God grinds His poor people to powderAll day and all night I can hear,Their cries growing louder and louder.Oh, God, have You deadened Your ear?
The chimes in old Trinity steepleRing in the sweet season of prayer,And still God is grinding His people,He is grinding them down to despair.
Mind, body and muscle and marrow,He grinds them again and again.Can He who takes heed of the sparrowBe blind to the tortures of men?
In a bare little room of a tenement rowOf the city, Maurice sat alone. It was so(In this nearness to life's darkest phases of griefAnd despair) that his own bitter woe found relief.Joy needs no companion; but sorrow and painLong to comrade with sorrow. The flowery chainFlung by Pleasure about her gay votaries breaksWith the least strain upon it. The chain sorrow makesLinks heart unto heart. As a bullock will flyTo far fields when an arrow has pierced him, to die,So Maurice had flown over far oceans to findNo balm for his wounds, and no peace for his mind.Cosmopolitan, always, is sorrow; at homeIn all countries and lands, thriving well while we roamIn vain efforts to slay it. Toil only, brings peaceTo the tempest tossed heart. What in travel MauriceFailed to find—self-forgetfulness—came with his workFor the suffering poor in the slums of New York.
He had wandered in strange heathen countries—had beenAmong barbarous hordes; but the greed and the sinOf his own native land seemed the shame of the hour.In his gold there was balm, in his pen there was powerTo comfort the needy, to aid and defendThe unfortunate. Close in their midst, as a friendAnd companion, for more than twelve months he had dwelt.Like a ray of pure light in a cellar was feltThis strong, wholesome presence. His little room bareOf all luxuries, taught the poor souls who flocked thereFor his counsel and aid, how by mere cleanlinessThe grim features of want lose some lines of distress.The slips from the plants on his window ledge, givenTo beauty starved souls, spoke more clearly of heavenAnd God than did sermons or dry creedy tracts.Maurice was no preacher; and yet his kind actsOf mercy and self-immolation sufficedTo wake in dark minds a bright image of Christ—The Christ often heard of, but doubted before.Maurice spoke no word of religion. Of yoreHis heart had accepted the creeds of his youthWithout pausing to cavil, or question their truth.Faith seemed his inheritance. But, with the blowWhich slew love and killed friendship, faith, too, seemed to go.
It is easy to be optimistic in pleasure,But when Pain stands us up by her portal to measureThe actual height of our trust and belief,Ah! then is the time when our faith comes to grief.The woes of our fellows, God sends them, 'tis plain;But the devil himself is the cause ofourpain.We question the wisdom that rules o'er the world,And our minds into chaos and darkness are hurled.
The average scoffer at faith goes aboutPouring into the ears of his fellows each doubtWhich assails him. One truth he fails wholly to heed;That a doubt oft repeated may bore like a creed.
Maurice kept his thoughts to himself, but his penWas dipped in the gall of his heart now and then,And his muse was the mouthpiece. The sin unforgivenI hold by the Cherubim chanting in heavenIs the sin of the poet who dares sing a strainWhich adds to the world's awful chorus of painAnd repinings. The souls whom the gods bless at birthWith the great gift of song, have been sent to the earthTo better and brighten it. Woe to the heartWhich lets its own sorrow embitter its art.Unto him shall more sorrow be given; and lifeAfter life filled with sorrow, till, spent with the strife,He shall cease from rebellion, and bow to the rodIn submission, and own and acknowledge his God.
Maurice, with his unwilling muse in the gloomOf a mood pessimistic, was shut in his room.A whistle, a step on the stairway, a knock,Then over the transom there fluttered a flockOf white letters. The Muse, with a sigh of content,Left the poet to read them, and hurriedly wentBack to pleasanter regions. Maurice glanced them through:There were brief business epistles from twoDaily papers, soliciting work from his pen;A woman begged money for Christ's sake; three menAsked employment; a mother wrote only to sayHow she blessed him and prayed God to bless him each dayFor his kindness to her and to hers; and the lastWas a letter from Ruth. The pale ghost of the pastRose out of its poor shallow grave, with the scentAnd the mold of the clay clinging to it, and leantO'er Maurice as he read, while its breath fanned his cheek.
