The ardent and love-selfish husband had not Been so dear to her heart, or so close to her thought, As this weak, reckless sinner, who woke in her soul Its dominant wish—to reform and control.

(How often, alas, the reformers of earth, If they studied their purpose, would find it had birth In this thirst to control; in the poor human passion The minds and the manners of others to fashion!

We sigh o'er the heathen, we weep o'er his woes, While forcing him into our creeds and our clothes. If he adds our diseases and vices as well, Still, at least we have guided him into our hell And away from his own heathen hades. The pleasure Derived from that thought but reformers can measure.)

The thing Mabel Montrose loved best on this earth Was a sinner, and Roger but doubled his worth In her eyes when he wrote her that letter. And still When the last message came from Maurice Somerville And the bald, ugly facts, unsuspected, unguessed, Lay before her, the woman awoke in her breast, And the patient reformer gave way to the wife, Who was torn with resentment and jealousy's strife. Ah, jealousy! vain is the effort to prove Your right in the world as the offspring of love; For oftener far, you are spawned by a heart Where Cupid has never implanted a dart. Love knows you, indeed, for you serve in his train, But crowned like a monarch you royally reign Over souls wherein love is a stranger.

No thought Came to Mabel Montrose that her own life was not Free from blame. (How few women, indeed, think of this When they grieve o'er the ruin of marital bliss!) She was shocked and indignant. Pain gave her a new Role to play without study; she missed in her cue And played badly at first, was resentful and cried Against Fate for the blow it had dealt to her pride (Though she called it her love), and declared her life blighted. It is one thing, of course, for a wife to be slighted For the average folly the world calls a sin, Such as races, clubs, games; when a woman steps in The matter assumes a new color, and Mabel, Who dearly loved sinners, at first seemed unable To pardon, or ask God to pardon, the crime Of her husband; an angry disgust for a time Drove all charity out of her heart. For a thief, For a forger, a murderer, even, her grief Had been mingled with pity and pardon; the one Thing she could not forgive was the thing he had done. It was wicked, indecent, and so unrefined. To the lure of the senses her nature was blind, And her mantle of charity never had been Wide enough to quite cover that one vulgar sin.

In the letter she sent to Maurice, though she said Little more than her thanks for his kindness, he read All her tense nervous feelings between its few lines. Though we study our words, the keen reader divines What we thought while we penned them; thought odors reveal What words not infrequently seek to conceal.

Maurice read the grief, the resentment, the shame Which Mabel's heart held; to his own bosom came Stealing back, masked demurely as friendly regard, The hope of a lover—that hope long debarred. His letters grew frequent; their tone, dignified, Unselfish, and manly, appealed to her pride. Sweet sympathy mingled with praise in each line (As a gentle narcotic is stirred into wine), Soothed pain, stimulated self love, and restored her The pleasure of knowing the man still adored her.

Understand, Mabel Montrose was not a coquette, She lacked all the arts of the temptress; and yet She was young, she was feminine; love to her mind Was extreme admiration; it pleased her to find She was still, to Maurice, an ideal. A woman Must be quite unselfish, almost superhuman, And full of strong sympathy, who, in her soul, Feels no wrench when she knows she has lost all control O'er the heart of a man who once loved her.

Months passed, And Mabel accepted her burden at last And went back to her world and its duties. Her eyes, Seemed to say when she looked at you, "please sympathize, On the slight graceful form or the beautiful face. Twas a sorrow of mind, not a sorrow of heart, And the two play a wholly dissimilar part In the life of a woman.

Maurice Somerville Kept his place as good friend through sheer force of his will But his heart was in tumult; he longed for the time When, free once again from the legalized crime Of her ties, she might listen to all he would say. There was anguish, and doubt, and suspense in delay, Yet Mabel spoke never of freedom. At length He wrote her, "My will has exhausted its strength. Read the song I enclose; though my lips must be mute, The muse may at least improvise to her lute."

Song.

There was a bird as blithe as free, (Summer and sun and song) She sang by the shores of a laughing sea, And oh, but the world seemed fair to me, And the days were sweet and long.

There was a hunter, a hunter bold, (Autumn and storm and sea) And he prisoned the bird in a cage of gold, And oh, but the world grew dark and cold, And the days were sad to me.

The hunter has gone; ah, what cares he? (Winter and wind and rain) And the caged bird pines for the air and the sea, And I long for the right to set her free To sing in the sun again.

The hunter has gone with a sneer at fate, (Spring and the sea and the sun) Let the bird fly free to find her mate, Ere the year of love grow sere and late. Sweet ladye, my song is done.

Mabel's Letter to Maurice.

