Chapter 3

A visit to a cave some miles awayWas next in order. So, one sunny day,Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing loadOf merry pleasure‑seekers o'er the road.A basket picnic, music and croquetWere 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 lastMust 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 beA handsome pair of bootees to replaceThe victor's loss who made the rough ascent.The cliff was steep and stony. On we wentAs 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 whenI mixed with th' unthinking throngs of men.Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile placeI plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed,That in our lives, albeit dark with shadeAnd rough and hard with labor, yet may growThe flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.As I walked on in meditative thought,A serpent writhed across my pathway; notA large or deadly serpent; yet the sightFilled 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 scornFor those fine lady "ah's" and "oh's" of fearSo much assumed (when any man is near).But God implanted in each human heartA natural horror, and a sickly dreadOf that accursèd, slimy, creeping thingThat squirms a limbless carcass o'er the ground.And where that inborn loathing is not foundYou'll find the serpent qualities instead.Who fears it not, himself is next of kin,And in his bosom holds some treacherous artWhereby 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 knowI 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 moanBefore a rain in Summer time, "My own,For one sweet stolen moment, lie and restUpon 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 kissThat hangs upon you, I do take an oathHislips 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 butdeath,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 kissYou lured me on to think my rightful claim!O frail and puny woman! could you knowThe devil that you waken in the heartsYou snare and bind in your enticing arts,The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flowWould freeze in terror.Strange you have such powerTo 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 thoseDoomed angels must, when pearly gates aboveAre closed against them.With a feigned surpriseI started up and opened wide my eyes,And looked about. Then in confusion roseAnd stood before him."Pardon me, I pray!"He said quite coldly. "Half an hour agoI 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 sideOf this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm."So, formal and constrained, we passed along,Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throngTo have no further speech again that day.Next morn there came a bulky document,The legal firm of Blank & Blank had sent,Containing news unlooked for. An estateWhich proved a cosy fortune—no‑wise greatOr princely—had in France been left to me,My grandsire's last descendant. And it broughtA sense of joy and freedom in the thoughtOf foreign travel, which I hoped would beA panacea for my troubled mind,That longed to leave the olden scenes behindWith all their recollections, and to fleeTo some strange country.I was in such hasteTo put between me and my native landThe briny ocean's desolating waste,I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she plannedTo sail that week, two months: though she was fainTo wait until the Springtime. Roy MontaineWould be our guide and escort.No one dreamedThe cause of my strange hurry, but all seemedTo think good fortune had quite turned my brain.One bright October morning, when the woodsHad donned their purple mantles and red hoodsIn honor of the Frost King, Vivian came,Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,—First trophies of the Autumn time.And RoyMade a proposal that we all should goAnd ramble in the forest for a while.But Helen said she was not well—and soMust 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 grewLike 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 wayPeculiar to some men, which seems to say,"I shield my own," a manner pleasing, e'enWhen we are conscious that it does not meanMore than a simple courtesy. A womanWhose heart is wholly feminine and human,And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to beThe object of that tender chivalry,That guardianship which man bestows on her,Yet mixed with deference; as if she wereHalf child, half angel.Though she may be strong,Noble and self‑reliant, not afraidTo raise her hand and voice against all wrongAnd 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 mindAs man, her brother, yet his strength of armHis muscle and his boldness she has not,And cannot have without she loses whatIs far more precious, modesty and grace.So, walking on in her appointed place,She does not strive to ape him, nor pretendBut 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 froThrough many a winding path and dim retreat.Till I grew weary: when I chose a seatUpon an oak tree, which had been laid lowBy some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke.And Roy stood just below me, where the ledgeOn which I sat sloped steeply to the edgeOf sunny meadows lying at my feet.One hand held mine; the other grasped a limbThat cast its checkered shadows over him;And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raisedAnd fixed upon me, silently he gazedUntil 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 cheekWas stained one moment by a flush of red.He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stoodStill clinging to the branch above his head.His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said,With sudden passion, "Do you bid me speak?I can not, then, keep silence