"Forgive me," wrote Ruth; "for at last I must speakOf the two whom you wish to forget. Well I knowHow you suffered, still suffer, from fate's sudden blow,Though I am a woman, and women must stayAnd fight out pain's battles where men run away.But my strength has its limit, my courage its end,The time has now come when I, too, leave Bay Bend.Maurice, let the bitterness housed in your heartFor the man you long loved as a comrade, depart,And let pity replace it. Oh, weep for his sorrow—From your fountain of grief, held in check, let me borrow;I have so overdrawn on the bank of my tearsThat my anguish is now refused payment. For yearsYou loved Mabel Lee. Well, to some hearts love speaksHis whole tale of passion in brief little weeks.As Minerva, full grown, from the great brow of JoveSprang to life, so full blown from our breasts may spring Love.Love hid like a bee in my heart's lily cup;I knew not he was there till his sting woke me up.
Maurice, oh Maurice! Can you fancy the woeOf seeing the prize which you coveted soMisused, or abused, by another? The wifeOf the man whom I worshiped is spoiling the lifeThat was wax in her hands, wax to shape as she chose.You were blind to her faults, so was Roger Montrose.Both saw but the saint; well, let saints keep their places,And not crowd the women in life's hurried races.As saint, Mabel Lee might succeed; but, oh brother,She never was meant for a wife or a mother.Her beautiful home has the desolate airOf a house that is ruled by its servants. The care—The thought of thewoman(that sweet, subtle powerPervading some rooms like the scent of a flower),Which turns house into home—thatis lacking. She goesOn her merciful rounds, does our Lady Montrose,Looking after the souls of the heathen, and leavingThe poor hungry soul of her lord to its grieving.
He craves her companionship; wants her to beAt his side, more his own, than the public's. But sheHolds such love is but selfish; and thinks he should makeSome sacrifice gladly for charity's sake.Her schools, and her clubs, and her fairs fill her time;He wants her to travel; no, that were a crimeTo go seeking for pleasure, and leave duty here.God had given her work and her labor lay near.A month of the theater season in town?No, the stage is an evil that needs putting downBy good people. So, scheme as he will, the poor manHas to finally yield every project and planTo this sweet stubborn saint; for the husband, you see,Stands last in Her thoughts. He has come, after threePatient years, to that knowledge; his wishes, his needsMust always give way to her whims, or her creeds.
She knows not the primer of loving; her soulIs engrossed with the poor petty wish tocontrol.And she chafes at restriction. Love loves to be bound,And its sweetest of freedom in bondage is found.She pulls at her fetters. One worshiping heartAnd its faithful devotion play but a small partIn her life. She would rather be lauded and praisedBy a crowd of inferior followers, raisedTo the pitiful height of their leader, than beOne man's goddess. There, now, is the true Mabel Lee!Grieve not that you lost her, but grieve for the oneWho with me stood last night by the corpse of his son,And with me stood alone. Ah! how wisely and wellCould Mabel descant on Maternity! tellOther women the way to train children to beAn honor and pride to their parents! Yet she,From the first, left her child to the nurses. She found'Twas a tax on her nerves to have baby aroundWhen it worried and cried. The nurse knew what to do,And a block down the street lived Mama! 'twixt the twoLittle Roger would surely be cared for. She mustKeep her strength and be worthy the love and the trustOf the poor, who were yearly increasing, and notBestow on her own all the care and the thought—That were selfishness, surely.
Well, the babe grew apace,But yesterday morning a flush on its faceAnd a look in its eye worried Roger. The motherWas due at some sort of convention or otherIn Boston—I think 'twas a grand federationOf clubs formed by women to rescue the NationFrom man's awful clutches; and Mabel was madeThe head delegate of the Bay Bend Brigade.Once drop in a small, selfish nature the seedOf ambition for place, and it grows like a weed.The fair village angel we called Mabel Lee,As Mrs. Montrose, has developed, you see,To a full fledged Reformer. It quite turned her headTo be sent to the city of beans and brown breadAs a delegate! (Delegate! magical word!The heart of the queer modern woman is stirredFar more by its sound than by aught she may hearIn the phrases poor Cupid pours into her ear.)Mabel chirped to the baby a dozen good-byes,And laughed at the trouble in Roger's grave eyes,As she leaned o'er the lace ruffled crib of her sonAnd talked baby-talk: "Now be good, 'ittle one,While Mama is away, and don't draw a long breath,Unless 'oo would worry Papa half to death.And don't cough, and, of all things, don'tsneeze, 'ittle dear,Or Papa will be thrown into spasms of fear.Now, good-bye, once again, 'ittle man; mother knowsThere is no other baby like Roger MontroseIn the whole world to-day."