To the song of your muse I have listened. Oh, cease To think of me but as a friend, dear Maurice. Once a wife, a wife alway. I vowed from my heart, "For better, for worse, until death do us part." No mention was made in the service that day Of breaking my fetters if joy flew away. "For better, for worse," a vow lightly spoken, When Fate brings the "worse," how lightly 'tis broken!

The "worse," in my case, is the worst fate can give. Tho' I shrank from the blow, I must bear it and live, Not for self, but for duty; nor strive to evade Fulfilling the promise I willingly made. While Roger has sinned, and his sinning would be, In the eyes of the law, proof to render me free, It was God heard my vows and the Church sealed the bond. Until one of us passes to death's dim beyond, Though seas and though sins may divide us for life, We are bound to each other as husband and wife. In God's Court of Justice divorce is a word Which falls without import or meaning when heard; And the women who cast off old fetters that way, To give place to the new, on the great Judgment Day Must find, in the last summing up, that they stand Side by side, in God's eyes, with the Magdalene band. Dear Maurice, be my brother, my counselor, friend. We are lonely without you and Ruth, at Bay Bend. Come sometimes and brighten our lives; put away The thoughts which are making you restless to-day And give me your strong noble friendship; indeed 'Tis a friend that I crave, not a lover I need.

Maurice to Mabel.

You write like a woman, and one, it is plain, Whose sentiment hangs like a cloud o'er her brain. You gaze through a sort of traditional mist, And behold a mirage of God's laws which exist But in fancy. God made but one law—it is love. A law for the earth, and the kingdoms above, A law for the woman, a law for the man, The base and the spire of His intricate plan Of existence. All evils the world ever saw Had birth in man's breaking away from this law. God cancels a marriage when love flies away. "Till death do us part" should be altered to say, "Till disgust or indifference part us." I know You never loved Roger, my heart tells me so.

He won you, I claim, through a mesmeric spell; You dreamed of an Eden, and wakened in hell. You pitied his weakness, you struggled to save him, He paid with a crime the devotion you gave him. And the blackest of insults relentlessly hurled At your poor patient heart in the gaze of the world. In God's mighty ledger the stroke of a pen Has been drawn through your record of marriage. Though men Call you wedded I hold you are widowed. Why cling To the poor, empty, meaningless form of a thing— To the letter, devoid of all spirit? God never Intended a woman to hopelessly sever Herself from all possible joy, or to make True faithfulness suffer for faithlessness' sake. When I think of your wrongs, when I think of my woes, That black word divorce like a bright planet glows In the skies of the future. Oh, Mabel, be fair To yourself and to me. For the years of despair I have suffered you owe me some recompense, surely. The heart that has worshipped so long and so purely Ought not to be slighted for mere sentiment. We must live as our century bids us. Its bent Is away from the worn ruts of thought. Where of old The life of a woman was run in the mold Of man's wishes and passions, to-day she is free; Free to think and to act; free to do and to be What she pleases. The poor, pining victim of fate And man's cruelty, long ago went out of date. In the mansion of Life there were some things askew, Which the strong hand of Progress has righted. The new, Better plan puts old notions of sex on the shelf. Who is true to a knave, is untrue to herself. Oh, be true to yourself, and have pity on one Who has long dwelt in shadow and pines for the sun. Love, starving on memories, begs for one taste Of sweet hope, ere the remnant of youth goes to waste.

Mabel to Maurice.

You write like a man who sees self as his goal. You speak of your woes—yet my travail of soul Seems mere sentiment to you. Maurice, pause and think Of the black, bitter potion life gave me to drink When I dreamed of love's nectar. Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is proffered anew. A certain respect to my sorrows is due. I am weary of love as men know it. The calm Of a sweet, tranquil friendship would act like a balm On the wounds of my heart; that platonic regard, Which we read of in books, or hear sung by the bard, But so seldom can find when we want it. I thought, For a time, you had conquered mere self, and had brought Such a friendship to comfort and rest me. But no, That dream, like full many another, must go. The love that is based on attraction of sex Is a love that has brought me but sorrow. Why vex My poor soul with the same thing again? If you love With a higher emotion, you know how to prove And sustain the assertion by conduct. Maurice, Love must rise above passion, to infinite peace And serenity, ere it is love, to my mind. For the women of earth, in the ranks of mankind There are too many lovers and not enough friends. 'Tis the friend who protects, 'tis the lover who rends. He who can be a friend while he would be a lover Is the rarest and greatest of souls to discover. Have I found, dear Maurice, such a treasure in you? If not, I must say with this letter—adieu.

As he finished the letter there seemed but one phrase To the heart of the reader. It shone on his gaze Bright with promise and hope. "Too fresh is the taste Of its gall on my lip for my heart in such haste To reach out for the cup that is offered anew." "In such haste." Ah, how hope into certainty grew As he read and re-read that one sentence. "Let fate Take the whole thing in charge, I can wait—I can wait. I have lived through the night; though the dawn may be gray And belated, it heralds the coming of day." So he talked with himself, and grew happy at last. The five hopeless years of his sorrow were cast Like a nightmare behind him. He walked once again With a joy in his personal life, among men. There seemed to be always a smile on his lip, For he felt like a man on the deck of a ship Who has sailed through strange seas with a mutinous crew, And now in the distance sights land just in view.