if I would.That hateful fortune, coming as it did,Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knewA harsh tongued world would quickly misconstrueMy motive for a meaner one. But, sweet,So big my heart has grown with love for youI can not 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 numbWith truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumbWith sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyesThat 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 glassOne 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 colors blendIn some unlooked‑for group before our eyes,We hold the glass, and look them o'er and o'erSo 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 faceOf dark and flashing beauty.He was moreLike some romantic maiden's grand idealThan like a common being. As I gazedUpon the handsome face to mine upraised,I saw before me, living, breathing, real,The hero of my early day‑dreams: thoughSo full my heart was with that clear‑cut face,Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero's place,I had not recognized 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 blowAt 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 beganTo argue like a lawyer, and to pleadWith all his eloquence. And, listening,I strove to think it was a goodly thingTo be so fondly loved by such a man,And it were best to give his wooing heed,And not deny him. Then before my eyesIn all its clear‑cut majesty, that otherHaughty and poet‑handsome face would riseAnd 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 shouldGive some least hope; till, in my own defense,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 anotherWho 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 keepIn my own bosom, but you understand?My heart is given to love that's sanctified,And now can feel no other.Be you kindDear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more,Lest pleading and denying should divideThe hearts so long united. Let me findIn you my cousin and my friend of yoreAnd now come home. The morning, all too soonAnd 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 unforeseenMy 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 notIn truth a brother's or a cousin's claim.But I remembered, when through every nerveYour lightest touch went thrilling; and beganTo love you with that human love of manFor 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 reserveWith one who's not her kinsman, out and out.But as we now, with measured steps, retraceThe 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 tryAnd be more prudent, sir, and hold aloofThe 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 betrayWhat's passed between us."Then I turned awayAnd sought my room, low humming some old airThat ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyesFell on a face so glorified and fairAll other senses, merged in that of sight,Were lost in contemplation of the brightAnd wond'rous picture, which had otherwiseMade dim my vision.Waiting in my room,Her whole face lit as by an inward flameThat shed its halo 'round her, Helen stood;Her fair hands folded like a lily's leavesWeighed down by happy dews of summer eves.Upon her cheek the color went and cameAs sunlight flickers o'er a bed of bloom;And, like some slim young sapling of the wood,Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hairFell 'round her loosely, in long curling strandsAll unconfined, and as by loving handsTossed into bright confusion.Standing there,Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seemLike 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 saidWith voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone,As winds that blow across a garden bedAre weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone,And I am his—all his—his very own.So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tieSave 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 whileI 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 meA sense of shame—yet mixed with satisfaction,As some starved child might steal a loaf, and beSad with the guilt resulting from her action,While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet.That ev'ning when the house had settled downTo sleep and quiet, to my room there creptA 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 color flame upon my cheekWhen Vivian spoke of staying. So did he;—And, when we were alone, he gazed at meWith such a strange look in his wond'rous eyes.The silence deepened; and I tried to speakUpon some common topic, but could not,My heart was in such tumult.In this wiseFive happy moments glided by us, fraughtWith 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 whatWas 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 lifeAnd 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 restHenceforth forever: O my little dove!My lily‑bud—my fragile blossom‑wife!'"And then I told him all my thoughts; and heListened, with kisses for his comments, tillMy tale was finished. Then he said, 'I willBe 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 firstTo rouse that love to being. Ere we metI loved a woman madly—never dreamingShe was not all in truth she was in seeming.Enough! she proved to be that thing accursedOf God and man—a wily vain coquette.I hate myself for having loved her. YetSo much my heart spent on her, it must giveA 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 befallA man's great riches, causing him to liveIn some low cot, all unpretending, stillAs 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 beThe worshiped consort of a king.' And soOur faith was pledged. But Vivian would not goUntil I vowed to wed him New Year