So she left him. That nightThe nurse sent a messenger speeding in frightFor the Doctor; a second for Grandmama LeeAnd Roger despatched still another for me.All in vain! through the gray chilly paths of the dawnThe soul of the beautiful baby passed onInto Mother-filled lands.
Ah! my God, the despairOf seeing that agonized sufferer there;To stand by his side, yet denied the reliefOf sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief.Enough! I have borne all I can bear. The roleOf friend to a lover pulls hard on the soulOf a sensitive woman. The three words in lifeWhich have meaning to me are home, mother and wife—Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thoughtMen cared for the women who found home the spotNext to heaven for happiness; women who knewNo ambition beyond being loyal and true,And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn,Instead, that from women of that kind men turn,With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who liveFor the poor hollow world and for what it can give,And who make home the spot where, when other joys cease,One sleeps late when one wishes.
You left me MauriceLeft the home I have kept since our dear Mother died,With such sisterly love and such housewifely pride,And you wandered afar, and for what cause, forsooth?Oh! because a vain, self-loving woman, in truth,Had been faithless. The man whom I worshiped, ignoredThe love and thecomfortmy woman's heart storedIn its depths for his taking, and sought Mabel Lee.Well, I'm done with the role of the housewife. I seeThere is nothing in being domestic. The partIs unpicturesque, and at war with all art.The senile old Century leers with dim eyesAt our sex and demands that we shock or surpriseHis thin blood into motion. The home's not the placeTo bring a pleased smile to his wicked old face.To the mandate I bow; since all strive for that end,I must join the great throng! I am leaving Bay BendThis day week. I will see you in town as I passTo the college at C——, where I enter the classOf medical students—I fancy you willLike to see my name thus—Dr. Ruth Somerville."
Maurice dropped the long, closely written epistle,Stared hard at the wall, and gave vent to a whistle.A Doctor! his sweet, little home-loving sister.A Doctor! one might as well prefix a MisterTo Ruth Somerville, that most feminine name.And then in the wake of astonishment cameKeen pity for all she had suffered. "Poor Ruth,She writes like an agonized woman, in truth,And like one torn with jealousy. Ah, I can see,"He mused, "how the pure soul of sweet Mabel LeeRevolts at the bondage and shrinks from the banThat lies in the love of that sensual man.He is of the earth, earthy. He loves but her beauty,He cares not for conscience, or honor or duty.Like a moth she was dazzled and lured by the flameOf a light she thought love, till she learned its true name;When she found it mere passion, it lost all its charms.No wonder she flies from his fettering arms!God pity you, Mabel! poor ill mated wife;But my love, like a planet, shall watch o'er your life,Though all other light from your skies disappear,Like a sun in the darkness my love shall appear.Unselfish and silent, it asks no return,But while the great firmament lasts it shall burn."
Muse, muse, awake, and sing thy loneliest strain,Song, song, be sad with sorrow's deepest pain,Heart, heart, bow down and never bound again,My Lady grieves, she grieves.
Night, night, draw close thy filmy mourning veil,Moon, moon, conceal thy beauty sweet and pale,Wind, wind, sigh out thy most pathetic wail,My Lady grieves, she grieves.
Time, time, speed by, thou art too slow, too slow,Grief, grief, pass on, and take thy cup of woe,Life, life, be kind, ah! do not wound her so,My Lady grieves, she grieves.
Sleep, sleep, dare not to touch mine aching eyes,Love, love, watch on, though fate thy wish denies,Heart, heart, sigh on, since she, my Lady, sighs,My Lady grieves, she grieves.
The flower breathes low to the bee,"Behold, I am ripe with bloom.Let Love have his way with me,Ere I fall unwed in my tomb."
The rooted plant sighs in distressTo the winds by the garden walk"Oh, waft me my lover's caress,Or I shrivel and die on my stalk."
The whippoorwill utters her loveIn a passionate "Come, oh come,"To the male in the depths of the grove,But the heart of a woman is dumb.
The lioness seeks her mate,The she-tiger calls her own—Who made it a woman's fateTo sit in the silence alone?
