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Maurine Part IV.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"Maurine, Maurine! 'tis ten o'clock! arise,

My pretty sluggard! open those dark eyes,

And see where yonder sun is! Do you know

I made my toilet just four hours ago?"

'T was Helen's voice: and Helen's gentle kiss

Fell on my cheek. As from a deep abyss,

I drew my weary self from that strange sleep

That rests not, nor refreshes. Scarce awake

Or conscious, yet there seemed a heavy weight

Bound on my breast, as by a cruel Fate.

I knew not why, and yet I longed to weep.

Some dark cloud seemed to hang upon the day;

And, for a moment, in that trance I lay,

When suddenly the truth did o'er me break,

Like some great wave upon a helpless child.

The dull pain in my breast grew like a knife -

The heavy throbbing of my heart grew wild,

And God gave back the burden of the life

He kept what time I slumbered.

"You are ill,"

Cried Helen, "with that blinding headache still!

You look so pale and weary. Now let me

Play nurse, Maurine, and care for you to-day!

And first I'll suit some dainty to your taste,

And bring it to you, with a cup of tea."

And off she ran, not waiting my reply.

But, wanting most the sunshine and the light,

I left my couch, and clothed myself in haste,

And, kneeling, sent to God an earnest cry

For help and guidance.

"Show Thou me the way,

Where duty leads; for I am blind! my sight

Obscured by self. Oh, lead my steps aright!

Help me see the path: and if it may,

Let this cup pass: - and yet Thou heavenly One

Thy will in all things, not mine own, be done."

Rising, I went upon my way, receiving

The strength prayer gives alway to hearts believing.

I felt that unseen hands were leading me,

And knew the end was peace.

"What! are you up?"

Cried Helen, coming with a tray, and cup,

Of tender toast, and fragrant smoking tea.

"You naughty girl! you should have stayed in bed

Until you ate your breakfast, and were better

I've something hidden for you here - a letter.

But drink your tea before you read it, dear!

'Tis from some distant cousin, Auntie said,

And so you need not hurry. Now be good,

And mind your Helen."

So, in passive mood,

I laid the still unopened letter near,

And loitered at my breakfast more to please

My nurse, than any hunger to appease.

Then listlessly I broke the seal and read

The few lines written in a bold free hand:

"New London, Canada. Dear Coz. Maurine!

(In spite of generations stretched between

Our natural right to that most handy claim

Of cousinship, we'll use it all the same)

I'm coming to see you! honestly, in truth!

I've threatened often - now I mean to act.

You'll find my coming is a stubborn fact.

Keep quiet though, and do not tell Aunt Ruth

I wonder if she'll know her petted boy

In spite of changes. Look for me until

You see me coming. As of old I'm still

Your faithful friend, and loving cousin, Roy."

So Roy was coming! He and I had played

As boy and girl, and later, youth and maid,

Full half our lives together. He had been,

Like me, an orphan; and the roof of kin

Gave both kind shelter. Swift years sped away

Ere change was felt: and then one summer day

A long lost uncle sailed from India's shore -

Made Roy his heir, and he was ours no more.

"He'd write us daily, and we'd see his face

Once every year." Such was his promise given

The morn he left. But now the years were seven

Since last he looked upon the olden place.

He'd been through college, traveled in all lands,

Sailed over seas, and trod the desert sands.

Would write and plan a visit, then, ere long,

Would write again from Egypt or Hong Kong -

Some fancy called him thither unforeseen.

So years had passed, till seven lay between

His going and the coming of this note,

Which I hid in my bosom, and replied

To Aunt Ruth's queries, "What the truant wrote?"

By saying he was still upon the wing,

And merely dropped a line, while journeying,

To say he lived: and she was satisfied.

Sometimes it happens, in this world so strange,

A human heart will pass through mortal strife,

And writhe in torture: while the old sweet life

So full of hope, and beauty, bloom and grace,

Is slowly strangled by remorseless Pain:

And one stern, cold, relentless, takes its place -

A ghastly, pallid specter of the slain.

Yet those in daily converse see no change

Nor dream the heart has suffered.