day.And I am sad because you go awayBefore that time. I shall not feel half wedWithout 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 sparingThe pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearingThe festal garments of a wedding scene,While all my heart was hung with sorrow's sable.Forgetting for a season, that betweenThe cup and lip lies many a chance of loss,I lived in my near future, confidentAll would be as I planned it; and, acrossThe briny waste of waters, I should findSome balm and comfort for my troubled mind.The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn‑tressedAnd amber‑eyed, in purple garments dressed,Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tombOf fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom.Roy left us for a time, and Helen wentTo make the nuptial preparations. Then,Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill:Her veins ran red with fever; and the skillOf two physicians could not stem the tide.The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest,Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds; and whenThe Autumn day, that I had thought to beBounding upon the billows of the sea,Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn,Striving to keep away that unloved guestWho comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn.Through all the anxious weeks I watched besideThe suff'rer's couch, Roy was my help and stay;Others were kind, but he alone each dayBrought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face,And hopeful words, that fell in that sad placeLike 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 gloomThat 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 sadTo think I left you when I did—aloneTo bear your pain and worry, and those nightsOf weary, anxious watching.Vivian writesYour plans are changed now, and you will not sailBefore the Springtime. So you'll come and beMy 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 stillI'm thankful something happened, so you stayed.I'm sure my wedding would be incompleteWithout your presence. Selfish, I'm afraidYou'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 knowAnd I will meet you, dearie! at the train.Your happy, loving Helen."Then the painThat, hidden under later pain and care,Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep,Woke from its trance‑like lethargy, to steepMy tortured heart in anguish and despair.I had relied too fully on my skillIn bending circumstances to my will:And now I was rebuked and made to seeThat God alone knoweth what is to be.Then came a messenger from Vivian, whoCame not himself, as he was wont to do,But sent his servant each new day to bringA kindly message, or an offeringOf juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever,Or dainty hot‑house blossoms, with their bloomTo brighten up the convalescent's room.But now the servant only brought a lineFrom 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 honor 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 regimentOf outraged ladies. So, I pray, consentTo stand by me in time of need, and shieldYour friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield."The last least hope had vanished; I must drain,E'en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.

There was a week of bustle and of hurry;A stately home echoed to voices sweet,Calling, replying; and to tripping feetOf busy bridesmaids, running to and fro,With all that girlish fluttering and flurryPreceding such occasions.Helen's roomWas like a lily‑garden, all in bloom,Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.My robe was fashioned by swift, skillful 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 beholdWith vision trance‑like, where his body layIn 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 concealedFrom mortal eyes by superhuman power,That God bestowed upon me, hour by hour.What night the Old Year gave unto the NewThe 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 dressedIn gleaming garments, decked with diadems,Each seeming like a bridal‑bidden guest,Coming o'er‑laden with a gift of gems.The bustle of the dressing room; the soundOf eager voices in discourse; the clangOf "sweet bells jangled"; thud of steel‑clad feetThat beat swift music on the frozen ground—All blent together in my brain, and rangA medley of strange noises, incomplete,And full of discords.Then out on the nightStreamed from this open vestibule, a lightThat lit the velvet blossoms which we trod,With all the hues of those that deck the sod.The grand cathedral windows were ablazeWith gorgeous colors; through a sea of bloom,Up the long aisle, to join the waiting groom,The bridal cortege passed.As some lost soulMight surge on with the curious crowd, to gazeUpon its coffined body, so I wentWith that glad festal throng. The organ sentGreat waves of melody along the air,That broke and fell, in liquid drops, like spray,On happy hearts that listened. But to meIt sounded faintly, as if miles away,A troubled spirit, sitting in despairBeside 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 heardThe solemn service open; through long hoursI seemed to stand and listen, while each wordFell on my ear as falls the sound of clayUpon the coffin of the worshiped dead.The stately father gave the bride away:The bridegroom circled with a golden bandThe 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 soundWill 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 acrossThe snowy waste of weary wintry miles,Back to my girlhood's home, where, through each room,For evermore pale phantoms of delightShould aimless wander, always in my sight,Pointing, with ghostly fingers, to the tombWet 