The house at Bay Bend was re-opened. Once more, Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England shore, Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with the tip Of his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip, Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boy With the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joy She said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!), There was naught in her modest and womanly air To feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grew Like an air plant, with only the night and the dew To sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend, Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend, Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone, Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own, Were congenial to Mabel. Though looking the sweet, Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete, Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair brow Lurked an obstinate purpose to make others bow To herself in small matters. She fully believed She was right, always right; and her friends were deceived, As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyes Held a look of such innocent grief and surprise When her will was opposed, that one felt her misused, And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused.

The days, like glad children, went hurrying out From the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the same route More sedately; a year, then two years, passed away, Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay, As a gem in the bed of a river might lie, Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by. His toil for the poor still continued, but not With that fervor of zeal which a dominant thought Lends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his mind, While the corners were left for his suffering kind. He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad, And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad. His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare; She ordered her life with such prudence and care Lest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And yet, Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, would fret Sometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he felt Keen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dwelt Within view of his high turret window. Each day Which gave him a glimpse of her, love laid away As a poem in life's precious folio. Night Held her face like a picture, dream-framed for his sight. So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the while Fate sat looking on with a cynical smile.



IX.

SONGS FROM THE TURRET.

I.

In the day my thoughts are tender When I muse on my ladye fair. There is never one to offend her, For each is pure as a prayer. They float like spirits above her, About her and always near; And they scarce dare sigh that they love her, Because she would blush to hear.

But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder; And close to my lips of fire, I reach out my arms and enfold her, My ladye, my heart's desire. And she who, in earthly places, Seems cold as the stars above, Unmasks in those fair dream spaces And gives me love for love.

Oh day, with your thoughts of duty Cross over the sunset streams, And give me the night of beauty And love in the Land of Dreams. For there in the mystic, shady, Fair isle of the Slumber Sea, I read the heart of my ladye That here she hides from me.



II.

Some day, some beauteous day, Joy will come back again. Sorrow must fly away.

Hope, on her harp will play The old inspiring strain Some day, some beauteous day.

Through the long hours I say, "The night must fade and wane, Sorrow must fly away."

The morn's bewildering ray Shall pierce the night of rain, Some day, some beauteous day.

Autumn shall bloom like May, Delight shall spring from pain; Sorrow must fly away.

Though on my life, grief's gray Bleak shadow long hath lain, Some day, some beauteous day, Sorrow must fly away.



III.

When love is lost, the day sets toward the night. Albeit the morning sun may still be bright, And not one cloud ship sails across the sky. Yet from the places where it used to lie, Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.

No splendor rests on any mountain height, No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight. All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye, When love is lost.

Love lends to life its grandeur and its might, Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight. Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, And grief's one happy thought is that we die. Ah! what can recompense us for its flight, When love is lost.



IV.

Life is a ponderous lesson book, and Fate The teacher. When I came to love's fair leaf My teacher turned the page and bade me wait. "Learn first," she said, "love's grief"; And o'er and o'er through many a long to-morrow She kept me conning that sad page of sorrow.

Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain. Now the great book of life I know by heart. In that one lesson of love's loss and pain Fate doth the whole impart. For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measure The beauteous unsealed summits of love's pleasure.

Now, with the book of life upon her knee, Fate sits! the unread page of love's delight By her firm hand is half concealed from me, And half revealed to sight. Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow, Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow.



V.

If I were a rain drop, and you were a leaf, I would burst from the cloud above you And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest, And love you, love you, love you.

If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose, I would fly to you, love, nor miss you; I would sip and sip from your nectared lip, And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you.

If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook, Ah, what would I do then, think you? I would kneel by your bank, in the grasses dank, And drink you, drink you, drink you.



VI.

Time owes me such a heavy debt, How can he ever make things right? For suns that with no promise set To help me greet the morning light,

For dreams that no fruition met, For joys that passed from bud to blight, Time owes me such a heavy debt; How can he ever make things right?

For passions balked, with strain and fret Of hopes delayed, or perished quite, For kisses that I did not get On many a love impelling night, Time owes me such a heavy debt; How can he ever make things right?



VII.

As the king bird feeds on the heart of the bee, So would I feed on the sweets of thee.

As the south wind kisses the leaf at will, From the leaf of thy lips I would drink my fill.

As the sun pries into the heart of a rose, I would pry in thy heart, and its thoughts disclose.

As a dewdrop mirrors the loving sky, I would see myself in thy tear wet eye.

As the deep night shelters the day in its arms, I would hide thee, dear, from the world's alarms.



VIII.

Now do I know how Paradise doth seem, Now do I know the deep red depths of hell. Swift from those fair supernal heights I fell To burning flames of hades, in a dream. Methought my ladye rested by a stream Which rippled through the verdure of a dell. She lay like Eve; dear God, I dare not tell Of her perfections; of the glow and gleam Of tinted flesh, and undulating hair, Of sudden thigh, and sweetly rounded breast. Then, like a cloud, he came, from God knows where, And on her eyes and mouth mad kisses pressed. I fell, and fell, through leagues of scorching space, And always saw his lips upon her face.

IX.

Love is the source of all supreme delight, Love is the bitter fountain of despair; Who follows Love shall stand upon the height, Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there.

Courage needs he who would with bold Love fare, Let him set forth with all his strength bedight; Yet in his heart this song to banish care— "Love is the source of all supreme delight."

And he must sing this song both day and night, Though he be led down shadowy pathways where Black waters moan, through valleys struck with blight, "Love is the bitter fountain of despair."

Let him be brave, and bravely let him dare Whate'er betide, and feel no coward fright. Who shares the worst, the best deserves to share; Who follows Love shall stand upon the height.

Ah! sweet is peace to those who faced the fight, And bright the crown those faithful ones shall wear, Who whispered, when the shadows veiled their sight, "Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there."

To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair, His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right. All joys lie waiting on his winding stair; All ways, ail paths of Love lead to the light. Love is the source.



X.

My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, Wherein I gaze with silent yearning; Deep in their depths my future dwells. My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, But not one sign my fate foretells, While my poor heart with love is burning. My ladye's eyes are wishing wells, Wherein I gaze with silent yearning.



XI.

Three things my ladye seemeth like to me— She seems like moonlight on a waveless sea.

And like the delicate fragrance, which exhales, When Day's warm garments brush the dewy vales.

And when my heart grows weary of earth's sound, She seems like silence—restful and profound.



XII.

The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender, Has burst in a star bloom, full and white. The air is filled with a perfume tender, The breath that blows from that garden height. Yet moments lag that should take their flight On wings, like the wings of a homing dove, And the world goes wrong where it should go right, For this is a night that is lost to love.

Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her Dower of wealth in a single night, The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor, Enriching the world with her silver light. She flings on the crest of each billow a bright Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above. But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight, "This is a night that is lost to love."

Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her Way through the skies in royal might, Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender And the faithful love of a life requite. For the moon was made for a lover's delight; And grayer than gloom must its luster prove To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight, "This is a night that is lost to love."

L'Envoi.

Fate, have pity upon my plight, And the heart of my lady to mercy move. For the saddest words that youth can write Are, "This is a night that is lost to love."



XIII.

As the waves of the outgoing sea Leave the rocks and the drift wood bare, When your thoughts are for others than me, My heart is the strand of despair— Beloved, Where bleak suns glare, And Joy, like a desolate mourner, gropes In the wrecks of broken hopes.

As the incoming waves of the sea, The rocks and the sandbar hide, When your thoughts flow back to me, My heart leaps up on the tide— Beloved, Where my glad hopes ride With joy at the wheel, and the sun above In a glorious sky of love.



XIV.

There was a bard all in the olden time, When bards were men to whom the world gave ear, And song an art the great gods deemed sublime, Who sought to make his willful lady hear By weaving strange new melodies of rhyme, Which voiced his love, his sorrow, and his fear.

Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear, Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time. Ah! would that I had skill to weave a rhyme Worthy to win the favor of thine ear. Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hear And smile, my song would seem to me sublime.

But ah! too vast, too awful and sublime, Is my great passion, born of grief and fear, To clothe in verse. Why, if the world could hear And understand my love, then for all time, So long as there was sound or listening ear, All space would ring and echo with my rhyme.

Such passion seems belittled by a rhyme— It needs the voice of nature. The sublime, Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear, And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear, The weird, wild winds of equinoctial time; These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear.

And listening at the flood tides, thou might'st hear The love I bear thee surging through the rhyme Of breaking billows, many a moon full time. Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime, When every wave but voiced the anguished fear Of my man's heart to thy unconscious ear.

Vain, then, the hope that thou wilt lend thine ear To any song of mine, or deign to hear My lays of longing or my strains of fear. Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme, Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime, Which wins thy gracious favor for all time.

Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear, Though in her ear love sings a song sublime, And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear.



Bright like the comforting blaze on the hearth, Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree, Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be Are the home-keeping maidens of earth.

Better and greater than talent is worth, And where is the glory of brush or of pen Like the glory of mothers and molders of men— The home-keeping women of earth?

Crowned since the great solar system had birth, They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere. They are queens who can look in God's face without fear— The home-keeping women of earth.



