To the mandate I bow; since all strive for that end, I must join the great throng! I am leaving Bay Bend This day week. I will see you in town as I pa.s.s To the college at C----, where I enter the cla.s.s Of medical students--I fancy you will Like to see my name thus--Dr. Ruth Somerville."

Maurice dropped the long, closely written epistle, Stared hard at the wall, and gave vent to a whistle.

A Doctor! his sweet, little home-loving sister.

A Doctor! one might as well prefix a Mister To Ruth Somerville, that most feminine name.

And then in the wake of astonishment came Keen pity for all she had suffered. "Poor Ruth, She writes like an agonized woman, in truth, And like one torn with jealousy. Ah, I can see,"

He mused, "how the pure soul of sweet Mabel Lee Revolts at the bondage and shrinks from the ban That lies in the love of that sensual man.

He is of the earth, earthy. He loves but her beauty, He cares not for conscience, or honor or duty.

Like a moth she was dazzled and lured by the flame Of a light she thought love, till she learned its true name; When she found it mere pa.s.sion, it lost all its charms.

No wonder she flies from his fettering arms!

G.o.d pity you, Mabel! poor ill mated wife; But my love, like a planet, shall watch o'er your life, Though all other light from your skies disappear, Like a sun in the darkness my love shall appear.

Unselfish and silent, it asks no return, But while the great firmament lasts it shall burn."

Muse, muse, awake, and sing thy loneliest strain, Song, song, be sad with sorrow's deepest pain, Heart, heart, bow down and never bound again, My Lady grieves, she grieves.

Night, night, draw close thy filmy mourning veil, Moon, moon, conceal thy beauty sweet and pale, Wind, wind, sigh out thy most pathetic wail, My Lady grieves, she grieves.

Time, time, speed by, thou art too slow, too slow, Grief, grief, pa.s.s on, and take thy cup of woe, Life, life, be kind, ah! do not wound her so, My Lady grieves, she grieves.

Sleep, sleep, dare not to touch mine aching eyes, Love, love, watch on, though fate thy wish denies, Heart, heart, sigh on, since she, my Lady, sighs, My Lady grieves, she grieves.

_The flower breathes low to the bee, "Behold, I am ripe with bloom.

Let Love have his way with me, Ere I fall unwed in my tomb."_

_The rooted plant sighs in distress To the winds by the garden walk "Oh, waft me my lover's caress, Or I shrivel and die on my stalk."_

_The whippoorwill utters her love In a pa.s.sionate "Come, oh come,"

To the male in the depths of the grove, But the heart of a woman is dumb._

_The lioness seeks her mate, The she-tiger calls her own-- Who made it a woman's fate To sit in the silence alone?_

VI.

Wooed, wedded and widowed ere twenty. The life Of Zoe Travers is told in that sentence. A wife For one year, loved and loving; so full of life's joy That death, growing jealous, resolved to destroy The Eden she dwelt in. Five desolate years She walked robed in weeds, and bathed ever in tears, Through the valley of memory. Locked in love's tomb Lay youth in its glory and hope in its bloom.

At times she was filled with religious devotion, Again crushed to earth with rebellious emotion And unresigned sorrow.

Ah, wild was her grief!

And the years seemed to bring her no balm of relief.

When a heart from its sorrow time cannot estrange, G.o.d sends it another to alter and change The current of feeling. Zoe's mother, her one Tie to earth, became ill. When the doctors had done All the harm which they dared do with powder and pill, They ordered a trial of Dame Nature's skill.

Dear Nature! what grief in her bosom must stir When she sees us turn everywhere save unto her For the health she holds always in keeping; and sees Us at last, when too late, creeping back to her knees, Begging that she at first could have given!

'Twas so Mother Nature's heart grieved o'er the mother of Zoe, Who came but to die on her bosom. She died Where the mocking bird poured out its pa.s.sionate tide Of lush music; and all through the dark days of pain That succeeded, and over and through the refrain Of her sorrow, Zoe heard that wild song evermore.

It seemed like a blow which pushed open a door In her heart. Something strange, sweet and terrible stirred In her nature, aroused by the song of that bird.

It rang like a voice from the future; a call That came not from the past; yet the past held her all.

To the past she had plighted her vows; in the past Lay her one dream of happiness, first, only, last.

Alone in the world now, she felt the unrest Of an unanch.o.r.ed boat on the wild billow's breast.

Two homes had been shattered; the West held but tombs.

She drifted again where the magnolia blooms And the mocking bird sings. Oh! that song, that wild strain, Whose echoes still haunted her heart and her brain!

How she listened to hear it repeated! It came Through the dawn to her heart, and the sound was like flame.

It chased all the shadows of night from her room, And burst the closed bud of the day into bloom.

It leaped to the heavens, it sank to the earth It gave life new rapture and love a new birth.

It ran through her veins like a fiery stream, And the past and its sorrow--was only a dream.

The call of a bird in the spring for its lover Is the voice of all Nature when winter is over.

