Chapter 3
"Forgive me," wrote Ruth; "for at last I must speak Of the two whom you wish to forget. Well I know How you suffered, still suffer, from fate's sudden blow, Though I am a woman, and women must stay And fight out pain's battles where men run away. But my strength has its limit, my courage its end, The time has now come when I, too, leave Bay Bend. Maurice, let the bitterness housed in your heart For the man you long loved as a comrade, depart, And let pity replace it. Oh, weep for his sorrow-- From your fountain of grief, held in check, let me borrow; I have so overdrawn on the bank of my tears That my anguish is now refused payment. For years You loved Mabel Lee. Well, to some hearts love speaks His whole tale of passion in brief little weeks. As Minerva, full grown, from the great brow of Jove Sprang to life, so full blown from our breasts may spring Love. Love hid like a bee in my heart's lily cup; I knew not he was there till his sting woke me up.
Maurice, oh Maurice! Can you fancy the woe Of seeing the prize which you coveted so Misused, or abused, by another? The wife Of the man whom I worshiped is spoiling the life That was wax in her hands, wax to shape as she chose. You were blind to her faults, so was Roger Montrose. Both saw but the saint; well, let saints keep their places, And not crowd the women in life's hurried races. As saint, Mabel Lee might succeed; but, oh brother, She never was meant for a wife or a mother. Her beautiful home has the desolate air Of a house that is ruled by its servants. The care-- The thought of the _woman_ (that sweet, subtle power Pervading some rooms like the scent of a flower), Which turns house into home--_that_ is lacking. She goes On her merciful rounds, does our Lady Montrose, Looking after the souls of the heathen, and leaving The poor hungry soul of her lord to its grieving.
He craves her companionship; wants her to be At his side, more his own, than the public's. But she Holds such love is but selfish; and thinks he should make Some sacrifice gladly for charity's sake. Her schools, and her clubs, and her fairs fill her time; He wants her to travel; no, that were a crime To go seeking for pleasure, and leave duty here. God had given her work and her labor lay near. A month of the theater season in town? No, the stage is an evil that needs putting down By good people. So, scheme as he will, the poor man Has to finally yield every project and plan To this sweet stubborn saint; for the husband, you see, Stands last in Her thoughts. He has come, after three Patient years, to that knowledge; his wishes, his needs Must always give way to her whims, or her creeds.
She knows not the primer of loving; her soul Is engrossed with the poor petty wish to _control_. And she chafes at restriction. Love loves to be bound, And its sweetest of freedom in bondage is found. She pulls at her fetters. One worshiping heart And its faithful devotion play but a small part In her life. She would rather be lauded and praised By a crowd of inferior followers, raised To the pitiful height of their leader, than be One man's goddess. There, now, is the true Mabel Lee! Grieve not that you lost her, but grieve for the one Who with me stood last night by the corpse of his son, And with me stood alone. Ah! how wisely and well Could Mabel descant on Maternity! tell Other women the way to train children to be An honor and pride to their parents! Yet she, From the first, left her child to the nurses. She found 'Twas a tax on her nerves to have baby around When it worried and cried. The nurse knew what to do, And a block down the street lived Mama! 'twixt the two Little Roger would surely be cared for. She must Keep her strength and be worthy the love and the trust Of the poor, who were yearly increasing, and not Bestow on her own all the care and the thought-- That were selfishness, surely.
Well, the babe grew apace, But yesterday morning a flush on its face And a look in its eye worried Roger. The mother Was due at some sort of convention or other In Boston--I think 'twas a grand federation Of clubs formed by women to rescue the Nation From man's awful clutches; and Mabel was made The head delegate of the Bay Bend Brigade. Once drop in a small, selfish nature the seed Of ambition for place, and it grows like a weed. The fair village angel we called Mabel Lee, As Mrs. Montrose, has developed, you see, To a full fledged Reformer. It quite turned her head To be sent to the city of beans and brown bread As a delegate! (Delegate! magical word! The heart of the queer modern woman is stirred Far more by its sound than by aught she may hear In the phrases poor Cupid pours into her ear.) Mabel chirped to the baby a dozen good-byes, And laughed at the trouble in Roger's grave eyes, As she leaned o'er the lace ruffled crib of her son And talked baby-talk: "Now be good, 'ittle one, While Mama is away, and don't draw a long breath, Unless 'oo would worry Papa half to death. And don't cough, and, of all things, don't _sneeze_, 'ittle dear, Or Papa will be thrown into spasms of fear. Now, good-bye, once again, 'ittle man; mother knows There is no other baby like Roger Montrose In the whole world to-day."
