So for a time my labor seemed in vain, Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, The grief my heart was striving to forget.

While in his form all strength and magnitude With grace and supple sinews were entwined, While in his face all beauties were combined Of perfect features, intellect and truth, With all that fine rich coloring of youth, How could my brush portray aught good or fair Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude Of him my soul had worshiped?

But, at last, Setting a watch upon my unwise heart That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, I resolutely shut away the past, And made the toilsome present pa.s.sing bright With dreams of what was hidden from my sight In the far distant future, when the soil Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.

_PART VII._

With much hard labor and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skillful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well--oh, yes! quite well, indeed!

But still so weak and nervous. By and by, When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again.

She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.

Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma's little pearl.

No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told.

It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat.

And when the Roman Summer's languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

I was a willing worker. Not an hour Pa.s.sed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on To swell the tide of hours forever gone.

My first completed picture, known as "Joy,"

Won pleasant words of praise. "Possesses power,"

"Displays much talent," "Very fairly done."

So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting sorrow, heavy-eyed, With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.

The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth That certain sign of merit--a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises--so Proving conclusively the pictures' worth.

These critics and reviewers do not use Their precious ammunition to abuse A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim Too much of public notice. But this shot Resulted only in some noise, which brought A dozen people, where one came before To view my pictures; and I had my hour Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow'r.

An English Baron who had lived two score Of his allotted three score years and ten, Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, And so attentive, I, not being blind, Must understand his meaning.

Therefore, when He said, "Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, The 'Joy' and 'Sorrow' this dear hand portrayed I have in my possession: now resign Into my careful keeping, and make mine, The joy and sorrow of your future life,"-- I was prepared to answer, but delayed, Grown undecided suddenly.

My mind Argued the matter coolly pro and con, And made resolve to speed his wooing on And grant him favor. He was good and kind; Not young, no doubt he would be quite content With my respect, nor miss an ardent love; Could give me ties of family and home; And then, perhaps, my mind was not above Setting some value on a t.i.tled name-- Ambitious woman's weakness!

Then my art Would be encouraged and pursued the same, And I could spend my winters all in Rome.

Love never more could touch my wasteful heart That all its wealth upon one object spent.

Existence would be very bleak and cold, After long years, when I was gray and old, With neither home nor children.

Once a wife, I would forget the sorrow of my life, And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.

My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, But made no comment.

Then the Baron spoke, And waited for my answer. All in vain I strove for strength to utter that one word My mind dictated. Moments rolled away-- Until at last my torpid heart awoke, And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.

And then my eyes with sudden tears o'erran, In pity for myself and for this man Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise.

"Dear friend," I cried, "Dear generous friend forgive A troubled woman's weakness! As I live, In truth I meant to answer otherwise.

From out its store, my heart can give you naught But honor and respect; and yet methought I would give willing answer, did you sue.

But now I know 'twere cruel wrong I planned; Taking a heart that beat with love most true, And giving in exchange an empty hand.

Who weds for love alone, may not be wise: Who weds without it, angels must despise.

Love and respect together must combine To render marriage holy and divine; And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys Continuation of the nuptial joys, And brings regret, and gloomy discontent, To put to rout each tender sentiment.

Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life By that possession--an unloving wife; Nor will I take the sin upon my soul Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole.

However bleak may be my single lot, I will not stain my life with such a blot.

Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; It holds some fairer woman for your bride; I would I had a heart to give to you, But, lacking it, can only say--adieu!"

He whom temptation never has a.s.sailed, Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, Rise up and turn away, not having failed.

The Autumn of the third year came and went; The mild Italian winter was half spent, When this brief message came across the sea: "My darling! I am dying. Come to me.

Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, Stands pale within its shadow. O, my sweet!

This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat-- Dying with very weight of bliss. O, come!

And take the legacy I leave to you, Before these lips forevermore are dumb.

In life or death, Yours, Helen Dangerfield."

This plaintive letter bore a month old date; And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, I bade the old world and new friends adieu.

And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.

All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was pa.s.sing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.

"O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone!

Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath!

And true in life, be true e'en unto death.

"O, ship, sail on! and bear me o'er the tide To her for whom my woman's heart once died.

Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be!

I have been true, so true, through all the past, Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last."

So prayed my heart still o'er, and ever o'er, Until the weary lagging ship reached sh.o.r.e.

All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of s.p.a.ce between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: "Does she live? Reply."

The answer came. "She lives, but hasten, friend!

Her journey draweth swiftly to its end."

Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his-- The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in a.s.serting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or pa.s.sion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth.

And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible, and clothed like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, pa.s.sing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling.

It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

So now into my troubled heart, above The present's pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and pa.s.sion of a by-gone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power.

'T was but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us.

But I saw In him the husband of my friend alone.

The old emotions might at times return, And smold'ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed G.o.d's law, By looking on the man I had resigned, With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known.

He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapor o'er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be.

There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine.

All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete.

Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain.

And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiseled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.

In a room Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer's bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now Than Death's; for on the marble of her brow, His seal was stamped indelibly.

Her form Was like the slendor willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue.

Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright With an unearthly beauty; and an awe Crept o'er me, gazing on her, for I saw She was so near to Heaven that I seemed To look upon the face of one redeemed.