Wooed, wedded and widowed ere twenty. The lifeOf Zoe Travers is told in that sentence. A wifeFor one year, loved and loving; so full of life's joyThat death, growing jealous, resolved to destroyThe Eden she dwelt in. Five desolate yearsShe walked robed in weeds, and bathed ever in tears,Through the valley of memory. Locked in love's tombLay youth in its glory and hope in its bloom.At times she was filled with religious devotion,Again crushed to earth with rebellious emotionAnd unresigned sorrow.
Ah, wild was her grief!And the years seemed to bring her no balm of relief.When a heart from its sorrow time cannot estrange,God sends it another to alter and changeThe current of feeling. Zoe's mother, her oneTie to earth, became ill. When the doctors had doneAll the harm which they dared do with powder and pill,They ordered a trial of Dame Nature's skill.Dear Nature! what grief in her bosom must stirWhen she sees us turn everywhere save unto herFor the health she holds always in keeping; and seesUs at last, when too late, creeping back to her knees,Begging that she at first could have given!
'Twas soMother Nature's heart grieved o'er the mother of Zoe,Who came but to die on her bosom. She diedWhere the mocking bird poured out its passionate tideOf lush music; and all through the dark days of painThat succeeded, and over and through the refrainOf her sorrow, Zoe heard that wild song evermore.It seemed like a blow which pushed open a doorIn her heart. Something strange, sweet and terrible stirredIn her nature, aroused by the song of that bird.It rang like a voice from the future; a callThat came not from the past; yet the past held her all.To the past she had plighted her vows; in the pastLay her one dream of happiness, first, only, last.
Alone in the world now, she felt the unrestOf an unanchored boat on the wild billow's breast.Two homes had been shattered; the West held but tombs.She drifted again where the magnolia bloomsAnd the mocking bird sings. Oh! that song, that wild strain,Whose echoes still haunted her heart and her brain!How she listened to hear it repeated! It cameThrough the dawn to her heart, and the sound was like flame.It chased all the shadows of night from her room,And burst the closed bud of the day into bloom.It leaped to the heavens, it sank to the earthIt gave life new rapture and love a new birth.It ran through her veins like a fiery stream,And the past and its sorrow—was only a dream.
The call of a bird in the spring for its loverIs the voice of all Nature when winter is over.The heart of the woman re-echoed the strain,And its meaning, at last, to her senses was plain.
Grief's winter was over, the snows from her heartWere melted; hope's blossoms were ready to start.The spring had returned with its siren delights,And her youth and emotions asserted their rights.Then memory struggled with passion. The deadSeemed to rise from the grave and accuse her. She fledFrom her thoughts as from lepers; returned to old ways,And strove to keep occupied, filling her daysWith devotional duties. But when the night cameShe heard through her slumber that song like a flame,And her dreams were sweet torture. She sought all too soonTo chill the warm sun of her youth's ardent noonWith the shadows of premature evening. Her mindLacked direction and purpose. She tried in a blind,Groping fashion to follow an early idealOf love and of constancy, starving the realAffectional nature God gave her. She prayedFor God's help in unmaking the woman He made,As if He repented the thing He had done.With the soul of a Sappho, she lived like a nun,Hid her thoughts from all women, from men kept apart,And carefully guarded the book of her heartFrom the world's prying eyes. Yet men read through the cover,And knew that the story was food for a lover.(The dullest of men seemed possessed of the artTo read what the passions inscribe on the heart.Though written in cipher and sealed from the sight,Yet masculine eyes will interpret aright.)Worn out with the unceasing conflict at last,Zoe fled from herself and her sorrowful past,And turned to new scenes for diversion from thought.
New York! oh, what magic encircles that spotIn the feminine mind of the West! There, it seems,Waits the realization of beautiful dreams.There the waters of Lethe unceasingly roll,With blessed forgetfulness free to each soul,While the doorways that lead to success open wide,With Fame in the distance to beckon and guide.Mirth lurks in each byway, and Folly herselfWears the look of a semi-respectable elf,And is to be courted and trusted when met,For she teaches one how to be gay and forget,And to start new account books with life.