So that day

I passed along toward the troubled way

Stern duty pointed, and no mortal guessed

A mighty conflict had disturbed my breast.

I had resolved to yield up to my friend

The man I loved. Since she, too, loved him so

I saw no other way in honor left.

She was so weak and fragile, once bereft

Of this great hope, that held her with such power

She would wilt down, like some frost-bitten flower

And swift untimely death would be the end.

But I was strong: and hardy plants, which grow

In out-door soil, can bear bleak winds that blow

From Arctic lands, whereof a single breath

Would lay the hot-house blossom low in death.

The hours went by, too slow, and yet too fast.

All day I argued with my foolish heart

That bade me play the shrinking coward's part

And hide from pain. And when the day had past

And time for Vivian's call drew near and nearer,

It pleaded. "Wait, until the way seems clearer:

Say you are ill - or busy: keep away

Until you gather strength enough to play

The part you have resolved on."

"Nay, not so,"

Made answer clear-eyed Reason, "Do you go

And put your resolution to the test.

Resolve, however nobly formed, at best

Is but a still born babe of Thought, until

It proves existence of its life and will

By sound or action."

So when Helen came

And knelt by me, her fair face all aflame

With sudden blushes, whispering, "My sweet!

My heart can hear the music of his feet -

Go down with me to meet him," I arose,

And went with her all calmly, as one goes

To look upon the dear face of the dead.

That eve, I know not what I did or said.

I was not cold - my manner was not strange:

Perchance I talked more freely than my wont,

But in my speech was naught could give affront;

Yet I conveyed, as only woman can,

That nameless something, which bespeaks a change.

'Tis in the power of woman, if she be

Whole-souled and noble, free from coquetry -

Her motives all unselfish, worthy, good,

To make herself and feelings understood

By nameless acts - thus sparing what to man,

However gently answered, causes pain,

The offering of his hand and heart in vain.

She can be friendly, unrestrained, and kind,

Assume no airs of pride or arrogance;

But in her voice, her manner, and her glance,

Convey that mystic something, undefined,

Which men fail not to understand and read,

And, when not blind with egoism, heed.

My task was harder. 'T was the slow undoing

Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.

It was to hide and cover and conceal

The truth - assuming, what I did not feel.

It was to dam love's happy singing tide

That blessed me with its hopeful, tuneful tone,

By feigned indiff'rence, till it turned aside,

And changed its channel, leaving me alone

To walk parched plains, and thirst for that sweet draught

My lips had tasted, but another quaffed.

It could be done. For no words yet were spoken -

None to recall - no pledges to be broken.

"He will be grieved, then angry, cold, then cross,"

I reasoned, thinking what would be his part

In this strange drama. "Then, because his he

Feels something lacking, to make good his loss,

He'll turn to Helen: and her gentle grace

And loving acts will win her soon the place

I hold to-day: and like a troubled dream

At length, our past, when he looks back, will seem."

That evening passed with music, chat and song:

But hours that once had flown on airy wings

Now limped on weary, aching limbs along,

Each moment like some dreaded step that brings

A twinge of pain.

As Vivian rose to go,

Slow bending to me, from his greater height,

He took my hand, and, looking in my eyes,

With tender questioning and pained surprise,

Said, "Maurine, you are not yourself to-night!

What is it? Are you ailing?"

"Ailing? no,"

I answered, laughing lightly, "I am not:

Just see my cheek, sir! is it thin, or pale?

Now tell me, am I looking very frail?"

"Nay, nay!" he answered, "it can not be seen,

The change I speak of - 'twas more in your mien:

Preoccupation, or - I know not what!

Miss Helen, am I wrong, or does Maurine

Seem to have something on her mind this eve?"

"She does!" laughed Helen, "and I do believe

I know what 'tis! A letter came to-day

Which she read slyly, and then hid away

Close to her heart, not knowing I was near:

And since she's been as you have seen her here.

See how she blushes! so my random shot

We must believe has struck a tender spot."

