k MISS GARDNER'S NOVELS. NEW EDITIONS, JUST PUBLISHED. 1.— STOLEN WATERS—" Stolen Waters are Sweet.". $1.50 2.— BROKEN DREAMS— A Novel in Verse 1.50 3.— TESTED.— A Story of Woman's Constancy 1.50 4.— RICH MIDWAY'S TWO LOVES 1.50 5.— A WOMAN'S WILES 1.50 r 6.— TERRACE ROSES 1.50 7.— COMPENSATION— A Story in Verse 1.50 8.— A TWISTED SKEIN— A Story in Terse— {New) 1.50 All published uniform with this volume, and sent free by mail, on receipt of price, BY G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. TWISTED SKEIN: OR, OUT OF THE TEMPEST. b X CELIA E. GAKDNEK, it AUTHOR OP "STOLEN ¥ATEE S," " BROKEN DREAMS," " TESTED,' 1 ETC., ETC. M Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues, and have no thought Each of the other's being, and no heed ; And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death, And all unconsciously shape every act, And bend each wandering step to this one end : That one day, out of darkness, they shall meet, And read life's meaning in each other's eyes." *& NEW YORK Copyright, 1581, by G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers. LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCCCLXXXI. 7T Stereotyped by Samuel Stodder, Trow Electrottper & Stereotypes, Printing and Book-Binding Co. 90 Ann Street, N. Y. N. Y. TO Jtttnnie, MY SISTER, COMPANION, FRIEND. IN REMEMBRANCE OP COMMON SORROWS, AND COMMON JOYS— THE SOMBRE AND GOLDEN THREADS TWINED THROUGH OUR UNITED LIVES,— THIS "TWISTED SKEIN," WITH THE AUTHOR'S UNCHANGING LOVE. 1881. C. E. G. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Prelude 9 II. The Arrival 14 III. In the Library 22 IV. The Stranger's Story 26 V. The Stranger's Story Continued 50 VI. The Lady's Story , 96 VII. The Kevelation 142 VIII. Morning 180 IX. Christmas-tide 197 X. Love 216 XL Doubt 222 XII. Finale 247 A TWISTED SKEIN". PEELUDE. L L AEGE and lofty room ! From floor to ceiling books, in many a tongue ; Between the cases portraits old are huRg ; From cosy niches sculptured marble gleams ; And fitful moonlight through deep windows streams ; The corners wrapped in gloom ; Soft carpets hush each footfall on the floor ; 1* io PRELUDE. Large tables are with papers scattered o'er ; Great walnut chairs to lazy ease invite ; The windows, filled with flowers pale and bright, Are hung with curtains warm ; An easy chair is drawn before a grate TTherefrom the coals that glow, and radiate, And drop to ashes in the pan below, Send flashing out their ruddy, fitful glow Upon the slender form Of her, who, in the evening's deep'ning gloom, Sits in the half light of the dusky room, Alone, while drear without the Aumnin wind Rattles and taps at casement, door, and blind, With sigh, and shriek, and moan — A moment lulling, then, with blast more loud, Driving before its breath each angry cloud Against the sky so threateningly piled, Freighted with Autumn temr>est fierce and wild ; — PRELUDE. it With the drear night, alone ! Lone, in the sumptuous home she calls her own ; In this great world, so full of love, alone ! II. A winning, fair-browed face ! Rich, heavy braids of waving chestnut hair ; Soft cheeks, youth's roses bright still ling'ring there ; Eyes, sad and wistful, large, and brown, and deep ; A mouth with proud, imperious curve and sweep ; A form of lightsome grace, Dark-robed, and drooping in the great, deep chair ; Her round chin resting in her palm so fair ; i2 PRELUDE. While over her the flick'ring firelight streams, Touching the brow and cheek with loving gleams ; And now and then a ray Of silv'ry moonlight faintly struggles through The murky clouds that veil the star-gemmed blue And with an effort to dispel its gloom, Creeps for a moment in the darksome room, Through curtains drawn away. "While in the hall a clock of ancient days, Tolls one, and two, and three, and four, nor stays Till, in the hush of old Boreas' knell, Twelve deep vibrations, slow and solemn, swell Upon the midnight air. Then swift the pennons of the brooding storm — As though the pealing notes had struck to warn The storm King of the designated hour When he should loose his mighty, pent-up power — PRELUDE. 13 Are floating every where. And with one flash from heaven's heaviest gun, One sharp report, the battle is begun. THE ARRIYAL. L IERCE roars the tempest-war ! The battle clamour, swells more near and hot ; Against the windows beats the frozen shot ; Across the skies the blazing pennons stream ; The battle trumpets shriek, and howl, and scream ; Now near, and now afar, Still comes the flash and boom, the flash and boom Of heaven's guns. And in the dusky room, One moment wrapped in deepest gloom of night, THE ARRIVAL. 15 And in the next ablaze with, livid light, The lady's shrinking form Now bends in terror by a fireless grate, When — hark ! was that the clang of massive gate, By human hand impatient fiercely shut ? And that the tramp of iron hoof ? or but The war-steeds of the storm? Tramp, tramp, tramp, TRAMP, along the grav- elled drive ! A phantom steed, if not a thing alive ! II. Still sounds the mystic prance ! A moment silenced by the fearful roar Of battle storm without — which lulls once more, 16 THE ARRIVAL. And on the drive the iron footfalls ring ; Distinctly heard each hoofs impatient fling — A pause, and then advance ! The door is reached — the clatt'ring hoof is still ! A moment's breathless hush of heart and will — And then, on oaken panels, loud and fast, Rain heavy blows. — Fierce swells the tempest- blast. Upright in easy chair The lady starts ; the while with straining ear She listens, breathless with a nameless fear. An aged servant stumbles through the hall, The massive doors unbarring, with the call "What means this din? Who's there?" The lady creeps into the darkened hall, And listens for an answer to the call ; When faintly, through the heavy, oaken doors, A distant voice in deep, wild tone implores " For God's sake, let me in ! THE ARRIVAL, 17 Through pathless woods for many a weary league, O'er hill and dale, across lone moors and bleak, Since break of day I've travelled, fast and far, And braved the might of heaven's roaring war. I pray thee, let me in !" u Unbar the door !" the lady's soft tones call ; " And lead the faithful steed to sheltered stall." ! III. Back swings the oaken door. The old man's torch lights up the dusky hall, As from the gloom without a figure tall, With cap drawn low, and muffled to the chin In dripping garments, hastily stalks in. Upon the marble floor 18 THE ARRIVAL. His spurred heel rings ; and in his dark-gloved hand A jewelled whip is held. Used to command The deep low voice in which he speaks again : " My faith ! a fearful storm ! this frozen rain Cuts to the very bone. I lost my way just after night came down, And thus was forced to bear the tempest's frown. Rejoiced at last I reached your massive gate. God pity every traveler, who, belate, Must breast this storm alone ! The war of elements, although sublime, Proves fatal to the houseless wretch in time. 55 TV. The torch, with silver sheen, Lights up alone the outer vestibule, THE ARRIVAL. 19 But on the stalwart stranger glances full, While from the farther end of dusky hall, The lady gazes on the figure tall, Herself unknown, unseen. She marks the tow'ring form, the bearing high, low, deep tones, the flashing eagle eye. Then glides along the echoing marble floor, Nor speaks, nor pauses till she stands before The wond'ring stranger there. Surprised he gazes on the girlish form, In heavy sable robes ; the face so warm ; The lustrous, soul-lit eyes of chestnut brown ; The proud, sweet mouth ; the regal brow, with crown Of braided, gold-brown hair. Then bowing low before the lady fair, His cap he raises from his dripping hair, And says, in tones with def rence gentle made : " I crave your pardon, lady, for this raid 20 THE ARRIVAL. Upon your lonely hall. The night is black as raven's dripping plume ; The tempest roars like trump of final doom ; So let the storm that rages fierce without Excuse, I pray, my clamour — blow and shout — This forced, untimely call. And let your kindness grant the boon I crave, A friendly shelter while the storm shall rave." V. The lady makes response With gentle dignity, and gracious smile — Her curious gaze regarding him the while — " You're welcome, sir, to this, my ' lonely hall/ And pardoned for your ' forced, untimely call.' Rest easy, for the nonce. And John, bring lights to brighten up the gloom THE ARRIVAL. 21 "Which fills the corners of yon darksome room, Save when the lightning's fitful, lurid glare Creeps in, and lingers for a moment there. I pray, sir, come at once ! " Back to the empty room she leads the way ; The stranger following with brief delay. IN THE LIBRARY. I. EIGHT roars the new-born fire. Within the cheerful open grate piled high, The coals in golden brightness glowing lie, Across two figures send their ruddy rays, And dance and flash in blue and crimson blaze. The flames leap high, and higher. Bright lights from dusky corners chase the gloom ; With lustrous radiance fill the lofty room ; Glance on the rich-bound books that line the wall; IN THE LIBRARY. 23 On pictures fair, on flow'rs and statues fall ; On curtains warm and red. Then racing down the fine apartment's length, Throw into strong relief the manly strength, The stalwart form, the bearing proud and high, Of him who shows in every flash of eye, Each bend of haughty head, His admiration for the woman fair, Who sits in graceful ease in easy chair, A picture of unconscious girlish grace In pose and figure, smiling, fair-browed face, And proud, yet gracious mien. With beautifying touch the firelight's sheen Lights up each detail of the witching scene ; With rosy flushes paints the fair, soft cheek, And turns to gold the banded braids so sleek With every fire-flash keen. The stranger's sense the picture so enchants His heart he's losing with each ling'ring glance. 24 IN THE LIBRARY. II. And still the storm doth moan ! Still howls the wind in dreary wildness past ; The icy rain falls thicker and more fast ; The thunder rolls with loud unceasing din ; And luridly the lightning's glare shoots in ; The while with air and tone Of graceful def'rence for the lady fair Who sits so near him in her easy chair, The man relates what him of late befell By bosk and down, by streamlet, mount and dell, Through forests dim and lone. How one obstruction scarcely had been passed "When swift uprose a greater than the last ; "While dark and darker grew the roaring night, And fast and faster flashed the ghastly light Of blue electric flame, Until before his weary, dazzled eyes, IN THE LIBRARY. 25 He saw at last this noble mansion rise. The lady listens to the thrilling tale "With flatt'ring interest, and cheek which pale With sympathy became, As thus the stranger to relate attempts The night's disasters, and the day's events. THE STRANGER'S STOET. I. REY broke the cheerless dawn ! The chime of matin-bells had scarcely ceased, And morn was blushing in the golden east As rosily and coy as if the day Had never wooed before the maiden grey, When o'er the grassy lawn, The gravelled drive, the rustic, echoing bridge, Through leafy lane, o'er hillock's rugged ridge, Through park, and clanging gate, to lone high- way, Straight on the course o'er which my journey lay, THE STRANGER'S STORY. 27 My steed's hoofs clatt'ring rang. The sun climbed high above the eastern mount ; Threw diamond sparkles on the wayside fount ; On dusty road left slanting bars of gold ; Looked into leafy homes with glances bold ; The birds awoke, and sang. In joyous trills the morning song began ; Through leafy aisles and nave the chorus ran ; Up through the arches of the templed grove Arose the song of grateful praise and love ; My ear the music caught ; Deliciously the notes the silence broke ; To ravishing reply the echoes woke ; A thousand songsters caught the sweet refrain, Took up the notes and sent them back again With added sweetness fraught ; The air was full of melody and song, And clear as mountain streamlet, pure, and strong. 28 THE STRANGER'S STORY. With sentimental sigh the morning breeze Made love to all the gaily-vestured trees ; With blushing leaflets danced ; Coquetted with the shadows underneath ; Dared in my face with saucy coolness breathe ; Kissed wantonly the cheek of wayside pond Which laughed and dimpled at caress so fond. The royal day advanced. The country sounds fell cheerful on my ear ; The crow of self -conceited chanticleer ; The neigh of lab'ring steed ; the low of kine ; The call of harvester ; the echoes fine, All but the charm enhanced. The scene was perfect to my 'raptured eye, And with a pure delight my heart leaped high. THE STRANGER'S STORY. 29 II. " Thus sped the golden morn. At noon I reached a rustic, wayside inn, As picturesque as artist e'er could limn, And paused awhile to rest my gallant steed, And satisfy my nature's craving need, As blast of merry horn Rang out upon the echoing mountain air, Proclaiming rest and food awaited there, The wearied stranger's cravings to supply. My steed with speed provided for, then I At rustic meal sat down. The butter was like rolls of molten gold ; The milk as sweet and rich, and icy cold ; The bread was light, and white as mound of snow, Fresh eggs, and ham as pink as sunset's glow ; 30 THE STRANGER'S STORY. And, richly crisp and brown, The speckled trout, fresh drawn from mountain brook. 'Twas feasting at the board to only look. HI. " The mid-day meal was o'er. My steed, refreshed by rest and garnered grain, Soon grew impatient to be off again ; To reach my journey's end long was the way ; Thus haste behooved me. Short'ning then my stay, I rode from hospice door. Like recollections of a pleasant dream, That scene of beauty and of peace supreme Still lingers in my mind, as, drawing rein Just ere I reached the bend of road again, THE STRANGER'S STORY. 31 I wheeled for one last look. Far in the background rose the tow'ring mounts, Festooned with many a richly-colored flounce Dyed red, and purple, gold, and russet brown, And with a crest of sunlight for a crown. A singing, laughing brook With joyful bound leaped down the mountain side, Its waters gleaming like a silver tide — Flew gaily on — o'er dizzy ledges tossed — And rippled 'neath the bridge I late had crossed, Then laughing, danced along. A perfect picture of sublime repose, The simple, humble dwelling nestled close Within the lofty mount's protecting arms, Safe sheltered from the tempest's rude alarms, In clasp so fond and strong. With gable ends, and sloping, low-eaved roof ; Small casements from each other far aloof ; 32 THE STRANGER'S STORY. A wide, deep porch where sunlight lingered soft ? And climbing roses waved their blooms aloft In roses' blooming time. A fountain, rude and rough, but, like the rest, In every outline sweetly picturesque, Was forced to lawn from mountain brooklet near, And man and beast supplied with nectar clear, And sweeter far than wine. Far in the distance on the other hand, Spread level fields, until the verdant land Was melted in the depths of panting sea, "Which stretched beyond the reach of grassy lea A faint, blue, limpid line. And over all the beautifying glow Of mid-day sun in shim'ring golden flow. THE STRANGERS STORY. 33 IY. u And thus the day passed by ! The sun went down in clouds of red and gold, Which shortly paled to colors grey and cold ; And on the confines of a dusky wood When night came down so bleak and drear, we stood, My trusty horse and I. Two paths stretched outward in the greenwood shade ; Irresolute a moment here I stayed, Then chose the right ; — alas ! it proved to be The wrong instead, as you will shortly see. The night grew black apace. At first the path was smooth, and all went well. The moon, with fitful sheen through tree-top fell, 2* 34 THE STRANGERS STORY. And glanced across the winding greenwood road, The long, dim aisles with rare distinctness showed, To beauty touched the place. But soon no more the silver gleam shone through ; The pathway wilder with each moment grew ; The wind rushed thro' the boughs with mourn- ful blast ; Yet still I onward pressed, until at last I struck an open plain. Myself congratulating on the speed "With which all barriers had been passed, my steed With kind encouragement I onward urged ; But ere we scarcely from the wood emerged A hand was on my rein. The rolling clouds above one instant rent ; The moon one gleam across my pathway sent ; THE STRANGER'S STORY. 35 Revealed the ruffian's form from heel to head, As in a rough, deep voice he gruffly said : ' Your money, or your life !' My blood was up, and with defiance boiled ; My trusty horse beneath his grasp recoiled ; And when I spoke, my faith ! I think my tone "Was resolute as was the ruffian's own : 1 Nor money, nor my life ! Let go my rein and stand aside,' I said, ' Or else — I warn you — on your own base head The consequences of your act abide. Let go my rein, I say, and stand aside.' The ruffian held his ground. i Your money or your life !' he muttered low. My whip came down with sudden, stinging blow — I struck the rowels in my faithful steed — He reared — the rein from ruffian grasp was freed — 36 THE STRANGER'S STORY. Then with a single bound, And trampling 'neath his feet my fallen foe, Leaped onward, swift as mountain streamlet's flow* " Smooth now the way became. The road was plain, the moor stretched wide be- fore; The level path my horse strode swiftly o'er ; The threatened storm still in abeyance held, Though distantly the mutt'ring thunder swelled, The coming war to' proclaim. Then nearer rolled the rumbling, boding sound ; The lightning's flash lit up the scene around ; Large drops of rain plashed fiercely in my face; The tempest now was drawing on apace, THE STRANGERS STORY, 37 When treach'rous soil gave way. Deep into marshy loam my steed's hoofs sank ; He floundered bravely, though to foamy flank The leechy soil was downward drawing him ; He still resisted, while in every limb He trembled with dismay. But added danger was delay and rest. I patted, coaxed, and urged, until with zest My panting horse the fearful strife renewed ; I still persuaded ; with new strength imbued He struggled valiantly. Now scarce to dripping fetlock did he sink ; My courage swift expanded, but to shrink With new despair, as deeper than before The treach'rous soil his trembling limbs once more Drew down relentlessly. Again he rose ; yet firmer grew the ground ; Safety approaching seemed with every bound, 38 THE STRANGER'S STORY. When, as before, I felt with shrinking dread The fickle soil give way beneath his tread ; Once more was hope dashed low. Half in despair, half courage to regain, I stood in silence while the plashing rain Beat, cold and pitiless, upon my head ; The thunder boomed ; the darting lightning shed O'er all a ghastly glow ; Revealed of level moor the reaches bare, While pointing out no path of safety there. But knowing well delay like this was death, Once more I urged him though with falt'ring breath, His failing strength to' employ. In vain at first were all my efforts made ; Then my good horse one struggle more essayed ; < Again the ground more firm and solid grew ; *More shallow mire each mad leap took him through THE STRANGER'S STORY. 