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 questOf 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 seemedA part of some strange fancy I had dreamed,And now remembered dimly.Wrapped in gloom,My mind, o'er taxed, 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 rumors of the spring,A certain sense of "restlessness with rest."My aching frame was weary of repose,And wanted action.Then slow‑creeping strengthCame back with Mem'ry, hand in hand, to bringAnd 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 flockOf ghostly thoughts, like phantom birds, would flitAbout 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 landsWere 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 delightsOf 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 growSmaller and less important, and the veinOf 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 greybeard, who has burnedThe midnight lamp, and book‑bound knowledge learned,Till sciences or classics hold no loreHe has not conned and studied, o'er and o'er,Is but a babe in wisdom, when comparedWith some unlettered wand'rer, who has sharedThe 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 removesThese iron foes to freedom, and we riseTo grander heights, and, all untrammeled, findA 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 cheerThe 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 heartWas conscious of a something lacking, whereLove once had dwelt, and afterward despair.Now love was buried; and despair had flownBefore the healthful zephyrs that had blownFrom heights serene and lofty; and the placeWhere both had dwelt, was empty, voiceless spaceAnd so I took my long‑loved study, art,The dreary vacuum in my life to fill,And worked, and labored, with a right good will.Aunt Ruth and I took rooms in Rome; while RoyLingered 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 FranceThe previous season: she was wholly sweetAnd fair and gentle; so näive, and yetSo womanly, she was at once the petOf 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 cameOf good old stock, of fair untarnished fame.Through all these months Roy had been true as steel;And by his every action made me feelHe 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 knewWhether 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 ashineWith light of love and triumph: "Cousin, mine,Congratulate me! She whom I adoreHas pledged to me the promise of her hand;Her heart I have already," I was gladWith double gladness, for it freed my mindOf 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 thriveAs throve this one, nurse had been heard to say.The infant was a wonder, every way.And, at command of Helen he would sendA lock of baby's golden hair to me.And did I, on my honor, ever seeSuch 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 headOf his own child, and pressed it to my cheekAnd to my lips, and kissed it o'er and o'er.All my maternal instincts seemed to rise,And clamor 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 yearsThat stretched before me, dark with love's eclipse;And thought how my unmated heart would missThe 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 speakThe blessed name of mother.Oh, in womanHow mighty is the love of offspring! EreUnto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfoldsThe myst'ry that is half divine, half human,Of life and birth, the love of unborn soulsWithin her, and the mother‑yearning creepsThrough 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.'T was 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 repineThat th' immortal treasures were not mine.Better my lonely sorrow, than to knowMy 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 aimTo 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 broughtEnthusiasm in abundance, thought,Much study, and some talent, day by day,To help me in my efforts to portrayThe wond'rous power, majesty and graceStamped on some form, or looking from some face.This was to be my specialty: To takeHuman emotion for my theme, and makeThe unassisted form divine expressAnger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress;And thus to build Fame's monument aboveThe grave of my departed hope and love.This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wingsAnd 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 labors onward to fruition.But, as the lark from beds of bloom will riseAnd 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 deathCan silence it, or hinder. While there's breathOr sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod,And lift itself to glory, and to God.The acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can chokeThe certain growth of th' upreaching oak.Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mindSeemed bound by chains, and would not leave behindIts selfish love and sorrow.Did I striveTo picture some emotion, lo!hiseyes,Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes,Looked from the canvas: and my buried painRose 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 labor 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 magnitudeWith grace and supple sinews were entwined,While in his face all beauties were combinedOf perfect features, intellect and truth,With all that fine rich coloring of youth,How could my brush portray aught good or fairWherein no fatal likeness should intrudeOf him my soul had worshiped?But, at last,Setting a watch upon my unwise heartThat thus would mix its sorrow with my art,I resolutely shut away the past,And made the toilsome present passing brightWith dreams of what was hidden from my sightIn the far distant future, when the soilShould yield me golden fruit for all my toil.