It was so,Since she first heard the name of the city, that ZoeDreamed of life in New York. It was thither she turnedTo smother the heart that with restlessness burned,And to quiet and calm an unsatisfied mind.Her plans were but outlines, crude, vague, undefined,Of distraction and pleasure. A snug little home,With seclusion and comfort; full freedom to roamWhere her fancy and income permitted; new faces,New scenes, new environments, far from the placesWhere brief joy and long sorrow had dwelt with her; freeFrom the curious eyes that seemed ever to beBent upon her. She passed like a ship from the port,Without chart or compass; the plaything and sportOf the billows of Fate.
The parks were all gayAnd busy with costuming duties of MayWhen Zoe reached New York. The rain and the breezeHad freshened the gowns of the Northern pine treesTill they looked bright as new; all the willows were seenIn soft dainty garments of exquisite green.Young buds swelled with life, and reached out to inviteAnd to hold the warm gaze of the wandering light.The turf exhaled fragrance; among the green boughsThe unabashed city birds plighted their vows,Or happy young house hunters chirped of the bestAnd most suitable nook to establish a nest.
There was love in the sunshine, and love in the air;Youth, hope, home, companionship, spring, everywhere.There was youth, there was spring in her blood; yet she only,In all the great city, seemed loveless and lonely.
The trim little flat, facing north on the park,Was not homelike; the rooms seemed too sombre and darkTo her eyes, sun-accustomed; the neighbors too nearAnd too noisy. The medley of sounds hurt her ear.Sudden laughter; the cry of an infant; the splashOf a tenant below in his bath-tub; the crashOf strong hands on a keyboard above, and the light,Merry voice of the lady who lived opposite,The air intertwined in a tangled sound ball,And flung straight at her ear through the court and the hall.
Ah, what loneliness dwelt in the rush and the stirOf the great pushing throngs that were nothing to her,And to whom she was nothing! Her heart, on its questFor distraction, seemed eating itself in her breast.She longed for a comrade, a friend. In the churchWhich she frequented no one abetted her search,For the faces of people she met in its aisleGazed calmly beyond her, without glance or smile.The look in their eyes, when translated, read thus,"We worship God here, what are people to us?"In some masculine eyes she read more, it is true.What she read made her gaze at the floor of her pew.
The blithe little blonde who lived over the hall,In the opposite rooms, was the first one to callOr to show friendly feeling. She seemed sweet and kind,But her infantile face hid a mercantile mind.Her voice had the timbre of metal. Each wordClinked each word like small change in a purse; and you heard,In the rustling silk of her skirts, just a hintOf new bills freshly printed and right from the mint.
There was that in her airs and her chatter which madeZoe question and ponder, and turn half afraidFrom her proffers of friendship. When one July dayThe fair neighbor called for a moment to say,"I am off to Long Branch for the summer, good-bye,"Zoe seemed to breathe freer—she scarcely knew why,But she reasoned it out as alone in the gloomOf the soft summer evening she sat in her room."The woman is happy," she said; "at the least,Her heart is not starving in life's ample feast.She lives while she lives, but I only exist,And Fate laughs in my face for the things I resist."
New York in the midsummer seems like the gayUpper servant who rules with the mistress away.She entertains friends from all parts of the earth;Her streets are alive with a fictitious mirth.She flaunts her best clothes with a devil-may-careSort of look, and her parks wear a riotous air.There is something unwholesome about her at dusk;Her trees, and her gardens, seem scented with musk;And you feel she has locked up the door of the houseAnd, half drunk with the heat, wanders forth to carouse,With virtue, ambition and industry allPacked off (moth-protected) with garments for Fall.
Zoe felt out of step with the town. In the songWhich it sang, where each note was a soul of the throng,She seemed the one discord. Books gave no distraction.She cared not for study, her heart longed for action,For pleasure, excitement. Wild impulses, newTo her mind, came like demons and urged her to doAll sorts of mad things. Mischief breathed through the air.One could do as one liked in New York—who would care—Who would know save the God who had left her aloneIn his world, unprotected, unloved? From her ownRestless mind and sick heart she attempted once moreTo escape. One reads much of gay life at the shore—Narragansett, she fancied, would suit her. The seaWould at least prove a friend; and, perchance, there might beSome heart, like her own, seeking comradeship there.The days brought no friend. But the moist, salty airWas a stimulant, giving existence new charms.The sea was a lover who opened his armsEvery day to embrace her. And life in this placeHeld something of pleasure, and sweetness and grace,Though the eyes of the men were too ardent and bold,And the eyes of the women suspicious and cold,She yet had the sea—the sea, strong and mighty,Both father and mother of fair Aphrodite.
Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere,But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tearCame to soften the hard, stony look in the eyeOf her husband; she heard no complaint and no sighFrom his lips, but he turned with impatience wheneverShe spoke of religion, or made one endeavorTo lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sodWhere the little form slept, to its spirit with God.
Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone.The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own,But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in griefPrayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief.
She flung herself into good works more and more,And saw not that the look which her husband's face woreWas the look of a man starved for love. In the moldOf a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold.(Such women sin more when they take marriage tiesThan the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies
In the arms of the man whom she worships. The childNot conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled.Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows,God sees "illegitimate" stamped on the browsOf her offspring. Love only can legalize birthIn His eyes—all the rest is but spawn of the earth.)
Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleasedBy the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teasedThat inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit,Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit.His love fanned her love for herself to a glow;She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so.That was all. She had nothing to give in return.One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn;And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soulWas not there to be wakened. He stood at his goalAs the Arctic explorer may finally stand,To see all about him an ice prisoned land,White, beautiful, useless.
Some women are chaste,Like the snows which envelop the bleak arid wasteOf the desert; once melted, alas! what remainsBut the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains?The flora of Cupid will never be found,However he toil there, to thrive in such ground.
Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteemBy her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deemSuch women to be all that's noble. They sighedWhen they spoke of her husband; they told how she triedTo convert him, and how they had thought for a seasonHis mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason,He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealousOf Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealousIn duty to others.
The death of his childOnly hardened his heart against God. He grew wild,Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city,Neglecting his saint of a wife—such a pity.It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deedsBut the fine interlining of causes—who heeds?The long list of heartaches which lead to rash actsWould bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts.
There are women so terribly free from all evil,They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil.There are people whose virtues result in appalling,And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling.
Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold,His tendril-like will lost its poor little holdOn the new better life he was longing to reach,And slipped back to the dust. Oh! to love, not to preach.Is a woman's true method of helping mankind.The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind.As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod,So the patience of love brings a soul to its God.But when love is lacking, the devil is sureTo stand in the pathway with some sort of lure.Roger turned to the world for distraction. The worldSmiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curledAll its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him awayInto deep, troubled waters.
One late summer dayHe awoke with a headache, which will not surprise,When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise,And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier,"Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clearYellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bedAnd proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his headSeemed as large and as light as an air filled balloonWhile his limbs were like lead.
In the glare of the noon,The follies of night show their makeup, and seemLike hideous monsters evoked by some dream.
The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breastAnd forget the dull world. My unrest shall give restTo your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wineOn your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine.Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirthOf the sea is not known by the stupid old earth."
The beach swarmed with bathers—to be more exact,Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact,Many beautiful women bathed but in the lightOf men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight,Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching armsThey escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charmsAnd made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour,The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flowerWith faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath,Roger paused in confusion, because in his pathSurged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bentOn the form of a woman who leisurely wentFrom her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes,"Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toesWith her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair?Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare."A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned,Look! there is La Travers, the one with the redBraid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here,And at present the topic of talk at the Pier."Roger followed their glances in time to beholdFor a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold,And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white.Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight.
It was half an hour afterward, possibly more,As Roger swam farther and farther from shore,With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain,That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain.Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a waveShone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; be brave;I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float."His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boatThrough the billows. Six overhand strokes brought him closeTo the woman, who lay like a wilted white roseOn the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay your handWell up on my shoulder; my arms, understand,Must be free; do not touch them—-please follow my wishes,Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes."The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me,"She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea.I knew all the arts of the swimmer, I thought,But confess I was frightened when suddenly caughtWith a cramp in my knee at this distance from shore."With slow even breast strokes the strong swimmer boreHis fair burden landward. She lay on the billowsAs lightly as if she were resting on pillowsOf down. She relinquished herself to the seaAnd the man, and was saved; though God knows both can beFalse and fickle enough; yet resistance or strife,On occasions like this, means the forfeit of life.The throng of the bathers had scattered beforeRoger carried his burden safe into the shoreAnd saw her emerge from the water, a placeWhere most women lose every vestige of graceOr of charm. But this mermaid seemed fairer than whenShe had challenged the glances of women and menAs she went to her bath. Now her clinging silk suitRevealed every line, from the throat to the foot,Of her beautiful form. Her arms, in their splendor,Gleamed white like wet marble. The round waist was slender,And yet not too small. From the twin perfect crestsAnd the virginlike grace of her beautiful breastsTo the exquisite limbs and the curve of her thigh,And the arch of her proud little instep, the eyeDrank in beauty. Her face was not beautiful; yetThe gaze lingered on it, for Eros had setHis seal on her features. The mouth full and weak,The blue shadow drooping from eyelid to cheekLike a stain of crushed grapes, and the pale, ardent skin,All spoke of volcanic emotions within.