39 Until, entranced with joy, I heard his light hoofs ring on flinty ground, And knew the danger passed, and safety found. VI. " Then on we pressed once more ! My horse, elated at the peril fled, Snorting and frightened at the war overhead, Flew as with wings of Pegasus endowed, Until, revealed by lightning-rifted cloud, A wood rose dark before. In blank dismay I drew a sudden rein, Glanced back along the level, treach'rous plain With such dire danger but so lately crossed, Then forward at the forest, tempest-tossed And lit with ghastly light. A solid wall of boundless height it rose, 4 o THE STRANGER'S STORY. All human entrance seeming to oppose ; While in its dark recesses startled owls, Joining to tempest din unearthly howls, Made hideous the night. Slow sank my heart in depths of dark despair. From quicksand's peril, and from robber's snare I'd but escaped new obstacles to meet ; Danger before, behind, beneath my feet, And raging overhead. My way was lost, I realized too well ! The greenwood path I chose as darkness fell, Had led far from the goal I sought to gain ; Upon my face cold beat the sleety rain ; And while, with stately tread, The coursers of the storm marched on their track, Caparisoned with trappings gold and black ; While 'heaven's artillery' still louder boomed, And Night in arms of light electric swooned, THE STRANGERS STORY. 41 I sat, with loosened rein, Despairing at the hour's untoward fate, Uncertain what new perils might await, Irresolute what course to now pursue — Or back or forward pressing to my view Seemed equally in vain. Across the moor did I my steps retrace, The past hour's dangers I'd again to face, With little hope of striking at the last The greenwood pathway I that eve had passed ; While on the other hand, To onward press was but to meet, perchance, New perils which the tempest would enhance ; While every forward step yet farther past The point I wished to compass, led me fast. Thus did I, halting, stand Awhile in dire perplexity, despair ; With garments drenched, and dripping beard and hair. 42 THE STRANGERS STORY. VII. " At length I desp'rate grew. 'Twas death to cross the leechy, rain-soaked moor; I could encounter nothing worse before ; And then, it might be better than my fear ; To stand in idle hesitation here Was folly, well I knew. Resolved whatever befell to forward ride — "Whatever danger that black wall might hide — I onward spurred ; but to my sharp dismay My horse refused the rowels to obey. He'd plunge, and snort, and rear, While seeming quite unmindful of my rein, My coaxing tones, my hand upon his mane ; And when — a last resort — the lash I tried, The poor beast wildly plunged from side to side, THE STRANGER'S STORY. 43 Half mad with pain and fear. Trembling in every limb, eyes flashing fire, At every stroke he only reared the higher ; Fell on his haunches — wheeled — curvetted — pranced, But not a single onward step advanced, Though coaxed, and lashed, and spurred. Dismounting, I to lead him on essayed, To soothe with words the fears he thus dis- played ; But still I patted, petted, urged in vain ; For once oblivious did his ear remain Unto his master's word. This was a new perplexity indeed, Unlooked for from my gentle, trusty steed. 44 THE STRAXGERS STORY. Till. " Then came a sudden crash. A lightning bolt from heavVs heaviest gun With aim unerring had its mission done, And laid a mighty forest monarch low. Across my pathway lay my blazing foe, Its vivid, blood-red flash Illumining the leafy wall before, The nearer reaches of the dusky moor, And painting, with its dashes red and clear, Each feature of a scene as wild and drear As fancy could sugge While still the pouring rain dashed fiercely down, mpting, but in vain, the flames to drown, Which at each onslaught seemed to leap the higher, THE STRANGER'S STORY. 45 Crowning with wreaths of lambent, glowing fire Each king in scarlet dressed. And still the pealing thunder roared and crashed ; The crinkling lights above each moment flashed, In mock'ry laughing at the cruel work Which plunged to heart of oak a flaming dirk ; And still through forest lone The wind from frozen chambers of the north With howl, and shriek, and moan dashed wildly forth, And blew with mighty breath the flames again Which leaped, and flashed, until with ruby rain Each twig and leaflet shone ; While far beyond the confines of the light Stretched boundless reaches of sepulchral night ; And deep in forest chambers hung with green, Slept purple glooms, untouched by scarlet sheen, Which gave the picture tone. 46 THE STRANGER'S STORY. How weird j and wild, and grand the glowing view, My words are pow'rless to convey to you. IX. " Thus motionless I stood With foot in stirrup, bridle in my hand, And gazed upon the panorama grand, Oblivious to all except the power That held me spell-bound in this fearful hour, In midst of fire and flood, Unmindful that the night wore on apace, Forgetful that in this deserted place — My bearings lost, no place of shelter nigh, A pathless wood before, and raging high An autumn tempest wild — I stood, alone but for my faithful steed. THE STRANGER'S STORY. 47 Paying to none of these a moment's heed, And recking only that before me spread A scene of grandeur and of beauty dread "Which had my sense beguiled. — And still the rain did battle with the fire ; The scarlet flames seemed ready to expire — Anon in desperation upward leapt To prove they were but feigning that they slept — Then faltered and grew pale ; Now reeled and staggered, faint for want of air ; Then rallied from their swoon of dark despair, And with assumption pitiful of life, Kenewed again the fierce unequal strife, Though all to no avail. Too strong the enemy they sought to' oppose. Their doom was sealed — they yielded to their foes! 48 THE STRANGER'S STORY. " The rain was victor now. But still as if, like one of ancient Rome, Resolved to bravely die if death must come, With one last effort, one expiring sigh, The paling flames leaped grandly, proudly high, And by their parting glow Revealed to dazzled but rejoicing sight An op'ning in the forest far to right ; An op'ning broad and clear, while overhead The forest giants had their arms outspread A leafy arch to form. I into saddle sprang with one swift bound ; My horse obeyed the spur, and o'er the ground Flew swiftly tow'rd the spot which seemed to me A God-sent pathway to security, THE STRANGER'S STORY. 49 To*rest, and shelter warm. Nor was I self -deceived — as this good chair And glowing fire — (thanks to this lady fair,) Most cheerily attest." — And with a smile Whose sweetness might the proudest heart be- guile, And one admiring glance Within the eyes whose varying light and shade Such flatt'ring interest constantly betrayed In all he said of that disastrous night When every element did thus unite To check his steed's advance, He once again his easy pose assumes, « And speedily his narrative resumes : 3 THE STRANGER'S STORY CONTINUED. ND so I onward rode. The trees above me spread their sheltering arms And beckoned from the tempest's ruder charms Which held me spell-bound on the open moor, While untried dangers darkly loomed before, And on my heels swift trode. The path was well defined, and overspread With fallen leaves on which my horse's tread Eell hushed and soft as footfall on the floor By webs from Persian loom spread richly o'er. A small stream gently flowed THE STRANGER'S STORY. 51 Beside my path, its tiny murmur lost In thunder's roar, and groan of branches tossed From side to side with rude resistless might By spirits of the air which o'er the night Held undisputed sway. But now and then a bristly branch bent low, And dashed across my face with stinging blow ; Or, hurled with force from tree-top's lofty height, My good horse struck, which started with affright And madly dashed away. While overhead the elemental war Still shot its angry missiles near and far. 52 THE STRANGER'S STORY II. " For still the storm-king raved ! His chariot wheels still rumbled near and loud, And echoed from each lowly bending cloud ; His courser s hoofs struck fire at every leap ; His herald's trumpets sounded long and deep ; And still his pennons waved In lurid tints defiance to the f .inst a background black as Stygian flow. The way at length grew rude and boulder- s:rewn : For dying leaves, sharp pebbles thickly sown My pathway roughly paved ; The branches lower grew, and lashed my face "With angry violence at every pace ; While now and then in stress of spiteful wrath The boughs joined hands across my toilsome path CONTINUED. 53 And swept me from my seat. The fallen trees which barred the way so weird With flying leap my horse in safety cleared ; But many a pitfall all unseen, unknown, With treach'rous twigs and branches overstrewn, Tripped up his wary feet. But these were merely trifles when compared Unto a fate from which we scarce were spared. III. " Undaunted on we pressed. And as at length the way less toilsome grew, And now and then the lightning's glare flashed thro' The thinning tree tops erst so darkly dense, The midnight blackness growing less intense, In my despairing breast 54 THE STRANGERS STORY Sweet Hope to joyous being sprang once more ; And when I saw an op'ning just before, With naught between the belt of woodland broad Beset with perils — safely passed, thank God ! — And yonder low'ring sky, Rejoiced to think the peril overpast, A road to safety almost reached at last, And glad the forest glooms to leave behind, An unobstructed path once more to find, Rode on with courage high. But as, unmindful of the pouring rain, Or tempest war, I spurred along the plain, A sudden flash revealed a rocky ledge ; My steed's hoofs rang upon the very edge ; Another step, and down To voiceless depths we had been swiftly hurled, Nor you, fair lady, nor my little world Had heard the tale I have essayed to tell, CONTINUED. 55 Which, dull or stirring, you have listened well." To his the eyes of brown Eager with interest are lifted now, While on the soft pale cheek, and regal brow, From which his thrilling tale the bloom had chased, A faint pink flush the pallor has replaced ; And with a smile more bright Than flashing firelight's brilliant, changeful glow, She answers him with tones as sweet as low : " Nay, more than stirring, sir, your story's been. Almost I saw the lightning's lurid sheen Which made your path alight, And pointed dangers that your lone way crossed ; Almost I heard the groaning branches tossed Like helpless saplings by the storm's rude might ; Almost I felt the thrill of dread and fright With which upon the brow Of that dark gulf you paused in sudden fear, 56 THE STRANGERS STORY So vivid has your story been, and clear. To tell, I pray you, sir, do not delay, How fared you further on your per'lous way." K Short space suffices now My story to complete," the man replies, While beams his brow, and smiles his lips and eyes. IV. " Adown the dizzy steep For one dread moment horrified I gazed ; Far down the black abyss the lightning blazed And then went out in deep Tartarean night ; While I, bewildered, on that fearful height Sat still in horror deep. By tightened rein and quick commanding tone, My trusty horse upon his haunches thrown CONTINUED. 57 Stood motionless, obedient to the rein The which I dared not slacken, till again The friendly lightning's flash Had shown me where his feet might safely rest. A leaden weight seemed pressing on my breast ; The blood within my veins had ceased to stir So full of horror dire the moments were, While far beneath the crash Of rolling thunder echoed deep and long. My brain is cool, my nerves are sound and strong, Bat those few moments on that dang'rous height, The while I waited for the flashing light To show where safety lay, Seemed to my tortured heart a rounded year. Then first I learned to know what men call fear. I'd looked ere this upon the face of Death With heart undaunted, and unbated breath, And held the foe at bay ; But it is one thing, lady fair, to face 3* 58 THE STRANGER'S STORY The King of Terrors, even, in a place Where you may battle with him, hand to hand, Another, on a brink like this to stand While at your very feet A black abyss of unknown depth yawns wide, The which a single step to either side Adown may horse and rider quickly dash, Your only hope the lightning's friendly flash, So fitful and so fleet." " Such threat'ning doom the stoutest heart might quail," The lady says with trembling lips and pale. " With radiance divine At last it came — a vivid chain of light Upon a sky more black than Egypt's night ;" CONTINUED. 59 "With answ'nng smile he hastens to resume. " Nor was I slow to 'scape the frightful doom Which almost had been mine. One shudd'ring glance adown the deep abyss Through which the forked lightning seemed to hiss; One agonizing search for safety's path, While far above me burst the thunder's wrath, And far beneath my feet The angry sound reverberated long, From rocky chasms rising hoarse and strong, Caught up, thrown back, again, and yet again, And then I loosed once more my tightened rein, And joyfully and fleet My noble steed dashed onward like the wind, Leaving the yawning chasm far behind. 6o THE STRANGER'S STORY YL " My tale is almost don©. For many a mile along the open plain I rode at random, without drawing rein ; Regardless of the storm still swelling hot ; Whither my steps were tending knowing not, Nor recking, so that on They swiftly bore me from the dang'rous height Which had for me the record of the night So nearly closed. But on my listening ear, Alert for aught that should of danger near A timely warning sound, At last a noise of rushing water fell, Faintly distinct from thunder's roar and swell. From sweep of wind, or rain drop's rapid beat Falling upon me in an icy sheet. In vain I glanced around, . CONTINUED. 6 1 Drew rein and listened to the rash and fall Of unseen water ; like a fun'ral pall. So close in many a clinging, opaque fold The darkness wrapped me round — so constant rolled The thunder's sullen boom — So clear and strong the echoes o'er and o'er Repeated both the tempest's heavy roar And sound of cataract, I could not tell Or at my side or in my path it fell, Or yet how dire the doom Which now was threat'ning. List'ning thus in vain, I paused a moment only — loosed my rein, And trusting to my brave, sure-footed steed, And Him whose care surrounds us in our need, I cautiously rode on. Straight forward — neither to the left or right 62 THE STRANGER'S STORY His footsteps swerved, as on through blackest night He slowly bore me, while distincter yet Above the tempest's roar, the rush and fret Of tossing water, down From unknown heights impetuously flung, Was borne unto my ear. — The voice that sung In sweetest silv'ry notes to th' summer breeze, Which murmured fondest thoughts to th' o'er- bending trees, Now hoarse with pain and wrath, Lashed into fury by the tempest's breath, Shouted defiance to the storm, and death To the benighted trav'ller should he dare Attempt to stem its angry current there. Along the dang'rous path My horse's hoofs paced cautiously and slow, Awhile — but paused abruptly as the flow Of angry waves his dripping fetlocks swept. CONTINUED. 63 I knew not why lie stopped — knew naught except That danger lay ahead. Dismounting cautiously, in hope to learn What peril menaced now, and to discern Where safety lay, full ankle deep my feet Splashed in the waves whose throbbing, surging beat Showed that the torrent's bed Lay close beside, beneath, perchance before, The while a mufflec but terrific roar Betrayed how near a raging cat'ract fell. To cross just here was death, I knew too well. So, motionless with dread, As once before, I waited for a ray Of heav'n's electric light to point the way. 64 THE STRANGERS STORY YIL " How gracious and how kind Is He who in His strong, all powerful hand The elements doth hold ! Who may command, And even ocean's surges must obey ! His breath the storm-cloud speeds upon its way ; His grasp controls the wind— The winds ! we know not whence they come, or go; Perchance they're God's own breath, pulsating slow Or quick, as throbs His great, all-loving heart, Whose veins run through the world, life to im- part. One breath born of His might And quick the feeble spark of life goes out In night and darkness ! yet how sweet about CONTINUED, 65 Our brows the summer breezes play, and soft As kisses pressed by loving lips so oft ! To Him the day and night Are subject. "Willed He thus, no more the sun Should rise to glad us ; nor when day is done Should it withdraw its burning, dazzling light And give to us the cool and dew of night ; And yet the dark and light Succeed each other with their varying charm ; The day with sunlight brilliant is, and warm ; Upon our midnight shines the moon from far ; He gives the mariner a polar star By which to steer his barque Across the pathless waves of mighty seas, From northern snows to sunny southern leas ; And when no more the moon gleams pale from far, When tempest clouds obscure the northern star, 66 THE STRANGER'S STORY And nights are wild and dark, His hand directs the fearful lightning's play, To lead the 'wildered trav'ller on his way. Yin. " For this I waited long. The storm had lulled — to gather added force ; The rain more gently fell ; and low and hoarse The distant murmur of the thunder swelled, As hither, thither, by mad winds impelled The clouds were born along. The lightning flashed, but fitfully and pale, And shed no radiance in the lonely vale Where on the torrent's brink I waiting stood. The moon shone softly on a distant wood, Her pale and lovely face One moment showing through an inky cloud CONTINUED. 67 Which parting slightly her sweet gaze allowed, But on my path she sent no kindly gleam, And not one ray lit up the rushing stream By which I paused. The place Still lay enshrouded in the deepest gloom. The time seemed long. The rift through which the moon Showed her sweet face I watched with eagerness, Hoping 'gainst hope to see the clouds grow less Intensely black and dense, The rift enlarge and show enough of blue My half -despairing heart to reimbue With fast-dissolving courage. But in vain Were all my hopes. The clouds soon closed again ; The darkness more intense, If that were possible, each moment grew ; The wind, reviving, fierce and fiercer blew ; The thunder rumbled nearer and more loud, 68 THE STRANGER'S STORY As rapidly the dark, low-bending cloud The zenith shrouded o'er. And then there came a brilliant flash of light, And as it paled, another, still more bright ; The whole meridian seemed to be aflame ; And as the parted clouds together came The crash, and roll, and roar, Reverberating rocky cliffs among, And back from lofty mounts in echoes flung, "Was something grander than my words can tell. The double flash, too, had illumined well The whole surrounding scene. Before me, from a dizzy altitude Where bristling rocks their jagged points obtrude, A sheet of snow-white water foaming dashed ; The silver spray like myriad diamonds flashed In that electric sheen, As in a rocky basin wide and deep, CONTINUED. 69 The foaming torrent in a last mad leap, With hoarse deep roar fell, almost at my feet, Laving my horse's limbs with fretting beat, As on the basin's edge Full ankle deep we stood, my steed and I, In th' foaming flood. All this my eager eye In briefest space took in, while by the light Of that first flash the whole wild scene was bright. A lofty, ragged ledge Precipitously rose before my face, Rifted midway to give the torrent place ; It stretched before me like a massive wall Far to the right ; would I proceed at all 'Twas plain through rocks and sedge My course lay, round the mountain's base, in hope Beyond a smoother, safer path might ope. 7o THE STRANGER'S STORY IX. " This, you will understand, The second flash which lit the gloom revealed. Again I mounted ; to the right I wheeled ; And slowly o'er the rocks which paved my way Proceeded on my course. As bright as day The scene, so wildly grand, "Was by the friendly lightning often made ; Thus with each point so brilliantly displayed I could not lose my way. At length before I saw the ledge was sloping more and more Toward the level ground. And so ere long before me spread again A sweep of gently undulating plain ; And to my joy I struck a well trod road Which slowly led to higher land, where flowed CONTINUED. 