X.

A man whose mere name was submerged in the sea Of letters which followed it, B. A., M. D., And Minerva knows what else, held forth at Bellevue On what he believed some discovery new In medical Science (though, mayhap, a truth That was old in Confucius' earliest youth), And a bevy of bright women students sat near, Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear.

Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view. Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas! you Whose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek, Danger signals—if some luckless boor chanced to speak The words "leg" or "liver" before you, I think Your gray ashes, even, would deepen to pink Should your ghost happen into a clinic or college Where your granddaughters congregate seeking for knowledge. Forced to listen to what they are eager to hear, No doubt you would fancy the world out of gear, And deem modesty dead, with last century belles.

Honored ghosts, you, would err! for true modesty dwells In the same breast with knowledge, and takes no offense. Truth never harmed anything yet but pretense.

There are fashions in modesty; what in your time Had been deemed little less than an absolute crime In matters of dress, or behavior, to-day Is the custom. And however daring you may Deem our manners and modes, yet, were facts fully known, Our morals compare very well with your own.

The women composing the class at Bellevue Were young—under thirty; some pleasing to view, Some plain. Roman features prevailed, with brown hair, But one was so feminine, soft eyed and fair That she seemed out of place in a clinic, as though A rose in a vegetable garden should grow. While her face was intelligent, none would avow That cold intellect dwelt on that fair oval brow, Or looked out of the depths of those golden gray eyes, The color of smoke against clear, sunny skies. 'Twas a warm woman face, made for fireside nooks, Not a face to be bent over medical books. There was nothing aggressive in features or form; She was meant for still harbors, and not for the storm And the strife of rude waters. The swell of her breast Suggested love's sweet downy cushion of rest For the cheeks of fair children. Her plump little hands, Seemed fashioned for sewing small gussets and bands And fussing with laces and ribbons, instead Of cutting cold flesh and dissecting the dead. And yet, as a student she ranked with the first. But conscience, in labor once chosen, not thirst For such knowledge, had spurred her to action. This day She seemed inattentive, her air was distrait, As if thought had slipped free of the bridle and rein And galloped away over memory's plain.

It was true; it was strange, too, but there in the class, While the learned man was talking, her mind seemed to pass Out, away from the clinic, away from the town, To a New England midsummer garden close down By the salt water's edge; and she felt the wind blowing Among her loose locks as she leaned o'er her sewing, While the voice of a man stirred her heart into song. She was called from her dream by the clang of the gong Which foretells an arrival at Bellevue. The class Was dismissed for the day. In the hall, forced to pass By the stretcher (low brougham of misery), she Whom we know was Ruth Somerville, looked down to see The white, haggard face of the man whom her mind Had strayed off in a waking day vision to find But a moment before.

The wild, passionate cry Which arose in her heart, was held back, nor passed by The white sentinels set on her lip. The serene, Lofty look which deep feeling controlled gives the mien Marked her air as she turned to the surgeon and said: "This man lying here, either dying or dead, Was a classmate, at Yale, of my brother's; my friend Is his wife. Let me stay by his side to the end, If the end has not come."

It was Roger Montrose, Grown old with his sins and grown gaunt with his woes, Lying low in his manhood before her.

His eyes Opened slowly; a wondering look of surprise Met the soft orbs above him. "Ruth—Ruth Somerville," He said feebly. "Tell Mabel"—then sighed, and was still.

But it was not the stillness of death. There was life In that turbulent heart yet; that heart torn with strife, Scarred with passion, and wracked by the pangs of remorse. "Death's swift leaden messenger missed in its course By the breadth of a hair," said the surgeon. "The ball Lies in there by the shoulder. His chances are small For a new start on earth. While a sober man might Hope to conquer grim Death in this hand-to-hand fight, Here old Alcohol stands as Death's second, fierce, cruel, And stronger than Life's one aid, skill, in the duel. You tell me the wife of this man is your friend? He was shot by a woman, who then made an end Of her own life. I hope it was not——" "Oh, no—no, Not his wife," Ruth replied, "for he left her to go With this other, his victim—poor creature—they say She was good till she met him. Ah! what a black way For love's rose scented path to lead down to, and end. God pity her, pity her." "Her, not your friend? Not his wife?"

There was gentle reproof in the tone Of the staid old physician. Ruth's eyes met his own In brave, silent warfare; the blue and the gray Again faced each other in battle array.

Ruth:

I pity the woman who suffered. His wife Goes her way well contented. Love was in her life But an incident; while to this other, dear God, It was all; on what sharp, burning ploughshares she trod, Down what chasms she leaped, how she tossed the whole world, Like a dead rose, behind her, to lie and be whirled In the maelstrom of love for one moment. Ah, brief Is the rapture such souls find, and long is their grief, Black their sin, blurred their record, and scarlet their shame. And yet when I think of them, sorrow, not blame, Stirs my being. Blind passion is only the weed Of fair, beautiful love. Both are sprung from one seed; One grows wild, one is trained and directed. Condemn The hand that neglected—but ah! pity them.