By her tip tilted nose and low brow, it was plainTo read how her impulses ruled o'er her brain.She had given the chief role of life to her heart,And her intellect played but a small minor part.Her eyes were the color the sunlight revealsWhen it pierces the soft, furry coat of young seals.The thickly fringed lids seemed unwilling to rise,But drooped, half concealing them; wonderful eyes,Full of secrets and bodings of sorrow. As coarseAnd as thick as the mane of a finely groomed horseWas her bright mass of hair. The sea, with rough hands,Had made free with the braids, and unloosened the strandsTill they hung in great clusters of curls to her knees.Her voice, when she spoke, held the breadth and the breezeOf the West in its tones; and the use of theRMade the listener certain her home had been farFrom New England. Long after she vanished from viewThe eye and the ear seemed to sense her anew.There was that in her voice and her presence which hungIn the air like a strain of a song which is sungBy a singer, and then sings itself the whole day,And will hot be silenced.
As birds flock awayFrom meadow to tree branch, now there and now here,So, from beach to Casino, each day at the PierFlock the gay pleasure seekers. The balconies glowWith beauty and color. The belle and the beauPromenade in the sunlight, or sit tete-a-tete,While the chaperons gossip together. Bands play,Glasses clink; and 'neath sheltering lace parasolsThere are plans made for meeting at drives or at balls.
Roger gat at a table alone, with his glassOf mint julep before him, and watched the crowd pass.There were all sorts of people from all sorts of places.He thought he liked best the fair Baltimore faces.The South was the land of fair women, he mused,Because they were indolent. Women who usedMind or body too freely. Changed curves into angles,For beauty forever with intellect wrangles.The trend of the fair sex to-day must alarmEvery lover of feminine beauty and charm.
As he mused Roger watched with a keen interestFor a sight of his Undine. "All coiffured and drest,With her wonderful body concealed, and her hairKnotted up, well, I doubt if she seem even fair,"He soliloquized. "Ah!" the word burst from his lips,For he saw her approaching. She walked from the hipsWith an undulous motion. As graceful and freeFrom all effort as waves swinging in from the seaWere her movements. Her full molded figure seemed slightIn its close fitting gown of black cloth; and the whiteOf her cheek seemed still whiter by contrast. Her clothesWere tasteful and quiet; yet Roger MontroseKnew in some subtle manner he could not express('Tis an instinct men have in the matters of dress)That they never were made in New York. By her hatOne can oft read a woman's whole character. ThatWhich our fair Undine wore was a thing of rich lace,Flowers and ribbons like others one saw in the place.Yet the width of the brim, or the twist of its bows,Or the way it was worn made it different from those.As it drooped o'er the eyes full of mystery there,It seemed, all at once, both a menace and dare;A menace to women, a dare to the men.She bowed as she passed Roger's table; and thenTook a chair opposite, spread her shade of red silk,Called a waiter and ordered a cup of hot milk,Which she leisurely sipped. She seemed unawareOf the curious eyes she attracted. Her airWas of one quite at home, and entirely at easeWith herself, the sole person she studied to please.She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone,Without maid or escort, and nothing was knownOf her there, save the name which the register bore,"Mrs. Travers, New York." Men were mad to learn moreBut the women were distant. One can't, at such places,Accept as credentials good figures or faces.There was an unnameablesomethingaboutMrs. Travers which filled other women with doubtAnd all men with interest. Roger, blasé,Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the swayOf her strong personality, there as she satLooking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hatWith dark eyes on the sea. Few people had powerTo draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hourAs this woman had done; she was food for his mind,And he sought by his inner perceptions to findin what class she belonged. "An adventuress? No,Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think soAnd one-half of the men; but that role leaves a trace,An expression, I fail to detect in her face.Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would sayThat her sins lie before her, and not far away.She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim FateWill aid her in solving the riddle too late.Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyesThe sensuous foe to all happiness lies.As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun,Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one."