71 The stream erewhile I found Dashing so madly through the rocky cleft, And down the lofty ledge I late had left. X. " So hope revived once more ! Not since the night so dark and wild became, With thunder resonant and light aflame, Had I a travelled road like this one found ; And as my steed's hoofs sounded on the ground Like footfalls on a floor Of tesselated marble, or as rang O'er rocky road, and echoing bridge, the clang Of hurrying hoofs upon that fearful night When Tain O'Shanter took his famous flight By witches swift pursued, I dared to hope the night's disasters past, 72 THE STRANGER'S STORY And that this well-trod road would lead at last To human habitations, there to find Rest for my wearied frame and o'erwrought mind In Death's similitude Sweet Sleep's most blest oblivion. But not yet Was safety reached, or the last peril met." XL A moment pausing there, The lady says : " Forgive me, sir, I pray, That I, unmindful of the toilsome way By which you have been led this dismal night, And of a hostess' part forgetful quite, Have not forborne to spare Until repose your sore fatigue had cured, And Sleep refreshment to your mind assured, CONTINUED. 73 Your kind recital of the night's events. The which I've heard with int'rest so intense. And that indeed must be For my discourtesy in that respect My sole excuse. Such culpable neglect Forgive, I beg ; and till the morning light Defer the farther hist'ry of the night." . . . " Nay, lady," answers he, While beaming smiles light up his fine dark face, "No cause for self-reproach has she whose grace Has granted to the houseless wanderer Shelter and warmth, nor scrupled to confer Still sweeter boon than these, Her gentle presence both to charm and cheer. More grateful far the rest afforded here In easy chair, by glowing fire like this, Than downiest couch could give. Nay, not remiss In finest courtesies 74 THE STRANGER'S STORY Hast thou, fair lady, been. And naught to ask Has he who finds it but a pleasant task Thus to relate, with what poor skill he hath, The many dangers that beset his path Through hours of night and storm." " Thanks for the kindness that would seek to spare Reproach so well deserved. Not thus my care And hospitality is often shown To those I welcome to my home so lone ;" With blushes swift and warm The gentle lady hastens to reply. " So wild the night, so terrified was I With many nameless fears, so very sad And desolate I felt, I was too glad Above the tempest's roar To hear the beat of horse's hoofs without — . When I had overcome the first wild doubt CONTINUED. 75 Which stilled my heart's wild throbbing for a space, Lest those were phantom feet whose rapid pace Approached my lonely door. Not long I cherished such a foolish fear. Naught could be worse, I felt, on night so drear Than solitude like mine. Thus you'll believe I hailed with joy aught that should bring reprieve ; And that your presence here Is unto me a boon of no less worth Than is to you the comfort of my hearth." . . . Pleased at the lady's gentle graciousness, And for her loneliness perplexed to guess What reason can appear, He sits a moment silent, with his eyes Fixed on the crackling fire, and then replies : " Your words embolden me to ask of you What otherwise I'd not presumed to do- Why lonely and alone -: THE STRANGER'S STORY I find you* lac wild a nigl: : T i who should t 7ntre and the light Of he circle. Why each room J. m -Lould chase the gloom rems, and lona U I presume, I -ess grant. I pr Nor 1 e in whatever way or kindness deems most :iiles at And lifting arc' - - o brown eves to his Hi playful m e — adventurous night I reserve the right presumptuous i 'fy, Or give Qm censur- ^ou imply, Yam ooldness would deserve ends lug head with mock i i ~eness. Y o ladyship's command is law P 1 he s^ CONTINUED. 77 XII. He hastens to resume : " The tale of this adventurous night, which you Do me the honor thus to listen to With kindest interest, may soon be told : Along the well-made road beside which rolled The turbid, swollen flume, My horse dashed swiftly for a little space, And then abruptly checked his rapid pace, And in another moment stood quite still. I urged him to advance in vain. His will Was stronger than my own ; But taught by dangers past from which my steed Had saved me, in this self -same way. indeed, I ceased to urge him on, though somewhat vexed To be detained, as, well as much perplexed. What obstacle unknown 78 THE STRANGER'S STORY. Was now across the path that seemed so smooth 'Twas quite impossible to guess. In sooth, I doubted much if 'twas not his conceit Alone, that thus had stayed his wary feet. My own was greater yet, As was by the event distinctly shown, The which his fine intelligence made known, Thus, undecided on my further course, And half impatient at my faithful horse, Inclined to quite forget How much I owed to his sagacity, I sat in silence, while I longed to see The lightning's flash the scene around illume, And show what peril, hidden by the gloom, Was lurking just ahead. But faster than had been my own swift pace The heavy clouds above had changed their place And drifted somewhat farther east. But soon The lighter clouds were rifted, and the moon CONTINUED. 79 Looked brightly forth instead ; And by her friendly, and most welcome beam, I saw that just before the swollen stream Flowed noisily across my very path. I guessed how great the current's force and wrath, How fierce and swift its pace, "When I perceived on either side the road Huge stone abuttments reared, which plainly showed A bridge had once the rushing streamlet spanned. I doubted not the torrent's mighty hand Had torn it from its place ; I doubted not that on the further side The well-broke road stretched onward, smooth and wide ; I doubted not it led to what each hour I longed and hoped for with intenser power — 8o THE STRANGER'S STORY A shelter from the storm. But should I trust to such a surging tide My good steed's strength, already sorely tried ? Or should I seek another path to find, And leave the road and roaring brook behind ? The hope was too forlorn. "With one brief prayer to Him who rules the w T ave, One kindly word to Selim, good and brave, I urged him to attempt the dang'rous ford. He first resisted, then obeyed my word And plunged within the stream/ No ford was this ! the waters bubbled high And fierce around us ; rushing madly by And half submerging us, as, struggling on, The furious current almost bore us down. Dark did the prospect seem Of ever reaching through that angry tide The goal I sought — the mystic other side. CONTINUED. 81 XIII. " Thus fiercely buffeted — One moment yielding to the current strong In sheer fatigue, and swiftly borne along, How far adown the stream I dared not think — Then as hope died, and faith began to shrink, And craven courage fled, The strife renewing, bending all his strength Against the surging tide, until at length The longed-for shore he almost would attain, To be swept downward by the stream again. His strength was spent, I knew ; In many a way ere this so sorely tried, "What wonder 'gainst it such a furious tide Had soon prevailed ! I petted, coaxed, and cheered ; But utterly exhausted he appeared. 4* 82 THE STRANGER'S STORY I knew not what to do. I thought of home, and of my mother sweet — How she would list to hear my tardy feet, And sicken o'er and o'er with hope deferred, As moons should wax and wane and bring no word Of me, her absent son. I pictured how her cheek would pale with grief ; How e'en the Healer, Time, but slight relief Would bring her loving, sorely-stricken heart ; Knew at my name the burning tears would start In years not yet begun. My father too — I did not him forget In that sore hour — I knew that heavier yet Than all the sorrows of the years long fled, This blow would fall upon his aging head. And then I thought of one In no degree less dear than these, whose name Had blent with every dream of future fame CONTINUED. S3 Through all the years of my maturer lif e, An impetus affording in the strife For honors to be won. The strife was finished now, and fame would seem, To' have been the ' baseless fabric of a dream/ XIV. " And thus in sharp contrast, And swifter than my words suffice to name, Hopes, memories, regrets, together came, Chasing each other through my mind's domain, And crowding on my half-bewildered brain — The future and the past , Inextricably mingled in my thought, Till what was truth, what fancy, I had sought In vain to demonstrate ; and through it all 84 THE STRANGER'S STORY The mem'ry of that cruel waterfall Dashing so mad and fast Adown its dizzy ledge of ragged stone, Was surging like a solemn undertone That swells and sobs all through a dirge of death. This while my faithful Selim's panting breath His deep exhaustion showed ; While faith and courage died, and hope was lost In stern despair ; while buffeted and tost By every wave, we drifted down the flume To what it seemed must be our certain doom. A chill of horror flowed Through every pulse at thought of death like that : Dashed helpless down that fearful cataract From rock to rock, a hundred feet or more — Our requiem the water's sullen roar, Our shrouds the filmy mist, The foaming pool below a fitting tomb CONTINUED. 85 To hold the victims of so sad a doom. At thought of this my heart grew strangely chill ; My pulse throbbed hard, and acting on my will Aroused me to resist. Should I succumb to Fate's tyrannic sway Without one other desp'rate struggle? Nay! XT. " I gathered in my hand The bridle — which from my despairing clasp Had almost slipped — with firm and steady grasp ; I struck my horse a sharp and sudden blow, And sternly bade him bear me on ; and lo, Not useless my command. He rallied all of his remaining force, And struck out bravely for the shore, his course Directed by my hand upon his rein. 86 THE STRANGERS STORY I cheered him constantly, until again He almost reached the land; And then his energy began to fail, And my faint hopes to sicken and grow pale ; Too well I knew of rest the fearful cost To him and to myself — that to be lost Was what delay meant now. "With voice and rein I kept him to the strain ; And when he yielded to the tide again I merciless became — my sole resource — With whip and spur I urged him on his course ; No pause did I allow, For now the current ran less swift and strong — The shore was near — I knew he must ere long A footing find the shallow waves below, Where its low banks the waters overflow. Thus forcing an advance, Soon on the sandy bed foothold was gained ; But though to keep it every nerve he strained, CONTINUED. 87 Sometimes too strong the current proved e'en yet For his exhausted strength ; but bravely met Was every new mischance ; Quick struggling to his feet renewed the strife As though he knew the stake to be his life ; And when at last he reached the blessed land, So great was his fatigue he scarce could stand. From out the hungry wave With one last effort of expiring strength He dragged his trembling limbs, and stood at length Shiv'ring and panting on the yielding sand. As I dismounted, and with voice and hand Cheer and caresses gave, He 'gainst my shouldar leaned his weary head — His sole response to the kind words I said. SS THE STRANGER'S STORY XVI. " Of rest how sore liis need ! I stood beside him, wearied, stiff, and lame, Until his lab'ring breath more gently came, And he his strength could partially regain ; Then mounting, up the stream I turned again And urged him to proceed ; For far below the point I hoped to reach We'd landed, on a strip of sandy beach, "While up the flume a hundred rods or more, The good road stretching from the rocky shore I doubted not must lead To town or city, hamlet, hall, or cot — Which it might be to me it mattered not, So that a shelter there I might obtain From sweep of boist'rous wind and sleety rain. CONTINUED. 89 The veriest hut had seemed A palace to the shiv'ring wretch, for hours The sport and victim of those unseen powers Which rule the elements with mighty sway, And guide and speed the storm-cloud on its way. The moon which softly beamed At intervals across my wat'ry path, Had hid her face ; the clouds had gathered wrath And broke once more in fury o'er my head ; The way was rough — o'er sharp-cut boulders led, And tedious shifting sand. 'Twas plain we'd drifted farther than I thought ; And I began to fear the road I sought Existed only in my fancy wild, Long ere I reached it — that the stones high piled Upon the farther strand In solid masonry were but a myth — A phantom built in stone — a monolith 9 o THE STRANGER'S STORY "Which marked some ancient deed — the bridge a dream, And nothing real save that furious stream Whose current fierce and cold Had almost swept me to that unknown sea Which we call Death — God, Immortality. But suddenly before my face upreared, A high embankment, sand and rock, appeared ; And there in outlines bold The empty piers before my vision came, Illumined by a flash of lambent flame, My friend unfailing. Up the rocky slope I spurred, while in my heart sweet, buoyant Hope Held joyous carnival. The top was reached — the longed-for road was found. Beneath our feet was firm and flinty ground ; Before us stretched a straight, well-trodden path ; CONTINUED. 91 No longer did the tempest's stormy wrath My joyful heart appall ; I scarcely felt the cutting, stinging pain When on my face fast beat the icy rain ; I scarcely heard the thunder's sullen roar, For to my heart Hope whispered o'er and o'er Rest, shelter now is nigh. An hour, or more, or less, had swiftly sped. The road grew broader, harder ; while o'erhead Great trees bent low a shelter to afford The wretched trav'ller from the storm that roared So fiercely, madly high. At equal distance placed on either side The graded road, I fancied they implied The near proximity of human homes. And so it proved. Ere long on tow'rs and domes The blazing lightning glowed. 92 THE STRANGER'S STORY. A goodly sight to traveller belate — For hours the victim of an adverse fate—. This mansion towering in pride and state The lofty trees above — the massive gate — The sweep of drive that showed Beyond it, leading to the mansion fair. I tried the lodge, but found no porter there ; I passed the gate which closed with sullen clang — On well-kept drive my steed's hoofs echoing rang As onward swift I rode. The door was reached ! Dismounting, I made bold To knock and enter ! The result behold ! CONTINUED. 93 XVII. " My story is complete ! However weakly told, you've listened well. I've marked your bosom's agitated swell ; The color on your fair cheek come and go ; And in your eyes the opalescent glow So changeful and so sweet, "Which spoke more eloquently than you knew, The sympathy that my disasters drew From your too kindly heart ; — which, thus dis- played, Beguiled me on until I fear I made My story far too long. If so, forgive ! An interest so great More flatt'ring is than words can indicate. But now the ' tale of this adventurous night ' Is finished, my presumption pray requite 94 THE STRANGER'S STORY. With censure just and strong, Or in the gentle kindness of your heart, The story of your solitude impart To him who craves it out of int'rest kind, And sympathy for one he grieves to find So lone on night like this. Though my desert is small, I leave my fate In your fair hands, dear lady, and await My sentence from your lips ; in this secure, From one so kind and gentle, good and pure, It cannot be amiss." " 'Tis true," she answers with a saucy smile, " That your desert is small : but to beguile The passing hours of this distressful night, I shall your most presumptuous wish requite By making the attempt To tell you something of the causes strange That have conspired together thus to change My home from one of happiness and cheer CONTINUED. 95 To what you find it — empty, lone, and drear." Her face grows sad, intent, As she with many a pang, and many a sigh, Relates the story of the days gone by. THE LADY'S STOKY. ^HE storm has lulled at last — For see! the lightning's flash no more gleams blue, Each distant tree-top bringing clear to view ; And hark ! no more the thunder's angry din Awakes the echoes empty rooms within ; 'No more the wind sweeps past With madness in its loud and boist'rous tone ; But in my life so desolate and lone, So destitute of home's delights and cheer, So rifled of the friends my heart held dear, The storm still rages wild. THE LADY'S STORY. 97 My life is empty as the rooms above. And cruel Death has gathered all I love, And left me, as you see, alone and sad. My mother died — a sweeter none e'er had — "When I was but a child. I just remember her sweet face and smile, The deep, deep love, the playful, tender wile "With which she taught me all a babe could learn ; I just recall how I, in sweet return, Was wont her cheeks to press With baby fingers scarce more soft or white Than hers, and lisp with infantile delight The holy words she taught my lips to say, Then 'gainst her own to lay my cheek, and pray 1 Dear God, my mamma bless !' I just remember when my prayer was said, And I was ready for my tiny bed, The soft, soft kisses showered on my face, The warmth and tenderness of her embrace, 5 98 THE LADY S STORY. The murmured words and fond ; How o'er her pleasant task she lingered long, "With many a pretty tale or tender song Her darling soothing to a babe's sweet rest, So gently pillowed on her loving breast ; How quickly she'd respond "With passionate caress, or tender smile, To every innocent and artless wile ; And how, as loath to yield to sleep's repose I would my drowsy eyelids still unclose To look upon her face, Her hand would press my soft cheek closer still, With deepest love her sweet blue eyes would fill, And murm'ring words more tender than her song, She'd bend her cheek to mine and hold me long In close and fond embrace ; And so I'd drift away to infant sleep ; And so these loving mem'ries still I keep ; THE LADY'S STORY. 99 And though, 'tis long since she, my mother, died, Though many a change my young, sad heart has tried, And years have left their trace Upon the dimpled cheeks and infant brow She loved so well, I long for her e'en now." IT. Although with interest keen The stranger lists each- sadly spoken word, While all his heart to sympathy is stirred, A swift amused smile lights up his eyes As thus she speaks and pauses. — With surprise 'Tis by the lady seen. She looks at him with grave, enquiring face, And quickly he responds with courtly grace : " Forgive me for the smile to you may seem ioo THE LADY'S STORY. To mock a daughter's longing so supreme For one so early dead. 'Tis sad to be thus lonely and bereft, And motherless in infancy be left ; I with you for your loved and lost would grieve : And deeply does my heart respond, believe, To all that you have said. I smiled to think upon your lovely face How many years had left their fatal trace ; How vainly would your mother, could she now Look on her daughter's velvet cheek and brow (So changed by grief and time). Seek for the semblance of the darling child She loved so well. For this alone I smiled, For this I would your pardon humbly crave." " I scarcely know how for offence so grave You hope for grace of mine — How you my pardon dare expect to gain For ridicule so palpable and plain." — 'x'HE LADY'S STORY. 101 This to his impudence lier stern reply ; Bat her soft laugh, and smiling, sparkling eye Shows all her wrath assumed. " Not thus," she adds, " did I your story list, Or so your modest narrative assist." " Nay," he responds with grave, admiring mien, " Of listeners you've truly proved the queen ; And I who have presumed To tire you with a story of such length, Then make to you so base return, the strength Of your resentment well deserve to know, Which in your kindness you forbear to show. Again with deepest shame I beg you will my prayer for pardon hear — Believe my penitence is most sincere For smile, and thought, both so inopportune, And granting this your story please resume." " Reward then you would claim, io2 THE LADY'S STORY. As well as pardon !" she returns with, smiles, His heart ensnaring by her modest wiles. III. " Of her who loved me well," The lady now continues, " little more Than I have told you, mem'ry holds in store. I faintly recollect how to her breast With tears and anguished sobs I once was pressed, And felt my bosom swell With sympathetic sorrow at her pain ; And how to soothe her grief I tried in vain With every art a baby's love invents, — Which seemed instead to make it more intense. The cause I can't explain. If it was grief to feel the grave so near — THE LADY'S STORY. 