Surgeon:

You speak with much feeling. But now, if the friends Of this man are to see him before his life ends I recommend action on your part. His stay On this planet, I fear, will be finished to-day. A man who neglects and abuses his wife, Who gives her at best but the dregs of his life, In the hey day of health, when he's drained his last cup Has a fashion of wanting to settle things up. Craves forgiveness, and hopes with a few final tears To wash out the sins and the insults of years. Call your friend; bid her hasten, lest lips that are dumb, Having wasted life's feast, shall refuse her death's crumb.

Ruth:

There are souls to whom crumbs are sufficient, at least They seem not to value love's opulent feast. They neglect, they ignore, they abuse, or destroy What to some poor starved life had been earth's rarest joy. 'Tis a curious fact that love's banqueting table Full often is spread for the guest the least able To do the feast justice. The gods take delight In offering crusts to the starved appetite And rich fruits, to the sated or sickly.

The eyes Of the surgeon were fixed on Ruth's face with a wise Knowing look in their depths, and he said to himself, "There's a mystery here which young Cupid, sly elf, Could account for. I judge by her voice and her face That the wife of this man holds no very warm place In Miss Somerville's heart, though she names her as friend. Ah, full many a drama has come to an end 'Neath the walls of Bellevue, and the curtain will fall On one actor to-night; though the audience call, He will make no response, once he passes from view, For Death is the prompter who gives him the cue."

The wisest minds err. When a clergyman tries To tell a man where he will go when he dies, Or when a physician makes bold to aver Just the length of a life here, both usually err. So it is not surprising that Roger, at dawn, Sat propped up by pillows, still haggard and wan, But seemingly stronger, and eager to tell His story to Ruth ere the death shadows fell.

"If I go before Mabel can reach me," he sighed, "Tell her this: that my heart was all hers when I died, Was all hers while I lived. Ah! I see how you start, But that other—God pity her—not with my heart, But my sensual senses I loved her. The fire Of her glance blinded men to all things save desire. It called to the beast chained within us. Her lips Held the nectar that makes a man mad when he sips. Her touch was delirium. In the fierce joys Of her kisses there lurked the fell curse which destroys All such rapture—satiety. When passion dies, And the mind finds no pleasure, the spirit no ties To replace it, disgust digs its grave. Ay! disgust Is ever the sexton who buries dead lust.

When two people wander from virtue's straight track, One always grows weary and longs to go back. Well, I wearied. God knows how I struggled to hide The truth from the poor, erring soul at my side. And God knows how I hated my life when I first Found that passion's mad potion had palled on my thirst. Once false to my virtues, now false to my sin, I seemed less to myself than I ever had been. We parted. This bullet hole here in my breast Proceeds with the story and tells you the rest. She smiled, I remember, in saying adieu: Then two swift, sharp reports—and I woke in Bellevue With one ball in my breast.

Ruth:

And the other in hers. No more with wild sorrow that sad bosom stirs. She is dead, sir, the woman you led to her ruin.

Roger:

The woman led me. Ah! not all the undoing In these matters lies at man's door. In the mind Of full many a so-called chaste woman we find Unchaste longings. The world heaps on man its abuse When he woos without wedding; yet women seduce And betray us; they lure us and lead us to shame; As they share in the sin, let them share in the blame.

Ruth:

Hush! the woman is dead.

Roger:

And I dying. But truth Is not changed by the death of two people! Oh, Ruth, Be just ere you judge me! the death of my child Half unbalanced my reason; weak, wretched and wild With drink and with sorrows, the devil's own chance Flung me down by the side of a woman whose glance Was an opiate, lulling the conscience. I fell, With the woman who tempted me, down to dark hell. In the honey of sin hides the sting of the bee. The honey soon sated—the sting stayed with me. Like a damned soul I looked from my Hades, above To the world I had left, and I craved the pure love That but late had seemed cold, unresponsive. Her eyes, Mabel's eyes, shone in dreams from the far distant skies Of the lost world of goodness and virtue. Like one Who is burning with thirst 'neath a hot desert sun, I longed for her kiss, cool, reluctant, but pure. Ah! man's love for good women alone can endure, For virtue is God, the Eternal. The rest Is but chaos. The worst must give way to the best. Tell Mabel—Ruth, Ruth, she is here, oh thank God.

She stood, like a violet sprung from the sod, By his bedside; pale, beautiful, dewy with tears. The spectre of death bridged the chasm of years: He sighed on her bosom. "Forgive, oh forgive!" She kissed his pale forehead and answered him: "Live, Live, my husband! oh plead with the angels to stay Until God, too, has pardoned your sins. Let us pray."