So she left him. That night The nurse sent a messenger speeding in fright For the Doctor; a second for Grandmama Lee And Roger despatched still another for me. All in vain! through the gray chilly paths of the dawn The soul of the beautiful baby passed on Into Mother-filled lands.
Ah! my God, the despair Of seeing that agonized sufferer there; To stand by his side, yet denied the relief Of sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief. Enough! I have borne all I can bear. The role Of friend to a lover pulls hard on the soul Of a sensitive woman. The three words in life Which have meaning to me are home, mother and wife-- Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thought Men cared for the women who found home the spot Next to heaven for happiness; women who knew No ambition beyond being loyal and true, And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn, Instead, that from women of that kind men turn, With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who live For the poor hollow world and for what it can give, And who make home the spot where, when other joys cease, One sleeps late when one wishes.
You left me Maurice Left the home I have kept since our dear Mother died, With such sisterly love and such housewifely pride, And you wandered afar, and for what cause, forsooth? Oh! because a vain, self-loving woman, in truth, Had been faithless. The man whom I worshiped, ignored The love and the _comfort_ my woman's heart stored In its depths for his taking, and sought Mabel Lee. Well, I'm done with the role of the housewife. I see There is nothing in being domestic. The part Is unpicturesque, and at war with all art. The senile old Century leers with dim eyes At our sex and demands that we shock or surprise His thin blood into motion. The home's not the place To bring a pleased smile to his wicked old face. 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 pass To the college at C----, where I enter the class 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 passion, it lost all its charms. No wonder she flies from his fettering arms! God 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, pass 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 passionate "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, God 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 passionate 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 unanchored 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 asserted their rights. Then memory struggled with passion. 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 God gave her. She prayed For God'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 passions 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 passed like a ship from the port, Without chart or compass; 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 God 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."
New York in the midsummer seems like the gay Upper servant who rules with the mistress away. She entertains friends from all parts of the earth; Her streets are alive with a fictitious mirth. She flaunts her best clothes with a devil-may-care Sort of look, and her parks wear a riotous air. There is something unwholesome about her at dusk; Her trees, and her gardens, seem scented with musk; And you feel she has locked up the door of the house And, half drunk with the heat, wanders forth to carouse, With virtue, ambition and industry all Packed off (moth-protected) with garments for Fall.
Zoe felt out of step with the town. In the song Which it sang, where each note was a soul of the throng, She seemed the one discord. Books gave no distraction. She cared not for study, her heart longed for action, For pleasure, excitement. Wild impulses, new To her mind, came like demons and urged her to do All sorts of mad things. Mischief breathed through the air. One could do as one liked in New York--who would care-- Who would know save the God who had left her alone In his world, unprotected, unloved? From her own Restless mind and sick heart she attempted once more To escape. One reads much of gay life at the shore-- Narragansett, she fancied, would suit her. The sea Would at least prove a friend; and, perchance, there might be Some heart, like her own, seeking comradeship there. The days brought no friend. But the moist, salty air Was a stimulant, giving existence new charms. The sea was a lover who opened his arms Every day to embrace her. And life in this place Held something of pleasure, and sweetness and grace, Though the eyes of the men were too ardent and bold, And the eyes of the women suspicious and cold, She yet had the sea--the sea, strong and mighty, Both father and mother of fair Aphrodite.
VII.
Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere, But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod Where the little form slept, to its spirit with God.
Long hours by that grave, Roger passed, and alone. The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own, But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief.
She flung herself into good works more and more, And saw not that the look which her husband's face wore Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold Of a nun she was fashioned, chaste, passionless, cold. (Such women sin more when they take marriage ties Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies In the arms of the man whom she worships. The child Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled. Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows, God sees "illegitimate" stamped on the brows Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth In His eyes--all the rest is but spawn of the earth.)
Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleased By the passion of Roger; his wild wooing teased That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit, Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit. His love fanned her love for herself to a glow; She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so. That was all. She had nothing to give in return. One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn; And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soul Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal As the Arctic explorer may finally stand, To see all about him an ice prisoned land, White, beautiful, useless.
Some women are chaste, Like the snows which envelop the bleak arid waste Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains? The flora of Cupid will never be found, However he toil there, to thrive in such ground.
Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem By her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deem Such women to be all that's noble. They sighed When they spoke of her husband; they told how she tried To convert him, and how they had thought for a season His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason, He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous In duty to others.
The death of his child Only hardened his heart against God. He grew wild, Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city, Neglecting his saint of a wife--such a pity. It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds But the fine interlining of causes--who heeds? The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts.