we standIn seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain!And loth to go, by every act revealWhat we so tried from Conscience to conceal.I saw that hour, the way made plain, to doWith scarce an effort, what had seemed a strifeThat would require the strength of my whole life.Women have quick perceptions: and I knewThat Vivian's heart was full of jealous pain,Suspecting—naybelievingRoy MontaineTo be my lover.—First my altered mien—And next the letter—then the door‑way scene—My flushed face gazing in the one aboveThat bent so near me, and my strange confusionWhen Vivian came, all led to one conclusion:That I had but been playing with his love,As women sometimes cruelly do playWith hearts when their true lovers are away.There could be nothing easier, than justTo let him linger on in this beliefTill hourly‑fed Suspicion and DistrustShould turn to scorn and anger all his grief.Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pureWould 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 eyesOf 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 artAnd 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 knowsThe 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 waveThat tells not of the wrecked ship, and the graveBeneath its surface.Then we heard, ere long,The sound of Helen's gentle voice in song,And, rising, entered where the subtle powerOf Vivian's eyes, forgiving while accusing,Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;But Roy, alway polite and debonairWhere ladies were, now hung about my chairWith nameless delicate attentions, usingThat air devotional, and those small artsAcquaintance with society impartsTo men gallant by nature.'T was my sexAnd not myself he bowed to. Had my placeBeen filled that evening by a dowager,Twice his own age, he would have given herThe same attentions. But they served to vexWhatever 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 dividesThis land and that, though lying side by side,So rolled a gulf between us—deep and wide—The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly mornAnd noon and night.Free and informal wereThese picnics and excursions. Yet, althoughHelen and I would sometimes choose to goWithout our escorts, leaving them quite free.It happened alway Roy would seek out meEre passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.I had no thought of flirting. Roy was justLike some dear brother, and I quite forgotThe kinship was so distant it was notSafe to rely upon in perfect trust,Without reserve or caution. Many a timeWhen 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 leanMy head upon his shoulder, or would standAnd 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 aloneIn his suspicions. But ere long the truthI learned in consternation! both Aunt RuthAnd Helen, honestly, in faith believedThat Roy and I were lovers.Undeceived,Some careless words might open Vivian's eyesAnd 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, confidentEach understood just what the other meant.If I grew weary of this double part,And self‑imposed deception caused my heartSometimes to shrink, I needed but to gazeOn Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal,As if she dwelt above the things materialAnd held communion with the angels. SoI fed my strength and courage through the days.What time the harvest moon rose full and clearAnd 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 glanceThat looked to see her fading from the sightLike figures that a dreamer sees at night.And noble men and gallants graced the scene:Yet none more noble or more grand of mienThan Vivian—broad of chest and shoulder, tallAnd finely formed, as any Grecian godWhose high‑arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.His clear‑cut face was beardless; and, like thoseSame Grecian statues, when in calm repose,Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hairDark and abundant; lighted by large eyesThat could be cold as steel in winter air,Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.Weary of mirth and music, and the soundOf tripping feet, I sought a moment's restWithin the lib'ry, where a group I foundOf guests, discussing with apparent zestSome 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. "WeHave 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 contendThe poem is a libel and untrueI hold the fickle women are but few,Compared with those who are like yon fair moonThat, ever faithful, rises in her placeWhether 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 yieldThe crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain,Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane."All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to meI answered lightly, "My young friend, I fearYou chose a most unlucky simileTo prove the truth of woman. To her placeThe moon does rise—but with a different faceEach time she comes. But now I needs must hearThe poem read, before I can consentTo pass my judgment on the sentiment."All clamored that the author was the manTo read the poem: and, with tones that saidMore than the cutting, scornful words he read,Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:HER LOVE.The sands upon the ocean sideThat 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 strainTo every grass blade on the plain—A woman's love is nothing more.The sunshine of an April dayThat 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 hearThe praise he whispers in her ear,Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—O fool! to be deceived by her.To sate her selfish thirst she quaffsThe love of strong hearts in sweet draughtsThen throws them lightly by and laughs,Too weak to understand their pain.As changeful as the winds that blowFrom every region, to and fro,Devoid of heart, she cannot knowThe suffering of a human heart.I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyesSaw the slow color 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 thingAnd 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 soWe call strong‑limbed New Love to lay it low:Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sendsTo do this service for her earthly friends,The trusty fellow digs the grave so deepNothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep."The laugh that followed had not died awayEre Roy Montaine came seeking me, to sayThe band was tuning for our waltz, and soBack to the ball‑room bore me. In the glowAnd heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,And I grew faint and dizzy, and we wentOut on the cool moonlighted portico,And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid headUpon the shelter of his breast, and bentHis smiling eyes upon me, as he said,"I'll try the mesmerism of my touchTo 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 faceTo catch the teasing and mischievous glanceOf 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 toneOf his low voice. "I think we do intrude."Bowing, they turned, and left us quite aloneEre I could speak, or change my attitude.
HER LOVE.The sands upon the ocean sideThat 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 strainTo every grass blade on the plain—A woman's love is nothing more.The sunshine of an April dayThat 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 hearThe praise he whispers in her ear,Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—O fool! to be deceived by her.To sate her selfish thirst she quaffsThe love of strong hearts in sweet draughtsThen throws them lightly by and laughs,Too weak to understand their pain.As changeful as the winds that blowFrom every region, to and fro,Devoid of heart, she cannot knowThe suffering of a human heart.