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E D A L A I N E : 
 
 A METRICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 B V 
 
 F. ROENA MED INI. 
 
 
 . 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1891, BT ' ^-^ 
 
 G. IV. Dillingham, Publisher, 
 
 Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 
 
 MDCCCXCII. 
 {All Rights Reserved^ 
 
PS**? 
 
To Her 
 
 whose memory is a heritage above price ; atf 
 
 example of a great soul ; a noble mind j 
 
 a meek spirit and proud bearing, 
 
 this volume is inscribed by a 
 
 Daughter 
 
 who was nurtured in the sunshine of a 
 
 mother's unbounded love. 
 
 Since she doth sleep, — laurel or rue y 
 ' Tis one to me. 
 
EDALAINE, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Far in the North, where winter halves the year, 
 A peaceful summer scene in memory dwells, 
 Above, a canopy of azure pure ; 
 Beneath, its counterpart — a tapestry 
 Of living green, whose hues are multiplied 
 By every passing breeze, and which like seas, 
 In restless waves receding from their shores, 
 In soft and rhythmic undulations, rolls 
 From rocky cliffs, to melt like morning mist 
 
 In shadowy outlines of the fringing air. 
 
 [7] 
 
8 Edalai?ie. 
 
 A prairie broad, where naught but nature's self 
 The harmonies of sight and silence blends, 
 Where all is life, and yet no conscious life 
 Is found, except the crimson-throated bird 
 That darts on high, and then descends to wheel 
 With lazy wing above the shuddering grass. 
 Where gentle zephyrs bear across the plain 
 The clouds to cast a shade, or chase a ray 
 Of glittering sun far o'er the changing scene. 
 Amidst these rolling plains, these prairies vast, 
 There slept a valley, watched unnumbered years 
 By jealous eye of day, ere man appeared. 
 Like beauteous Gyneth in her sleep, the vale 
 Is robed in lustrous garb, and all the charm 
 Of nature's wealth is laid upon her breast. 
 Such garniture of leaf and vine was here, 
 When first the vale imprisoned sight of man, 
 The gentle falling slope seemed nest of bird, 
 Whose frame of bending twigs and clinging grass 
 
Edalaine. 9 
 
 Is softly lined with silky leaves of green. 
 
 For miles around, North, East, and South and 
 
 West, 
 Tall grasses wave like helmits plumed, or bend 
 To breathe o'er heads of wildwood ferns or flowers, 
 A symphony of chivalry and love. 
 And through the vale, like moonlight's trembling 
 
 ray, 
 That draws a silken thread o'er sleeping seas, 
 There windeth, too, a line of gleaming light, 
 Which breaks into a brooklet's murmuring song, 
 And lulls the listener's anxious heart to rest. 
 And from its sheen perchance was born the name 
 It bears of Silver Creek, unless it be 
 From glimpse of tiny fish with silvery scales, 
 That idly float on crystal wave, or leap 
 To catch the sun and make the glittering drops 
 From off their sides, flash changeful rainbow tints 
 Then, sinking back amidst the mossy rocks, 
 
10 
 
 Edalaine. 
 
 Leave eddying circles where they disappear, 
 To dart with lightning speed beneath the wave. 
 At times the stranger lingered as he passed, 
 To meditate, and felt himself upborne 
 To sense of higher needs in human hearts, 
 And wondered as he stood, all loth to leave, 
 Why beauty such as this so long escaped 
 The eye of man, world-weary and in search 
 Of such a home as might give lasting rest. 
 For peace, that builds her nest afar from noise 
 Of crowded towns, here brooded, and the spell 
 She wove in harmony with nature's own, 
 Had power to make one feel the pulse of God 
 Here beat in holy nature's rhythmic life. 
 And Reverence, long dead to worldly men, 
 Here touched to living springs the human heart. 
 A rocky glen was hid beneath the hills 
 That bound the northern side, a place where one 
 In woven dreams would build the fairies' home. 
 
Edalaine. 1 1 
 
 Th' anemones that scarce could blush to hues 
 Not borrowed from the snow, until their white 
 Was mixed with purple that Aurora lent 
 To them ! Were these not fairies peeping forth 
 From earth, while yet the snow in patches decked 
 The ground ? 
 
 Then when the spring brought perfumed air, 
 They came as violets like bits of sky 
 To dot the mossy banks, while overhead 
 The lichens clinging to the trees, subdued 
 To quaker garb of silver gray, what else 
 Had seemed too bright a scene. 
 
 At autumn time, 
 The fairies flee before the clan that stay 
 And seize the glen and revel gypsy-wise, — 
 A yearly week of rout and carnival, 
 And then the glen to merry shout and jest, 
 To laughter loud awakes. Prolonged halloos 
 Start timid beasts from out their lair, to speed 
 
1 2 Edalaine. 
 
 From sounds that bode them ill. But flight pro- 
 vokes 
 A gay pursuit across the fields, and through 
 The glen, of rabbit, squirrel or deer, full sure 
 If lost, another day will bring them down 
 To click of steel as pitiless as sure. 
 Rough men and browner women they, whose cares 
 Ne'er led them ask what copse would shelter them 
 At night, and none e'er knew from whence they 
 
 came, 
 Or whither went these merry wanderers. 
 One year, when miracles revealed themselves 
 In tiny blades that pierced the sod, to give 
 A spring-time greeting to the sun, when buds 
 Burst bonds (like butterflies whose chrysalids 
 We thought the sign of death), to spread their 
 
 wings 
 And flutter o'er the waking earth, there stood 
 Beside the stream a son of toil, who brought 
 
E declaim. I \ 
 
 The simplest tools of builder's art, to make 
 The hills from morn till night resound to strokes 
 That echoed o'er the jagged cliffs, as if 
 Each echo were a foot-fall of the past, 
 That fled before the coming of the new. 
 At first the branching oak and stately pine, 
 That firm as warriors gainst the pelting lead 
 Of armed hosts, had warded off the blasts 
 Of winter storms and stood a hundred years, 
 He felled, bringing to nature's law the art 
 Of man. For days he toiled, until, restrained 
 % ru gged walls he raised ; the darkling stream 
 Had paused to mirror on its placid face 
 The laughing sky, in mimic lake that stayed 
 Awhile, then leaped its boundaries to be 
 Again the brooklet of our song, and then 
 Beneath his iron hand there grew a mill, 
 And then the stridulous saw, in mocking tones 
 Sang victory o'er the bleeding grove that long 
 
14 Edalaine. 
 
 Had stood a sentinel before the glen. 
 
 Perhaps this song that seemed to selfish men 
 
 A cheerful lay, lured other sturdy men 
 
 To this fair spot, for soon a street was laid, 
 
 Rude homes were built, and then, not yet content, 
 
 A church with modest spire, behold a town ! 
 
 Too soon the spoilers learned whence came the 
 
 wood, 
 And like a scar that lives, a haunting ghost 
 Or gloomy sepulchre which marks the spot 
 Where innocence a victim fell to crime, 
 Of all the trees the rugged stumps alone, 
 (Sad tablets of the soil), were left to prove, 
 Dame nature had, by years of care, endowed 
 The vale with forest trees, her hardier work, 
 And then, as if she long designed that man 
 Should know remorse, she paused. No later 
 
 growth 
 Had she brought forth to give to eager man 
 
Edalaine. 15 
 
 Such sad employ. And so, full soon, the mill, 
 Denied of food for hungry maw, like some 
 Gaunt vulture, chained upon the whittling bones 
 That he had stripped, becomes a skeleton 
 Through which the tempest whistles dolefully 
 Then prone to earth it falls to meet decay. 
 The church itself grew brown ; and happier he 
 Who trod the pulpit's narrow range, than they 
 Who cramped themselves on benches rudely made, 
 To hear a message drawn throughout an hour, 
 By dint of lengthy words and gestures fierce, 
 That save as task work he had told in half 
 The time. 
 
 Long years was this before our tale 
 Begins. The stones beneath the dam were black 
 With slime, and only snakes on summer days 
 Betook themselves to this old spot to bask 
 In sunshine. Coiled in glittering rings they 
 blinked 
 
1 6 Edalainc. 
 
 Or slept in lazy comfort, nor took pains 
 
 To charm a careless bird that chanced too near. 
 
 One day, when disappeared the sun in space 
 
 Behind the western hill, and left a glow 
 
 Of promise for a new and perfect day, 
 
 A band of earnest men and women paused 
 
 Upon the summit of the hill, and gazed 
 
 With weary, aching limbs, and throbbing brows, 
 
 Upon the vale where shrub and leafy tree, 
 
 Half hid, and half revealed the spire, the school, 
 
 And winding road that passed close by the mill. 
 
 A silence fell upon both young and old. 
 
 The haven here was found at last, to lay 
 
 The corner-stone of faith which they believed 
 
 Would falsify all lesser creeds, and bring 
 
 The earthly happiness which mortals crave. 
 
 A solemn prayer arose from out each heart, 
 
 And silently they went adown the hill 
 
 To this new life which promised all to them, 
 
Edalaine. 1 7 
 
 Yet to how few it kept its promises ! 
 
 Time prospered them, — this band that wish'd to 
 
 prove 
 The world at fault in only selfish aims, 
 And gave up all to mutual help and love. 
 Alas, such trials oft by earnest souls 
 Have failed, nor can we chide them for their good 
 Intent, — for they have suffered most to find 
 That souls there are, too small, too weak to bear 
 The burden of the unattempted rights, 
 And only serve to mar the brave attempts 
 Of nobler souls they fail to comprehend. 
 They dwelt as brothers should, while strictly 
 
 bound 
 Within the rules that marked their new belief, 
 Or rather old belief, and new endeavor. 
 They daily gathered round the cheering board, 
 One common kin, ignoring ties of blood. 
 And those who came to join their swelling ranks, 
 
1 8 E da lame. 
 
 Endowed with greater wealth, as freely gave 
 Into the common store, as if all things 
 He used before had never been his own. 
 And thus they prospered, till the name they chose 
 Of Phalanx spread abroad ; and to its fold 
 Were added thoughtful, noble, learned men. 
 And here events as elsewhere on the earth, 
 Swift followed each to burn in human hearts, 
 The memories that serve as mile-stones oft 
 Upon the rugged road that leads through life. 
 Forever rushing toward the goal we hope 
 Is yet remote, we hasten on with speed 
 That's ever undiminished, hot to meet 
 We know not what, and yet assured 'tis death. 
 A day of mirth, a hush that seemed like death, 
 Brought change or care, made hearts beat gay or 
 
 sad, 
 Now touched one lintel, now passed by to pause 
 And tap upon a worthy neighbor's door. 
 
Edalaine. 19 
 
 Three years had passed, and Andrew Grant, who 
 
 came 
 With children six to swell, with manly pride, 
 The chorus of the dreaming Fourierites, 
 Had builded him a roomy house of stone, 
 Which mother earth had yielded him with strong 
 Resistance, yet, I ween, with less of pain 
 Then when she saw the budding trees cut down, 
 And felt within her veins the milk she fed 
 Them with, first over-run and then turn dry. 
 And why was this? Ask thou the mother heart, 
 Which claims her painful care, the child that draws 
 From her his daily life, or him who stands 
 No longer nurtured by her rich, warm blood ! 
 Good Andrew Grant, unmindful of dumb earth, 
 Felt much of pride in this his noble work, 
 And hastened to complete it, there to give 
 With parent's fond demur, his eldest born, 
 Elizabeth, in wedlock to John Holme, 
 
20 Edalaine. 
 
 The miller's son, the bravest huntsman round. 
 And blessings manifold were on them shower'd, 
 While parents sigh'd and said, " 'Tis such events 
 That warn us life indeed is short, our babes 
 But yesterday, to-day, alas, are gone ! '' 
 In winter time the younger folk took joy 
 In sports wherein the elders saw no ill, 
 And simple dances marked to time of flute 
 And viol, filled the happy evening hours. 
 So winter passed, when came the bans of one 
 They greatly loved, and here it seemed that not 
 The mazes of the dance had linked two hearts, 
 For he whose flute made dreamily the waltz 
 Go round, would never dance : u My brains/' he 
 
 said, 
 11 Were never meant to guide my awkward feet.' 7 
 But certainly his eyes had dwelt full oft 
 Upon a fragile form, that midst the dance 
 Had woven webs to catch unwary hearts. 
 
Edalaine. 21 
 
 And so Dean Brent awoke to lay aside 
 
 His flute, and bravely woo the shrinking maid. 
 
 'Twas this event that brought to them Dame Ann, 
 
 His kindly mother, straight from Edinburgh. 
 
 41 'Twas hard," she said, 4 'just found, to gie him 
 
 up," 
 And none had dreamed, I ween, how deep her 
 
 grief 
 Took root, and none perhaps could understand 
 Her loneliness, unless it be the wife 
 Of Andrew Grant, Dame Evelyn ; whose heart 
 Was filled with generous love for all mankind, 
 And touched with sympathies so swift and sure, 
 She straight could read and feel their griefs e'en 
 
 when, 
 For good to them, she gaily laughed and sought 
 To make them seem scarce worthy of a sigh. 
 And yet what charm of nature could replace 
 The chain of habit in the aged, born 
 
2 2 Edalaine". 
 