Her rippling laughter floated through the room,

And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise,

Then surge away to leave me pale as death,

Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom

Of Vivian's questioning, accusing eyes,

That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath

That stern, fixed gaze; and stood spellbound until

He turned with sudden movement, gave his hand

To each in turn, and said, "You must not stand

Longer, young ladies, in this open door.

The air is heavy with a cold damp chill.

We shall have rain to-morrow, or before.

Good night."

He vanished in the darkling shade;

And so the dreaded evening found an end,

That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade,

And strike a blow for honor and for friend.

"How swiftly passed the evening!" Helen sighed.

"How long the hours!" my tortured heart replied.

Joy, like a child, with lightsome steps doth glide

By Father Time, and, looking in his face,

Cries, snatching blossoms from the fair road-side,

"I could pluck more, but for thy hurried pace."

The while her elder brother Pain, man grown,

Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone,

Looks to some distant hill-top, high and calm,

Where he shall find not only rest, but balm

For all his wounds, and cries in tones of woe,

"O Father Time! why is thy pace so slow?"

Two days, all sad with lonely wind and rain,

Went sobbing by, repeating o'er and o'er

The miserere, desolate and drear,

Which every human heart must sometime hear.

Pain is but little varied. Its refrain,

Whate'er the words are, is for aye the same.

The third day brought a change: for with it came

Not only sunny smiles to Nature's face,

But Roy, our Roy came back to us. Once more

We looked into his laughing, handsome eyes,

Which, while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise

In no way puzzled her: for one glance told

What each succeeding one confirmed, that he

Who bent above her with the lissome grace

Of his fine form, though grown so tall, could be

No other than the Roy Montaine of old.

It was a sweet reunion: and he brought

So much of sunshine with him, that I caught,

Just from his smile alone, enough of gladness

To make my heart forget a time its sadness.

We talked together of the dear old days:

Leaving the present, with its depths and heights

Of life's maturer sorrows and delights,

I turned back to my childhood's level land,

And Roy and I, dear playmates, hand in hand,

Wandered in mem'ry, through the olden ways.

It was the second evening of his coming.

Helen was playing dreamily, and humming

Some wordless melody of white-souled thought,

While Roy and I sat by the open door,

Re-living childish incidents of yore.

My eyes were glowing, and my cheeks were hot

With warm young blood; excitement, joy, or pain

Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.

Roy, always eloquent, was waxing fine,

And bringing vividly before my gaze

Some old adventure of those halcyon days,

When suddenly in pauses of the talk,

I heard a well-known step upon the walk,

And looked up quickly to meet full in mine

The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash

Shot from their depths: - a sudden blaze of light

Like that swift followed by the thunder's crash,

Which said, "Suspicion is confirmed by sight,"

As they fell on the pleasant door-way scene.

Then o'er his clear-cut face, a cold white look

Crept, like the pallid moonlight o'er a brook,

And, with a slight, proud bending of the head,

He stepped toward us haughtily and said,

"Please pardon my intrusion, Miss Maurine:

I called to ask Miss Trevor for a book

She spoke of lending me: nay, sit you still!

And I, by grant of your permission, will

Pass by to where I hear her playing."

"Stay!"

I said, "one moment, Vivian, if you please;"

And suddenly bereft of all my ease,

And scarcely knowing what to do, or say,

Confused as any school-girl, I arose,

And some way made each to the other known

They bowed, shook hands: then Vivian turned away

And sought out Helen, leaving us alone.

"One of Miss Trevor's, or of Maurine's beaux?

Which may he be, who cometh like a prince

With haughty bearing, and an eagle eye?"

Roy queried, laughing: and I answered, "Since

You saw him pass me for Miss Trevor's side,

I leave your own good judgment to reply."

And straightway caused the tide of talk to glide

In other channels, striving to dispel

The sudden gloom that o'er my spirit fell.

We mortals are such hypocrites at best!

When Conscience tries our courage with a test,

And points to some steep pathway, we set out

Boldly, denying any fear or doubt;

But pause before the first rock in the way,

And, looking back, with tears, at Conscience, say

"We are so sad, dear Conscience! for we would

Most gladly do what to thee seemeth good;

But lo! this rock! we cannot climb it, so

Thou must point out some other way to go."