103 To leave the child than her own life more dear, L 5 To grow to womanhood without the care Of mother-love to guard from worldly snare ; Or if for such deep pain A cause there was with which her child beloved Had naught to do, I never fully proved. I know she was not happy as a wife, And that her innocent and pure young life Was shadowed by a cloud Which turned her gladness into bitter grief. And made the story of her life so brief. I've studied long her portrait hanging now Where then it hung, and cannot but allow The face, if sweet, is proud. And I have gathered from the little learned Of her young life, that he she loved had turned To her when wounded by another's scorn, And offered her a heart still scarred and torn — A pitiful exchange io4 THE LADY'S STORY. For one so fresh, so loving, and so true ! That when at last the bitter truth she knew, She turned from him with all a woman's pride, And wounded, stricken to the heart, she died. It would not then be strange If for the anguish which I recollect, This was the primal cause — as I suspect." IV. " Tour story's passing sad !" The stranger says, with slightly moistened eyes. The lady faintly smiles as she replies ; " Yes ! it is sad to think to heart so fond His whose it was with love could not respond ; A life so pure and glad, So full of promise in its morning hours Should thus have faded like frost-blighted flowers. THE LADY'S STORY. 105 But I believe the heavy cloud had passed, And she been happy in his love at last, But for her pride and scorn. I know my father truly grieved above The still, cold form of her he vowed to love ; I recollect the bitter tears he shed Beside our beautiful and early dead, "With me, his earliest born, Clasped closely to his wildly throbbing heart. How much regret, remorse, in this had part I was of course too young to estimate. I know I thought his sorrow very great, And sobbing, closer crept Within the arms whose hold was fond and kind. I still remember when for her I pined, And why she came not scarce could understand, How sad his face, and gentle was the hand That dried the tears I wept ; How patiently he put aside his book, io6 THE LADY'S STORY. \ How tenderly and cheerfully lie took His child upon his knee, and sought to find Diversion for her sorrVing heart and mind. I think he scarcely knew How much he loved my mother, till her loss : Until the sense of it had swept across His lonely heart, and he had come to miss Her gentle smile and word, the timid kiss, The face so sweet and true ; Until my longing for her made him feel How sad a thing it was that death should steal A mother from her tender infant child, "Who, though so young, could scarce be reconciled To miss her love and care. I think he knew that he had spoiled her life ; That she had not been happy as his wife ; And ever felt a deep and sore regret That in his selfish blindness he had let His wife, so young, so fair, THE LADY'S STORY. 107 Turn from him in her pride and bitter pain Without one mighty effort to retain Her love and trust. I've often seen him gaze With deepest sadness on her pictured face, Then turn away with sighs, And pace the room with head bent on his breast, And face so full of pain and sad unrest My heart ached for him. But, though far from cold, His nature was reserved. He never told In words the grief that lies In hearts like his too deep for careless speech, And that not e'en a daughter's love could reach." V. " And so you only guessed The story of your father's wedded life, 108 THE LADY'S STORY. And his estrangement from his fair young wife?" " Nay — I have gathered much from trifles slight, Which, wove together, made a chain of light. I have surmised the rest — The grief my father felt, and sad regret For her whose love with coldness had been met. But from some letters to her by a friend She loved and trusted, in that sad time penned, I came to understand There was a sorrow in her life so deep It made her whole heart sore ; nor could I keep The subject from my thoughts till I had turned The last page of her journal, and had learned My father's was the hand That struck the brightness from her glad young heart. But even then I only learned in part The cause of all, for she was prudent too, And scarcely more than hinted it all through. THE LADY'S STORY. 109 But it was sad indeed To read the close-writ pages, and discern The glory of the music slowly turn To saddest minor strains, until it passed To a pathetic wail of pain at last. The words I scarce could read For the fast-dropping tears that stained the page, So did they every sympathy engage. VI. " To make my chain complete I gained some links from yet another source, "Which gave the half -guessed story greater force My mother's sister to our lonely home Kindly consented for a time to come — A woman fair and sweet As she we lost, and filled her empty place no THE LADY'S STORY. As none beside could do. Her lovely face Was sad, for she too was estranged From him she loved; a shadow vague had changed Their plighted love and trust To bitterness ; misunderstandings, born Of pride, I do not doubt, far more than scorn, Had severed hearts that for the other beat. She cast him off — his ring tossed at his feet. He picked it from the dust, And turned and left her sad and sore at heart, To only know thenceforth love's bitter part. She kept her pride intact 'tis true, but oh, She dearly paid for it in years of woe. He left her, as I said, And wedded one — in pique — he scarcely knew, And never loved. — But proved the adage true, 1 In haste to wed, at leisure to repent [' Their married life in distant lands was spent — THE LADY'S STORY. m f For she, the wife, is dead ; And two years since he met his early love, And they are wedded now, and blest above All other lovers whether wed or not. So they believe, at all events. His lot At least, is blest indeed, To have so sweet a woman for his wife. God give to her a long and happy life To compensate for all the painful past ! I'm thankful every day she's glad at last, However great my need Of her companionship and presence here. And that my need is great to you is clear." yil " Aye, great indeed !" he says, With tones half tremulous from pity kind. ii2 THE LADY'S STORY. " My heart grows heavier momently to find How lone and desolate is she whose grace And gentle goodness, shining through a face Of winning loveliness, Fits her to be the centre of a home Of warmth, and light, and joy, where she had known But love and tend'rest care engird her round, Shielding from all that could distress or wound/ ' " Thanks for your pity, sir," The lady answers, pleased and touched to hear Such kindly words in tones that seem sincere. " So i lone and desolate ' is she that e'en A stranger's sympathy a pleasure keen Can on her heart confer. And naught than that more forcibly I know My bitter need could have availed to show." " Dear lady, e'en in your short life have you Ne'er proved that sympathy more kind and true THE LADY'S STORY. 113 A ' stranger's ' heart may feel — If haply strung to vibrate with your own — Than that of one perchance you long have known, And toward whom you in your grief might turn To find how faint the spark divine doth burn, How shallow and unreal The sympathies which to your needs respond, Where you had looked to find them deep and fond ; If so you readily will comprehend That though in fact a stranger — yet a friend In feeling for your lot — My heart a sympathy both deep and true In this your hour of need doth give to you ; — You who until this fateful night unknown, Have by the cords of pity round me thrown — Designedly or not— In firm and friendly hold bound to your own H4 THE LADY'S STORY. A heart which never faithless has been shown To man or womankind. — Long years agone I read in ancient book a tale of one Who by an adverse fate Blown hither, thither, through a world of care, Cold, weary, hungry, homeless, in despair Of human help or pity, saw before Invitingly spread wide a massive door, And as the hour grew late, In his extremity so dire and sad Of any promised shelter but too glad, Crept through the open portal where he found Books heaped in many a pile from marbled ground To frescoed ceiling high ; While silent groups of readers sat before Great oaken tables spread with papers o'er, Or volumes huge whose heavy blazoned leaves Crackled like trodden twigs on Autumn eves. THE LADY'S STORY. 115 A vacant table nigh, With empty leathern chair that stood beside, The weary, shiv'ring wretch with joy espied, And dropping in the chair's extended arms, Gave up his starving soul to all the charms That dwelt within the place : — Light, warmth, and stillness ; and — oh boon most rare ! Of food aesthetic what a plenteous share ! Such food as had to him been long denied — Poor, cultured wretch, against a strong head tide Rowing a losing race ! Forgotten were his stomach's cravings keen, While for his mind sueh store of meat was seen Spread bounteously and free on every hand ; And as he read, the warmth so soft and bland His shiv'ring form crept round, And wrapt him gently in its genial arms ;, n6 THE LADY'S STORY. A hundred lights breathed low their drowsy charms, The very stillness deeper grew, unbroke Save by the turning leaves which scarcely woke The heavy air to sound ; And lower, lower drooped his weary head, Till on the massive book from which he read, In gentle rest it pillowed lay at last, And Sleep had in her shackles bound him fast. And as he slept, he dreamed ! The hour was late, the place had empty grown — Thus dreamed he — till he seemed at length alone Within the strange and silent room, so rich In store of rare and costly books, o'er which The softened lights still streamed. And as he raised his eyes and glanced around The great deserted hall, surprised he found Long vistas open to his wond'ring gaze, THE LADY'S STORY. 117 Deep lined with books, while near each lofty case Vague shad'wy forms appeared, To fix whose outlines he in vain essayed ; For as he gazed they seemed to dim and fade, Each melting into each, with subtle change Appearing, vanishing, until the strange And shifting scene he feared Was but the picture of an o'er-taxed brain Disordered by a long and serious strain. But, musing thus, he saw approaching him An aged form from yonder alcove dim, Where in a burnished grate The fading embers of a fire were seen ; And as he nearer drew, his shad'wy mien, The far-off, dim regard of pale blue eyes That met his own, filled with a chill surprise The man who seemed to wait With fettered will, and slowly beating heart, n8 THE LADY'S STORY. The strange unfoldings of the hour, his part In which as yet he scarce could understand. The old man nearer came — within his hand A tome of pond'rous weight ; And as he turned the blazoned leaves he said, In tones that seemed an echo from the dead : ' You wish your volume sir, no doubt ! what name V And as no answer to the query came, The sage repeated slow — c What name ? You wish your volume sir, no doubt, "Wherein your destiny is written out. You're highly favored in the flesh to be Permitted thus your Book of Life to see. Those yonder, sir, you know Are but the souls of them who've left in sleep Their bodies, while they hither speed to peep Within their books, their further fate to find. THE LADY'S STORY. 119 "When they to-morrow waken, in their mind Some mem'ries faint and fair Of what they read perchance may still remain. But little vivid will their minds retain. But you are here in body, and may peep Within the books they visit but in sleep — A privilege most rare P The young man, list'ning with wide open eyes, Stood silent, in unbounded, chill surprise ; And then he saw, as at the shad'wy throng He closer looked, that each one held a long Thick volume strongly bound, Wherein with eagerness he searched and read. At last he spoke : ' Who then are you V he said, ' And what this place?' The old man made reply : This is the Library of Fate, and I The master here. Look 'round — From these the one that bears your own name take. 120 THE LADY'S STORY. See that the cords you do not strain or break. Aye, take it down ; none but yourself has power To touch it, and you only at this hour. When yonder clock strikes one Your chance is gone. Be quick if you would read What destiny awaits you.' Though indeed With trembling hand, he took the volume down Which bore his name upon the yellum brown ; And found, so finely spun But for the old man's warning they had been Scarce noted in the soft, uncertain sheen, From out its pages many a tiny thread To books above, below, around it led ; Some were of sombre hue — Of rose, or gold, or silk were some, but all To other volumes led or great or small. 6 Whose books are those to which my own is bound?" THE LADY'S STORY. 121 The young man asked, surprised at what he found. 1 Those who have been with you By Fate connected since your birth ; the thread That binds them to you marks the page/ he said, 1 Whereon their destiny as linked with yours Has been inscribed by Fate. Ton clock assures The moments quickly speed ; If you would read, young man, read on, and fast, Ere this auspicious hour be wholly past.' Thus urged, he opened where a thread of gold Marked two embellished pages ; but behold, "When he essayed to read, He found, chagrined, the characters were strange ; Small, crabbed, close, and quite beyond the range Of his poor comprehension. As he gazed Upon the baffling pages, vexed, amazed, And disappointed sore, The old man slowly said, ' Aye, I forget ! i22 THE LADY'S STORY. Your soul's eyes in the flesh are buried ; yet They can be opened — thus ! ' and with his thin And shadVy fingers touching them, therein Seemed thrust, with anguished bore, Hot needles, piercing through and through the ball. He glanced upon the written page which all Illumined seemed, and clear each crabbed stroke — He stooped to read — then started — and awoke ! He had delayed too long. The striking clock had broke the mystic spell, And he in ignorance still was forced to dwell. This long-drawn tale which interrupts your own, Dear lady, will to you, I trust, have shown How fine, and yet how strong The cords are spun which bind us each to each, And that tonight we touch the one will reach From out the pages of my Book of Life, THE LADY'S STORY. 123 Straight to your own : with pleasant pictures rife The story written there I pray may be ; the thread a silken one, Ne'er tangled till our tale of life is done. Forgive this interruption long, I pray, And so your story please resume straightway^ Assured I do not spare The sympathy your sorry lot doth plead, Though but a stranger till this hour indeed." VIII. " My story well can wait," The lady answers with a gentle smile, " For one so thrilling as was yours." The while She can but feel amused at what 'twas meant To point, believing it mere sentiment i2 4 THE LADY'S STORY. That 'twas the hand of Fate Had linked their lives together, who till then Were strangers, and would shortly be again ; Although 'twas made, by earnest tone and glance, To seem the kindly, heart-felt utterance Of one both true and kind. She touched and grateful feels as well for what Has but too rarely fallen to her lot Of late to make it worthless to her seem — Warm human sympathy, in whose soft gleam The saddest heart must find Some tender solace for its bitter woes. And she too well the value of it knows — Too ardently has longed through lonely hours To feel once more its genial, soothing powers, To spurn it e'en from one Who but for one brief night her path doth cross, To leave her then to solitude and loss. THE LADY'S STORY. 125 But grateful as she is she yet forbears Her gratitude to utter, and prepares The story late begun To further weave ; so gath'ring as before The broken threads, resumes her task once more. IX. " If I remember right I said I gathered from another source Some links that added to the strength and force Of that slight chain e'en yet far from complete. And these were gained from her, the woman sweet Who as I said, made bright The home by death left desolate and drear. From her I learned that he, my father dear, Had loved and wooed a maiden for his wife, 126 THE LADY'S STORY. But spoke at last to find her heart and life Were to another vowed. — That other, one who shared his infant play — His youthful couch — beside him day by day To manhood growing, only to impart The deadliest wound to his too faithful heart, As earnest as 'twas proud. I know not if 'twas wilful, that great wrong, But lasting his resentment proved, and strong. One stormy scene there was, and then the twain Had parted — parted ne'er to meet again This side Death's rushing tide. One wedded her, the maiden both had loved, "Who of dissension such sad cause had proved ; And he, my father, in his pique and pain Another wooed, and wooed her not in vain, But won her for his bride. You've seen how fatal to the wedded wife Became the love which then was dear as life ; THE LADY'S STORY. 127 How soon the heart but caught in its rebound Failed to respond to hers so sweet and sound ; And how she drooped and died, Crushed by the knowledge that her love was vain, And cold the breast whereon her head had lain. " I know not if I've said My mother left a babe scarce six months old- — A lovely boy with curls of shining gold, And eyes as blue as are the skies of June ; — Eyes like the mother's who had died too soon. A boy who captive led The hearts of all that looked upon his face- So bright it was with sunny infant grace, So brief the clouds that o'er it ever swept. 128 THE LADY'S STORY. Of course within my father's heart he crept : Until his very life Seemed wrapped about the person of his boy, Who came to be almost his only joy- Dearer by far than I, although to me ]STo tenderness was e'er denied ; but he. The image of the wife So wronged, so early lost, was something more Than child of his had ever been before. He grew almost to manhood, gay, and bright, Of every gathering the central light, Of home the pride and joy ; And when he went away at last to gain Proud academic honors, as 'twas plain To partial love he could not fail to do, It seemed that all our joy and brightness too Went with the merry boy. Nor was it seeming only ; since that day Joy from our home has hid her face away. THE LADY'S STORY. 129 XL " Six months flew onward fast. And brought our darling to his home again ; But with him came new pangs of fear and pain, For he was changed, and seemed no more the* bright And merry boy in whom our proud delight Had centred in the past. Impatient, fretful, moody he had grown, And talked sometimes with such a reckless tone My father gazed at him in shocked surprise, While tears of pain rose to his gentle eyes. And yet he nothing said Or in reproof, entreaty, or complaint ; Nor sought to fetter him by one restraint Which should occasion give him to rebel Against authority we knew too well 6* i 3 o THE LADY'S STORY. He had not learned to dread. No doubt my father thought 'twas but the change From home to college life had worked the strange Unpleasant alteration in our boy ; That when his pow'rs should find a full employ In reading more mature, And he had grown accustomed to the rude Transition from a home of quietude To all the bustle of the college hall, His healthy nature could not but recall The teachings sound and pure "Which from his earliest infancy had been "With never ceasing care instilled therein ; That then it must itself assert once more, And to his heart his wayward son restore. I think my father erred. I think it had been wiser to restrain THE LADY'S STORY. 