 'Mid smoke, and stir, and roll of wheels, and din 
 
 Of city life ? The bells that toll'd a death ; 
 
 That chimed the evening call to prayer ; the bells 
 
 That merrily a marriage rite proclaimed, 
 
 Or angrily did beat their iron tongues 
 
 Against the sounding brass in wild dismay, 
 
 Lest unaware the dwellers of its streets, 
 
 Too late, alas, should find themselves wrapped round 
 
 By fire, — all these, within the quiet vale 
 
 Were never heard. The very Sabbath day 
 
 Itself seemed not the same, but changed to peace 
 
 Of country life, its beauty was to her 
 
 A sealed book and cause of vague unrest. 
 
 But angels, not unmindful of the tired 
 
 And lonely soul, caught first a wish that springs 
 
 From earnest loving hearts , a ray of sun 
 
 To link to cheerfulness a seed of truth ; 
 
 A kiss of innocence and chastity ; 
 
 An atom of humanity, and pledged 
 
Edalaine. 23 
 
 Them all to keeping of Dame Evelyn, 
 
 Who lived in noble practices the dower 
 
 Of beauteousness she prayed to give her child. 
 
 " She shall be pure and true,'' she said, and faith 
 
 Made fairer yet the mother's countenance, 
 
 And virtuous herself, no wrong would come 
 
 To chill the blood within her womb. She sought 
 
 In all her vision rested on, the fair 
 
 And loveliest. Like mirror to reflect 
 
 Within its darkling depths, what passes o'er 
 
 Its face, so, she believed : " Whate'er my soul 
 
 Doth know, doth feel, doth contemplate, shall stay 
 
 Reflected on the mind of this my child,, 
 
 What joy to be the chosen instrument 
 
 Of God in leaving impress on our seed !" 
 
 She read, and when her thoughts revealed the true, 
 
 Or pure, or noble in the word of man, 
 
 Philosopher, or poet born, she said : 
 
 " So would I that my child interpreted 
 

 24 Edalaine. 
 
 The good of life.'' She gazed upon a work 
 
 Of art, and lingered long upon its points 
 
 Of excellence, to form the younger life 
 
 To observation close which can alone 
 
 Perfect. A spirit dwelt beside her, which 
 
 She taught, and teaching thus she grew herself. 
 
 In dreams of good to man and pray'r to God, 
 
 Dame Evelyn's steps seemed now no more of 
 
 earth. 
 All attributes of life, its sympathies, 
 Its tender helpfulness and mercy shown, 
 Fair truth, unselfishness and saving word, 
 All graces, virtues that she wished bestowed, 
 She lived, and shrank with horror from the faults 
 That would have marred a perfect life. 
 
 Where found 
 She most these practices ? Upon the hearth 
 Of home, whose toil began at break of day, 
 And ended not till clocks had toll'd their length 
 
E da I ain e. 25 
 
 Of hours, to turn and count them yet again. 
 
 Avarice, envy, malice, all were robbed 
 
 Of poisonous intent, by charity ; 
 
 By love of neighbor as herself and more. 
 
 The wholesome practice of the Golden Rule. 
 
 " I do to them as I would have my child 
 
 Done by." The petty trials that beset 
 
 This life, could touch her not. An angry word, 
 
 Complaint, or peevishness met such a look 
 
 Of gentleness, such ready, calm reply, 
 
 It quieted the troubled breast like balm 
 
 Upon a burning wound, an angel's touch 
 
 Whose wing had chanced to dip too near the earth. 
 
 And so it was, a presence sanctified, 
 
 Her spirit walked with God, her feet with men. 
 
 An angel might have lost his holiness, 
 
 Combining thus the ills of life with will 
 
 Of God. They might ? Nay, we belie belief. 
 
 It is not death that gives the angel birth, 
 
26 Edalaine. 
 
 'Tis He, that, schooled on earth, has beautified 
 A nature prone to fault, till God-like, bears 
 He impress of the noble right to act 
 For God, throughout the spaces of the high 
 And glorious kingdom of perfected souls. 
 Oh, heart of mothers ! You alone can know 
 The rapture born within the soul when rilled 
 With consciousness of power to make or mar 
 A budding life ! Oh, days of hope and trust ; 
 Of fear and pain ; of doubt and helplessness ; 
 Inevitable mysteries of birth and death ! 
 Of dreamings in the expectant mother's heart, 
 Of fancies built on fret-work of desire ! 
 What most she loves is colored in these dreams. 
 What most desires, in minds of men observes, 
 And scarcely conscious of the wish, a prayer 
 Like incense wafts its perfume to the skies, 
 And thus sustained by nature's yoke she bears 
 Of shadowed martyrdom, the mother walks 
 
Edalaine, 2 7 
 
 With joy : — " For though I die,'' — faith speaks — 
 
 " my child 
 May live, her sweetness tempering ills of life, 
 Her truth disarming sin.'' 
 
 Though seventh bairn 
 Of Andrew Grant and Mistress Evelyn, 
 The love that waited her, intensified 
 By feeling that she was the last, could note 
 The touch of angel hands, and so they called 
 Her Edalaine and prayed ''that faith might guide 
 Her life till angels roll'd the stone from off 
 The tomb of buried hopes, to give them back 
 Again." So said Dame Evelyn that night. 
 At first the eyes that opened to the day, 
 Seemed violets that glistened through a lake 
 Of morning dew, and then, as if the sun 
 Had mixed its red with blue of skies and touched 
 Once more the orbs that glowed with laughter ere 
 The lips could form a radiant smile ; these depths 
 
28 Edalaine. 
 
 That prophesy a soul's expanse were turned 
 To purple hues. With passing summer months 
 The angels touched her eyes again, this time 
 With hues they borrowed from the brownest leaf 
 Of autumn, or the chestnut as it falls 
 To catch the glint of setting sun that warms 
 Its brown with ruddy gold. 
 
 Sweet eyes ! They brought 
 A benediction in their glance. But most 
 Of all the blessings fell in lonely heart 
 Of good Dame Ann, who called her " Peaceful 
 
 Eyes," 
 And straight declared her born to some great work 
 On earth, to which the mother ready gave 
 Assent. " She's born to be the comforter 
 Of fast approaching wintry days, the sun 
 And light of seared and yellow age. What life 
 Its plenitude to richer charity 
 Bestowed, could mortals find?'' But silently 
 
Edalaine. 29 
 
 The other turned to hide a starting tear, 
 That, midst the furrows of her browned face, 
 Found paths washed deeply in by bitter brine 
 Of griefs, now wept a score of dreary years. 
 Then, gazing down upon the sleeping child 
 With something like a sob that stirred her voice, 
 She spoke : t( I ken its like, guid wife, but then, 
 You see, I thocht the same o' my wee lad, 
 And now he's ta'en a braw young wife wha's guid 
 As gowd, and means, I dinna doot, to be 
 As kind to me as my ain lass, but then, 
 Ye ken, I canna feel, though fain I would, 
 There's muckle need o' me about the house, 
 When a' is said, and if the morn's fair sun 
 Looked down on me nae mair, its a' the same 
 To Wullie there." " Fie, Fie, Dame Ann, thy 
 
 heart 
 Hath played thee false, thy spirit's sight is dark, 
 
3<D Edalaine. 
 
 Surcharged with spleen. How gladly, when my 
 
 child 
 Hath safely reached the poise of womanhood, 
 Shall I give o'er my care to one whose love 
 Will guard and waken her to life she else 
 Would never know ! And think you then, I lose 
 My child ? No, no ! A son is won ! The heart 
 So narrow that it loves but one, loves not 
 So well, and mother heart that lavished love 
 While yet the sleeping bud had never seen 
 The light, must love her child but for the need 
 Of loving, nor asks love's return again. 
 And thy good son, hast thou not yet his face 
 To look upon ; his voice to hear, his care 
 To prove devotedness? " And here a shade 
 Fell o'er the sill to slant from off the porch. 
 " Well said, good Mistress Evelyn, I ween 
 My mother lacks thy seeing mind. Methinks 
 
Edalaine. 31 
 
 My manhood frets her more than cares she knew 
 
 In early years. She mourns her babe for aye, 
 
 Nor can she think, in spite of all my words, 
 
 That Jeannie there, and I, count her in all 
 
 Our hopes of joy, our grief, sole lack of pow'r 
 
 To banish from her past its memories 
 
 Of loss ! " " Ah, lad ! " and Dame Ann smiled 
 
 through tears, 
 '• Ye ken, wae's me ! ye're mither's aulder grown, 
 And aibleens like a bairn, yeVe nocht to do 
 But bear wi a' her thrawart ways, and think 
 Ife were not ever thus." " Aye, aye ! v replied 
 The son with fond embrace, " there's few sae braw 
 To look upon e'en yet, just look at this," 
 And off comes Dame Ann's cap to bare her head. 
 ''What blushing maiden in our town is crowned 
 With silky, waving hair like that ? Its brown 
 Is tinged with burnished gold, that through its veins 
 
32 Edalaine. 
 
 Runs safely hid till light of sun reveals 
 It there. And then these pearls ! Bright senti- 
 nels 
 Of Epicurius! one only, gone, 
 Ail sacrificed to small a thing as pin 
 That held a ribbon to my kite. One day 
 I plead her aid to make it fast, and she — 
 'Tis not ingratitude that bids me say't — 
 Was quite as much the child as I, that risk'd 
 Her lovely teeth to pinch the rebel pin 
 To place. And how I cried when, with a scream, 
 She caught the broken ivory in her hand ! 
 And she, ■ Hist, hist ! my lad, ye mauna greet, 
 Else father hear, and we mun tell him a'.' 
 " Ha ! ha ! we made a bonny pair of kids, 
 Hey, mother, were ye not a saunsie lass ?" 
 " Tut, tut, ye sport my poor Scotch tongue and 
 
 yet 
 Ye have ye're father's laughter-loving way 
 
Edalaine. $$ 
 
 Of flattering one, an' now yeVe waked the bairn, 
 An' mussed my cap, so get ye hence to mow 
 Ye're hay." " I see, my nose has summit wrong, 
 A joint awry ! 'Twill be this babe, that soon 
 Will muss ye're caps and play the truant o'er 
 Your days." And so it fell, indeed the child 
 Became a tiny despot o'er the life 
 Of Mistress Ann. 
 
 Yet not exempt from griefs 
 Were those who dwelt within the charmed vale, 
 As years, by their events, made short or long, 
 Passed on and brought fair gifts of love to some, 
 To others griefs that time could not assuage. 
 Death came and went. Sometimes he reaped the 
 
 aged, 
 Sometimes the fairest flowV that bloomed, as if 
 Jealous that earth should be so bright, so glad. 
 One summer day, when nature seemed to doze 
 And trees to languish 'neath their weight of fruit, 
 
34 Edalaine. 
 
 A golden day, when drowsy hum of bees, 
 That paused to taste with lazy sips the sweets, 
 That lurk deep sunk in fragrant cups of blue, 
 Of white or gold, then paused inert upon 
 The swinging edge, to seek some other field 
 Of spoil, — the carol of a girlish voice 
 Awoke the birds like flash of sun against 
 The shade. 
 
 Oh, Rose 
 Of Summer quest, 
 Rests in thee no thorn? 
 Oh, bird in thy nest, 
 Wert thou haply born ? 
 Shadows fall from every tree, 
 Why not they on you and me 
 Courage, heart, 
 Do not start, 
 At a falling leaf. 
 
Edalaine. 35 
 
 Elizabeth, as fair and bright to-day 
 
 As on that bridal morn when love endowed 
 
 Her life with his, came forth to watch John 
 
 Holme's 
 Return. The song that kissed her lips to thrill 
 The air with sweetest melody, to die 
 Of sadness born of fleeting rapture, yet 
 To kiss, in other notes, her lips' bright red, 
 Had ceased, till, silently she stood, and then, 
 As if the flowers had begged the boon to give 
 Their lives for ecstacy of one full hour 
 Upon her breast, she clustered crimson buds 
 Against a leaf of green, and swiftly here 
 And there, amidst the purple of her braids, 
 Had nestled them. Herself a flower abloom 
 In creamy white, her dark rich beauty more 
 Resplendent 'midst its falling drapery, 
 And dreamily, as if her twittering friends, 
 
36 E da lame. 
 
 The birds, had whispered her: ''Add other 
 
 flowers, " 
 She touched her robes with gleaming buds of rose, 
 Until Titania ne'er was crowned more fair. 
 And thus she sang : 
 
 Oh, Rose 
 In Autumn air 
 Hast thou felt no chill? 
 Oh, love so fair, 
 Fears thy heart no ill ? 
 Ne'er was sun without a shade ; 
 Life of care and joy is made, 
 
 Faint not, heart, 
 
 Bear thy part, 
 Through a bitter grief ! 
 