With much hard labor and some pleasure fraught,The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taughtMy hand to grow more skillful in its art,Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and broughtSweet hope and resignation to my heart.Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:She was quite well—oh, yes! quite well, indeed!But still so weak and nervous. By and by,When baby, being older, should not needSuch constant care, she would grow strong again.She was as happy as a soul could be;No least cloud hovered in her azure sky;She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss,And said she was a naughty, naughty girl,Not to come home and see ma's little pearl.No gift of costly jewels, or of gold,Had been so precious or so dear to me,As each brief line wherein her joy was told.It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain,Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, whereHe built a pretty villa‑like retreat.And when the Roman Summer's languid heatMade work a punishment, I turned my faceToward the Highlands, and with Roy and GraceFound rest and freedom from all thought and care.I was a willing worker. Not an hourPassed idly by me: each, I would employTo some good purpose, ere it glided onTo swell the tide of hours forever gone.My first completed picture, known as "Joy,"Won pleasant words of praise. "Possesses power,""Displays much talent," "Very fairly done."So fell the comments on my grateful ear.Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near,Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brushBegan depicting sorrow, heavy‑eyed,With pallid visage, ere the rosy flushUpon the beaming face of Joy had dried.The careful study of long months, it wonGolden opinions; even bringing forthThat certain sign of merit—a critiqueWhich set both pieces down as daubs, and weakAs empty heads that sang their praises—soProving conclusively the pictures' worth.These critics and reviewers do not useTheir precious ammunition to abuseA worthless work. That, left alone, they knowWill find its proper level; and they aimTheir batteries at rising works which claimToo much of public notice. But this shotResulted only in some noise, which broughtA dozen people, where one came beforeTo view my pictures; and I had my hourOf holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow'r.An English Baron who had lived two scoreOf his allotted three score years and ten,Bought both the pieces. He was very kind,And so attentive, I, not being blind,Must understand his meaning.Therefore, whenHe said,"Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife,The 'Joy' and 'Sorrow' this dear hand portrayedI have in my possession: now resignInto my careful keeping, and make mine,The joy and sorrow of your future life,"—I was prepared to answer, but delayed,Grown undecided suddenly.My mindArgued the matter coolly pro and con,And made resolve to speed his wooing onAnd grant him favor. He was good and kind;Not young, no doubt he would be quite contentWith my respect, nor miss an ardent love;Could give me ties of family and home;And then, perhaps, my mind was not aboveSetting some value on a titled name—Ambitious woman's weakness!Then my artWould be encouraged and pursued the same,And I could spend my winters all in Rome.Love never more could touch my wasteful heartThat all its wealth upon one object spent.Existence would be very bleak and cold,After long years, when I was gray and old,With neither home nor children.Once a wife,I would forget the sorrow of my life,And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard,But made no comment.Then the Baron spoke,And waited for my answer. All in vainI strove for strength to utter that one wordMy mind dictated. Moments rolled away—Until at last my torpid heart awoke,And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.And then my eyes with sudden tears o'erran,In pity for myself and for this manWho stood before me, lost in pained surprise."Dear friend," I cried, "Dear generous friend forgiveA troubled woman's weakness! As I live,In truth I meant to answer otherwise.From out its store, my heart can give you naughtBut honor and respect; and yet methoughtI would give willing answer, did you sue.But now I know 'twere cruel wrong I planned;Taking a heart that beat with love most true,And giving in exchange an empty hand.Who weds for love alone, may not be wise:Who weds without it, angels must despise.Love and respect together must combineTo render marriage holy and divine;And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroysContinuation of the nuptial joys,And brings regret, and gloomy discontent,To put to rout each tender sentiment.Nay, nay! I will not burden all your lifeBy that possession—an unloving wife;Nor will I take the sin upon my soulOf wedding where my heart goes not in whole.However bleak may be my single lot,I will not stain my life with such a blot.Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide;It holds some fairer woman for your bride;I would I had a heart to give to you,But, lacking it, can only say—adieu!"He whom temptation never has assailed,Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength;When sorely tried, we waver, but at length,Rise up and turn away, not having failed.The Autumn of the third year came and went;The mild Italian winter was half spent,When this brief message came across the sea:"My darling! I am dying. Come to me.Love, which so long the growing truth concealed,Stands pale within its shadow. O, my sweet!This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat—Dying with very weight of bliss. O, come!And take the legacy I leave to you,Before these lips forevermore are dumb.In life or death, Yours, Helen Dangerfield."This plaintive letter bore a month old date;And, wild with fears lest I had come too late,I bade the old world and new friends adieu.And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home,I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fearThat she for whose dear sake my heart had bled,Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear,Was passing from me; that she might be dead;And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me,Because I made no answer to her plea."O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on,Make haste before a wasting life is gone!Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!And true in life, be true e'en unto death."O, ship, sail on! and bear me o'er the tideTo her for whom my woman's heart once died.Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me,And I would know what her last wish may be!I have been true, so true, through all the past,Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last."So prayed my heart still o'er, and ever o'er,Until the weary lagging ship reached shore.All sad with fears that I had come too late,By that strange source whence men communicate,Though miles on miles of space between them lie,I spoke with Vivian: "Does she live? Reply."The answer came. "She lives, but hasten, friend!Her journey draweth swiftly to its end."Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot,My own dear home, the lane that led to his—The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight,Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might;Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot,But those sweet early years of lost delight,Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.I have a theory, vague, undefined,That each emotion of the human mind,Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair,Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air,Until it takes possession of some breast;And, when at length, grown weary of unrest,We rise up strong and cast it from the heart,And bid it leave us wholly, and depart,It does not die, it cannot die; but goesAnd mingles with some restless wind that blowsAbout the region where it had its birth.And though we wander over all the earth,That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year,Invisible, and clothèd like the air,Hoping that we may yet again draw near,And it may haply take us unaware,And once more find safe shelter in the breastIt stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.Told by my heart, and wholly positive,Some old emotion long had ceased to live;That, were it called, it could not hear or come,Because it was so voiceless and so dumb,Yet, passing where it first sprang into life,My very soul has suddenly been rifeWith all the old intensity of feeling.It seemed a living spirit, which came stealingInto my heart from that departed day;Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.So now into my troubled heart, aboveThe present's pain and sorrow, crept the loveAnd strife and passion of a by‑gone hour,Possessed of all their olden might and power.'T was but a moment, and the spell was brokenBy pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken,And Vivian stood before us.But I sawIn him the husband of my friend alone.The old emotions might at times return,And smold'ring fires leap up an hour and burn;But never yet had I transgressed God's law,By looking on the man I had resigned,With any hidden feeling in my mind,Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known.He was but little altered. From his faceThe nonchalant and almost haughty grace,The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes,The years had stolen, leaving in their placeA settled sadness, which was not despair,Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care,But something like the vapor o'er the skiesOf Indian summer, beautiful to see,But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.There was that in his face which cometh not,Save when the soul has many a battle fought,And conquered self by constant sacrifice.There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine,Render the plainest features half divine.All other artists strive and strive in vain,To picture beauty perfect and complete.Their statues only crumble at their feet,Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.And now his face, that perfect seemed before,Chiseled by these two careful artists, woreA look exalted, which the spirit givesWhen soul has conquered, and the body livesSubservient to its bidding.In a roomWhich curtained out the February gloom,And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers,Rested the eye like one of Summer's bowers,I found my Helen, who was less mine nowThan Death's; for on the marble of her brow,His seal was stamped indelibly.Her formWas like the slendor willow, when some stormHas stripped it bare of foliage. Her face,Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue:And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place,Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein,And