Yet secretly we are rejoicing: and,

When right before our faces, as we stand

In seeming grief, the rock is cleft in twain,

Leaving the pathway clear, we shrink in pain!

And loth to go, by every act reveal

What we so tried from Conscience to conceal.

I saw that hour, the way made plain, to do

With scarce an effort, what had seemed a strife

That would require the strength of my whole life.

Women have quick perceptions: and I knew

That Vivian's heart was full of jealous pain,

Suspecting - nay believing Roy Montaine

To be my lover. - First my altered mien -

And next the letter - then the door-way scene -

My flushed face gazing in the one above

That bent so near me, and my strange confusion

When Vivian came, all led to one conclusion:

That I had but been playing with his love,

As women sometimes cruelly do play

With hearts when their true lovers are away.

There could be nothing easier, than just

To let him linger on in this belief

Till hourly-fed Suspicion and Distrust

Should turn to scorn and anger all his grief.

Compared with me, so doubly sweet and pure

Would Helen seem, my purpose would be sure,

And certain of completion in the end.

But now, the way was made so straight and clear,

My coward heart shrank back in guilty fear,

Till Conscience whispered with her "still small voice,"

"The precious time is passing - make thy choice -

Resign thy love, or slay thy trusting friend."

The growing moon, watched by the myriad eyes

Of countless stars, went sailing through the skies,

Like some young prince, rising to rule a nation,

To whom all eyes are turned in expectation.

A woman who possesses tact and art

And strength of will can take the hand of doom,

And walk on, smiling sweetly as she goes,

With rosy lips, and rounded cheeks of bloom,

Cheating a loud-tongued world that never knows

The pain and sorrow of her hidden heart.

And so I joined in Roy's bright changing chat;

Answered his sallies - talked of this and that,

My brow unruffled as the calm still wave

That tells not of the wrecked ship, and the grave

Beneath its surface.

Then we heard, ere long,

The sound of Helen's gentle voice in song,

And, rising, entered where the subtle power

Of Vivian's eyes, forgiving while accusing,

Finding me weak, had won me, in that hour;

But Roy, alway polite and debonair

Where ladies were, now hung about my chair

With nameless delicate attentions, using

That air devotional, and those small arts

Acquaintance with society imparts

To men gallant by nature.

'T was my sex

And not myself he bowed to. Had my place

Been filled that evening by a dowager,

Twice his own age, he would have given her

The same attentions. But they served to vex

Whatever hope in Vivian's heart remained.

The cold, white look crept back upon his face,

Which told how deeply he was hurt and pained.

Little by little all things had conspired,

To bring events I dreaded, yet desired.

We were in constant intercourse: walks, rides,

Picnics and sails, filled weeks of golden weather,

And almost hourly we were thrown together.

No words were spoken of rebuke or scorn:

Good friends we seemed. But as a gulf divides

This land and that, though lying side by side,

So rolled a gulf between us - deep and wide -

The gulf of doubt, which widened slowly morn

And noon and night.

Free and informal were

These picnics and excursions. Yet, although

Helen and I would sometimes choose to go

Without our escorts, leaving them quite free.

It happened alway Roy would seek out me

Ere passed the day, while Vivian walked with her.

I had no thought of flirting. Roy was just

Like some dear brother, and I quite forgot

The kinship was so distant it was not

Safe to rely upon in perfect trust,

Without reserve or caution. Many a time

When there was some steep mountain side to climb,

And I grew weary, he would say, "Maurine,

Come rest you here." And I would go and lean

My head upon his shoulder, or would stand

And let him hold in his my willing hand.

The while he stroked it gently with his own.

Or I would let him clasp me with his arm,

Nor entertained a thought of any harm,

Nor once supposed but Vivian was alone

In his suspicions. But ere long the truth

I learned in consternation! both Aunt Ruth

And Helen, honestly, in faith believed

That Roy and I were lovers.