 When music of her voice had ceased in waves 
 Of sound that left her lips to ring through space, 
 To disappear amidst ethereal blue, 
 
Edalaine. 37 
 
 Like angel footsteps, or the sigh of man, 
 
 A clock chimed forth the hour with weird strokes, 
 
 Till with the fifth, a whirr of wheels announced 
 
 It was the last! A faint surprise crept o'er 
 
 Her face, then faded there. " He's late," she 
 
 said, 
 " I wonder why," and then from tree to shrub, 
 From bird to flower, as bright and restless grown, 
 As e'er the restless wings of humming bird, 
 Whose remulous beat keep time to troubled 
 
 thoughts, 
 She glided, while she waited anxiously. 
 Ten minutes passed, when down the shady road 
 Her husband's dog came rushing madly through 
 The dust, his coat of shaggy black all wet 
 And mixed with weeds that line with slimy lengths 
 The muddy depths above the mill. His haste 
 Was not of joy, his eyes with anxious sight 
 Appeal'd to her, and heedless of her robe 
 
38 Edalaine. ■ 
 
 He jumped to lay his paws upon her arm 
 And gave a piteous cry to call her back 
 When puzzled and amazed she gazed away 
 As if her husband's coming must be brief, 
 And yet this cry smote on her straining ear 
 A message sharp and bitter, plain because 
 Unused to aught but joy expressing, speech 
 Yet unprepared, foreboding swept her down 
 And like a stricken deer, the huntsman's prey, 
 She, pale and white, sank 'midst the fragrant 
 
 flowers, 
 Nor felt, nor knew how bravely then he strove, 
 By nature's true, unerring instinct taught, 
 To wake again to life the fluttering pulse 
 That now refused to beat. At last, assured 
 His efforts were in vain, he gave a cry 
 Of grief, and then again drew back to gaze 
 Upon the pallid face, perhaps to raise 
 An agonized thought to some unknown 
 
Edalaine. 39 
 
 And stronger power, then bounded o'er the field, 
 Till at the old stone school he paused. The door 
 Was closed. Two hours before, the green had 
 
 ceased 
 To echo back the calls, the laughs and shouts 
 Of merry children's sport. But not deterred 
 By doubts that human minds might then have felt, 
 He sprang upon the window ledge, and woke 
 The stern old master from his dreams by quick 
 And vig'rous pulls upon his threadbare coat. 
 The master gazed at first with mute surprise, 
 And then, he seemed to see a human pain 
 Within the eyes that looked to him, that chilled 
 The blood within his aged heart. He seized 
 His hat, and followed hastily the steps 
 Of his dumb guide. They passed the busy town, 
 And met nor man nor beast upon their way. 
 Howbeit, at the broken bridge arose 
 A stooping form that held by hand a bright 
 
40 Edalaine. 
 
 And winsome child. How fleet is time ! The 
 
 babe, 
 Sweet Edalaine, was queen o'er all thro' love, 
 And bore the stature of her five short years 
 Imperious as a queen, that blends with it 
 Sweet modesty. 
 
 The master seeing them 
 A moment paused and cried : " Good eve, Dame 
 
 Ann. 1 ' 
 You have not chanced to see our worthy friend, 
 John Holme?" and raised the while his hat to 
 
 wipe 
 The beads of crystal from his brow. " Aye, that 
 I have, guid mon, not ha' an hour aback, 
 Wi' gun in han', an' after that I heard 
 The gun resound, an' said until mysel', 
 The cruel sport the lad's begun. I wo'd 
 He'd see the fearfu' sin o't." " I fear the worst," 
 
Edalaine. 41 
 
 The master said. " Would you, good Dame, make 
 
 haste 
 To seek his wife and friends, and send me aid 
 To look for him?" "Aye, that I wull, guid mon ! 
 A better lad ne'er lived, except it be 
 My ain guid bairn, my Wullie there." But ere 
 Her words were done, the master scaled the fence, 
 And stood upon the only plank that crossed 
 The wild and roaring waters of the dam. 
 It yielded to his weight., but did not break, 
 And pausing not to think of dangerous ways, 
 Nor of defeat in searching for his friend, 
 He hastened on, intent alone to save. 
 His guide already stood upon the shore 
 And bayed in mournful tones, expression sad 
 Of his belief. When come, he straightway led 
 The master to a heap of clothes, and when, 
 As if to tell more plainly where his friend 
 And master disappeared, he cried and moaned 
 
42 Edalaine. 
 
 Again upon the water's edge, and then 
 
 Plunged in and swam beneath the willow bough, 
 
 And laid a wounded bird upon the shore, 
 
 The worst was told. No human tongue could tell 
 
 The mournful news in more explicit way, 
 
 And naught remained to do but wait for help, 
 
 Or rather hasten to the nearest house 
 
 For ropes and drags. So once again he braved 
 
 The dangers of the old and rotten plank. 
 
 Dame Ann, who hurried toward the town, sent 
 
 young 
 And old to join the search, and when she near'd 
 The gate that opened to the cottage door, 
 Embowered by climbing rose and columbine, 
 And stood within the precincts of those grounds, 
 Made beautiful by toil of him they sought, 
 She felt a hush that moved her more than all 
 The anxious doubts that fill her heart before. 
 
Edalatne. 43 
 
 The hope that naught was wrong seemed then to 
 
 die 
 Within her heart. Instead, a dread, a sad 
 Foreboding rose to take its place. She gave 
 A smothered cry, as she beheld the form 
 Half hid in grass, and while the others sought 
 The husband drowned, Dame Ann, at home, tried 
 
 hard 
 To wake the heart th.it beat for him to life 
 And grief, for such was duty. Such are some 
 Of life's most strange inexplicable laws. 
 Why could she not have slipped quite out of life, 
 Unconscious that it held such cruel blows, 
 Such bitter griefs? But God had not so willed. 
 We needs must meet the griefs, to comprehend 
 That life is repetitions of itself, 
 In woes that blanch the cheek, and joys that cloy 
 The over-giddy heart, both set, perchance, 
 As balances to measure out to us 
 
44- E da lame. 
 
 The proper gauge of moral rectitude. 
 
 She lived, and woke with words of grievous fright, 
 
 That she had swooned by weakness of her will, 
 
 In place of hastening to her husband's aid. 
 
 Unmindful of the pleadings of Dame Ann, 
 
 The tears of infant Edalaine who held 
 
 Her sister's dress, and could not understand 
 
 Denial of caressing words, she sped 
 
 Adown the road that now lay hid in night, 
 
 To meet a sad and silent train that bore 
 
 By torchlight what was late his breathing form. 
 
 These fitful gleams of light ! They seemed to 
 
 glare 
 With eyes like demons, midst the gloom of deep, 
 Dark night, to mock her grief ! They seemed to 
 
 sear 
 The senses of her dizzy brain, and heap 
 Her agonies with tortures sharp and keen ! 
 The loss of consciousness, but at the thought 
 
Edalaine. 45 
 
 Of accident had come ; now death was here, 
 His labor done, relief came not. Each pang 
 Of grief was hers to know and feel, "Twere 
 
 well," 
 Some said, " if hearts like hers could break." But 
 
 hearts 
 That break are few, and do not, as these words 
 Imply, bring peace of death. Less pain there'd be 
 On earth if this could be, for living deaths 
 Were spared the human heart. One sad, brief 
 
 hour! 
 Her happiness a wreck, and life had changed 
 For her, from gladsome sun to hellish night ! 
 This jailer, gaunt Despair, all pitiless, 
 Locked in the tempest of her grief to tear 
 Itself against the bars of prison'd speech. 
 The night, the lights, the pallid faces, all 
 Seem'd strange, and then the hidden Something 
 
 there 
 
46 Edalaine. 
 
 Upon the rough- formed bier, heaped horror on 
 
 The wan, weird darkness of the summer eve ! 
 
 Another woman would have thrown herself 
 
 Upon the corpse, and waked with cries the night, 
 
 As hoping to arouse the dead, but she 
 
 Seemed paralyzed in all but sense of grief 
 
 And sight. Her eyes two burning balls of fire 
 
 That sought upon the faces of this dark 
 
 And slowly moving throng, some new-born hope 
 
 Glanced fearfully and earnestly around. 
 
 And when the silent, dripping form was laid 
 
 Upon the cottage floor, she gazed at them, 
 
 At it, and clung to friendly hands stretched out 
 
 In deep-felt sympathy, as if at sight 
 
 Thereof some nameless terror of the Thing 
 
 Stark stiff in death had clutched her timid heart. 
 
 And when at last she doubtingly crept near, 
 
 Drew from the face a scarf of silk there thrown, 
 
 Stroked back the hair, and gently wiped away 
 
Edalatne. 47 
 
 The clinging weeds. Unheard, they moved out- 
 side, 
 And in the room alone she knelt, her dead 
 Her own. A shivering sigh, a half-suppressed 
 Dry sob, — no other sound spoke of her grief. 
 One arm up-raised the senseless head, and close 
 Her trembling lips sought life and love in his, 
 Then whispered, " Come, O love, my life is thine! 
 Nay, mine and that of our unborn, is thine — 
 Drink all from my poor lips, and it shall give 
 Thee pulse and living warmth. And once again 
 She clung to lips that seemed straight drawn in 
 
 dumb 
 Derision, nor sank curve in curve as was 
 Their wont, till quickening currents of their hearts 
 Burst bounds of two-fold life, to sweep from soul 
 To soul in one swift burning tide ; and then 
 She gazed in sightless orbs, as if this sharp 
 Repulse had stung her heart to newer grief. 
 
48 Edalaine. 
 
 She slowly laid the head upon the floor, 
 
 Look'd round for sympathy, then thrilled the air 
 
 To swiftly eddying circles with a shriek 
 
 That pierced the gloom of night, and sobbed 
 
 itself 
 To sudden silence. Stonily she let 
 Them lead her from the room of death, to sit 
 In dumbly stricken grief, to slowly join 
 And rend apart the tender, supple hands 
 Of snowy white, nor conscious of the pain 
 To those who watched, beholding grief like this. 
 Once came Dame Evelyn, and standing there 
 Pressed to her heart the head distraught, then 
 
 passed 
 Her soft, magnetic hands along the brow, 
 And o'er the agonized uplifting of the eyes, 
 Long sought to draw a restful veil. A sob 
 Came struggling up to parched lips, and then, 
 Like others, died away in shuddering moans. 
 
Edalaine. 49 
 
 Hot tears coursed down her mother's cheeks and 
 
 fell 
 Upon her own, and mother's aching heart 
 Plead in the gentle music of her words. 
 ''Oh, weep, my daughter, tears were made for 
 
 grief. 
 I've seen thee weep through tender pity o'er 
 A wounded bird, and lesser things than that. 
 Give way to this imprisoned grief! You'll break 
 My heart with such still agony !" She pressed 
 Her mother's hand in silence, but no word 
 Came from the motion of her pallid lips, 
 And terror for her child began to rend 
 The heart of Evelyn, that soon this grief 
 Would blot the reason of her mind. All through 
 The night, the dead to silence given o'er, 
 They spent in ceaseless efforts to undo 
 The silence of her grief, but naught availed. 
 
 Soft twilight kissed the dawn and birds awoke, 
 
50 Edalaine. 
 
 To join their songs with preparations vast 
 
 Then taking place throughout the mighty realm 
 
 Of nature, for the coming of the day. 
 
 These woke the tiny Edalaine, who slept, 
 
 Oblivious of the desolation brought 
 
 Upon her sister's heart. The watch-dog lay 
 
 Beside her bed, and rose with her as if 
 
 To save her from the phantom grief that reign'd 
 
 An uninvited guest within the house. 
 
 The breakfast room was near, 
 
 And Edalaine, with gladsome heart tripped in, 
 
 To find it vacant still. The sunshine fleck'd 
 
 The sanded floor, and crept upon the chair, 
 
 With ample arms now vacant evermore ; 
 
 Slipped down to dance fantastic shapes with shade 
 
 Before the open door, and lingered 'neath 
 
 The vine-clad porch, to kiss and play at hide 
 
 And seek with sporting zephyrs there. Just high 
 
 Enough to open wide the closet door, 
 
Edalaine. 51 
 
 Blithe Edalaine, her brother's gown of blue 
 
 Drew forth, and laid upon the oaken chair, 
 
 And next dropped soft-lined slippers on the hearth, 
 
 When lo! she found the dog had drawn away 
 
 The robe, and hid it out of sight again. 
 
 Once more the coat was brought, and smoothly 
 
 laid 
 Upon the easy chair, but " Gay " was firm. 
 The slippers now had been replaced, and then 
 He turned to capture coat and drag it back 
 Again. This time he placed himself against 
 The door on haunches firmly set and strong, 
 And Edalaine could scarce decide if best 
 To laugh, or scold, or cry, and neither saw 
 The pallid face that watched them from the door 
 Till suddenly Elizabeth, the gates 
 Of grief at last broke down, fell on the neck 
 Of this dumb beast who sought to save her pain, 
 And wept in heartfelt pity once again, 
 
52 Edalaine. 
 
 Of pity most forlorn, that felt for self. 
 