131 The wilful boy, with stong, firm hand ; that vain If then employed such efforts had not been, And all that after-time of shame and sin Perchance had ne'er occurred. He erred through love ! oh God, that it should be That love like his such bitter fruit should see ! " XII. By her too-painful past — Which thus recalled rolls back upon her heart With all the old-time bitterness and smart — Quite overcome, her grieved and quiv'ring face Within her hands she buries for a space, While tears fall thick and fast And drip in crystal drops her fingers through ; And on her lashes brown in diamond dew Lie glittering as she looks up to see i 3 2 THE LADY'S STORY. The stranger's eyes all dim — ah, can it be ? Or is it but the mist Though which she gazes at his visage kind ? She dries her own and looks again to find She has not been deceived. " Forgive ! " she says/ With faint, sad smile. " So recent are those days I cannot yet resist The burning tears that will unbidden fall Whene'er their bitter record I recall." The stranger answers not : too doubtful he If his control of voice so perfect be The lady 'twill assist In her attempts composure to regain ; Yet feels assured his sympathy is plain. THE LADY'S STORY. 133 XIII. " Upon that sad, sad time," At last she slow resumes, " I will not dwell ; You know the story doubtless but too well, For 'tis, alas, one far from new or strange — From boyhood's innocence the rapid change To folly, sin, and crime ; While they who hold him dear look on with pain, Pow'rless to save, or even to restrain, ■ And when at last the downward race is run, Lie prostrate in the dust, dragged down by one Long held more dear than lif e ; While where the blame and where the fault hath lain, 'Tis ever difficult to ascertain. No doubt my brother's training had not been i 3 4 THE LADY'S STORY. Such as should fit him the assaults of sin To meet with manly strife. Forth from the shelter of a pure home, thrown — ISTo safeguard save the teaching he had known — Upon the tender mercies of a throng Of reckless students, to whom right and wrong Were empty words, I fear ; With nature gay and bright which led him on To taste of pleasures he had known anon As merely abstract, half unmeaning names, While through his veins youth's hot blood surged , in flames, And in his willing ear The tempter whispered constantly and loud, Supported by the cheering, shouting crowd ; — What wonder that the pressure proved too strong For his weak will; that he 'twixt right and wrong The difFrence failed to see, THE LADY'S STORY. 135 Or seeing, was too weak to choose the right ; Too young to bear a man's part in the fight ; Too frail to keep his standard through the fray And by his very daring win the day, Made by the conquest free. The very traits which rendered him so dear To all who knew him, proved, I can but fear, The strongest threads in that entangling snare Which tripped and held him down, till in despair He cut the cords of life And perished in the net — but not alone, For at that blow he snapped the strings of one So linked with his it could but feel the stroke Which smote the other till the life-cord broke. The sacrificial knife Its work, alas, accomplished but too well, And red with heart's blood from his weak hand fell. i 3 6 THE LADY'S STORY. XIV. " Short was the downward race ! A few brief months to mad indulgence given — To list'ning to the tempter's voice till heaven And home and honor vanished from his sight, And then of revelry one mad, wild night "Which came and fled apace, And left him in the garish light of day To look with fevered eyes along the way His reckless feet had led him, seeing there The ruins of his wrecked youth, while each fair And noble nope and aim "With which so gaily he the race began, Lay strewn along the path down which he ran So rapidly he had not paused to think Of whither it might lead, till on the brink Of ruin and of shame THE LADY'S STORY. 137 He stood at last, with leisure to look back Along the fatal, downward-shelving track, To feel the crowd of debts he now must face, And see before expulsion and disgrace. The bitter, hateful sight Of double shame was more than he could bear — For he was proud if weak — and in despair In whose deep blackness not one ray appeared To light the darksome future he so feared, Into the blacker night Of everlasting death he reckless rushed, And fears, remorse, and earthly pangs were hushed In the eternal stillness of the tomb. Can you imagine, sir, the weight of gloom Which fell with crushing might Upon our hearts when first the tidings came Of our deep loss — and his — so — bitter shame ?" 138 THE LADY'S STORY. XV. The lady's gentle tones Grow tremulous and break to thus recall The details of her wayward brother's fall ; And once again her aching, tear-filled eyes Her slender fingers press, as she to rise Above the grief she owns Is too intense to always be repressed, So bravely strives, lest he, her stranger guest, Should be distressed at pain he cannot share, Though kindly sympathy he may not spare. Nor does she strive in vain. Repeated griefs have taught her self-control, And sorrows borne in silence strength of soul. And so her tear-dimmed eyes are dried apace, And she her story to resume essays : " How mighty was the pain THE LADY'S STORY. 139 With which we looked upon the still, dead face Of him, our pride and darling, where the trace Of reckless passion might be plainly seen — Though death had given it a grace serene Not all unlike the sweet And gentle beauty of the lad we loved — Saw on his temple fair the marks which proved What agent had the tortured soul released, Tou may conceive ; — a grief that has not ceased To throb with painful beat Through every pulse of my afflicted heart, Though speeding months have striven to impart The solace which alone they can bestow. — For time must lighten e'en the heaviest woe, Though long indeed it be Ere it can fully heal so sore a pain ; And then how deep the scar that must remain ! To him, the father, with whose very life The boy's had been entwined, the fearful strife i 4 o THE LADY'S STORY. Of shame and misery "With which he looked upon the ruined youth Of one in whom he had the seeds of truth And honor striven earnestly to sow, With hope therefrom a harvest rich might grow, Proved for his strength too great. I stood beside him on that gloomy day We were to lay our precious dead away, While with such agony as love alone Like his, when turned to sorrow, e'er has known, He bared the face which late Had been so bright with every boyish grace — Gazed long — marked of the reckless life each trace — Grew white and whiter still — then, with a groan Of long-pent anguish, staggered and fell prone Beside the dead whose fate Left not one ray of hope to quench despair. THE LADY'S STORY. 141 The heart which had ere this so much to bear Had broken 'neath the strain that at it tore — Beneath a chastisement so sad and sore. The fearful work was done ! With anguish such as words can never tell, I caught my stricken father as he fell, And to his couch the silent form we bore ; But vain were all our efforts to restore His reason to its throne ; He never spoke again ; no prayers could save, No efforts bring him back. Ere to the grave Our boy was borne, the last faint spark had flown, And I, bereft of all, was left alone — O God, all, all alone ! Alone to bury from my sight away, Of those I loved the precious, senseless clay !" THE EEYELATIOK I. S thus from lips grown white And tremulous the last words faintly fall In anguished murmurs, overwhelmed by all The recollections of that fearful day, The present moment seems to drift away, While to her narrowed sight Naught now remains except the bitter sense Of what in passing was with such intense, Such aggravating sorrow fraught to her, That to recall it scarce less painful were ; And in her trembling palm THE REVELATION. 143 Again she bends her ashen grief-lined face With pain too deep for tears, while for a space The only sound that breaks the midnight hush Is that of dropping coals, the roar and rush Of winds not yet grown calm, And sighs that break from her o'erburdened heart, Still quiv'ring from the past's remembered smart ; While with new force, and all the old distress, Back swells the sense of her deep loneliness Without relief or balm, Or even hope that in the future years Some dear companionship for all her tears, And loneliness, and sorrow, now so great, Shall with its sweet rich fullness compensate, And make these days distressed, Yiewed through the past's dissolving vista, seem The strange dim changes of a troubled dream. While on his part the stranger, deeply moved i 4 4 THE REVELATION. By list'ning to a story which has proved More sad than he had guessed, With dimming eyes rests his averted gaze Upon the flick'ring points of amber blaze Which leap and glow within the well-filled grate, And o'er the lady's light form radiate, As with her hand still pressed Before her face, she strives for self-control Which, oft imperiled, yet has through the whole Of her pathetic story — all the pained [Remembrances awakened — been maintained With bravery sublime. At least so thinks the stranger, as his gaze Turns from the glint of leaping, golden blaze Within the grate, and on the lady's form, So slight, so frail, with admiration warm Rests silent for a time. While all his kindly heart is stirred anew To think that one so womanly and true, THE REVELATION. 145 So tender, and so frail, though with a soiil Endowed with wondrous strength, and self-control, And sw r eetness unsurpassed, In her brief life should have endured so much Of pain and trial, then be left to such Intense and utter solitude as hers. And gazing thus, and thinking thus, there stirs A pity sweet and vast Within his heart for her who sits so near, Unwittingly appealing to each dear And sacred sympathy his life has known, By both the strength and weakness she has shown Within the hour just past. While with a man's most natural desire To shelter, with the strength whose force and fire Throbs consciously through every swelling vein, What so needs shielding, scarce can he restrain The impulse to enfold Within his arms the shrinking, girlish form, 146 THE REVELATION. And with caresses fond, and words as warm, Soothe and beguile her grief, and ca/use to leap The light of smiles in eyes now shadowed deep. But this were far too bold, And though if 'twere his right it might be sweet To both, it now his object would defeat, Since 'twould alarm and add to the distress "Which he would fain assist her to repress. The impulse thus controlled Gives to his tone a subtle tenderness When he at length the silence breaks, and says : " Dear lady, sorrowful beyond compare Has been the story which not e'en to spare Yourself much present pain You've not refused to kindly give to one Who had no right to ask it, nor had done Had he surmised what were the cost to you % Of such a task. For kindliness so true He ever must remain THE REVELATION. 147 Sincerely grateful. But, while he'd confess A wish he might that gratitude express In such a manner as it should impart Some grace of comfort to your sore tried heart, He's sadly conscious, too, The fact he was until this hour unknown Makes it impossible it should be shown In such a way as e'en a slight relief To give you in so deep and stern a grief. That it is not less true, Less strong or sympathetic pray believe, Though powerless soe'er to bring reprieve. Sad as your story in its details strange And pitiful has seemed to me, the change It in your life has wrought Is to my mind its very darkest phase. Although I feel assured the future days, While they can only mitigate your pain, Must give you sweet companionships again, 148 THE REVELATION. Fond care, and loving thought, To you the dearer for the present dearth Of loving friends around your lonely hearth." II. The lady lifts her head, And meeting thus the stranger's dusky eyes, Wherein so much of tender feeling lies, Smiles faintly, while the fluctuating rose Back to her grief -paled cheek so richly flows It deepens into red* " I would your prophecy were true," she says. " Scarce have I felt my utter loneliness So deeply as to-night since that dark day On which, alone, I laid my dead away, And with a sinking heart, A dread I could not master, from the tomb Turned drearily, and to this empty room THE R E VELA TION. 1 49 Alone came back my sorry fate to face, And banish as I might from this lone place The ghosts which seemed to start From every chair, from every window deep, And from each statued alcove seemed to leap. Ghosts of the loved and lost so lately here ; Ghosts of the many hopes, so bright, so dear, Which made my girlhood glad ; — Hopes which, alas, if fair, so frail had proved, The reckless hand of one I fondly loved Had touched and shattered them, and naught remained But brilliant fragments, marred and darkly stained By mem'ries passing sad. I never shall forget how when the gloom Of twilight deepened in this silent room, I shiv'ring stood before the fireless grate, Of nothing conscious save the bitter fate ISO THE REVELATION. "Which left me thus alone. And all the nameless terrors it entailed, The which to overcome I strove and failed, — So utterly unstrung my nerves had been By all the trials which my life within The past few days had known. I started foolishly at every sound, While heart and pulse stood still, then with a bound So mad and strong it made me faint and weak, They fluttered on, while whiter grew my cheek And wilder still my fears. Each closing door without, each rattling blind, With terrors new filled my disordered mind ; The plaintive night wind's every sigh and moan Seemed but the echo of a human tone To my excited ears ; The gloom seemed peopled with a thousand forms, THE REVELATION. 151 Unseen but felt, born of the hour's alarms ; Each smiling portrait seemed to me alive ; Each statue cold to move. I could not, strive As wildly as I might, Rise, as I said, above these terrors mad. Nor was it strange ; so various and sad Had been the trials which had followed fast Each on the other in the week just past, Until, on that wild night Which closed a day of such extreme distress, The ghosts of past and future seemed to press So closely 'round me I could nothing feel Except the fears I knew were so unreal They would not bear the light. The shocks repeated I had lately known It seemed to me had almost overthrown The reason whose appeals I could not hear In those wild hours of superstitious fear Which all so slowly passed. 1^2 THE REVELATION. The sense of my deep grief was vanquished quite By those imagined phantoms of the night ; And yet they were to me most real too. I scarce know how I lived the long hours through, Retaining to the last The consciousness I felt it were a boon To lose awhile, although recovered soon." III. " 'Twere marvellous indeed," The stranger answers, " that you should retain Your reason quite intact 'neath such a strain. It proves how much a young, strong heart can bear, Though 'shrined within a form so frail and fair ; And how, when sore our need THE REVELATION. 153 God gives the strength, required to bear ns through The trials we would shrink from if we knew They were awaiting us, assured we ne'er Could bear so much of anguish or of fear. But while we pale, and shrink, And doubt ourselves, and doubt the Love that sends The griefs so hard to bear, that calls the friends We've fondly cherished, leaving us to know The pangs of loss that pierce and tear us so, He's forging, link by link, The chain of gold that draws us to His throne Where sorrow and bereavement are unknown ; And though to us the fierce refining fire, In which he fits the gold for uses higher Than we have dared to think, May seem severe, He knows how much 'twill bear, 7* iS4 THE REVELATION. And how to form each link so strong and fair It shall endure to lift us to the place Where we may catch some glimpses of His face, And learn the purpose wise Of Him who kindled for our quiv'ring heart Such raging flames, though now the torturing smart, The fierce, sharp agony is all we feel — Forgetting thus He does the gold anneal. I would the truth that lies Beneath the thought so falt'ringly expressed, Might give your troubled heart the peace and rest Which you have plainly proved it sorely needs — The brightness which to utter gloom succeeds. But did the breaking day The phantons banish that had made the night Of which you speak one of such pain and fright It were a marvel you had lived it through, THE REVELATION. 155 And kept your reason, and your hair's bright hue, Nor turned its bronze to grey ! — As many a head has turned in one brief night — As many a mind has lost its guiding light." IT. " When morning broke at length," She says, " in this deep chair where thro' the night I crouched in terror, longing for the light, I lay, unconscious of the breaking dawn Which bids the phantoms of the night be gone. For that fictitious strength Which had upheld me through those frightful hours Had utterly exhausted all its powers, And Sleep had wrapped me in her shelt'ring arms, And soothed to silence all the night's alarms. — 156 THE REVELATION. Sweet sleep, God's greatest boon To suffering hearts which oft-times scarce could bear Their fearful weight of anguish or despair, But for the respite brief she gives to those "Who in her arms forget their fears and woes — Recalled, alas, too soon, But by the grace of strength she's sweetly given, Resumed with patience new, new faith in heaven, New courage all life's thorny ways to trace, And look the dreaded future in the face. And thus, to some extent, It was to me ; for when a brilliant ray Of sunlight througH yon casement crept to lay Its warm, bright fingers on my heavy eyes Which opened suddenly to wide surprise, I in bewilderment Around the lonely yet familiar room THE REVELATION. 157 From which the morning sunshine chased the gloom That filled so darkly every niche and nook All through the night, gave one astonished look, And I recalled again The wild and foolish terror I'd endured, I almost smiled, so calmed and reassured My mind had been by Slumber's touches light, And morning's glad return so rich and bright. But while my o'er-wrought brain Its balance had regained, when I essayed To rise from this deep chair I found dismayed My wearied frame had not endured so well The long, hard strain, the sudden shocks that fell With such terrific force, So deep a blight upon my peaceful life Which had so little known of woe or strife. My temples throbbed with agonizing pain ; My limbs were stiff and aching ; every vein i S 8 THE REVELATION. Seemed drawing from its source A stream of liquid fire, which turned to ice And rippled slowly back, as with a vice To close congealing 'round my fluttering heart ; My throat was parched with thirst; my lips apart U And fevered with the breath Which hot and labored through its portals came ; My hands were cold as ice ; my cheeks aflame ; And as I strove to rise, and in my chair Fell fainting back and lay half conscious there, I did not know but Death, "Whose face of late had so familiar grown, "Was coming now to claim me for his own. If so, not all unwelcome would he be, For life not many charms now held for me, Robbed as it was of all The loves and hopes that make it dear and sweet, A boon to be desired. But from my seat THE REVELATION. 159 I, chill and trembling, raised myself at length, And rally'ng all of my remaining strength, • Crept through the dusky hall, And up the stairs, and shiv'ring, faint, and weak, My own room reached at last. I scarce could speak, When, summoned by my ring, a servant came, Such rapid hold upon my feeble frame This illness had obtained. But measures prompt soon brought to me relief. Our good physician in his visits brief Discovered soon how urgent was my need Of both companionship and care indeed, And showed me how unfeigned His pity and compassion was for me In my sore strait, by seeking one to be A nurse not only, but a friend as well. My gratitude to him I ne'er can tell : Nor does a day go by 160 THE REVELATION. But from my heart I bless him for the ways In which he showed me kindness in those days. He nothing said to me of his intent, But brought her with him ere I knew he meant My need to thus supply. A kindly woman, motherly and bright, Who brought to my dim chamber cheer and light; Whose gentle touch a soothing charm possessed ; Whose very presence gave a sense of rest I had not known of late. To me her kindness could not be surpassed ; And 'neath her constant care I rallied fast, Although 'twas long ere I had quite regained The strength for which the shocks I had sustained Had proved almost too great. And when at last the bloom of health returned, And life's warm tide thro' all my pulses burned, THE REVELATION. 161 She thought to go, but was with ease prevailed Upon to tarry ; for she had not failed To see my utter need Of such companionship, and help, and care As she could give me ; so my earnest prayer Availed to keep her in my home so lone From which so much of joy and cheer had flown. I scarcely know indeed How I had borne to bide here still, amid The bitter, mournful memories that hid Between the leaves of each familiar book — That seemed from every painted face to look, And utterance to find From carven marble lips of statues cold — To lie emblazoned on the flaming gold Of crackling coals whereon I oft had read A story bright with hopes, now like the dead Round which they were entwined, i62 THE REVELATION. Cold, lifeless, crushed, and in the dust laid low, A joyous resurrection ne'er to know Till in the future life, by God's good grace, I shall with both once more stand face to face. I scarce had borne, I say, To dwell amid these ruins of my home Had she to cheer my solitude ne'er come. She has not left me either day or night, Till on this morn which dawned so gay and bright, A summons to obey From one whose need was greater than my own, She Y~ith reluctance left me here alone. I had not dreamed — nor she — a night so wild "Would close a day so lovely and so mild, Or she had answered nay, Though urgent was the message she received From one whom a refusal sore had grieved." THE REVELATION. 163 V. w Pm truly glad to find," The stranger answers, " you've not been so lone As at the first seemed by your story shown ; But at the best for long to tarry here Would be a life too empty, cold, and drear For one so sweet and kind. Indeed, I trust it is not your intent To do so, save until such time be spent As shall suffice to choose a home once more "Whose charm and cheer shall glad you as of yore; For surely there are friends, Beloved and loving, who a welcome glad To heart and home would give to one so sad, So utterly alone, whose presence dear Could scarcely fail to add to all the cheer 1 64 THE REVELATION. "Which such a home attends. I trust ere long that you will bid adieu To all the gloom and grief this scene keeps new." " Nay," she replies, " your hope I fear is vain. I look for nothing more than to remain As long as life endures Within these lonely and deserted halls, So haunted by the friends each nook recalls— The friends in taking whom God took my all, And left me to a fate which might appall A sterner heart than yours. 'Tis true a welcome glad and kind indeed My mother's sister in my bitter need Would give me, with a sympathy as great, Were she but conscious of my lone estate ; But many a league of land, And many a stretch of ocean billow lies Between us two. '^Neath India's burning skies THE REVELATION. 165 She dwells, at home ; a distance far too wide For me alone to traverse ; so I bide Here j where God's mighty hand Has placed me, with such measure of content As I may gain when pain at last is spent." VI. She pauses. For a time The stranger sits with thoughtful eyes bent down, And on his open brow a puzzled frown. The lady's case is worse than he had thought , And his too kindly heart, which has been taught A reverence sublime For womankind, by one he deems the best Of her sweet sex, sincerely is distressed At thought of turning coldly from the place 166 THE REVELATION. "Where while the stormy night wears on apace He shelter finds, and rest, To leave alone through all the days to come, Within her stately but deserted home, One who, a stranger truly, and no claim Possessing on his kindness save what came At sympathy's behest, And what her youth, and sex, and lonely plight Had given her — which she might urge by right Of commonest humanity indeed — A right which none more freely would concede — Yet who has so appealed To his compassion and his sympathies By artlessly relating — and at his So urgent wish — the story of the wrong And sorrow of the past, an int'rest strong, And only half concealed, He can but feel for one who all has faced So bravely, with a wish to see her placed THE REVELATION. 167 More happily ere lie shall say adieu, His interrupted journey to pursue. At length he lifts his eyes "Which seek onee more the lady's gentle face : " And are there then no others who the grace Of shelter and of welcome to a friend So sorrowfully placed would glad extend ? " He asks with pained surprise. She answers sadly : " Nay, not one ! aside From her to whom I have referred, the wide Cold world holds none on whom I have a claim However slight ; none of my race or name Are left to me, save her. So poor am I in friends ! " she adds with faint Sad smile more pitiful than any plaint. " But he — your father's brother ! " he suggests. " Unless a heart of stone his breast invests, He surely would confer On one, like you, of his own blood and name, 1 i68 THE REVELATION. And innocent alike of wrong or blame, The shelter and protection yon so need, A welcome giving both in word and deed. Or has grim-visaged Death Borne him as well to yonder shad'wy shore, To meet the brother he had wronged of yore i" The faint flush deepens on the lady's cheek, As in reply she opes her lips to speak With slightly quickened breath. " Nay, I believe," she says, " he's living yet ; But I from him whom I have never met A boon so great as that could scarcely claim, However bound to him by blood and name. Indeed, I little know Of him, or his, except the bitter fact That one I loved was by his treach'rous act From home and kindred banished, and his life So wrecked thereby it gave his gentle wife A harsh and fatal blow THE REVELATION. 169 Which made me motherless when but a child. I could not stoop to ask of him who spoiled My father's life, a shelter for my own." The high uplifted head, the haughty tone, The scornful little smile With which she closes, plainly speak the pride Which in her parent's conduct she decried ; And prove howe'er she may regret or blame Their folly, of the same proud race she came. The stranger notes meanwhile The haughty words and smile, and haughtier tone, While his amusement in his face is shown. But in a moment she has added low : " I cherish no resentment, for I know So little of those days I cannot judge if there was actual wrong, Or but misfortune in what proved a long And bitter grief to one. But though 'twere true 8 170 THE REVELATION. No injury was meant, and though I knew On me the utmost grace Of kindness and of welcome he'd bestow, I still could never seek it, you must know. I think he gave the only son that came To bless their union my dear father's name. The which, if true, displays A kindliness to him who once was dear, Which argues an affection still sincere." TIL The stranger with a start Bends on the lady's face an eager look, Akin to that one gives a well-known book "Which though familiar ne'er has been perused, x Whose every page has now become suffused With meaning to his heart. THE RE VELA TION. 1 7 1 Each feature's chiselling bis gaze delays, Then on the portraits smiling in the blaze Of clustered lights he turns his curious eyes Where slowly dawns a subtle sweet surprise, A hope but half defined, — A hope so new and bright, a hope so sweet It quickens every pulse to fuller beat — So sweet he scarce dares put it to the touch Lest it should vanish. Yet he wonders much That he has been so blind, As with his eyes again bent on the floor Her story point by point he now goes o'er. So for a time he silent doth remain ; Then to her face his gaze he lifts again, And with a bright, glad smile Which she remarking scarce can understand, Draws forth a card and lays it in her hand, And softly says — " Permit me ! " With surprise The lady drops thereon her wond'ring eyes, 172 THE REVELATION. The stranger all the while Her sweet face watching with his curious gaze, To see surprise give place to blind amaze, As 'graved thereon she reads one glowing line, — Just — " Stuart Marjoram" in letters fine. Her lips unclose at last : "What means this, sir? This is my father's name ! " She trembling says. " Yes ? And my own's the same. Dear lady, we are cousins ! " he replies, The sweet, glad smile still ling'ring in his eyes. " A story of the past Uot all unlike the one which you have told, In many points, I might to you unfold If it were needed to make good my claim To your dear father's loved and honored name. The card within vour hand I trust is proof convincing to your mind THE REVELATION. 173 That strongest ties of blood and kinship bind Us two together ; otherwise I scarce Had even heard ere now the name it bears. I cannot understand How I have been so stupid as to hear From first to last your story, and my ear Remain so dull — ay more ! so wholly sealed To that one fact which every word revealed. A story I have known In many of its details from my youth ; And therefore can assure you of the truth And honor of that brother whose whole life Has been o'ershadowed by the hour of strife Which parted him from one Who till that fatal day had been his best, His dearest friend ; while he had never guessed That they were rivals for the same dear hand. And so be sure, sweet cousin, such demand As you may c stoop ' to make i 7 4 THE REVELATION. Of him for welcome and affection kind, In fullest measure granted you will find. Ad-interim, I beg you will extend To me, no more a stranger, hut a friend For whose unworthy sake You've been the long night through of rest de- barred, The added grace of cousinly regard." Yin. Bewildered with surprise "Which o'er each feature eloquently plays ; Half comprehending all the stranger says ; Half doubting what he smilingly assumes ; Half shrinking when in closing he presumes To take the hand that lies So passively upon her knee, she sits THE REVELATION. 175 In wond'ring silence, while a soft thrill flits Along the throbbing sluices of her heart, To feel the hope that he would fain impart Increase in force and strength, As slowly dawns in her bewildered mind A consciousness of what 'twould be to find In one who seems so noble, kind and true, A friend not only, but a kinsman too ; And she perceives at length How strong the case which he has proven shows, How little room for doubt the facts disclose. And so she says at last : " Can it be true ? It seems scarce possible ! Ah, would I knew ! — And yet — if 'twere not so — How could you have my father's very name, Which by this bit of pasteboard you would claim ?" The stranger smiles: "Sweet doubter, it is true — 176 THE REVELATION. j All I have said. Those eyes of chestnut hue ' "Which in yon portrait glow, Are but the counterpart in look and smile Of eyes whose gentle glance so free from guile I all my life have known ; that firm, square chin, That mouth reserved and proud which closes in The secrets of the heart, Are all familiar as my father's own. I do not need to ask whose face is shown Upon that square of canvas ; nor surmise "Where you obtained the bronze hue of your eyes, The proud curves that impart So much of character to lips of rose, And break the softness' of your mouth's repose. Dear Cousin, will you still reject the friend And kinsman who before you low would bend, And sue for that regard Which howso'er unworthy he would claim At least by virtue of his blood and name ?" THE REVELATION. 177 " Nay — I can doubt no more !" she softly says. " Tou prove your title in too many ways. Nor is it very hard To credit what will be to me, if true, Of greater moment then it can to yon. So since the past is past, and you have come To seek me in my own far-distant home — Howe'er unwittingly — And since so humbly, and so kindly too, For the great boon of my regard you sue, I can no more your earnest plea resist. Your claims I own, your proofs I gladly list. Kind cousin, now from me Accept a cordial welcome to my home, Whither by force of adverse winds you come." The while a playful smile lights up her face, She with a gesture of bewitching grace Both little hands extends, To ratify the welcome she has given, 8* 178 THE REVELATION. The kinship which to prove he so has striven. He takes the soft white hands ; he murmurs low : " Ah, thanks ! by this sweet token then I know We cousins are, and friends. Said I not right," he adds with bright arch smile, " That Fate had led me many a weary mile, Through night and storm, thro' perils great and drear, O'er field and flood, at last to bring me — here ? Or rather I would say That God's kind hand all thro' the bleak, wild night Has been my guide, has pointed me aright, And through the darkness and the driving storm Has led me hither to your fireside warm, That ere the breaking day Shall flush the pale face of the east with red, We two might find the tiny, silken thread THE RE VELA TION. 179 Which leading from my book of life to yours, Of kinship and of friendship warm assures. May it ne'er break, I pray, Till death to sever it at length shall come, And we take up the threads in God's dear home !" - MOEXIXG. O breaks the morn at last ! And standing in the twilight cold and g re 7 ? Between the crimson curtains drawn away From yonder casement wide, the cousins gaze Upon the fairy scene the dawn displays, As, creeping bright and fast Above the eastern hills, she throws a flood Of rosy light on mountain, field, and wood, O'er which the last hours of the stormy night Have dropped a mantle fleecy soft and white. The scene is passing fair ! MORNING. 181 The sweeping avenue arched o'er with trees Which, stirring gently in the morning breeze, Sift soft a show'r of down their branches through ; While through the narr'wing vista one may view A picture bright as rare : A long, wide stretch of meadow spread with snow, Touched in the distance with the dawn's red glow ; Beyond, a village, with its gables quaint, Its pointed spires, its smoke-wreaths blue and faint Against a sky of rose, Lies nestled at yon lofty mountain's base Whose parti-colored robes have given place Since evening fell to one of downy white, Which hides the ravages the stormy night Has, ruthless, wrought on those ; 1 82 MORNING. While in the distance, farther, farther still, Beyond the sweep of meadow, hamlet, hill, All gleam and glitter, all one golden blaze, As strike thereon the rising sun's first rays, Swells the blue, tossing sea — Heaving with fury of the tempest born — Still angry, though the soft voice of the Morn Would fain speak peace, and hush its wrath to sleep — Still restless, though the wild winds silence keep — Still leaping high and free, And tossing in the air the gleaming spray With which the dancing sunbeams seem at play — All set within the arch of meeting trees, A frame that shifts with every shifting breeze. That in the background gay. And in the fore the mansion's well-kept grounds ; MORNING. 183 Like frosted loaves their heaped-up flower mounds ; Like frescoed arabesques picked out with white Each tree, and vine, and shrub, whose trac'ries light Against the pale sky play ; Each ivied urn has donned a snowy hood ; Each woodland nymph that 'mid the shubb'ry stood ^ Has caught the falling mantle on her arms, In vain attempt to hide therein her charms Which, spite of all her cares, Break thro' the filmy dress and stand revealed, Too fair to be by any robe concealed ; Each rustic arbor, each rose-trellis frail, Has been roofed in with white ; a snowy veil Each silent fountain wears ; The brilliant, dying leaves the wind had piled In cosy nooks ere came the tempest wild, 1 84 MORNING. Have snugly been tucked up beneath the warm And downy robe dropped by the fleeing storm ; And as the sun mounts higher, And over sea and mountain hither comes, Veiled fount, and nymph, and snow-decked arbor domes, Tree, shrub, and frosted mound, and hooded urn, Touched by its dazzling radiance seem to burn With points of living fire, Until the whole wide picture is aglow, And lovelier than any words can show. II. Since the new day awoke And thrust its " rosy fingers " thro' the blind To beckon them who, woud'ring still to find They never had been strangers, lingered on MORNING, 185 Beside the waning fire till niglit was gone, And the bright morn bespoke Their notice of her blushing charms, the two Have stood beside the window wide, to view The transformation which the coming sun Is working on a scene as fair as one Need seek to feast the sight. " Ah, see ! " he says, as with surprise his gaze Falls on the snow flushed with the first red rays Of coming day. " Ah, see ! while we, within, Have from the vanished past essayed to win A hope both sweet and bright, To pierce and gild the haze that floats about The fateful, unknown future, Time, without, At one grand stride — light-footed, shod with list- Has stepped from Autumn's gold and purple mist, Deep into Winter's snows. Is it but winged hours have flown away 186 MORNING. Since for a shelter I presumed to pray ? Or have the speeding months rolled on apace Since first I looked upon your gentle face In which all sweetness glows, And brought us deep into another year, While we have sat in pleasant converse here ? " " One well might fancy," smiling she replies, " It were the last : that Time, who ever flies So swiftly — save to those Of heavy heart — had gained new impetus, And in his rapid flight had wafted us Unconscious, past the old and dying year, And dropped us in the new, with all its dear And tender hopes and dreams — So changed this scene since darkness softly fell And in its dusky garments wrapped it well ; So much of import closely folded lay Between the midnight and the dawning day ; So bright the rosy beams MORNING. I87 Which morning throws across the shadowed way In which I walked ere came the evening grey. I scarce can think a few fleet hours alone Lie 'twixt the days of sadness I have known, Days empty, hopeless, drear, And this, which brings to me a friend, endeared By ties of race and name, and those revered Associations of a sacred past Bequeathed by them who suffered, loved, and passed From both, into the near Yet unknown future, where the loves and hates This strange and checkered life of ours creates, Shall be resolved into the perfect joy Whose constancy and sweetness cannot cloy. — A friend who brings to me The cheer not only of his interest kind, But promises so much beside, I find 188 MORNING. My heart grows buoyant 'neath the brighter hopes He kindly would impart, the view he opes Of days that are to be. So terrible it is to be so lone ! So sweet the ties of kin once more to own 1" The man stoops low, and with his bearded lips He touches rev'rently the finger tips That, soft and rosy, lie Upon the dark and polished window seat ; The while his heart throbs with a quickened beat, And his dark eyes with sudden moisture dim, To hear such gracious words addressed to him From lips so proud and shy. And as he lifts his head, and meets the eyes In whose bronze depths a faint amazement lies, He smiles, and softly says : " Dear Marguerite, Not to you only is this new bond sweet, Nor chiefly ; for to me MORNING. 