Ruth slipped from the room all unnoticed. She seemed Like a sleeper who wakens and knows he has dreamed And is dazed with reality. On, as if led By some presence unseen, to the inn of the dead She passed swiftly; the pale silent guest whom she sought Lay alone on her narrow and unadorned cot. No hand had placed blossoms about her; no tear Of love or of sorrow had hallowed that bier. The desperate smile life had left on her face Death retained; but he touched, too, her brow with a grace And a radiance, subtle, mysterious. Under The half drooping lids lay a look of strange wonder, As if on the sight of those sorrowing eyes The unexplored country had dawned with surprise.

The pure, living woman leaned over the dead, Lovely sinner, and kissed her. "God rest you," she said. "Poor suffering soul, you were forged in that Source Where the lightnings are fashioned. Love guided, your force Would have been like a current of life giving joys, And not like the death dealing bolt which destroys. Oh, shame to the parents who dared give you birth, To live and to love and to suffer on earth, With the serious lessons of life unexplained, And your passionate nature untaught and untrained. You would not lie here in your youth and your beauty If your mother had known what was motherhood's duty. The age calls to woman, "Go, broaden your lives," While for lack of good mothers the Potter's Field thrives. But you, poor unfortunate, you shall not lie In that dust heap of death; while the summers roll by You shall sleep where green hillsides are kissed by the wave, And the soft hand of pity shall care for your grave.



XI.

Ruth's Letter to Maurice, Six Months Later.

The springtime is here in our old home again, Which again you have left. Oh, most worthy of men, Why grieve for unworthiness? Why waste your life For a woman who never was meant for a wife? Mabel Lee has no love in her nature. Your heart Would have starved in her keeping. She plays her new part, As the faithful, forgiving, sweet spouse, with content. I think she is secretly glad Roger went Astray for a season. She stands up still higher On her pedestal, now, for Bay Bend to admire. She is pleased with herself. As for Roger, he trots Like a lamb in her wake, with the blemishing spots Of his sins washed away by the Church. Oh I seem To myself, in these days, like one waked from a dream To blessed reality. Off in the Bay I saw a fair snowy sailed ship yesterday. The masts shone like gold, and the furrowed waves laughed, To be beat into foam by the beautiful craft. But close in the harbor I saw the ship lying; What seemed like the wings of a sea gull when flying, Were weather stained sheets; there were no masts of gold, And the craft was uncleanly, unseaworthy, old. Well, the man whom I loved, and loved vainly, and whom I fancied had shadowed my whole life with gloom, Has been shown to my sight like that ship in the Bay, And all my illusions have vanished away. The man is by nature weak, selfish, unstable. I think if some woman more loving than Mabel, More tender, more tactful, less painfully good, Had directed his home-life, perchance Roger would Have evolved his best self, that pure atom of God, Which lies deep in each heart like a seed in the sod. 'Tis the world's over-virtuous women, ofttimes, Who drive men of weak will into sexual crimes. I pity him. (God knows I pity, each, all Of the poor striving souls who grope blindly and fall By the wayside of life.) But the love which unbidden Crept into my heart, and was guarded and hidden For years, that has vanished. It passed like a breath, In the gray Autumn morning when Roger faced death, As he thought, and uncovered his heart to my sight. Like a corpse, resurrected and brought to the light, Which crumbles to ashes, the love of my youth Crumbled off into nothingness. Ah, it is truth; Love can die! You may hold it is not the true thing, Not the genuine passion, which dies or takes wing; But the soil of the heart, like the soil of the earth, May, at varying times of the seasons, give birth To bluebells, and roses, and bright goldenrod. Each one is a gift from the garden of God, Though it dies when its season is over. Why cling To the withered dead stalk of the blossoms of spring Through a lifetime, Maurice? It is stubbornness only, Not constancy, which makes full many lives lonely. They want their own way, and, like cross children, fling Back the gifts which, in place of the lost flowers of spring, Fate offers them. Life holds in store for you yet Better things, dear Maurice, than a dead violet, As it holds better things than dead daisies for me. To Roger Montrose, let us leave Mabel Lee, With our blessing. They seem to be happy; or she Seems content with herself and her province; while he Has the look of one who, overfed with emotion, Tries a diet of spiritual health-food, devotion. He is broken in strength, and his face has the hue Of a man to whom passion has bidden adieu. He has time now to worship his God and his wife. She seems better pleased with the dregs of his life Than she was with the bead of it.