 " Oh Gay, oh Gay ! why could you save him not 
 
 For me, you are so wise and strong ? so kind 
 
 And pitiful !" He laid his head against 
 
 Her tear-stained cheek, and kissed, in dog-like 
 
 fashion, 
 Hands, and cheek, and brow, while Edalaine, 
 In frightened wonder stood to see her tears, 
 And gladly ran to hide on mother's breast 
 Her fears, as, pale with watches of the night, 
 She too had stopped to dry her own sad tears, 
 At sight of this pathetic scene. She led the 
 Child from out the room, " Fear not, my child, 
 The sun shines bright upon the grass, we'll walk 
 And talk of things your years have not as yet 
 By observation taught. The birds will sing, 
 Though sister weeps, and each fulfill a law 
 Divine and right." And then the mother sought, 
 In words that lent themselves to childish ears, 
 
Edalaine. 53 
 
 To tell of death the part more beautiful. 
 And last explained the endless sleep that bound 
 The frame of him who walks among his friends 
 Gaily and free and blithe but yesterday. 
 " Be ready ever for the last good-night, 
 My child, nor ever let a single hour 
 Of coldness or dissension stand between 
 Yourself and those you love the best, lest one 
 Or other drop the while in this deep sleep." 
 The last sad rite had been performed, but she 
 Who mourned the most, lay tossing on a bed 
 Of pain. To consciousness she waked but once, 
 And gazed upon a tiny waxen head, 
 Whose life was gone ere died upon her lips 
 The blessing breathed for it, and then the light 
 Was spent. Delirium swayed the restless mind, 
 And friends were torn with anxious doubts lest 
 death 
 
54 E da la in e. 
 
 Again returned, should conquer life and prove 
 This soul too frail for battling with such griefs. 
 Day crowded days to weeks, and weeks to months, 
 And leaves took on their autumn tints of brown. 
 Fruit fell to earth, and then the leaves dropped 
 
 down 
 To bury what man left to turn to dust. 
 The birds began to leave their nests and hie 
 Themselves to sun-bathed, leafier climes ere woke 
 The wife to consciousness of widowhood, 
 Which seemed to blot the grief of childlessness. 
 The dog, a faithful guard, watched night and day 
 Beside the couch, and often Edalaine 
 Would sit betwixt his paws to watch with him, 
 And wondered o'er and o'er if this wan face 
 Was yet in life, or whether sleep — the last 
 Deep solemn sleep had claimed the suffering one, 
 And, nestled close beside the shaggy dog, 
 
Edalaine. 55 
 
 Her childish heart poured forth its fear and woe 
 In many a simple, earnest prayer to save 
 To them her sister's life. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 When, in the story of the world's increase, 
 
 Have not the evil passions of its men, 
 
 Like subtle, smouldering fires amid the green 
 
 And towering giants of the forest glades, 
 
 Crept in the nobler virtues to destroy, 
 
 Till souls, the blackened shadows of themselves, 
 
 Desolate remained ? And in what age of man 
 
 Hath not each sin found creeds, whose sophistry 
 
 Baptized belief or act as virtue's self ? 
 
 And that men by nature great have oft belied 
 
 Their gifts of virtue, whence all wisdom springs, 
 
 When inclination warped belief, or wrought 
 
 With reasonings as false as fair, to lead 
 
 [57] 
 
58 Edalaine. 
 
 A life of whim and mad caprice undreamed 
 By purer minds ! Why think our age exempt ? 
 Alas ! Mistakes breed everywhere within 
 The range of human frailty, like rude weeds. 
 And so to those who dwelt within the vale, 
 Though not at once, was brought a wondrous 
 
 change. 
 Blind man would say an evil power had wrought 
 The change in simple envy that a spot 
 On earth should boast of peace and harmony. 
 But why not say that God, far-seeing, wise, 
 Knows best, and that a peaceful life on earth 
 Would deaden new resolve and fresh endeavor. 
 But whether came the change by will of God 
 Or friend, a serpent crept into the vale, 
 O'er many thresholds passed to leave behind, 
 Its slimy trail. Fair homes were broken up, 
 And inmates scattered far and wide, while men 
 Became the victims of its deadly charm, 
 
Edalaine. 59 
 
 And minds in struggling 'twixt conflicting right 
 And wrong, and mysteries which confounded 
 
 them, 
 Or filled with phantasies absurd, were crazed, 
 Were left like vessels tossed at sea, no sun, 
 No compass, guide or anchor, midst the storm 
 That drove them wide. And yet the cause of this, 
 They call by sacred name of Love. I wot 
 That there are those will shudder as they read, 
 And understand what shame, what grief was 
 
 brought 
 Into the vale by sophistries whose name 
 E'en now my pen abhors to write. 
 And much as in the days of yore temptation came 
 To pliant man, in woman's gentle form, 
 But here the likeness ends. This later Eve 
 Had envied man his rights, and, wond'ring why 
 He seemed to claim what was denied to her 
 (The chief of these the right to live in sin), 
 
60 Edalaine. 
 
 She mused, compared, and caught the secret 
 
 thought. 
 'Twas dress that made a woman slave. A man 
 Was free to stride, to joy in actions. Coils 
 Of silky tresses weighted not his brain ; 
 The ancient story told of Samson's strength 
 Was but a myth, and, earnest in demand 
 Of rights usurped by man, she never joy'd 
 O'er secrets that enfold man's heart when drawn 
 By woman with a single golden hair. 
 This daily toil of braiding tresses, too, 
 Was quite enough to give the men a start 
 By one full hour, and that, in one short year, 
 Would make a month of working time, 
 In life of every woman born (for oft 
 The silly ones were known to dress the hair 
 Full twice each day), was nearly fifteen years 
 Within allotted life of man ! Ah ! yes, 
 'Twas plain, the hair must go, and then, since time 
 
Edalaine. 61 
 
 Had much increased the vanity of dress, 
 
 So great their waste of hours it ne'er could be 
 
 In decimals compared, and now that minds 
 
 Had lost the simple taste of Adam's Eve, 
 
 And dress, they must, at least no vantage ground 
 
 Should more be left to man, and so the dress 
 
 Must change. To imitate the man ? Oh, no ! 
 
 The dress was hers as much as his, by all 
 
 Good rights, and soon they'd see how smooth the 
 
 wheels 
 
 Of State would move in woman's hands. With this 
 
 Resolve, she sought to cover o'er the curves 
 
 Of lines that marked her beauty over man's, 
 
 Until she half forgot her sex, and thought 
 
 Herself creation's Lord ! Not now content 
 
 With face to win, with grace to charm, with voice 
 
 To allure, she 'gan to strive to couple with 
 
 Her limbs of fawn-like grace man's vigor, then 
 
 i 
 To tune the lute strings of her woman's voice 
 
62 Edalaine. 
 
 To clarion notes, and rather wake the world 
 To raging war in crying down its wrongs, 
 Than first to tame its passions' flame to use 
 More sweet, by sounds that lured to harmony 
 The jangling discords of its outraged souls. 
 And one of these had wandered to the vale. 
 The name they bore of fearless enterprise 
 In living out their code, seemed fitting place 
 To plant the seed that soon would scatter fruit 
 Throughout the world, — and so her sisters thought. 
 But pity 'tis to tell, she had not learned 
 Her text ; confounded rights and wrongs, and 
 
 mixed 
 With them base licenses. Unhappy choice 
 Of women earnest in their cause ! She brought 
 Upon their work a stain, and ruin marked 
 Her course like worm-corroding path that blasts 
 The rose. But we anticipate our tale ; — 
 She begged to speak, for she had come to bring 
 
E da lame. 63 
 
 To them a moral freedom. Right to live 
 Outside the code that serves to bind our hearts 
 To clay that holds no soul. 
 
 " I beg you look," 
 She said, " at yonder marriage bond, she dreams 
 Of love that brings no care, so pure her heart, 
 That life whose aim is solely reaching forth 
 For wealth, jars rudely heart strings tuned to high 
 And lofty anthems of the soul, yet finds 
 Herself beside a mate who soars in thought 
 No higher than his farm, his plough, his grain 
 And corn! Her heart that yearns for infinite joy 
 With kindred souls, by this fell weight here forced 
 To grope and mourn the unattainable. 
 And here we find another hapless pair. 
 To fashion's wheel the wife is bound, and up 
 And down the giddy world she's whirled, first here 
 Then there, a ceaseless round no soul-life wakes 
 Nor genius germ, nor ideal worth. Alone 
 
64 Edalaine. 
 
 He stands, the problem of progressive worlds 
 
 To solve ; looked on by her, as years do more, 
 
 And more the breach make wide, as but a clod 
 
 Of earth, that knows not how to grace a feast 
 
 Or turn retort in fashion's banter, nor 
 
 To dance a reel when most she wished to show 
 
 Her gown and shake beneath the nose of gossipers 
 
 (For politic she too can be at times) — 
 
 Her matrimonial chains to make them talk 
 
 Of conjugal felicity and her. 
 
 " Arise, my friends ! Here have you buildedyou 
 
 A mimic world ; throw off as well, the chains 
 
 That make you still as worldly here as those 
 
 Who live without, and bow to fashion's code. 
 
 Affinities must guide you here. Divide 
 
 These lives that, tied here side by side, without 
 
 One common thought, one lofty dream of Heaven 
 
 On earth, drag each other down ! Move on, 
 
 Let not your work cease here. Grasp other truths. 
 
Edalazne. 65 
 
 Let love sit by, a guest, who comes to-day, 
 
 To-morrow gone ; an angel worthy all 
 
 Our best and brightest thoughts, for he gives all, 
 
 And more in like return of purest love ! 
 
 Grieve not, when he be gone, its bitterness 
 
 By sweets is e'er replaced with eyes grown dear 
 
 Through newly wakened sympathies! Grow 
 
 young, 
 Not dumb to th' emotions of the heart, and thus, 
 You'll find the plant of love blooms o'er and o'er. 
 Away with cant of chains that bind ; of ring 
 That holds for good or ill ! Can dead hearts beat 
 Response to yours? Dull brains give ans'ring 
 
 thoughts ? 
 Ah no ! and marriage bonds kill first the one, 
 And—" Stop "—and Evelyn Grant, in righteous 
 
 wrath, 
 Stood up and faced the woman who had dared 
 Invade this realm of peace. " 'Tis plain you mean 
 
66 Edalaine. 
 
 By love, a word too base to use at large. 
 
 That lust can satisfy a heart like yours 
 
 I will allow. Has mother heart ne'er beat 
 
 To hush in sacred calm your passion's flame ? 
 
 Has love ne'er caused you measure which was best, 
 
 Love dragged a day in lustful pleasures, or 
 
 Th' affections which doth follow it when held 
 
 As something sacred for a life ? Or is it 
 
 That you have so dull an intellect 
 
 That chasteness, and affectionate calm, respect 
 
 Of man, because you are a woman born, 
 
 Ne'er reached your dimmed perceptions. Still 
 
 I say !" 
 For here the stranger tried to speak, but paled 
 To feel the electric thrill of eyes that looked 
 Her down in scathing scorn, as on she sped 
 In quick rebuke. " Who taught you first to 
 
 breathe 
 
Edalaine. 67 
 
 Your infant prayer? Would you have learned 
 
 had not 
 It been ordained that those who walk before 
 In this advancing life, should aid to wake 
 To life and action, mind and heart, and soul ; 
 Should strive to gain from those who stand below 
 An upward glance, or more ; an upward step? 
 All selfishly you seek for kindred souls, 
 * Affinities,' in your weak reasoning, 
 Content alone to feast while leaving those 
 You ought to feed, to starve for moral aid. 
 Ask duty, not the whim of passing hour, 
 What are most meet for proper wedlock here. 
 It is divine, the marriage law, what though 
 Mistakes are made, does that still prove the law 
 At fault? The wife who dreams the livelong day 
 What better balance to her vagaries, 
 Than sturdy sense of what you deem so dull ? 
 Is sense or judgment, then, beneath in grade, 
 
68 E da I a i7i e. 
 
 To longings vain, to sophistries of which 
 She may herself be all too ignorant ? 
 And he, the dreamer that you pity, linked 
 To wife who worships fashion and the world, 
 Has he not err'd in closing, oyster-like, 
 Within himself the pearls of loftier aims ? 
 Let him concede to dwell with her within 
 The world, join in her pleasures, there to learn 
 The broader meanings — Charity at home 
 Begins, and give, instead of holding back 
 What he considers wealth — and she but dross, 
 Till each, and both do borrow light, and lend 
 Until they're harmonized to perfect whole. 
 And then the little ones. Must they be plunged 
 In chaos of these mix'd affections too? 
 Ne'er cling to anchors such as sacred name 
 Of mother, father, what though parents these, 
 'Midst cares too great for poverty to ease, 
 They lose, perhaps, sublimity in life. 
 