on her mouth was that drawn look, of painWhich is not uttered. Yet an inward lightShone through and made her wasted features brightWith an unearthly beauty; and an aweCrept o'er me, gazing on her, for I sawShe was so near to Heaven that I seemedTo look upon the face of one redeemed.She turned the brilliant luster of her eyesUpon me. She had passed beyond surprise,Or any strong emotion linked with clay.But as I glided to her where she lay,A smile, celestial in its sweetness, wreathedHer pallid features. "Welcome home!" she breathed,"Dear hands! dear lips! I touch you and rejoice."And like the dying echo of a voiceWere her faint tones that thrilled upon my ear.I fell upon my knees beside her bed;All agonies within my heart were wed,While to the aching numbness of my grief,Mine eyes refused the solace of a tear,—The tortured soul's most merciful relief.Her wasted hand caressed my bended headFor one sad, sacred moment. Then she said,In that low tone so like the wind's refrain,"Maurine, my own! give not away to pain;The time is precious. Ere another dawnMy soul may hear the summons and pass on.Arise, sweet sister! rest a little while,And when refreshed, come hither. I grow weakWith every hour that passes. I must speakAnd make my dying wishes known to‑night.Go now." And in the halo of her smile,Which seemed to fill the room with golden light,I turned and left her.Later in the gloom,Of coming night, I entered that dim room,And sat down by her. Vivian held her hand:And on the pillow at her side, there smiledThe beauteous count'nance of a sleeping child."Maurine," spoke Helen, "for three blissful years,My heart has dwelt in an enchanted land;And I have drank the sweetened cup of joy,Without one drop of anguish or alloy.And so, ere Pain embitters it with gall,Or sad‑eyed Sorrow fills it full of tears,And bids me quaff, which is the Fate of allWho linger long upon this troubled way,God takes me to the realm of Endless Day,To mingle with his angels, who aloneCan understand such bliss as I have known.I do not murmur. God has heaped my measure,In three short years, full to the brim with pleasure;And, from the fullness of an earthly love,I pass to th' Immortal arms above,Before I even brush the skirts of Woe."I leave my aged parents here below,With none to comfort them. Maurine, sweet friend!Be kind to them, and love them to the end,Which may not be far distant.And I leaveA soul immortal in your charge, Maurine.From this most holy, sad and sacred eve,Till God shall claim her, she is yours to keep,To love and shelter, to protect and guide."She touched the slumb'ring cherub at her side,And Vivian gently bore her, still asleep,And laid the precious burden on my breast.A solemn silence fell upon the scene.And when the sleeping infant smiled, and pressedMy yielding bosom with her waxen cheek,I felt it would be sacrilege to speak,Such wordless joy possessed me.Oh! at lastThis infant, who, in that tear‑blotted past,Had caused my soul such travail, was my own:Through all the lonely coming years to beMine own to cherish—wholly mine alone.And what I mourned, so hopelessly as lostWas now restored, and given back to me.The dying voice continued:"In this childYou yet have me, whose mortal life she cost.But all that was most pure and undefiled,And good within me, lives in her again.Maurine, my husband loves me; yet I know,Moving about the wide world, to and fro,And through, and in the busy haunts of men,Not always will his heart be dumb with woe,But sometime waken to a later love.Nay, Vivian, hush! my soul has passed aboveAll selfish feelings! I would have it so.While I am with the angels, blest and glad,I would not have you sorrowing and sad,In loneliness go mourning to the end.But, love! I could not trust to any otherThe sacred office of a foster‑motherTo this sweet cherub, save my own heart‑friend."Teach her to love her father's name, Maurine,Where'er he wanders. Keep my memory greenIn her young heart, and lead her in her youth,To drink from th' eternal fount of Truth;Vex her not with sectarian discourse,Nor strive to teach her piety by force;Ply not her mind with harsh and narrow creeds,Nor frighten her with an avenging God,Who rules his subjects with a burning rod;But teach her that each mortal simply needsTo grow in hate of hate and love of love,To gain a kingdom in the courts above."Let her be free and natural as the flowers,That smile and nod throughout the summer hours.Let her rejoice in all the joys of youth,But first impress upon her mind this truth:No lasting happiness is e'er attainedSave when the heart someotherseeks to please.The cup of selfish pleasures soon is drained,And full of gall and bitterness the lees.Next to her God, teach her to love her land;In her young bosom light the patriot's flameUntil the heart within her shall expandWith love and fervor at her country's name."No coward‑mother bears a valiant son.And this, my last wish, is an earnest one."Maurine, my o'er‑taxed strength is waning; youHave heard my wishes, and you will be trueIn death as you have been in life, my own!Now leave me for a little while aloneWith him—my husband. Dear love! I shall restSo sweetly with no care upon my breast.Good night, Maurine, come to me in the morning."But lo! the bridegroom with no further warningCame for her at the dawning of the day.She heard his voice, and