Well, let them make What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too brief And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain, Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain, Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the breath Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death. Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above The gloom and despair of unfortunate love. Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face, It loses its terrors and seems commonplace; While sorrow will follow and find if we roam. Come, help me to turn the old house into home. We have youth, health, and competence. Why should we go Out into God's world with long faces of woe? Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb, Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come. Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes, For the world needs the happy far more than the wise. I am one of the women whose talent and taste Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste Of time and intention; but no woman can Make a house seem a home without aid of a man. He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life. Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife, Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear brother), Let us bury old corpses and live for each other. You will write, and your great heart athrob through your pen Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again. Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill, And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skill. (Once a wife, I will drop from my name the M. D. I hold it the truth that no woman can be An excellent wife and an excellent mother, And leave enough purpose and time for another Profession outside. And our sex was not made To jostle with men in the great marts of trade. The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere, Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear. They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed; Forgetting the army of men unemployed.

The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled, Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world. And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes, Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times. The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good wives, The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives To be everything else but domestic. God's plan Was for woman to rule the whole world, through a man. There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact Can not do without personal effort or act. She needs but infuse lover, husband or son With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done. Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause, And fancies himself the sole maker of laws. Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder. Yet this is the law: Who can love, can command.) But I wander too far from the subject in hand, Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I find More need every day of your counseling mind. I work well in harness, but poorly alone. Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own, Let us labor together. I see many ways, Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days. Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives, While I will look after their daughters and wives, And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed, It is knowledge like this which the poor people need, Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them to think, While I show them what they can eat and can drink With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice. Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here; Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near.



XII.

Maurice's Letter to Ruth:

No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice, And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the dice Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, I know My lot must be homeless. The gods will it so.

I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above, Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control The course of all things from the moat to the soul.

The river may envy the peace of the pond, But law drives it out to the ocean beyond. If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land, It follows the way which the Forces have planned.

So man is directed. His only the choice To help or to hinder—to weep or rejoice. But vain is refusal—and vain discontent, For at last he must walk in the way that was meant.

My way leads through shadow, alone to the end I must work out my karma, and follow its trend. I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be, And look not for peace till I merge in God's sea.

Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain; I have climbed the last round in the ladder of pain. There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's cup And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up.

I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole. The best part of love is in loving. My soul Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give And to ask no return, is my lot while I live.

Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes? Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise. Such love may be madness, was love ever sane? Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain.

Love goes where it must go, and in its own season. Love cannot be banished by will or by reason. Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave. I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave.

So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust, To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust, Because the swift foot of a messenger trod Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod?

What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme? Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream, God's messengers speed all unseen on their way, And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day.

No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind, Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind. Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise, Swing the tides of the sea—set a star in the skies?

Can man fling a million of worlds into space, To whirl on their orbits with system and grace? Can he color a sunset, or create a seed, Or fashion one leaf of the commonest weed?

Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall? Then how dare he question the Force which does all? Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand, All, all must be right, could our souls understand.

Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide. But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies, The Maker of stars and of seas he denies!

I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past; I have learned the true secret of living at last. It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know That the one thing God wishes of man—is to grow.

Growth, growth out of self, back to him—the First Cause: Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws. Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?

Does the star long to shine, when He tells it to set, As the heart would remember when told to forget? Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low, As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?

In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows, While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows. With patient persistence they steadily climb, And the flame will be quenched in the passage of time.

My heart is the crater, my will is the snow, Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow. When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain, And that is the goal which I seek to attain.

I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent; In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content. Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth, When God, the first laborer, fashioned the earth.

The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf, But souls who have sought to eliminate self. Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind? We must better ourselves ere we better our kind.

There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all, Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall. Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need.

For vain is the effort to give man content By clothing his body, by paying his rent. The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs; Who seeks to serve God by such charity errs.

Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind, And the body soon cares for itself, you will find. First, faith in God's wisdom, then purpose and will, And, like mist before sunlight, shall vanish each ill.

To the far realm of Wisdom there lies a short way. To find it we need but the password—Obey. Obey like the acorn that falls to the sod, To rise, through the heart of the oak tree, to God.

Though slow be the rising, and distant the goal, Serenity waits at the end for each soul. I seek it. Not backward, but onward I go, And since sorrow means growth, I will welcome my woe.

In the ladder of lives we are given to climb, Each life counts for only a second of time. The one thing to do in the brief little space, Is to make the world glad that we ran in the race.

No soul should be sad whom the Maker deemed worth The great gift of song as its dower at birth. While I pass on my way, an invisible throng Breathes low in my ear the new note of a song.

So I am not alone; for by night and by day These mystical messengers people my way. They bid me to hearken, they bid me be dumb And to wait for the true inspiration to come.



THE END.



BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

Poems of Passion.

Maurine and Other Poems.

Poems of Pleasure.

How Salvator Won and Other Poems.

Custer and Other Poems.

Men, Women and Emotions. (Prose.)

The Beautiful Land of Nod. (Poems, songs and stories.)

W. B. CONKEY COMPANY, CHICAGO.