Edalatne. 69 
 
 Shall not of life the simple attributes 
 
 Which wealth or learning ne'er can give or take 
 
 The patient word, the tender hand, the smiles, 
 
 The tears, shall these not all suffice to bring, 
 
 While moving onward, all that life to live 
 
 Is worth and make of wedded life the calm 
 
 And steadfast haven of our earthly bliss? 
 
 Who talks of else, hath wrought a curse upon 
 
 Themselves by marriages not made in love, 
 
 But only through some worldly thought ; some 
 
 chance 
 Or worse, unholy passion's end. Oh, friends ! 
 If, as of old, the serpents crept within 
 Our Eden here, at least let each of home 
 Conserve an Eden still.'' 
 
 The meeting closed. 
 And deeply entered words like these in hearts 
 Of most. But some there were who sought excuse 
 To free themselves from chains they wore but ill, 
 
yo Edalaine. 
 
 Who raised contentions till the worst was done. 
 Midst other homes on which the evil fell, 
 Was that of gentle Evelyn, who saw 
 And wept to see the ruin that was wrought, 
 For stone by stone the edifice man's hand 
 Had raised, the social ramparts which on earth 
 Were meant to guard the tender growth of good, 
 Now crumbled to the dust. What man had spent 
 Of worldly wealth to aid in this good work, 
 Was sacrificed, or else they needs must cling 
 To codes in which they could no more believe. 
 And yet she held with steadfast soul to truths 
 She felt must live for aye. But Andrew smiled, 
 And sighed, and then he smiled again. He dwelt 
 Where poets dwell ; dreamed dreams, nor lent his 
 
 pow'rs 
 To uses that the practical might win, 
 When dreams with gauzy fabric, served alone 
 To dim the clearness of the inward sight 
 
Edalaine. 7 r 
 
 In sense and judgment, when a need like this 
 
 Arose for firm and steadfast will. He vowed 
 
 Or rather hinted that he lived for aims 
 
 Above the toil and sweat of brow which brought 
 
 But pelf, wrote letters filled with verse, and vain 
 
 Imaginings to lady friends, and then 
 
 Felt hurt when answer never came to them. 
 
 He hinted in them, life was all a sad 
 
 Mistake to spirits that, like him, ne'er found 
 
 A kindred soul. None understood his heart, 
 
 Nor realized how fiercely burned the fire 
 
 Upon the sacred altar of his long 
 
 Unsatisfied desire to worship here, 
 
 Alone the true and beautiful. 
 
 His wife 
 Was strong, made brave by mother love. Scarce 
 
 thought 
 Of strifes begun with worldly wealth all gone. 
 With her such love gave pow'r, to him it was . 
 
72 Edalaine, 
 
 But dreaming, and to leave the haven where 
 He hoped to live and die, meant life begun 
 Anew, with all the cares of age, and lost 
 The hopes of youth. She lived anew her youth 
 In each young life God gave her right to call 
 Her own. He loved them all, but only from 
 Their youth had borrowed timorous fears, he 
 
 thought, 
 And argued o'er and o'er the case, and thus 
 With others in the vale, in argument fond, 
 Drank ever deeper draughts to wake and warm 
 The blood to heat of the debate, talked on, 
 Nor thought of work that must be done to save 
 These mouths from need of food. 
 
 Ere long it came 
 To pass that it was whispered through the town 
 That Andrew's head was turned. At least 'twas 
 
 true 
 That once or twice some fiery drink had ruled 
 
Edalaine. 73 
 
 His brain, and scenes arose that made him seem, 
 If not insane, a man not quite himself. 
 He walked about the town in strange attire ; 
 Or strayed away for days. 
 
 There sometimes came 
 To Evelyn, in absences like these, 
 A stranger, from some neighboring town and bent 
 On curious errand he, perhaps to claim 
 A bureau which her husband sold. " Would she 
 Be kind enough to point him out the one ?" 
 At other times it was a chair, or bed, 
 And Evelyn with dignity complied, 
 Nor chose to show to stranger's eyes, she had 
 Not known, and countenanced their sale. At last 
 One called to see the clock, a farmer he, 
 And broad in English dialect. The clock ! 
 'Twas all that spoke to her of girlhood's home. 
 Her father's gentle voice had mingled with 
 Its chimes ! Each hour it tolled brought memory 
 
74 Edalaine. 
 
 Of lessons learned from him ! 
 
 " The rare old clock ? 
 The Scots had aye an love for them, but bless 
 The'oman, do ye weep? Its awkwarder 
 Nor what I thought!" And helplessly he scraped 
 His rough, gray chin, 
 
 " A bit of gold is worth 
 The clock, but blamed if I can buy the tears. 
 I thought the feyther needed gold, but 'ems 
 As sell the meyther's heart, 'ull come to grief!" 
 u Nae, nae, ye munna mind," and Evelyn, 
 Her pain too great to mark her words, spoke too 
 In dialect her father used, and then, 
 Remembering herself, she sadly smiled, 
 To see the children marvel at her Scotch. 
 ''The clock, I'm sure, is safe with you, and when 
 My babe," — and here the tears choked back the 
 
 words 
 An instant, while she drew her Edalaine 
 
Edalaine. 75 
 
 Against her heart — " When Edalaine is grown, 
 
 I'm sure you'll sell it back to her, for o'er 
 
 Its face has chased the sunshine and the cloud 
 
 Of all my life. Its only silences 
 
 Have marked the greatest changes of my days. 
 
 Three months to sail from Scotland, was the first. 
 
 Eleven years I numbered then, and now" — 
 
 She spoke as if the others were forgot, — 
 
 " At twenty-two my father gone, and I 
 
 A bride, it paused but half an hour when moved 
 
 To humbler home than e'er it yet had known. 
 
 At thirty-three, for Andrew loved to roam, 
 
 We left Canadian soil, and I, my kin. 
 
 At forty-four we joined the Fourierites, 
 
 And now" — and when she looked at him he marked 
 
 The wanness of her face, as if some grief 
 
 Had been revealed to her in cruel haste, 
 
 Or waked to conscious knowledge of itself, — 
 
 " I feel 'twere best, that of my life, the clock 
 
j6 Edalaine. 
 
 Should never know the rest, lest he, who loved 
 My youth and called me daughter, yet can look 
 Upon its face, and still thereon might read 
 More truth than wittingly I'd have him know. 
 'Tis folly, is it not ? But more through that 
 Rude clock my father speaks to me, than aught 
 On earth, and, absent from my sight, I'd feel 
 My ills can better hide themselves from him." 
 
 The man 
 Had busied himself in gazing at the clock, 
 Had oft his cotton handkerchief drawn forth 
 Or taken snuff to hide his tenderness 
 Of heart. And now he beckoned Edalaine. 
 " And so it be,yere Scotch, my gell," he said, 
 " That's maist as good as bein' Lancashire. 
 An' when yer grow'd we'll see what says the clock 
 Of gells as minds their meythers, an' their books." 
 But Edalaine crept back to touch the face, 
 All wet with falling tears, and whispered her 
 
Edalaine. 77 
 
 In one word : " Mother," all the sympathy 
 
 And love an aching heart could wish. The dame, 
 
 As if aroused to dearth of duty done 
 
 In hospitality, beneath her roof, 
 
 Arose and briskly set about the task 
 
 Of making tea. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, 
 My lack of courtesy, you'll take with us 
 A cup of tea ? You see of late our work 
 Hath fallen slack. The Fourierites could not 
 Break faith without its shadows falling on 
 Us all, and since we ceased to break our bread 
 In peace around one board, we've lost, I think, 
 Our skill, perhaps 'twas wrong to so withdraw, 
 But since mine ears were shocked with converse 
 
 filled 
 With poisonous intent to minds, I felt, 
 With all my little ones, 'twere best contend 
 
yS Edalaine. 
 
 With bitter want ; face sickness, nay, meet death, 
 Than taint their minds with foul disorders which 
 Now brood within our midst." 
 
 " Well said,'' good dame; 
 If aught goes wrong, yer welcome to my best, 
 And there's th' wife o' mine 'ull say the same, 
 Send me the gells ye need the least, and so 
 It pleases ye, they'll allays hev a home." 
 And so the clock was borne away, to leave 
 With Evelyn a greater grief than she 
 Had shown, for still, in painful silence, mused 
 She o'er the strange demeanor of her once 
 " Guid mon." 
 
 Sometimes, as mother with her child, 
 She strove to reason with and bring him back 
 To calm and steadfast purposes of toil. 
 " There's naught in such 
 
 A life. I've done thy way 
 
Edalaine. 79 
 
 Now leave me to my own." " But, father, think !" 
 " Aye, aye, 'tis think, 'twere better that I ne'er 
 Did think!" And while the mother hid her tears, 
 And yielded task she felt a useless one, 
 He'd next, perhaps, arouse her latent hopes. 
 But hopes thus waked would languish when his 
 
 work 
 By freaks of fancy moved. 'Twas first to plant 
 A cherry tree beside the door, and joy 
 Awoke as cheerful converse then they held, 
 While he in earnest work with spade delved on, 
 And she, with needles clicked the stitches off 
 And on ; but next her heart sank hopelessly. 
 He left the work of usefulness to roam 
 To distant spot, and paused, perhaps, beside 
 The brook, to plant what marked in after years 
 The strange caprice of wand'ring mind. " They'll 
 
 stand, 
 Babe Edalaine, to speak to thee of thy 
 
80 Edalaine, 
 
 Poor father's deeds in fairer language than 
 The world will do," 
 
 And Evelyn would say 
 Unto her flock: 
 
 " Respect thy sire, he soon 
 Will be himself, his losses make him seem 
 Unmindful of thy wants. Take heart and do 
 Thy duties each." But most she strove to make 
 His acts appear both natural and right, 
 And they, the children, seldom saw in him 
 A strangeness, sole, that oft he quitted work, 
 Nor came to mark the hour of bright-eyed noon, 
 Or sun's decline, as once he never failed 
 To do, but lingered late, or never came 
 At all, though mother ever found excuse. 
 
 * * * * # «* • 
 
 'Midst all the agitations of belief 
 Within the vale, and changes brought by them, 
 Death came again to gather home a soul, 
 
Edalaine. 8 1 
 
 And left Dean Brent to mourn his gentle wife. 
 He bowed before the grief as strong men do, 
 And hid his wound afar from careless eye 
 Of men. It seemed but yesterday since they 
 Were wed, but years could ne'er bring back as 
 
 much 
 Of quiet joy as marked these peaceful months. 
 And yet he sought with philosophic mind, 
 To gain some little good where most the lash 
 Of sorrow touched to quick the quivering soul. 
 Elizabeth, such comfort could not find. 
 She walked the earth as in a misty world 
 Of blighted joys, and duties which she took 
 Upon herself with earnest wish, she did 
 In slow, lethargic wise, as if her soul 
 Refused to lighten irksome labor with 
 Impulsiveness. The springing step, the smile 
 That mocked the sun, the glow of sun-lit eyes, 
 Were gone. Her only sign of interest 
 
82 Edalaine, 
 
 In life was shown at times to Edalaine, 
 
 Who, child as yet, still read the sadness writ 
 
 Upon her sister's face, and crept full oft 
 
 Within her arms to nestle there, and lend 
 
 A silent sympathy more deep than words. 
 
 Dean Brent amidst the sorrows of his own 
 
 Sad hearth, who saw his mother fading fast, 
 
 Found time to prove to Mistress Evelyn 
 
 The worthiness and high esteem he felt 
 
 For her, and tried some goodly seed to sow 
 
 In mind of Andrew. Sought in outward things 
 
 To raise some interest, as ballast this, 
 
 To vagaries he feared e'en more than yet 
 
 Confessed to idle gossipers. He urged 
 
 Some measures to retrieve his fortune lost, 
 
 And staked his own in urging this, to feel 
 
 At last some hope that all was well. Then signs 
 
 Of strange and fitful vagaries again 
 
Edalaine. 83 
 
 Appeared, and these more startling proved to 
 
 them, 
 When late one night, returned from fierce debate, 
 He sprang with dreadful oaths upon his child 
 Elizabeth. Her blood congealed in veins 
 Of ice, she could not scream, but given power 
 To move, she fled across the Common, 'neath 
 The stars, without a thought of whence her aid 
 Might come, and saw alone athwart the night, 
 The gleam of hungry steel, and felt herself 
 The object of a maniac's hate, and he 
 Her sire ! 
 
 At last a glimmering ray of light 
 Fell straggling down a narrow wooden stair. 
 She heard the grate of heels in hot pursuit, 
 The pant of rage, and as she touched the stair, 
 The muttered oath seemed close, so close she felt 
 Hot breath upon her cheek, and shrank against 
 The shaded side ! 
 
84 Edalaine. 
 
 Come hope ! Come help ! Alas, 
 A hand is on her hair, the knife is raised, 
 And roused to superhuman effort, shrieked, 
 " Help ! help !" When falling at the feet of two 
 Strong neighbor lads. An instant more, the knife 
 Is wrenched away, and Andrew strongly bound. 
 But all that night and many more, when safe 
 'Twixt prison walls in lieu of hospital, 
 He raved with incoherent phrase, and when 
 Some questioned why this awful deed he sought 
 To do, he answered proudly, while he showed 
 Upon the wall, a hand which grasped the world, 
 And which with hasty stroke his hand had drawn, 
 " Hush, am I not the great I Am ? Why ask 
 Me then of deeds performed, for as I gave 
 I take, so question none !" 
 