Undeceived,

Some careless words might open Vivian's eyes

And spoil my plans. So reasoning in this wise,

To all their sallies I in jest replied,

To naught assented, and yet naught denied,

With Roy unchanged remaining, confident

Each understood just what the other meant.

If I grew weary of this double part,

And self-imposed deception caused my heart

Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze

On Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal,

As if she dwelt above the things material

And held communion with the angels. So

I fed my strength and courage through the days.

What time the harvest moon rose full and clear

And cast its ling'ring radiance on the earth,

We made a feast; and called from far and near,

Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.

Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro;

But none more sweet than Helen's. Robed in white,

She floated like a vision through the dance.

So frailly fragile and so phantom fair,

She seemed like some stray spirit of the air,

And was pursued by many an anxious glance

That looked to see her fading from the sight

Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.

And noble men and gallants graced the scene:

Yet none more noble or more grand of mien

Than Vivian - broad of chest and shoulder, tall

And finely formed, as any Grecian god

Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.

His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those

Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose,

Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair

Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes

That could be cold as steel in winter air,

Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.

Weary of mirth and music, and the sound

Of tripping feet, I sought a moment's rest

Within the lib'ry, where a group I found

Of guests, discussing with apparent zest

Some theme of interest - Vivian, near the while,

Leaning and listening with his slow odd smile.

"Now Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,"

Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. "We

Have been discussing right before his face,

All unrebuked by him, as you may see,

A poem lately published by our friend:

And we are quite divided. I contend

The poem is a libel and untrue

I hold the fickle women are but few,

Compared with those who are like yon fair moon

That, ever faithful, rises in her place

Whether she's greeted by the flowers of June,

Or cold and dreary stretches of white space."

"Oh!" cried another, "Mr. Dangerfield,

Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield

The crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain,

Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane."

All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me

I answered lightly, "My young friend, I fear

You chose a most unlucky simile

To prove the truth of woman. To her place

The moon does rise - but with a different face

Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear

The poem read, before I can consent

To pass my judgment on the sentiment."

All clamored that the author was the man

To read the poem: and, with tones that said

More than the cutting, scornful words he read,

Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:

Her Love.

The sands upon the ocean side

That change about with every tide,

And never true to one abide,

A woman's love I liken to.

The summer zephyrs, light and vain,

That sing the same alluring strain

To every grass blade on the plain -

A woman's love is nothing more.

The sunshine of an April day

That comes to warm you with its ray,

But while you smile has flown away -

A woman's love is like to this.

God made poor woman with no heart,

But gave her skill, and tact, and art,

And so she lives, and plays her part.

We must not blame, but pity her.

She leans to man - but just to hear

The praise he whispers in her ear,

Herself, not him, she holdeth dear -

O fool! to be deceived by her.

To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs

The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts

Then throws them lightly by and laughs,

Too weak to understand their pain.

As changeful as the winds that blow

From every region, to and fro,

Devoid of heart, she cannot know

The suffering of a human heart.

I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyes

Saw the slow color to my forehead rise;

But lightly answered, toying with my fan,

"That sentiment is very like a man!

Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong;

We're only frail and helpless, men are strong;

And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing

And make a shroud out of their suffering,

And drag the corpse about with them for years.

But we? - we mourn it for a day with tears!

And then we robe it for its last long rest,

And being women, feeble things at best,

We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so

We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:

Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends

To do this service for her earthly friends,

The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep

Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep."

The laugh that followed had not died away

Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me, to say

The band was tuning for our waltz, and so

Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow

And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent,

And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went

Out on the cool moonlighted portico,

And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head

Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent

His smiling eyes upon me, as he said,

"I'll try the mesmerism of my touch

To work a cure: be very quiet now,

And let me make some passes o'er your brow.

Why, how it throbs! you've exercised too much!

I shall not let you dance again to-night."

Just then before us, in the broad moonlight,

Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face

To catch the teasing and mischievous glance

Of Helen's eyes, as, heated by the dance,

Leaning on Vivian's arm, she sought this place.

"I beg your pardon," came in that round tone

Of his low voice. "I think we do intrude."

Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone

Ere I could speak, or change my attitude.