189 It is the dear fulfillment of a dream Which filled my heart in boyhood with supreme And earnest longing naught could satisfy. In kindred scarce more rich than yon ; too shy — Too proud, perhaps, to flee To other homes for such companionships As mine was wanting in, when from the lips Of my dear mother I the story heard Which you have told me, my young heart was stirred With deep delight to know The world held those who by a tie so near Were bound to me, though from us, once so dear, They long had been estranged, and dwelt afar, But not e'en this my pleasure keen could mar ; And thenceforth all the glow Of boyhood's dreams converged its brilliant rays i 9 o MORNING. Around those unknown friends, who thro' the haze Of romance viewed, seemed dear beyond com- pare. So 'twere not strange I scarcely could forbear A strong desire to seek And know them who by bonds so strong were bound To me and mine. So dwelt my fancies round The loved unknown for many a day ; — till one Who had, like you, by death been left alone, Came to us to bespeak That tenderness and care her youth required, And brought to me what I had long desired — A sister's love and dear companionship, And filled the want, which seldom on my lip, Dwelt ever in my heart. And now, the dream which vanished long ago MORNING. i 9 i Becomes a dear reality ! And so, Sweet cousin, you perceive the gain to you "Which in this just discovered tie you view, Finds its full counterpart In that the kinship new confers on him Who sees fulfilled thereby dreams long grown dim." The morn advances fast ! The sun has crept high up amid the blue ; The fleecy robe the flying tempest threw On meadow, mansion, mountain, woodland gay, Has by the warm hands of the god of day Been gathered up, and cast 111 diamond drops upon the frosty earth, Thus working on the scene since morning's birth i 9 2 MORNING. Another change as speedy as the first — Almost as wondrous, too, as that which burst On their astonished sight "When Day revealed the work the night had wrought Swiftly and still as is the flight of thought. And yet, in shady nooks cool hands have clung To the fair robe which o'er them had been flung, And which the sun-god bright, However ardent be his touch, and bold, Not yet has wrested from their clinging hold. Before the door, where as the midnight rang, His courser's hoofs had ceased their startling clang, And he in eager tones Besought a shelter from the driving storm, To find within a fireside bright and warm, The stranger sits upon his prancing steed, The farewell halting on his lips indeed, MORNING. 193 While in his heart he owns A strange reluctance from the mansion grey If only for a time, to turn away. And she who gave him welcome to her home, And found, surprised, ere the new day had come, That she had entertained, Though unawares, a kinsman and a friend, Who should new hope into her sad life send, Now standing in the porch, her parting guest To speed with kindest wishes, unconfessed E'en to herself, a pained And scarce defined regret stirs in her heart To say farewell, and see her guest depart. The morning breeze plays with her sable dress, And brushes her fair cheek with light caress, A deeper -rose to' impart; The sun's soft glory all about her lies ; 9 i 9 4 MORNING. Her hands, uplifted, shade her dazzled eyes From its too ardent rays ; a soft, sweet smile Around her proud lips lingers, though the while Regret is in her heart ; The rich brown braids that crown her queenly head, No longer bronze, are rippled gold instead, As tenderly thereon the sunlight lays The warmth and brilliance of its gathered rays; And as, unconscious quite How fair the picture she is making shows To him who his departure still foregoes, She on the topmost step stands, in the sheen With which the perfect morning floods the scene, His dark eyes fill with light — He gazes long as though he would imprint MORNING. 195 Upon his heart each feature, outline, tint Which marks the picture where his glances rest. Then with regret in one long sigh expressed, Seeks his adieus to frame. a Once more farewell ! farewell, dear Margue- rite ! " He says in tones with tenderness made sweet. "Bide here, content, one brief month, till I come And take you with me to my own dear home, Where, though you ' stoop ' to claim A shelter and a welcome, or forbear, It shall be yours, and in no niggard share. And meanwhile in your dreams of future days, O'er which sweet Hope shall shed her brightest rays, And coming joy foretell, May your unworthy cousin find a place ! 196 MORNING. I go ! but take with me your dear, sweet face. God have you in His keeping till I come, And let no harmful thing approach your home ! Again farewell— -farewell /" With one long glance upon the lady's face, One last, slow smile, full of a tender grace, He lifts his cap — low in his saddle bends — Then slowly wheels — and slowly onward wends. Down the long avenue His steed's hoofs ring. Between the arching trees That sigh and flutter in the morning breeze, She sees him pass — regarding him with eyes "Wherein the smile of pleasure slowly dies As he is lost to view. With ear intent she lists ^ach hoof-beat's fall, The silence closing 'round her like a pall MORNING. 197 As dies the last. Stands wrapt in rev'ry long. A bird trills out a tardy morning song Upswinging to the blue. She starts — looks up — the morn is wearing on — A door shuts softly — and she too is gone. CHMSTAIAS-TEDE. AUK to the pealing bells * Upon the frosty air, from far and near. IMiiirs out their merry chiming sharp and clear, An er hill and plain, -He the glad echoes ch ft refrain, 1 hi isti n can b 9 wonderful and sweet heart bnt throbs with richer beat, thought flows backward to that wondrous night When, heralded by songs of angels bright, CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 199 Our glorious King was born. "Peace on the earth, good will, good will to men !" Far sweeter rings the anthem now than then, As, borne upon the clear voice of the bells, Down through the ages still the glad song swells Triumphant over scorn. For in the heart of millions, sweet and strong, Is echoed now the wonderful new song Which on that night two thousand years ago O'er sleeping BethPhem floated, soft and slow, Up from Rephaim borne. " Peace on the earth, good will, good will to men !" Joy through the carol swelled and throbbed e'en then, When on the bright hush of the eastern night The glad refrain first rung, as poised in flight The angel chorus sang ; / 200 CHRISTMAS- TIDE. But deeper notes of joy and triumph swell Through the sweet song, the tidings which to tell The bright choir came, as o'er the whole wide earth Thrilled with the meaning of that wondrous birth, Today the anthem rang. " Peace on the earth, good will, good will to men, For Christ the Lord is born in Bethlehem !" II. As peal on peal the bells Ring out the Christmas chimes from yonder tower, Swift through the village street the self-same hour, CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 201 O'er the smooth, shining track of trodden snow A light sleigh glides. Its fleet steeds swifter go As the rich music swells Upon the frosty air, and drowns the chime Of bells which with the deeper tones keep time As faster on they fly, till far behind The sounding peal is left. The winter wind Sighs through the tree-tops bare, And on strong wings sv/eeps downward with^ a rush, Till two fair cheeks beneath its cold breath flush "With a deep glow that suits their roundness well; While two dark eyes which on the roses dwell, No admiration spare ; And bending nearer, round a slender form A strong hand closer tucks the wrappings warm To shield it from the rude touch of the breeze Which, swooping lower, tears them off with ease, 9* 202 CHRIS TMAS- TIDE. And laughs at all his care. Then up and off the wild wind sweeps once more, And through the tree-tops with majestic roar Flies swiftly eastward, on its mighty wings To bear afar the joyous news that rings From every tall church tower. Deep in the azure ether Night's fair queen Reclines at ease, and with a grace serene Looks down upon our little world, till lo, It blooms and sparkles with a silver glow Beneath her bright smile's power. And far, and near, swept by the soft moonlight, Piled drift on drift, the gleaming snow lies white. CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 203 III. Since climbed the morning sun From out the blue depths of the throbbing sea, Up tow'rd the zenith's azure soaring free, The two — fair Marguerite, and he who came One stormy night her fireside's cheer to claim, And gracious welcome won, — In warm furs wrapped, swift o'er the gleaming road Which lies between her desolate abode And his proud home, by fleet steeds have been borne, Till into night the frosty day has worn, And the last mile is passed. For as the bells' sweet chiming dies away — Left in the distance — from the broad highway, CHR1STMA S- TIDE. Through sheltered lane, o'er hillock's rugged ridge, Through clanging gate, and park, o'er rustic bridge, To snow-swept drive borne fas:. They come, they come ! And now before their gilt Looms up the mansion in the pale moon's light, And in a moment close before the door The neighing steeds have paused — the joum o ? er. And home is reached at last. The panting horses, with one final shake Of bells whose tinkles softest echoes wake, St and silent on the drive ; the light breeze stirs Among the spiny branches of the firs "Which deep black shadows trace Upon the moonlit whiteness of the snow; The mansion's everv window is aglow CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 205 The man the ribbons flinging from his hands Leaps from the sleigh, beside the lady stands With bright and smiling face, And hands extended as he murmurs low : " Sweet cousin, welcome home P The warm rich glow The winter wind had painted on her cheeks, Dies out in pallor which more plainly speaks Than any words could do, The shrinking she still feels at meeting those "Who utter strangers are, however close The ties of blood which each to each may bind, And claiming at their hands a welcome kind. He marks the pallid hue "Which chases from her cheeks the color bright, As o'er them streams from open door the light, And as he lifts her gently from the sleigh, He bends above her tenderly to say : " My peerless Marguerite, 2o6 CHRISTMAS-TIDE. This is your home ; call back the roses fled From these fair cheeks ; there's nothing, dear, to dread, This is your home ; and liere home's utmost cheer Shall soon dispel your every doubt and fear. So welcome, cousin sweet ! Fond care and love beyond that open door Wait to surround and guard you evermore." He takes her hand, which flutters in his hold Like frightened bird in hand of hunter bold ; And leads her, trembling, pale, Up the broad steps of his palatial home, And through the open door whence streaming come The brilliant lights that speak of warmth and cheer, Suggesting welcome loving and sincere. The lilies still prevail CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 207 Upon her cheek, as o'er the threshold wide, Her hand in his, the two step, side by side. IT. A broad and lofty hall ! Its marble floor, except for rugs, left bare ; Ascending either side a winding stair ; At farther end a fireplace wide and deep Piled high with logs round which the red flames leap Half way to mantel tall ; The blue-tiled hearth clean-swept with tidy care ; The wall hung close with pictures old and rare ; Broad, oak-framed sofas; carven chairs with arms Spread wide to tempt a trial of their charms ; Low footstools placed before ; 208 CHRISTMAS' TIDE. Dark, Christmas holly gleaming everywhere — Festooned above each picture, doorway, chair- From frieze to lighted candelabra looped ; And at the nearer end three persons grouped. All this the open door Gives up to view, as o'er the threshold wide, Her hand in his, the two step, side by side. T. One moment, while she stands Half blinded by the dazzling flow of light, All objects mingling to her 'wildered sight ; "While her companion to the greeting fond Each gives in turn doth joyously respond ; And then he takes her hands, And with a word presents her to the friends CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 209 Around her grouped. One questioning glance she bends Upon the faces near lit up with smiles Whose kindliness each ling'ring doubt beguiles, Then words of welcome sweet JFall on her ears, while two soft arms are prest Around her close ; by soft lips are caressed Brow, cheek, and mouth ; and she looks up with sighs Of sweet content, the glance of loving eyes Soft, dark, and deep to meet, While 'neath their smiles the past hour's vague alarm Dissolves like frost beneath the sunlight warm. How kind, and sweet, and motherly the face Of her who holds her in that close embrace A welcome warm to 5 impart ! What wonder they had loved her passing well — 2io Christmas-tide, The two who wooed her in her youth ! that fell Had been the blow to one when first he learned The love he gave in kind was unreturned ! What wonder in his heart Her lovely image lingered long and sweet, Though deep the pain that through each mem'ry beat ! So thinking, stands content within the arm Enfolding her, succumbing to the charm That motherly embrace Possesses for her lonely orphan heart ; The while her late companion stands apart, Regarding both with smiles, well pleased to mark The light that fills his mother's eyes so dark, The new bloom in the face Of her who from this meeting shrank with dread "Which deeper grew with every hour that sped. CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 2 1 1 A moment standing thus a voice she hears Whose deep low tones hold something to her ears Which speaks of other days, And she looks up to see a noble face So like her father's in each manly grace The quick tears start unbidden to her eyes ; And then her hand within his warm grasp lies, Her head is on his breast ; And while he pushes from her forehead fair The soft and drooping bands of gold-brown hair, He says with trembling, half -familiar tone, His eyes the while as dim as are her own As on her face they rest — " And you are Stuart's daughter ! Ah, my dear, Believe me you are more than welcome here, And that no other hither could have come To be 80 welcome both to heart and home ; God bless my brother's child ! 212 CHRISTMAS-TIDE. This is a joy I had not thought to know. God make you happy with us !" Broken, low, The old man's tones become, and plainly show How deep regret has dwelt his calm below ; How to be reconciled To that dear brother once so fondly loved His heart has longed through what indeed has proved A life-long separation. — From his arm Released at last, she turns to meet the warm And cordial kiss of one She till this moment scarcely has perceived — A lady young and fair, whose lips a grieved Sad droop possess which shows beneath the smile That, sweet and cordial, round them plays the while She greeting speaks. The sun That turns whate'er it shines upon to gold CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 2 1 3 Ic scarce more bright than are the tresses rolled Away from that low brow so fair and white ; Eyes like forget-me-nots, whose tender light Seems almost quenched in dew ; And cheeks whose rose and roundness show that youth And perfect health are hers. She is in truth Most wondrous fair ; and yet her flow'r-like face Of some great pain or passion holds the trace, Awaking in each true And noble heart a strange deep tenderness For her whose grief they scarcely more than guess. YL As warm upon her cheek The lady's greeting kiss falls, Marguerite 2i 4 CHRISTMAS' TIDE. Still half bewildered gazes on the sweet And smiling face, perplexed her name to guess — Forgetting her who in her loneliness Had hither come, to seek The loving care she since that day had known "When, but a child, Death left her all alone. Such wonderment her puzzled face betrays, Her cousin, stepping nearer, smiling says : " This, Marguerite, is she, The sister, who I told you came to fill The longing — which till then was never still — For such companionship as many a home Is rich in, but to mine had never come Till came my Rose to me. To-day gives us another flower sweet, A fragrant, brown-eyed daisy, Marguerite ! But, lest the frost should blight its dainty charm, ' I'll place it at yon fireside bright and warm, Until its heart expands CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 215 Beneath the genial glow that flame emits. 55 As thus he playful speaks a bright smile flits Across her f ace 9 while to the blazing fire He leads her, wheels a deep chair nigher, And seats her there. Soft hands With gentle touch her wrappings thick remove ; The eyes that meet her own are full of love ; Each hovers near her with assiduous care ; And leaning in the soft depths of her chair . While round her gently creeps The genial glow and warmth — a sense of all The kindness that surrounds her, that deep pall Of sorrow which in many a heavy fold Has wrapped her for so long, now all unrolled, Slips off : — her free heart leaps With grateful joy — her face is all aglow — " Ah, this is home, and rest ! 55 she murmurs low. LOYE. HE blush and bloom of May ! O'erhead a sky one stretch of lovely blue; Far in the west soft clouds of roseate hue ; Beneath the feet a sward from whose rich green Sweet blue-eyed violets peeping may be seen ; On either side the way Trees garlanded to topmost bough with bloom, The pink lips breathing forth a soft perfume Upon the atmosphere now burdened deep With mingled odors which the sunbeams steep In golden warmth and light, LOVE. 217 Till all the air the essence is of balm, A ? Pure, grateful, soft, warm, odorous, and calm. To breathe it in intoxicates the sense With pleasure thrilling, subtle, and intense, An undefined delight. Upon the em'rald sward th # e witching play Of gold-haired sunbeams with the shadows grey ; And swinging high, and flitting low and near, Forth pouring music ravishing and clear, Glad birds in plumage bright, Fresh from their journey from that sunny land Where all the year the winds blow soft and bland. H. Beneath the blooming boughs Which send their luscious perfume far and wide. Two steeds of dapple-grey pace side by side ; 10 218 LOVE. Their slow steps crushing mid the velvet green The blue-eyed violets smiling there unseen. Whose dying breath endows With deeper fragrance all the ambient air. Living or dying sweet beyond compare — These lovely flow'rs crushed by the feet that go Unheeding, with a steady step and slow On through the shadowed lane. The one horse proudly bears a lady fair Whose cheeks a pink like yonder peach-bloom wear ; Whose downcast eyes no single glance permit ; Whose face is with a mystic brightness lit, And keeps no trace of pain. Two small gloved hands the bridle lightly hold ; Around her flowing, sable fold on fold, Her heavy dress sweeps almost to the ground ; ,Her hat's long plume her flushed face floats around, LOVE. 219 Its fair tints to enhance. In swaying form, in half -averted face. In heaving bosom, quickened breath, we trace A subtle consciousness that tells a tale Whose blissful meaning one can scarcely fail To gather at a glance. Life's May has come, all beauty, blush, perfume, And her awakened heart bursts into bloom ! Upon the other horse, her good steed's mate, A man with form erect, and face elate, Eides, closely at her side. His bridl lies upon his horse's neck ; His hand is on the lady's rein to check Her pace to match his own ; a tender smile Is on his lips ; his dark eyes rest the while Upon the crimson tide That mantles in the face he deems so sweet ; His heart is throbbing with impassioned beat ; J 2 20 LOVE. His cheek is flushed; his breath breaks up in sighs ; While deeper, darker, softer grow the eyes Which dwell upon her face. His whole man's nature is intensely stirred ; But still he breaks the silence by no word ; And still the two in blissful peace remain, As softly through the velvet, flow'r-strewn lane They slowly onward pace. What hour to come can be so sweet as this — So full of subtle, all-pervading bliss ! What speech so tender that it would not jar Upon a joy a breath will sometimes mar ! What need of words to speak The passion throbbing through these fluttering hearts, Whose every sigh the story sweet imparts ! But e'en an hour like this its last sand drops. The gate is reached at last — beside it stops LOVE. 221 Each dappled steed so sleek. One word, soft-spoken, breaks the happy hush ; 'Tis only — " Marguerite ! " but yet the flush Upon her face grows deeper ; from her eyes One swiftj bright glance is flashed, then darkly lies Their fringe upon her cheek. A smile lights up his face from brow to chin ; The gate is opened, and the two pass in. fa) "^^^\ /f^ "^ — ^>^5^ S 3T"* /^^^2^5^ ~^m#vk |^/^Qr DOUBT. I. ITHOITT, a summer storm ! With fingers soft it taps against the pane, To gain an entrance seeking, but in vain ; Along the tiled roof patters with light feet, Sighing, and whispering a story sweet Of climes where breezes warm Blow over banks of ever-blooming flowers ; Where dreamily glide by the swift- winged hours ; Where seas are blue, and skies are ever bright ; Where but to breathe is exquisite delight ; DOUBT. 