She rose and pa.s.sed by him again, and her gown Brushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering down His whole body. She left on the air as she went A subtle suggestion of perfume; the scent Which steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seems Full of soft fragrant fancies and languorous dreams.

She haunted the mind, though she pa.s.sed from the sight.

When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night, 'Twas to dream of La Travers. He thought she became A burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame.

He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a start, As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart.

The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should, For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good, They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line, Night messages, couched in a cipher divine.

Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knew Even more of himself and his weaknesses. Few Of us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned out To watch what the rest of the world is about, While the rest of the world watches us.

Roger's reason And logic were clear. But his will played him treason.

If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands speak More than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was weak, Undeveloped; the second, firm jointed and long, Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong, But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble.

That morning He looked on his dream in the light of a warning And made sudden plans for departure. "To go Is to fly from some folly," he said, "for I know What salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyes Of a woman, can do under midsummer skies With a man who is wretched as I am. Unrest Is a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breast That a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirst For strong drink and chance games, those twin comrades accursed, Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife, Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the life That alone is worth living. I need you to-day, Have pity, and love me, oh love me, I pray.

I will turn once again from the bad world to you.

Though false to myself, to my vows I am true."

When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sin The devil tries harder to push it back in.

And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong track Needs his G.o.d and his will to stand close at his back.

Through what are called accidents, Roger was late At the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate?

The first coach was filled; he pa.s.sed on to the second.

That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckoned And said, "There's a seat, sir; the third from the last On your left." Roger thanked him and leisurely pa.s.sed Down the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the place Indicated. The seat held a lady, whose face Was turned to the window. "Pray pardon me, miss"

(For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is this Seat engaged?" As he spoke, the face turned in surprise, And Roger looked into the long, languid eyes Of La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from the seat, And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweet Breath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and made The place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade 'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had wept Or a late, lonely vigil with memory kept.

A man who has rescued a woman from danger Or death, does not seem to her wholly a stranger When next she encounters him; yet both essayed To be formal and proper; and each of them made The effort a failure. The jar of a train At times holds a mesmeric spell for the brain And a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriek Of the engine compels one to lean near to speak Or to list to his neighbor. Formality flies With the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies.

Roger led his companion to talk; and the theme Which he chose, was herself, her life story. The dream Of the previous night was forgotten. The charm Of the woman outweighed superst.i.tious alarm.

When the sunlight began to play peek-a-boo Through the tunnels, which told them the journey was through, Roger looked at his time-piece; the train for Bay Bend Left in just twenty minutes; but what a rude end To the day's pleasant comradeship--rushing away With a hurried good-bye! He decided to stay Over night in the city. He was not expected At home. Mrs. Travers was quite unprotected, And almost a stranger in Gotham. He ought To see her safe into her doorway, he thought.

At the doorway she gave him her hand, with a smile; "I have known you," she said, "such a brief little while, Yet you seem like a friend of long standing; I say Good-bye with reluctance."

"Perhaps, then, I may Call and see you to-morrow?" the words seemed to fall Of themselves from his lips; words he longed to recall When once uttered, for deep in his conscience he knew That the one word for him to speak now, was adieu.

The lady's soft, cushion-like hand rested still In his own, and the contact was pleasant. A thrill From the finger tips quickened his pulses.

"You may Call to-morrow at four." The soft hand slipped away And left his palm lonely.

"The call must be brief,"

He said to himself, with a sense of relief, As he ran down the steps, "for at five my train goes."

Yet the five o'clock train bore no Roger Montrose From New York. Mrs. Travers had asked him to dine.

A tete-a-tete dinner with beauty and wine, To stir the man's senses and deaden his brain.

(The devil keeps always good chefs in his train.) It was ten when he rose for departure. The room Seemed a garden of midsummer fragrance and bloom.

The lights with their soft rosy coverings made A glow like late sunsets, in some tropic glade.

The world seemed afar, with its dullness and duty, And life was a rapture of love and of beauty.

G.o.d knows how it happened; they never knew how.

He turned with a formal conventional bow, And some well chosen words of politeness, to go.

Her mouth was a rose Love had dropped in the snow Of her face. It smiled up to him, luscious and sweet.

In the tip of each finger he felt his heart beat, Like five hearts all in one, as her hand touched his own.

She murmured "good-night," in a tremulous tone.

White, intense, through the soft golden mist which the wine Had cast over his vision, he saw her face shine.

Her low lidded eyes held a lion-like glow.

You have seen sudden storms lash the ocean? You know How the cyclone, unheralded, rises in wrath, And leaves devastation and death in its path?

So swift, sudden pa.s.sion may rise in its power, And ruin and blight a whole life in an hour.

Two unanch.o.r.ed souls in its maelstrom were whirled, Drawn down by love's undertow, lost to the world.

The dark, solemn billows of night shut them in.

Like corpses afloat on the ocean of sin They must seem to their true, better selves, when again The tide drifts them back to the notice of men.

_Forget me, dear; forget and cease to love me, I am not worth one memory, kind or true, Let silent, pale Oblivion spread above me Her winding sheet, for I am dead to you.

Forget, forget._

_Sin has resumed its interrupted story; I am enslaved, who dreamed of being free.

Say for my soul, in life's dark purgatory, One little prayer, then cease to think of me.

Forget, forget._

_I ask you not to pity or to pardon; I ask you to forget me. Tear my name From out your heart; the wound will heal and harden.

Death does not dig so deep a grave as shame.

Forget, forget._

VIII.

_Roger's Letter to Mabel._

Farewell! I shall never again seek your side; I will stay with my sins and leave you with your pride.

Let the swift flame of scorn dry the tears of regret, Shut me out of your life, lock the door and forget.

I shall pa.s.s from your skies as a vagabond star Pa.s.ses out of the great solar system afar Into blackness and gloom; while the heavens smile on, Scarce knowing the poor erring creature is gone.

Say a prayer for the soul sunk in sinning; I die To you, and to all who have known me. Good-bye.

_Mabel's Letter to Maurice._

I break through the silence of years, my old friend, To beg for a favor; oh, grant it! I send Roger's letter in confidence to you, and ask, In the name of our sweet early friendship, a task, Which, however painful, I pray you perform.

Poor Roger! his bark is adrift in the storm.

He has veered from the course; with no compa.s.s of faith To point to the harbor, he goes to his death.

You are giving your talents and time, I am told, To aiding the poor; let this victim of gold Be included. His life has not learned self-control, And luxury stunted the growth of his soul.

In blindness of spirit he took the wrong track, But he sees his great error and longs to come back.

Oh, help me to reach him and save him, Maurice.

My heart yearns to show him the infinite peace Found but in G.o.d's love. Let us pity, forgive And help him, dear friend, to seek Christ and to live In the light of His mercy. I know you will do What I ask, you were ever so loyal and true.

_Maurice to Mabel._

Though bitter the task (why, your heart must well know), Your wish shall be ever my pleasure. I go On the search for the prodigal. Not for his sake, But because you have asked me, I willingly make This effort to find him. Sometimes, I contend, It is kinder to let a soul speed to the end Of its swift downward course than to check it to-day, But to see it to-morrow pursue the same way.

The man who could wantonly stray from your side Into folly and sin has abandoned all pride.

There is little to hope from him. Yet, since his name Is the name you now bear, I will save him from shame, G.o.d permitting. To serve and obey you is still Held an honor, Madame, by Maurice Somerville.

_Maurice to Mabel Ten Days Later._