 For months he lay 
 In prison chains, nor wife nor faithful friends 
 Had means or pow'r to save him this. His mind 
 
Edalaine. 85 
 
 Took flight in fancies that when spoken, seemed 
 The words of one whose wisdom was above 
 The ken of common men, and not of one 
 Whose mind had lost its equipoise. 
 
 At last 
 Set free he walked abroad to meet the sun 
 Of spring. The past forgotten, sane he seemed, 
 And kindlier man in all the land could not 
 Be found. Long hours he spent in solitude ; 
 All nature's creatures followed him, nor turned 
 Away unnoticed. Shy at first, the boys 
 Found he could make their whistles best, could fly 
 A kite that failed all other hands, till last 
 Not few but all the children made of him 
 Their confidant, and spent full many a day 
 In climbing through the glens, in weaving flowers 
 For wreaths, while he wove words in fairy tales, 
 For Andrew had a poet's heart, and they 
 Had each a heart of youth, and youth to those 
 
86 Edalaiue. 
 
 Who understand is much akin to realm 
 
 Of poet, save in giving speech to joys. 
 
 Two hearts there were that could not thus forget 
 
 The past, and both in secret bore a heart 
 
 Of fear unknown to each and to the world : 
 
 Elizabeth and Edalaine. And oft 
 
 Elizabeth awoke at night with brow 
 
 All moist with fright in dreaming o'er the grief 
 
 And horror of that awful night. The child, 
 
 By nature born discreet, had never told 
 
 That she had waked to see the self-same night, 
 
 Her own life menaced by a chair which fell 
 
 Upon her mother's form, who strove to save 
 
 Her sleeping child ; nor how she silent lay 
 
 In trembling fear, to hear her mother's voice 
 
 (The father fled) thank God in grateful prayer 
 
 That he had saved her child from certain death. 
 
 And now that all was past, and by the world 
 
 Forgot, the terror lived within their hearts, 
 
E da I aine. 8 J 
 
 Increased the more by secret watchfulness. 
 Yet he was happy, seemingly, nor felt 
 Estrangement in these gentle hearts. His life 
 Was spent in sunny idleness, the lads 
 Aye glad to find a nobler head to lead 
 The van in rambling through the summer woods, 
 With acclamations, hailed a sunny day 
 Proposed by Andrew for another jaunt. 
 
 One day, when resting 'neath the forest trees, 
 With twenty merry lads about his knee, 
 He told in rambling rhyme, the following tale 
 Of ocean shell : 
 
 I'm shaggy and brown and rough to see, 
 
 As imbedded I lie in the mere ; 
 The maids would scoff in merry glee, 
 
 If you named me as their peer. 
 
 I'm shaggy and brown and rough, they say, 
 In my weather-stained house so round, 
 
88 Edalaine. 
 
 But its hall within's a shimmering way, 
 That thrills with an echoing sound. 
 
 My pearl walls sing songs they cannot hear, 
 Gleam with lights they never can see, 
 
 For once the ocean in secret here, 
 Gave the song of his heart to me. 
 
 We sing of his joys the livelong day, 
 And sometimes we whisper a sigh ; 
 
 I'm joined to my wall like moss to clay, 
 And we are one, my wall and I. 
 
 Yet sometimes, alas, for flesh am I, 
 I dream of and long for fleshy kind ; 
 
 I would they might feel these songs pulse high- 
 Through the heart, the brain and mind. 
 
 I dream, too, oft of a song I hear, 
 
 From a mermaid sad, though sweet and fair, 
 Who grievously tried, to sigh, sits near, 
 
 While she sings away her care. 
 
Edalaine. 89 
 
 Only a bubble of ocean am I, 
 Alone, alone, 
 
 Alone to moan, 
 
 Alone to die. 
 
 My true love went, but he comes not yet, 
 Alone, alone, 
 
 To make sad moan, 
 
 With eyelids wet. 
 
 I comb my hair beneath the briny deep, 
 Alone, alone, 
 
 To make my moan, 
 
 Alone to weep ! 
 
 He comes no more, and he sends no word, 
 Alone, alone ! 
 
 Alone to die, 
 
 My prayer unheard. 
 
 Then Andrew told 
 A tale of storms that rose in foamy rage, 
 
90 Edalaine. 
 
 When sea gods 'twixt themselves made war for 
 
 right 
 To rule beneath the sea. Then ocean stern, 
 With visage dark, the chamberlain of his court 
 Bade go, and herald out the powers of all 
 The Storm King's mighty court, his legions vast, 
 To work the bane of those who had disgraced 
 The sea. " What though," he said, " I banish all 
 From out this wide domain, I'll not submit 
 That we, like human beasts, get right by might. 
 Go forth and make it known to them, that ne'er 
 Again, 'neath surf or wave, shall they as nymphs 
 Disport, but grovel 'neath the form of man, 
 Their cares all know, their weal, their woe, and 
 
 make 
 Of life one constant wage of war for pelf, 
 Or fame, a struggle fierce, as it shall be 
 Unending, where I shall not reign their King." 
 The Storm King came, the storm arose to drive 
 
Edalaine, 91 
 
 Them from the sea, and sinless ones like those 
 Of guilt, were cast upon the barren shore. 
 The shell whose lonely life we know, like these 
 Was cast on burning rocks, and wak'd but half 
 To conscious things, first found himself alone, 
 And then — but let him tell the tale himself. 
 " I woke convulsed with pain. A burning heat 
 Consumed my frame, and thirst my tongue clave 
 
 fast ; 
 A fiery light ne'er seen before, my brain 
 And senses scorched. No sheltering home above 
 My head, for half and half my hall was cleft, 
 And I, on sands that stretched afar, lay fixed 
 Betwixt two rocks. I moaning raised my eyes, 
 When lo ! the light grew soft and dim with tints 
 Of ocean green. Above, long streamed fine threads 
 Of silky hair, that dripped like tinkling rain, 
 Refreshing showers upon my face, as from 
 The depths it came, and lo, my mermaid queen, 
 
92 Edalainc. 
 
 Whose song I long had heard, with tender looks 
 
 Bent o'er my head, to know if I still lived. 
 
 " Who knows," she murmured, sweetly sad, " might 
 
 not 
 This be my love, perchance these troublous times 
 Changed quite to form and shape like this?" and 
 
 sought 
 To give me aid. When all at once, the light, 
 (I heard them call it sun) with sudden sweep 
 Was hid. Deep night it was, and then 'twas day, 
 But weird and frightful day, that scarce had 
 
 come, 
 When night more deep, more dense and weird 
 
 returned. 
 Reverberations swift of thunders vast, 
 Had deafened all the land, when I uprose, 
 To feel some new-born form had compassed me. 
 " The curse, the curse !" the mermaid cried, and 
 
 reached 
 
Edalaine. 93 
 
 Her arms to meet my own encircling ones. 
 
 The curse it was, but joy to me. One form 
 
 Were we, of stature just, a man and maid 
 
 Become ! My heart beat high, I thought not lost 
 
 My peace beneath the sea, but linked with her, 
 
 What curse would I not dare to live beneath ! 
 
 She called me " Love," and I, who loved in truth, 
 
 Yet let her dream that I indeed was he 
 
 She mourned beneath the sea in mournful song. 
 
 The fearful storm that gave us birth, passed by, 
 
 And nature, who convulsively brought change, 
 
 Once more returned to calm. Not so my heart. 
 
 It beat the passion music of my soul, 
 
 Forever tuned to strike harmonious chords 
 
 In unison with hers. Harmonious 
 
 They were, for o'er and o'er we sounded still 
 
 The rhythm of our love's soft cadences. 
 
 Soft, sad, loud, long, nor ever dreamed to know 
 
 A weariness of them! 
 
94 Edalaine. 
 
 Her mermaid life 
 Had been an idle, careless one, nor bird, 
 Nor bee upon the wing, so free as she ! 
 But now she toiled, and oft I wondering sat 
 To see the busy hands at household task. 
 In time was added unto us a child, 
 Nay, two and three, and mother-heart uprose 
 In her, and I was left apart, as one 
 Less dear, or so in jealous mood I thought. 
 Then friends were made. They came beguil'd by 
 
 grace 
 Of my fair wife. And more and more each day, 
 As led by jealous fears and pride, I sought 
 To hide from her my heart, I sank into 
 Myself. I mourned again my ocean life. 
 For harmonies that first bewitched this life 
 As man, in jangling discords lay. And thus 
 Again I turned to still the venom'd sting 
 That ate my heart, to dwell on sounds till now 
 
Edalaine. 95 
 
 Almost forgot, through charm of blissful love. 
 
 To hymning of my shell I turned, but this 
 
 Tuned not so full. Its vibratory round, 
 
 Alas, rent quite in twain, rang not to me 
 
 With even beat, and so led me astray. 
 
 When sometimes I, half pitiful for those 
 
 That heard it not, th' interpretation sought 
 
 Full oft to make their understanding meet. 
 
 " He's mad," they said, " with this his broken 
 
 song, 
 Heed not," to wife, and she ofttimes would weep. 
 Then I'd give o'er and dream alone, yet knew 
 She watched me closely, reading random words 
 As fancy wrought upon, and heeded not. 
 To see and feel this, day by day, like foul 
 Suspicion's sting, wrought poison in each nerve, 
 Till, madden'd, often to my heart I cried : 
 " 'Tis worse than death, my life indeed is cursed." 
 Sometimes I turned in anger on my young, 
 
96 Edalaine. 
 
 As they who brought me ill. Sometimes on her 
 I loved above all life, or future day. 
 And once, alas, that I should live to tell 
 The shameful trie," — 
 
 Just here, from far to East, 
 A bell pealed forth the noon-day hour with loud 
 And merry chime, that reached e'en to the wood 
 Where Andrew sat, 'midst listening lads, his tale 
 Full long to tell. 
 
 " Enough, enough !" he cried, 
 " The rest will wait our lunch, so bring it forth 
 And we will feast, while he our hero mourns 
 Another hour his wrongs, and then we '11 leave 
 These wreaths aloft, a temple raised for him, 
 To serve as memory of his doom ; a day 
 To live, a day to die, an emblem fit 
 Of joys." 
 
 And no mean lunch 'neath oaken tree 
 
Edalaine. 97 
 
 Was spread upon the ground. Eggs, opened 
 
 through 
 Their orange hearts, on couch of lettuce crisp 
 Nor touched as yet by wine made sharp by aid 
 Of heat and air, and Andrew, as he turned 
 It out : 
 
 " We often say of one : he sour'd, 
 Look, boys, a lesson learn, that all in life 
 Has use, and so with man, the strong keen edge 
 Of life's wine, turned by adverse winds or heat 
 Of burning fires, to vinegar, so called ; 
 Has much of use, as when his life ran wine 
 A ruddy stream. Remember, then, for this 
 I think you all can understand, to seek 
 The difference 'twixt a wine that's simply sour'd, 
 And one that's worked itself full clear like this. 
 In man, whose nature sour'd would still have use, 
 You'll find the difference is, to stand above 
 The dregs, Despair, with Courage fix'd on brow 
 
98 Edalaine. 
 
 And heart ; to mingle with the pure and good, 
 Who lend sweet grace of Heaven." 
 
 Thus Andrew talked 
 At moments, more to self than them, and still 
 Prepared the meal ; cut down with even stroke 
 The bread of snowy, crumbly textur'd form ; 
 A million bubbles kneaded down, then set 
 To rise again in finer texture still, 
 And then, by heat caught fast and welded thus, 
 In snowy piles with oaken tinted frame 
 Of bubbles deftly brown'd. 
 
 As Andrew from 
 The baskets laid, of chickens, pies, of fruits 
 Full store, the elder boys a fire of pine 
 Beneath the kettle made, for even this 
 Was not forgot to make their meal a feast. 
 And fumes of coffee soon arose, a King 
 Could scarce withstand had he recorded vows 
 To keep the day a solemn fast. 
 
Edalaine. 99 
 
 A new 
 Freak this, of their old friend to bring a lunch 
 With them, and so, the viands spread around, 
 A glorious feast they make, as gladsome lads 
 And merry bent as ever plunged in wood. 
 The eating done, he sent them forth in quest 
 Of ferns, and buds, and flowers, and all the wealth 
 Of growing grace, " while I the while will take," 
 He said, " a noon-day nap to mend my wits. 
 And when I wake I'll make resound like this, 
 The woods ;'' and straightway with his hands up- 
 raised, 
 A mocking blast of hunting horn with skill 
 The echoes of the wood awoke. 
 