The heart of the woman re-echoed the strain, And its meaning, at last, to her senses was plain.

Grief's winter was over, the snows from her heart Were melted; hope's blossoms were ready to start.

The spring had returned with its siren delights, And her youth and emotions a.s.serted their rights.

Then memory struggled with pa.s.sion. The dead Seemed to rise from the grave and accuse her. She fled From her thoughts as from lepers; returned to old ways, And strove to keep occupied, filling her days With devotional duties. But when the night came She heard through her slumber that song like a flame, And her dreams were sweet torture. She sought all too soon To chill the warm sun of her youth's ardent noon With the shadows of premature evening. Her mind Lacked direction and purpose. She tried in a blind, Groping fashion to follow an early ideal Of love and of constancy, starving the real Affectional nature G.o.d gave her. She prayed For G.o.d's help in unmaking the woman He made, As if He repented the thing He had done.

With the soul of a Sappho, she lived like a nun, Hid her thoughts from all women, from men kept apart, And carefully guarded the book of her heart From the world's prying eyes. Yet men read through the cover, And knew that the story was food for a lover.

(The dullest of men seemed possessed of the art To read what the pa.s.sions inscribe on the heart.

Though written in cipher and sealed from the sight, Yet masculine eyes will interpret aright.) Worn out with the unceasing conflict at last, Zoe fled from herself and her sorrowful past, And turned to new scenes for diversion from thought.

New York! oh, what magic encircles that spot In the feminine mind of the West! There, it seems, Waits the realization of beautiful dreams.

There the waters of Lethe unceasingly roll, With blessed forgetfulness free to each soul, While the doorways that lead to success open wide, With Fame in the distance to beckon and guide.

Mirth lurks in each byway, and Folly herself Wears the look of a semi-respectable elf, And is to be courted and trusted when met, For she teaches one how to be gay and forget, And to start new account books with life.

It was so, Since she first heard the name of the city, that Zoe Dreamed of life in New York. It was thither she turned To smother the heart that with restlessness burned, And to quiet and calm an unsatisfied mind.

Her plans were but outlines, crude, vague, undefined, Of distraction and pleasure. A snug little home, With seclusion and comfort; full freedom to roam Where her fancy and income permitted; new faces, New scenes, new environments, far from the places Where brief joy and long sorrow had dwelt with her; free From the curious eyes that seemed ever to be Bent upon her. She pa.s.sed like a ship from the port, Without chart or compa.s.s; the plaything and sport Of the billows of Fate.

The parks were all gay And busy with costuming duties of May When Zoe reached New York. The rain and the breeze Had freshened the gowns of the Northern pine trees Till they looked bright as new; all the willows were seen In soft dainty garments of exquisite green.

Young buds swelled with life, and reached out to invite And to hold the warm gaze of the wandering light.

The turf exhaled fragrance; among the green boughs The unabashed city birds plighted their vows, Or happy young house hunters chirped of the best And most suitable nook to establish a nest.

There was love in the sunshine, and love in the air; Youth, hope, home, companionship, spring, everywhere.

There was youth, there was spring in her blood; yet she only, In all the great city, seemed loveless and lonely.

The trim little flat, facing north on the park, Was not homelike; the rooms seemed too sombre and dark To her eyes, sun-accustomed; the neighbors too near And too noisy. The medley of sounds hurt her ear.

Sudden laughter; the cry of an infant; the splash Of a tenant below in his bath-tub; the crash Of strong hands on a keyboard above, and the light, Merry voice of the lady who lived opposite, The air intertwined in a tangled sound ball, And flung straight at her ear through the court and the hall.

Ah, what loneliness dwelt in the rush and the stir Of the great pushing throngs that were nothing to her, And to whom she was nothing! Her heart, on its quest For distraction, seemed eating itself in her breast.

She longed for a comrade, a friend. In the church Which she frequented no one abetted her search, For the faces of people she met in its aisle Gazed calmly beyond her, without glance or smile.

The look in their eyes, when translated, read thus, "We worship G.o.d here, what are people to us?"

In some masculine eyes she read more, it is true.

What she read made her gaze at the floor of her pew.

The blithe little blonde who lived over the hall, In the opposite rooms, was the first one to call Or to show friendly feeling. She seemed sweet and kind, But her infantile face hid a mercantile mind.

Her voice had the timbre of metal. Each word Clinked each word like small change in a purse; and you heard, In the rustling silk of her skirts, just a hint Of new bills freshly printed and right from the mint.

There was that in her airs and her chatter which made Zoe question and ponder, and turn half afraid From her proffers of friendship. When one July day The fair neighbor called for a moment to say, "I am off to Long Branch for the summer, good-bye,"

Zoe seemed to breathe freer--she scarcely knew why, But she reasoned it out as alone in the gloom Of the soft summer evening she sat in her room.

"The woman is happy," she said; "at the least, Her heart is not starving in life's ample feast.

She lives while she lives, but I only exist, And Fate laughs in my face for the things I resist."