She rose and passed by him again, and her gownBrushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering downHis whole body. She left on the air as she wentA subtle suggestion of perfume; the scentWhich steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seemsFull of soft fragrant fancies and languorous dreams.She haunted the mind, though she passed from the sight.When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night,'Twas to dream of La Travers. He thought she becameA burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame.He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a start,As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart.
The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should,For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good,They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line,Night messages, couched in a cipher divine.
Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knewEven more of himself and his weaknesses. FewOf us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned outTo watch what the rest of the world is about,While the rest of the world watches us.
Roger's reasonAnd logic were clear. But his will played him treason.If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands speakMore than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was weak,Undeveloped; the second, firm jointed and long,Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong,But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble.
That morningHe looked on his dream in the light of a warningAnd made sudden plans for departure. "To goIs to fly from some folly," he said, "for I knowWhat salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyesOf a woman, can do under midsummer skiesWith a man who is wretched as I am. UnrestIs a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breastThat a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirstFor strong drink and chance games, those twin comrades accursed,Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife,Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the lifeThat alone is worth living. I need you to-day,Have pity, and love me, oh love me, I pray.I will turn once again from the bad world to you.Though false to myself, to my vows I am true."
When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sinThe devil tries harder to push it back in.And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong trackNeeds his God and his will to stand close at his back.
Through what are called accidents, Roger was lateAt the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate?The first coach was filled; he passed on to the second.That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckonedAnd said, "There's a seat, sir; the third from the lastOn your left." Roger thanked him and leisurely passedDown the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the placeIndicated. The seat held a lady, whose faceWas turned to the window. "Pray pardon me, miss"(For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is thisSeat engaged?" As he spoke, the face turned in surprise,And Roger looked into the long, languid eyesOf La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from the seat,And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweetBreath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and madeThe place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had weptOr a late, lonely vigil with memory kept.
A man who has rescued a woman from dangerOr death, does not seem to her wholly a strangerWhen next she encounters him; yet both essayedTo be formal and proper; and each of them madeThe effort a failure. The jar of a trainAt times holds a mesmeric spell for the brainAnd a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriekOf the engine compels one to lean near to speakOr to list to his neighbor. Formality fliesWith the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies.Roger led his companion to talk; and the themeWhich he chose, was herself, her life story. The dreamOf the previous night was forgotten. The charmOf the woman outweighed superstitious alarm.
When the sunlight began to play peek-a-booThrough the tunnels, which told them the journey was through,Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay BendLeft in just twenty minutes; but what a rude endTo the day's pleasant comradeship—rushing awayWith a hurried good-bye! He decided to stayOver night in the city. He was not expectedAt home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected,And almost a stranger in Gotham. He oughtTo see her safe into her doorway, he thought.At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile;"I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while,Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I sayGood-bye with reluctance."
"Perhaps, then, I mayCall and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to fallOf themselves from his lips; words he longed to recallWhen once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knewThat the one word for him to speak now, was adieu.The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested stillIn his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrillFrom the finger tips quickened his pulses.
"You mayCall to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped awayAnd left his palm lonely.
"The call must be brief,"He said to himself, with a sense of relief,As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes."Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger MontroseFrom New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine.A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine,To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain.(The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.)It was ten when he rose for departure. The roomSeemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom.The lights with their soft rosy coverings madeA glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade.The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty,And life was a rapture of love and of beauty.
God knows how it happened; they never knew how.He turned with a formal conventional bow,And some well chosen words of politeness, to go.Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snowOf her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet.In the tip of each finger he felt his heart beat,Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his own.She murmured "good-night," in a tremulous tone.White, intense, through the soft golden mist which the wineHad cast over his vision, he saw her face shine.Her low lidded eyes held a lion-like glow.You have seen sudden storms lash the ocean? You knowHow the cyclone, unheralded, rises in wrath,And leaves devastation and death in its path?So swift, sudden passion may rise in its power,And ruin and blight a whole life in an hour.Two unanchored souls in its maelstrom were whirled,Drawn down by love's undertow, lost to the world.The dark, solemn billows of night shut them in.Like corpses afloat on the ocean of sinThey must seem to their true, better selves, when againThe tide drifts them back to the notice of men.