 So off 
 They troop with merry laugh, with shout and 
 
 song, 
 To leave him there alone. " How still the woods. 
 
ioo Edalaine, 
 
 Their voices gone ! The leaves themselves droop 
 
 one 
 By one, the bird has ceased his song! Alone ! 
 So like my life, alone to live, alone 
 In silence ever ! Hearts I call mine own 
 Wake not the silence of my soul by their 
 Responsive thrills. Unknown to them I am 
 But mad ! Why seek the error to dispel ? 
 I'm mad, aye mad ! 'Twere better then to be 
 Insane, than such blind fools as they." And so 
 He mused as swinging through the boughs he wove 
 In graceful fashion, wreaths the boys had made, 
 Till o'er him swung a fairy bower well worth 
 A wood nymph queen. 
 
 He threw himself upon 
 The sward which rose into a mound, half closed 
 His eyes, or upward glanced with slanting lids, 
 To rest the flight of sight amidst the chains 
 Of trembling flowers. Full long he gazed, for they 
 
Edalaine. 101 
 
 Were fair, of every hue, and shape, till soon 
 They seemed to bend toward him, to nod and then 
 To smile. Their leaves seem'd wings that gently 
 
 swung 
 To rhythm of their song. Their stems took shape 
 Of fairy feet that twinkled in the sun. 
 And all at once a thousand lips to words 
 Like these broke forth in sounds of ecstacy : 
 
 Come up, come up, 
 
 Oh, world-worn soul, 
 
 For we are queens of the air. 
 
 Come up, come up, 
 
 And be our king, 
 
 Thou art great and we are fair 
 
 Hither, come hither, 
 We'll bear thee up, 
 To thy soul we are akin. 
 Hither, come hither, 
 
102 Edalaine, 
 
 To be our king, 
 
 For the great and fair are twin. 
 
 The sun peeped down to touch the sward where 
 
 lay 
 With misty eyes, the stalwart frame of him 
 That heard the song. A handsome form, a head 
 Of noble shape, with rich brown hair that clung 
 In rings close link'd. A shapely hand he raised 
 In sport to shake negation, then in words : 
 "Ah no, my friends ! 'Tis true I wove my life 
 In web of fairy texture, told my griefs 
 To ease my heart, while telling tales to please 
 The lads, but then, no credence give to you 
 That woo me hither, tho' I oft would flee 
 The weary ills, the lingering grief that life 
 Doth prove to me." And they with song chimed in : 
 
 Hither, come hither, 
 You'll learn our worth, 
 
Edalaine. 103 
 
 Sole when we dwell together. 
 
 Hither, come hither, 
 
 We're one with thee, 
 
 We'll hold thee our king forever! 
 
 And Andrew started, drew his hand across 
 
 His eyes, as if to brush away a sight 
 
 He could not full believe, to prove himself 
 
 In dreams. But still the voices rose and fell 
 
 In treble shrill, or sank to whisperings. 
 
 "I dream," and then he struck his hand against 
 
 A root, to prove himself awake, and drops 
 
 Of blood oozed through the tender skin, and stood 
 
 Like crimson-coated sentinels, that warn 
 
 Life's foes 'gainst rude or hasty entrance through 
 
 The portals of his palace. Then he rose 
 
 And gazed with wilder eyes. The drops had turned 
 
 To millions, and they seemed to bear the light 
 
 Of scorching mid-day sun ! Again he struck 
 
 The root, and shrilly laughed to feel the pain. 
 
104 Edalaine. 
 
 u Sting me, demons, sting me, one and all, 
 I'll conquer yet." And then a sudden pause, 
 As if a thought had stayed his hand. " My God ! 
 Is't madness?" Then he muttered, " Ho ho, I'm 
 
 mad! 
 I'm mad, am I ? We'll see, we'll see !" and lashed 
 To fury by accusing, unseen foe, 
 He seized a sapling, tore it from its roots, 
 And then another, and a third, until 
 His lacerated hands left witnesses 
 Of tortured flesh upon each tree. 
 
 At last, 
 His fury spent, he sank upon the knoll: 
 " I'll conquer them, the demons, see !" and held 
 Aloft the saplings, stripped of bud and leaf. 
 The flowers bent down their graceful heads ; the 
 
 breeze 
 Sighed softly through the trees; a bird came nigh 
 Then fluttered through the bower above his head, 
 
Edalaine. 105 
 
 And panting, bleeding, passion-pale he lay 
 And turned his restless eyes to flowers he had 
 Addressed. Again they nodded in his sight, 
 And once again their voices caught his ear : 
 
 Hither, come hither, 
 
 Nor mock despair, 
 
 For we wait to crown thee king. 
 
 Hither, come hither, 
 
 And sport with us, 
 
 Oh, trust thy weight to our wing. 
 
 Come up, come up, 
 
 Oh, world-tossed soul, 
 
 And sport with us in the air. 
 
 Come up, come up, 
 
 Oh, world- wise king, 
 
 Thou art great and we are fair. 
 
 The pallor deepened on his brow, his eyes 
 
106 Edalaine. 
 
 Grew sombre as he listened to the words, 
 And now forgetting still to answer them, 
 He saw them nearer, nearer come, till they 
 Had bent so low, their wings caressed his face. 
 Their breath bedewed his brow, and still he gazed 
 With, eyes dilated in their disk of blue, 
 Till arms of fairy forms, of endless hues 
 Outstretched encircled him. Then all was dark 
 
 Deep in the woods the boys had met to fight 
 A mimic tournament, and crowned with flowers 
 The victor lad ; when through the woods some 
 
 said • 
 
 They heard friend Andrew call with thrilling sound 
 Of horn. Some said it was the owl's hoarse cry, 
 In frightened daylight dream. At last, with one 
 Accord they turned to seek the spot they left 
 At zenith sun, to weight themselves with flowers. 
 They spied from far the bower raised, and ran 
 With speedy steps to cast their sweets of fern 
 
Edalaine. 107 
 
 And buds before the temple raised to love. 
 
 The first to reach the odorous arch, a shriek 
 
 Sent up to Heaven, then turned with wild, white 
 
 face, 
 To hide his sight in brother's breast, and shake 
 With fear. Another came, then fled tow'rd home, 
 Nor stayed to know the worst. The next that 
 
 gazed, 
 Fell on the grass, while others came to look, 
 Transfixed with fear. Some huddled silently 
 Around, or whispered through white lips : " He's 
 
 dead!" 
 All dropped the flowers beneath the form that 
 
 hung 
 By ropes of blossoms, till ne'er conscious what 
 They did, his feet were buried deep in them. 
 Then, gathering sense of what they shuddering 
 
 viewed 
 Like frightened deer, when startled at they know 
 
108 Edalaine. 
 
 Not what, they sped tow'rd town, nor scarce could 
 
 voice 
 For fright, fatigue, and tears, the tale which told 
 The horror which had crown'd the festal day ! 
 Enshrined with fragrant flowers he helped entwine 
 The dead there lay ! Deep shadow fell to 
 
 shroud 
 In pitying darkness purple hues that marked 
 A fate as cruel as a felon's death ! 
 His latest born, sweet Edalaine, first taught 
 Of death by grief it brought a sister's heart, 
 Now learned of death self-wrought, and longed to 
 
 know 
 What suicidal death could mean. First longed 
 With fear, and then with fever'd wish to gaze 
 Upon the dead. None knew, when crept alone, 
 Awe-stricken to the silent room, the child, 
 To stand till childish currents of the heart 
 Were frozen in their course, by whispered words 
 
Edalaine. 109 
 
 She heard from watchers there. 
 
 "A pity 'tis, 
 That Edalaine, the babe, was ever born ! 
 For surely she must bear within her veins 
 The fatal legacy that wrecks the mind, 
 And soon or late must wake a maniac. " 
 " You think that Edalaine is born to fate 
 So dire ?" " Aye, think I so of Edalaine, 
 Or that of children she may bear." 
 
 The child, 
 No longer child, with white, set face, went out, 
 And later, asked a neighbor girl to tell 
 Her what could mean a maniac. The girl 
 A moment paused, then told the worst she knew, 
 Told all the word implied, and cited acts 
 That Edalaine failed not to recognize 
 As those of her own sire. And yet she seem'd 
 Unconscious of the likeness drawn, nor spoke 
 Nor questioned of the girl more than she gave 
 
no Edalaine. 
 
 In voluntary clearance of the first 
 Demand. And later, listening to the sound, 
 As fell the earth into his grave, she gazed, 
 And whispered to herself without a tear : 
 44 And must I die a maniac ?" 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 The ling'ring summer passed and like the grace 
 
 Lent tree and flowers, so brought to Edalaine 
 
 A subtle charm of face and form quite new, 
 
 And if one felt her smiles were rarer grown, 
 
 And that a touch of sadness lingered there, 
 
 She was no less a winning maid that crept, 
 
 Before one knew, deep in the hearts of all. 
 
 'Midst simple country folk and village ways, 
 
 Beloved by all, sweet Edalaine lived much 
 
 Within herself, amidst the farmer's maids 
 
 Seemed nothing more than they, except to win 
 
 The more of love, and yet, unknown to them 
 
 And to herself, a spirit emanant 
 
 [ml 
 
112 Edalaine. 
 
 About her, seemed to breathe an atmosphere 
 
 Peculiar to herself, now gay, now sad, 
 
 And here existence took upon itself, 
 
 An ideal beauty all its own, — the trees, 
 
 The sunshine, birds and flow'rs, breathed subtle 
 
 truths, 
 In language eloquent — they filled her soul 
 With melodies that sung themselves within 
 Her heart, in cadences of youthful joy. 
 From sun-dipped clouds she gathered quiet peace. 
 The lark woke action crowned with hope and joy, 
 The dew-kissed daisies, trembling at her feet, 
 Taught bright humility and cheerfulness, 
 When patience tried. 
 
 Ah, who that has not lived 
 Up-borne by poets' dreams, who has not seen 
 In rock and fern, the air itself, the signs 
 Of beauty there, knows not of earth one half 
 Its worth, nor tastes of Heaven its joy ! 
 
 The flock 
 
Edalaine, 113 
 
 Of Evelyn, of which she was the last, 
 
 Had been divided, two had gone to homes 
 
 Provided them by loving hearts and hands — 
 
 Though over-young to wed, good Evelyn 
 
 Had given o'er to pleadings which, at least, 
 
 Held better reasoning than she could find 
 
 To make delay. Their choice had not been ill. 
 
 Two others found a sheltering home with him 
 
 Who first foresaw the coming cloud and bade 
 
 Dame Evelyn relie on him. His wife 
 
 Was thrifty, wise and provident, and taught 
 
 Them lessons which they treasured for a life. 
 
 And one had gone to teach a village school. 
 
 But Edalaine remained, so now their home 
 
 Was broken up, Elizabeth had brought 
 
 Them home to chase from off her heart the shades 
 
 Of memory. Well medicined her heart 
 
 From earlier wounds, in minist'ring to those 
 
 She loved and with them bearing living grief. 
 
1 14 Edalaine. 
 
 One day, when years had wrapped about her past 
 
 Its pitying mantle, like the green of moss 
 
 That hides upon a lofty tree the wound 
 
 A cruel woodman's axe, or quivering flash 
 
 Of lightning which, not near enough to blast 
 
 Has cut away some growing limb, one came 
 
 Who loved her as a sister ere they each 
 
 Had learned the meaning sorrow bears, and begg'd 
 
 In noble phrase she'd lay aside her grief, 
 
 And wake to earnest love he offered her, 
 
 Dean Brent had learned to prize her, with a love 
 
 Not born in haste and sued for its return. 
 
 She paled in quick dismay in answ'ring him, 
 
 She had not dreamed that he could think of her 
 
 In such a way. 'Twas wrong perhaps, she loved 
 
 Him more than she had dreamed, she owned, but 
 
 too 
 She saw her mother fading day by day, 
 The toil and care, the grief and pain had done 
 
E da lain e. 115 
 
 Their work. " Too soon, alas, we'll mourn her loss, 
 And then, I still must live for Edalaine. 
 I feel within myself, life holds for her 
 A work outside the routine of the lives 
 We all have led, and I would be her shield 
 And spare her useless struggles she would meet." 
 " But think you, then, without the ills, one learns 
 So well their power, their breadth of intellect?" 
 " Tis like, some minds do not, but one so keen 
 To feel the ills, so quick to read the hearts 
 Of men, can rise to highest plains of thoughts. 
 Can wisdom gain — of life can know its best 
 And worst, while seeing more and living less 
 Of pain." 
 
 " And so you think it wise to spare 
 Your sister griefs, and shield from her of life 
 Its tragedies? — " 
 
 " Ah me, I think her life 
 Was born a tragedy, and I foresee 
 
n6 Edalazne. 
 
 Alone in occupation sure escape 
 
 From conscious knowledge on her part of this." 
 
 " But why, Elizabeth, could we not wed, 
 
 Could you not trust to me a tithe of this, 
 
 Your self-imposed task?" " Nay, nay, good friend, 
 
 You do not understand. Your own desires 
 
 Impel you toward a higher work and aim 
 
 Than here you'll find ; how then can I be yours 
 
 And follow you without neglecting them ? 
 