223 Stoops with caressing touch O'er crocus, hyacinth, and violet blue, On each flow'r-f ace to leave a brighter hue ; Shakes playfully the nodding clover blooms, And flutters all the willows' budding plumes ; With passion overmuch Sweeps o'er the lawn, and through the blooming trees, All its soft fury spending upon these Which of the gala robes they late have worn Themselves are swift divesting, till the torn And rain-stained fragments strew With snowy patches all the greensward bright, And they stand clad in garments fresh and light, Their summer work all ready to begin, Whose fruits the autumn shall see gathered in ; And softly drops, and slow, The summer rain upon the smiling earth, Waking new flower-babes to joyous birth. 224 DOUBT. II. Within, a dainty room Adorned with all that can delight or please, Conduce to comfort or luxurious ease. Beside the casement stands a lady slight, Her face, sometime so winsome, rosy, bright, Now clouded o'er with gloom. Her brow is pressed against the window-pane Where vainly tap the fingers of the rain ; Her hand, impatient, beats upon the sill ; Her mouth, though tremulous, is prideful still ; Her rounded cheek is pale ; Her eyes are full of tears that do not fall ; But ah, her heart is sadder far than all. The love that thrilled it late with rapture sweet, Already turned to pain, with anguished beat Throbs through it ; while the veil DOUBT. 225 Her pride Las thrown across the tortured face Of that fair love, is growing thin apace, As left alone she at the window stands And listens sadly to its stern demands. The time is past o'er-soon When love unspoken can content her heart ; The words are needed now peace to impart, And put to flight the doubts, and wild unrest That fill to agony her troubled breast. How sweet, till yester-noon, Her love had been ! how perfect was the trust Reposed in his ! how low amid the dust They each are lying now, cast down by him "Who won them both ; who, filling to the brim Her cup with life's rich wine, Had, ere she scarce could taste it, from her hand The goblet snatched ! She scarce can understand Why it is thus ; why he has sought to win Her love, if he's another set within 10* 226 DOUBT. His deep heart's inmost shrine. Is he so selfish as to cause her pain — Aye, worse, humiliation — to obtain The idle purpose of an hour's supine And vain amusement ? Must she then resign Respect as well as love For one she deemed so noble, true, and kind, In whom she has believed with heart and mind ? Or has she been so vain as to mistake The nature of that love he sought to wake — Of that he seemed to prove In every tender smile, and act, and w^ord, Which to profoundest depths her heart has stirred ? At thought of this her cheeks grow red and hot. " It must be true !" she thinks. " He loves me not ; Or else what can it mean That I should see him hold her to his breast DOUBT. 227 With 'passioned clasp ; that his dark face should rest With touch caressing on her rose-pink cheek Which on his shoulder lay. No words can speak The pang with which, unseen, I turned and fled. And though I veiled my face With pride, and met them later with no trace Of consciousness or pain, God only knows The heavy cloud that little picture throws Across my heart ; how deep The iron has entered in my very soul. Thank God I've kept a semblance of control Upon my pain when either has been near ; But oh, it's hard — so hard! He is so dear! Would I were but asleep And dreaming ! I might waken then to find 1 He whom I trusted still is true and kind. But no ! he loves me not ! it is no dream ! 'Tis not for me. a joy so deep, supreme ! 228 DOUBT. But oh, I still will keep My faith in him in whom I have believed ; He must be true ; I have myself deceived ; It's terrible to know I've loved unsought ; But e'en that bitter knowledge is not fraught With such o'er whelming pain As to believe him selfish, false, unkind. Why should he not prefer her ? I've been blind, Yain, foolish, or I long ago had seen The deep, deep love existing them between, And known mine must be vain. And she is worthy too, is good, and sweet ; But oh, His hard! God give me grace to meet This bitter, bitter trial ; to conceal From him — from her, the pain I can but feel, The torturing jealousy Which wrings my heart with agony intense, And quivers wildly through each conscious sense. How can I bear to see her at his side DOUBT. 229 Day after day, his loved and cherished bride ; How can I bear to see Him give to her the love I thought my own, Which for one little week has o'er me shone With joy and blessing in its every ray ; How can I bear to see it melt away From my too eager grasp, And see another wear the crown I crave ! Oh God ! I thought when from my father's grave I turned away, and to my empty home Went back alone, no sorrow that could come In after days could rasp With such sore agony my stricken heart. But oh, I did not know ! this stinging smart Burns deeper far ; this woe has elements Which entered not in that, deep and intense As was that hour's distress. I thought I'd passed from pain to peace at last ; 230 DOUBT. That in this home of sweetness unsurpassed I might find happiness and rest, and be From loneliness and sorrow henceforth free. How could I know, or guess The hand that led me hither so would wound ; And turn to pain again the peace I'd found !" 'Tw hard the hand should stab that has caressed, The lips betray our own have often pressed ! What wonder that her soul Is stung to madness as the first wild pain Of slighted love sweeps through it — giv'n in vain, Unsought, unwished ; as on to coming days She throws despairingly her anguished gaze, And feels upon her roll A heavier burden than she yet has borne, Deep as have been the griefs her heart have torn. Upon her face has died the hot red glow DOUBT. 231 Of wounded pride ; but hotter tears o'erflow Her aching eyes, and burn Adown the velvet whiteness of her cheek ; Her proud lips tightly closed, her clinched hands speak The effort she is making to control The burning tide ; the surge of thoughts that roll Their turbid waves in turn Across her heart ; to don the mask of pride She for a moment's space has thrown aside. HI. A light tap on the door — Unheard by her who at the window stands "With quiv'ring lips compressed and tight-clinched hands, 232 DOUBT. And eyes whose lashes brown are gemmed with tears, Restrained from falling now, while with the fears, And doubts, and anguish sore That swell within her heart she bravely fights, Though e'en the struggle but new pain excites. And so the gentle tap she does not hear ; The softly-op'ning door unto her ear Conveys no conscious sound ; But now upon the carpet footsteps fall — Steps so familiar they at once recall Her absent senses from the bitter power Of thoughts that sting, back to the present hour. She starts, and turning round, Looks in the smiling face of him she loves. Then, conscious what her agitation proves — How utterly she's failed to don again DOUBT. 233 Her mask of pride, which should conceal her pain. An agony of shame Throbs through her, and she turns away her head, While to her very brow a deep, hot red Burns up the whiteness of her quiv'ring face, And yet more plainly her distress betrays. She feels the surging flame With anger and disgust that she should fail Her face with cool indifference to veil In presence of the very one she'd fain In ign'rance of her folly should remain. How could she so forget The unlocked door ! but then, she had not meant To so give way to this new discontent, This new, sharp pain, when she — how long ago ? Had entered here and paused to list the slow And rhythmic minuet 234 DOUBT. The rain was tripping on the window pane. And then the bitterness that deep had lain Since yester-noon crushed down within her soul, Had torn its way through all the self-control She had built up with care To hide the ruins of her love and trust, Till she could bury both deep in the dust. And this was the result ! She had betrayed, And that to him, the sorrow that had made Her heart so sore ; laid bare The secret, jealous pain she'd giv'n her life To hide from him and all. — Sharp as a knife These bitter thoughts cut through her young, proud heart, And swifter than my words have pow'r to' impart ; For almost ere she turns Her face away from him, he to her side DOUBT. 235 Has sprung, the smile from out his eyes has died, And deep concern, surprise, and wond'ring pain Are written there instead. The crimson stain Which to her temple burns As she her face averts from his fond gaze, He sees, bat it no meaning new conveys ; And ere it dies his arm is 'round her waist, Her head against his throbbing heart is placed, And, spite of her attempt To free herself from his embracing arm, He holds her close — exclaims with vague alarm : "My darling, what is this? what mean these tears ? They fill my heart with nameless painful fears. I truly had not dreamt Tou were not happy. What can have occurred To wound you so ? speak, Marguerite, one word, And tell me it is naught — a mem'ry sad — 236 DOUBT. The thought of olden days. Say you are glad And happy in the love You know so well is yours. My Daisy, speak !" He bends his lips upon her glowing cheek. — " You have no sorrow now I may not share — "No grief that is not mine — no woe — no care." Ah, what does all this prove ? Was she then only dreaming yester-noon — And does he love her — her? is that great boon To be her own indeed ? Is it all true — What he just now has said ? Thus swiftly thro' Her half bewildered heart These blissful doubts flit, while beneath her cheek His heart is beating ; while he bids her speak And set at rest the fears he can't but feel At finding her like this ; while to conceal The joy his words impart, DOUBT. 237 Her face she nestles closer to his breast, While in his arms she yet is fondly pressed. IY. As still he softly pleads For but one word that shall her tears explain, She lifts her eyes — which now have filled again — And flushed, and smiling too, and shy yet proud, Seeks in his face the love he has avowed. With one swift glance she reads The truth and passion of his faithful heart, And knows at last she reigns in every part. " Well — Marguerite ?" he says, as on his breast She drops her face once more, with ah, such rest! And then she murmurs low : 238 DOUBT. " Oh it is nothing, Stuart ! I am glad — Glad as the birds. If painful thoughts and sad Were mine a moment since, they now are fled, And joy and peace are in my heart instead. They could not stay, you know — Those sad, dark thoughts, when you were by my side." This half evasive answer ; that rich tide Of crimson flaming in her cheek ; the tones Half fond, and half reserved, with which she owns Joy doth his coming greet, A strong suspicion in his heart awakes. His clasp he loosens — in his hands he takes Her blushing cheeks, and gazing in her face A moment silently, he smiling says : " You've dared to doubt me, sweet 1 Dared to believe that I could play with you, And be to love, and to my soul untrue. DOUBT. 239 What means it? how such doubts have I de- served Whose heart not e'en in thought from you has swerved Since that glad night in which I first beheld this proud, this perfect face, And lost my heart in one admiring gaze ? My brown-eyed Daisy, tell me what it means That you could doubt me !" On his breast she leans Her shy face colored rich With love's enchanting bloom, as she replies With sweet, gay laugh : " Nay, you are not so wise Perchance, as you believe. How dare you doubt 2Iy faith and trust in you — and this without One shade of evidence ? What reason have Zgiv'n for such distrust? As to my tears — well, if confess I must, 240 DOUBT. I own they came as come some summer showers, Swift, fierce, yet brief, and like those op'ning flowers Whose breath steeps every sense In pleasure exquisite, till we forget The storm that opened them, the tears that wet Their fragrant faces as they burst to bloom, Intensifying all their soft perfume. Storms needful are, and good ! See how the earth smiles 'neath the grateful tears The troubled sky is weeping ! when appears Once more the sun, and clouds are swept aside, The skies a deeper blue will wear ; the wide Green fields, yon tossing wood Will then a brighter, fresher hue display ; And on that sloping hillside far away ISTew blossoms wild and sweet will ope their eyes The glowing world to gaze on with surprise." DOUBT. 241 "What of the storm within?" He smiling asks, and bends to see her face. " Oh, that too, as I said, has given place To sunshine, and has opened many a flower Whose closed buds hid their beauty till this hour." " The storm to you has been A harbinger of peace and joy ?" he says, And reads the answer in her glowing face. V. A happy hour glides by While they of present, past, and future speak, ' Then, while a deeper crimson lights her cheek, And a last doubt its shadow o'er her throws, With hesitation shy she says — " And Rose !" " Well, what of Rose ?" His eye 11 242 DOUBT. He smiling bends upon her downcast face ; And as he gazes, in his mind apace A vague suspicion grows : Ah, there then lies The secret of the storm—the tear-filled eyes, The crimson cheeks, the lips Whose quiv'ring broke the sweet mouth's pride- f ul lines When first he sought her here. He read the signs Correctly then ; she doubted him ; the cause Dear Kose — poor Rose ! A moment's thoughtful pause, And then his hand he slips Beneath the fair round chin, lifts up her face, And waits till she her conscious eyes shall raise To meet his own. Awhile she restless bears His look intent, then lifts her eyes and dares Whatever they may meet. DOUBT. 243 A long, fond glance; then, smiling, "What of Eose? Poor Eose ! " his kind face graver, sadder grows. " Poor Eose ! life has been stern to her," he says, " And giv'n her more of pain and bitterness Than many know, my sweet, In half a century of troubled years. Those soft blue eyes familiar are with tears Such as but few have wept ; that gentle heart Is often filled with pain in every part. I told you, Marguerite, How sadly in her youth she was bereft Of all she loved, and how she came, when left Alone and desolate, our home to share, And make it bright with all her graces fair. I told you how to me She filled a sister's place, and with my dear And lovely mother made my home as near Perfection as could be an earthly home. 244 DOUBT. We blessed the day in which our Rose had come Our joy and pride to be. Scarce had our bud expanded into bloom, When one, attracted by its rich perfume And lovely hues, aspired to pluck and wear Our dainty blossom ; but we could not spare So soon our treasured flower ; And ere the day arrived when we should place Our darling in his keeping, Death's cold grace Lay on his silent lips, and close-shut eyes ; And crushed and broken, as a flower lies Cut down in evil hour By ruthless hands, our poor Rose lay that day, And saw life's brightness swiftly turn to grey. Long was it ere she rallied, and took up Once more its burdens ; for the bitter cup Her gentle lips had drained DOUBT. 245 Seemed to have poisoned all life's springs, and left Her utterly of vital pow'r bereft. But tender care availed, and health and strength Gave back the color to our Rose at length ; Though in her heart remained The shaft which death had left implanted there. But she is brave, and hides the wound with care. No word of hers the rankling pain reveals Which even now from life its brightness steals, As we who love her know. The hours are many which all darkness prove. They loved each other with no common love; Sucli love as even death cannot destroy." He clasps her closer, and with chastened joy, And eyes that tears o'er-flow, The girl looks up to meet the tender glance Of him whose every look her heart enchants ; And while her soul with pity deep is stirred 246 DOUBT. For her whose brief sad story she has heard, She feels with thankful glow How good and gracious God to her has been, And deeper grows the joy her heart within. FINALE. I. ARK to the merry bells ! Upon the slumbrous air flung far and near Peals oat their mellow chiming, soft yet clear ; And as their music floats o'er hill and plain, All the glad echoes chant a sweet refrain. With every note that swells Upon the dreamy air, deep organ tones Are sweetly blending, — not- with plaintive moans, 248 FINALE. But with a joyous burst rolls grandly out The Wedding March, and lingers sweet about The echoing arches high Upon whose proud support the old church leans. No need to ask what bell or music means, Nor why yon altar is a fragrant bower En woven thick of many a snowy flower ; No need to query why That fiutt'ring, gay-robed throng fills up the chairs Thick scattered through the nave to altar stairs. But now a hush falls o'er the waiting crowd, Broke only by a rustle, and the loud Triumphant organ notes, As through the wide-swung doors, preceded slow FINALE 249 By ushers decked with favors white as snow, The fair bride comes with downcast eyes, and cheeks "Whose heightened crimson eloquently speaks The joy this hour promotes. Her simple dress becomes her royally ; Her sweet, bright face a pleasure 'tis to see, As up the aisle upon the arm of him Who takes her father's place — whose eyes are dim With pleasure and regret — She comes, until before the chancel he Whose wedded wife she shortly is to be, Receives her, blushing, at his father's hands, And with her at the flow'r-decked altar stands. Then softer, fainter yet The organ's throbbing harmonies become, And die in silence ; all the church is dumb ; Till on the hush in solemn tones and slow 11* 248 FINALE. But with a joyous burst rolls grandly out The Wedding March, and lingers sweet about The echoing arches high Upon whose proud support the old church leans. No need to ask what bell or music means, Nor why yon altar is a fragrant bower En woven thick of many a snowy flower ; No need to query why That fiutt'ring, gay-robed throng fills up the chairs Thick scattered through the nave to altar stairs. But now a hush falls o'er the waiting crowd, Broke only by a rustle, and the loud Triumphant organ notes, As through the wide-swung doors, preceded slow FINALE. 251 And down the aisle the bridal train retrace Their steps — while loud and clear From belfry tow'r the swift, gay chimings swell, " And all is merry as the marriage bell." Finis.