smiled, and passed awayWithout a struggle.Leaning o'er her bedTo give her greeting, I found but her clay,And Vivian bowed beside it.And I said,"Dear friend! my soul shall treasure thy request,And when the night of fever and unrestMelts in the morning of Eternity,Like a freed bird, then I will come to thee."I will come to thee in the morning, sweet!I have been true; and soul with soul shall meetBefore God's throne, and shall not be afraid.Thou gav'st me trust, and it was not betrayed."I will come to thee in the morning, dear!The night is dark. I do not know how nearThe morn may be of that Eternal Day;I can but keep my faithful watch and pray."I will come to thee in the morning, love!Wait for me on the Eternal Heights above.The way is troubled where my feet must climb,Ere I shall tread the mountain‑top sublime."I will come in the morning, O, mine own!But for a time must grope my way alone,Through tears and sorrow, till the Day shall dawn,And I shall hear the summons, and pass on."I will come in the morning. Rest secure!My hope is certain and my faith is sure.After the gloom and darkness of the nightI will come to thee with the morning light."Three peaceful years slipped silently away.We dwelt together in my childhood's home,Aunt Ruth and I, and sunny‑hearted May.She was a fair and most exquisite child;Her pensive face was delicate and mildLike her dead mother's; but through her dear eyesHer father smiled upon me, day by day.Afar in foreign countries did he roam,Now resting under Italy's blue skies,And now with Roy in Scotland.And he sentBrief, friendly letters, telling where he wentAnd what he saw, addressed to May or me.And I would write and tell him how she grew—And how she talked about him o'er the seaIn her sweet baby fashion; how she knewHis picture in the album; how each dayShe knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bringHer own papa back to his little May.It was a warm bright morning in the Spring.I sat in that same sunny portico,Where I was sitting seven years agoWhen Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears,As I looked back across the checkered years.How many were the changes they had brought!Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taughtTo my young heart had been of untold worth.I had learned how to "suffer and grow strong"—That knowledge which best serves us here on earth,And brings reward in Heaven.Oh! how longThe years had been since that June morning whenI heard his step upon the walk, and yetI seemed to hear its echo still.Just thenDown that same path I turned my eyes, tear‑wet,And lo! the wanderer from a foreign landStood there before me!—holding out his handAnd smiling with those wond'rous eyes of old.To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child;But she was shy, and clung to me, when toldThis was papa, for whom her prayers were said.She dropped her eyes and shook her little head,And would not by his coaxing be beguiled,Or go to him.Aunt Ruth was not at home,And we two sat and talked, as strangers might,Of distant countries which we both had seen.But once I thought I saw his large eyes lightWith sudden passion, when there came a pauseIn our chit‑chat, and then he spoke:"Maurine,I saw a number of your friends in Rome.We talked of you. They seemed surprised, becauseYou were not 'mong the seekers for a name.They thought your whole ambition was for fame.""It might have been," I answered, "when my heartHad nothing else to fill it. Now my artIs but a recreation. I havethisTo love and live for, which I had not then."And, leaning down, I pressed a tender kissUpon my child's fair brow."And yet," he said,The old light leaping to his eyes again,"And yet, Maurine, they say you might have wedA noble Baron! one of many menWho laid their hearts and fortunes at your feet.Why won the bravest of them no return?"I bowed my head, nor dared his gaze to meet.On cheek and brow I felt the red blood burn,And strong emotion strangled speech.He roseAnd came and knelt beside me."Sweet, my sweet!"He murmured softly, "God in Heaven knowsHow well I loved you seven years ago.He only knows my anguish, and my grief,When your own acts forced on me the beliefThat I had been your plaything and your toy.Yet from his lips I since have learned that RoyHeld no place nearer than a friend and brother.And then a faint suspicion, undefined,Of what had been—was—might be, stirred my mind,And that great love, I thought died at a blow,Rose up within me, strong with hope and life."Before all heaven and the angel motherOf this sweet child that slumbers on your heart,Maurine, Maurine, I claim you for my wife—Mine own, forever, until death shall part!"Through happy mists of upward welling tears,I leaned, and looked into his beauteous eyes."Dear heart," I said, "if she who dwells aboveLooks down upon us, from yon azure skies,She can but bless us, knowing all these yearsMy soul had yearned in silence for the loveThat crowned her life, and left mine own so bleak.I turned you from me for her fair, frail sake.For her sweet child's, and for my own, I takeYou back to be all mine, for evermore."Just then the child upon my breast awokeFrom her light sleep, and laid her downy cheekAgainst her father as he knelt by me.And this unconscious action seemed to beA silent blessing, which the mother spokeGazing upon us from the mystic shore.

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