 " I'll stay, Elizabeth ; the sacrifice 
 Would still be small !" 
 
 " And trammel intellect 
 To gain a wife ? Nay, nay, my friend, be wise ; 
 The aspirations crushed for lesser joys 
 Undo the higher meanings of our lives ; 
 Such wish, such love, is beautiful as true, 
 But once we find within ourselves some way 
 To lofty thoughts or deeds — first do our best ; 
 Then comes — if such our fortune's kind decree — 
 
Edalaine. ny 
 
 Some recompense in homely joys of life." 
 
 " Elizabeth, you shame my weaker heart 
 With lofty reasoning!" — but still he sought 
 In phrase of deep impassioned love to gain 
 Some hope of hither-coming days of joy. 
 " I pray you cease, dear friend," she said at last ; 
 M Divided hearts can do no perfect work. 
 Inevitable choice be ours. The sting 
 Of severance will afford a better spur 
 Than idle wishes to complete the task 
 That may demand our lifetime." 
 
 So it was 
 That he with aching heart had ceased his suit, 
 And now had toiled three years in foreign lands. 
 And Edalaine dreamed not of sacrifice 
 So nobly made in her behalf. Her mind 
 Engrossed in study, days were all too short ; 
 And when, escaped from school, what. dreams were 
 hers! 
 
1 1 8 Edalaine, 
 
 Not those of other girls, but hopeful dreams 
 
 Of future usefulness, a life outside 
 
 Herself; and so she seemed to live all joys ; 
 
 The joys of love and innocent delights, 
 
 Of youth, and girlhood, seemed to her but gifts 
 
 That soon must pass from out her life ; nor yet 
 
 Was this a painful thought. 
 
 " My days," she said, 
 "Shall be so filled with care for others that, 
 I scarce shall know my own has griefs or need 
 Of sympathy." She never dreamed that years 
 Might bring her happiness untold ; too deep, 
 The shade of others' sorrows marked her heart ; 
 She only sought to find some solace 'midst 
 A life of heavy cares. Her cheerful heart 
 Made no demands, and caught each passing ray 
 Of pleasure as a blessing sent. 
 
 At last 
 The routine of her school-days reached their end, 
 
Edalaine, ug 
 
 The days in which to choose a fitting path 
 
 In life, or failing, live to toil and drudge. 
 
 Not only now had thoughts of this grave choice 
 
 Waked in her mind, for she had dreamed betwixt 
 
 The pages of her books, and each new dream 
 
 Took shape again in one that lured her most. 
 
 Long time had lived the thought, when late one 
 
 night, 
 As seated near Elizabeth, she spoke. 
 For many moments both had watch'd the shapes 
 Of ruddy embers glow and fall, and each 
 Had added fancies to their shape. 
 
 " I fear," 
 The younger said, " the ambition that I prize- 
 Above all others, dear, will disappoint 
 Your heart ; for surely rumors of the world, 
 Which, prejudie'd, oft reach us here, have sown 
 Their seed within your mind as well as that 
 Of simpler folk. I'd spare you this, but still 
 
1 20 Edalatne, 
 
 In you I know that reason governs more 
 
 Than aught of idle prejudice could do, 
 
 Or narrow-minded rule. — I ask you then, 
 
 My sister, tell me if you think it right 
 
 To stifle in our hearts the brave response 
 
 Of those emotions deep and grand, that like 
 
 The sweep of ocean wave, surge through the soul 
 
 When waked by magic touch of nature's truths 
 
 Or human woes we see in daily life ? 
 
 Some men there are who crush emotions back 
 
 Upon the heart till naught that's pure remains 
 
 To quicken pulse, or waken in the soul 
 
 A sympathetic chord of quick response. 
 
 The world's becoming dead in soul, when hearts 
 
 Should echo each to each like harps well tuned ; 
 
 Each joy be doubled by the changes rung, — 
 
 Our sadness meet a softened gleam of hope, 
 
 Through sympathy with those who greater griefs 
 
 Have known. And so, dear, be not grieved that I 
 
E da lame. 121 
 
 ( " >nfess I feel that nothing could my days 
 
 More nobly occupy than touching, on 
 
 The mimic stage of life, the hearts of men, 
 
 To bid them see in imitations just, 
 
 The tragic woes of men, wherein the griefs 
 
 Of others match their own at last ; since things 
 
 We look upon leave more impress than those 
 
 We read. Some hearts, mayhap, unused to woes, 
 
 Will thus be stirred from out the sluggish depths 
 
 Of pleasures vain, to turn and think, — be moved 
 
 To somewhat more intense of daily life, 
 
 Than parrot-like to copy sole the weak 
 
 And listless routine of a life we know 
 
 To lux'ries given." 
 
 " Think you then, my child, 
 The stage so nobly plann'd to work out good, 
 Not ill instead ? We have been taught in spite 
 Of all the breadth of thought our elders claimed 
 The stage is blame to those who walk its boards." 
 
122 Edalaine. 
 
 "All that I know and feel. Who dares to face 
 The ordeal must live down reproach from those 
 Who will not follow what I can but deem 
 Its noble ends." 
 
 " You may be right, my child, 
 I dare not say, — indeed I could but grieve 
 To see you choose a life that brings such lures 
 Of ill — but only promise me to wait 
 Until we seek advice of those who know 
 And can advise. I'll write our friend Dean Brent." 
 
 Elizabeth took pen in hand at once 
 To write the letter, telling him therein, 
 While touching ne'er upon their past, concise 
 And clear, her fears and hopes. 
 
 " For aid," she came. 
 Would he advise her what was best to do? 
 
 A weary waiting 'twas to Edalaine, 
 The coming word from him who linger'd still 
 On foreign soil. 
 
Edalaine. 122 
 
 Make no mistake," he wrote. 
 " Remember this, that while some inward sense, 
 Some inspiration of the heart doth lead 
 Our choice in life— if left with us to choose 
 What best we can fulfill, there's much at stake. 
 Not inspirations must we trust alone, 
 But sense of those requirements which are meet 
 For our success. 
 
 " Say to her this, I beg ; 
 Her noble purpose fills my heart with pride, 
 And though she failed 'twere nobly done to fail 
 Through purposes so pure, not pride ; but ask 
 Herself, if well she's weighed the needs within 
 Herself to bring success. Think not my words 
 Lack sympathy. The great upon the stage 
 Must join rare traits of person and of mind ; 
 Presence must lend its charm, the soul its pow'r. 
 Deep readers of the human mind alone 
 Can know each phase of life and live them o'er. 
 
1 24 Edalaine, 
 
 Ideal imaginings must weave about 
 
 A simple phrase, a world of thought, and wake 
 
 A revelation in the hearts of those 
 
 Who listen and behold. Historians they, 
 
 To bring before the world its past, in true, 
 
 Unsullied spirit of old time. And here 
 
 They need not thought alone, but all the power 
 
 Of philosophic minds. — Weigh well the case, 
 
 And if of mind the same, let nothing be 
 
 Undone to add to talents heaven-born, 
 
 The lustre culture only gives. For this, 
 
 Why not risk all, to come abroad where art 
 
 Becomes of nature's self the counterfoil, 
 
 Why not at least, seek first such paths of life 
 
 As may lead surely toward the end in view? 
 
 In this maturer world true art matures, 
 
 And trusts itself to no such meteor-like 
 
 Success as in our land is hailed outright 
 
 As heaven-descended genius, but incurs 
 
Edalaine. 125 
 
 A speedy fall, or lives by tolerance, — 
 The mirage where small talents disappear." 
 
 Ambition oft makes exiles of us all, 
 Or duties which we take upon ourselves, 
 To Edalaine there seemed no other choice, 
 Content that others blessed her good intent 
 It had not long discouraged her to feel 
 She stood alone with this consent denied. 
 A month of preparation passed ; farewells 
 With God-speed from a score of friends they go 
 And side by side upon the steamer's deck, 
 A week from inland home, the sisters stand 
 To see their native shore recede from view. 
 A saddening sight 'twould seem to timid hearts, 
 But then ambition ever has a wing 
 That skyward gleams, regardless of the clouds; 
 And, we must not forget, they bear with them, 
 A wealth of memories, — the saddest ones 
 To be through future years a tender joy ; 
 
1 26 Edalaine. 
 
 'Twas something sacred to have known their grief ; 
 For grief, when poignant sorrow yields to time, 
 Exults in new-born strength, although at first 
 The stricken heart seemed robbed of pow'r to 
 strive. 
 
 " I have forgot my past " in vanity 
 Says he, whose faults like giant ogres haunt 
 His steps, — " I have no past, it is a blank ; 
 We live but in the present hour ; 'tis here 
 We find our happiness, defeat, or death." 
 Blind fool ! His deeds themselves belie the words. 
 Why holds he secret enmity toward one, 
 Or swears revenge the sweetest earthly joy ? 
 What subtle chain now galls, now bids him smile 
 In sheer contempt of self, that lets a ghost 
 Of days long past walk side by side with joys 
 He fain would taste to-day? And why so wide 
 From what he dream'd in proud and noble youth, 
 The tenor of his daily life ? Alas ! 
 
E da laine. 127 
 
 The castle's built, the rampart's raised, and he 
 With welded chain, lies prisoner within 
 The walls he built in heedless, reckless haste, 
 Not dreaming that they needs must stand through- 
 out 
 Eternity itself. And can he boast. 
 " I have no past— 'tis banish'd from my thought ?" 
 But lightly weighs the chain that's worn from choice, 
 
 And oft its strength becomes our safeguard when 
 
 Our castle's rampart trembles 'neath attack 
 
 Of unknown foes. 
 
 And so the sisters turned 
 
 With hopeful eyes toward eastern lands, their hearts 
 
 Awake to future usefulness, yet sad 
 
 With weight of musing that for them, henceforth, 
 
 Life would be strange ! 
 
 Dame Evelyn, their loved 
 
 And gentle mother, slept,— -her weary heart 
 
 At rest, and yet the lives of both were filled 
 
i2,s Bdalatm, 
 
 Willi presence real and palpable of her ; 
 It was a benediction o'er their liv 
 
 At last they i i c 1< r 
 Upon the wave that bears them far from home, 
 
 And thoughts <>f past or future (arcs arc now 
 
 Supplanted by tin: novelty of their d.iys. 
 
 The so. i an unknown world to them ; the ship 
 
 A Naiad fleeting between .sun and wave, 
 
 The Care of each; six; kisses with wet lips 
 'I'he god who bears her on his breast. An isle 
 It was were minds are brightened to their best 
 Retort, where soul meets soul without a ( an 
 I .. I t heSC swift friendships fail the test of time. 
 
 Elizabeth ne'er saw her sister's heart 
 
 So truly filled with joyousness and mirth; 
 
 I lei beauty seem'd to gain some added charm, 
 
 And brilliant speech t<> servo as setting rate. 
 A diplomat, who rarely smiled, perceived 
 It too, and oft retort Waged high between 
 
Edalain$* 129 
 
 The tWO, h!fl Sternness inciting somewhat 'ne it!* 
 Her gaily utter'd words whose strength gave sign 
 ( )f something deeper than the passing touch 
 
 Of li}-,hlly uttered rr| >.i i I re, until 
 
 I le bo w'd before her soul lil eye. wit li grace 
 
 ()f pride iu thus confessing tli.it his pOWCrS 
 
 Pound mat< li in her, 
 
 To Elizabeth, ii was 
 
 A revelation marked with grave BUrpHse. 
 
 " I dreamed her still a child," she mused ; "and yet 
 She copes with Intellects thai < hallenge all 
 
 The world!" 
 
 1 i<-r voice whi< h, pure and high and clear, 
 
 Had often waked t lie echoes of the hills 
 
 At home, rang ou1 in joyous s1 rains urn hei k'd 
 l>y warning words from tutor'd vocalists, 
 That voices should nol spend themselves upon 
 
 The empty sp.n <• j and SO um oir,< iously 
 
 She sang as nature and her SOUl might prompt* 
 
1 30 Edalaine. 
 
 The shadow of her life was not forgot, 
 But hopefulness that now her aim would find 
 Its perfect work had somewhat soothed her pain, 
 And tears no longer blent their cadence with 
 Her song; and she herself a happy maid, 
 Seemed sole inspired to give to others joy. 
 
 At eve one day this diplomat, who seemed 
 No stranger now, but rather cherished friend, 
 Said to her gravely, as she ceased her song, 
 " I glean from what you say, and leave unsaid — 
 Excuse the seeming freedom of my speech — 
 That you demand fame of the tragic muse ; 
 Why not make Song instead your life? Unless 
 Perchance 'tis not yourself you give to art 
 And aspiration, but caprice alone, 
 Teasing meanwhile some loving, waiting heart 
 That yearns, and waits the day the bird will turn, 
 And seek the cage she now so coyly flees." 
 
 " I then have reached no higher in the esteem 
 
Edalaine. i ^ i 
 
 Of Arnold Deith," she said, " than that of weak, 
 Capricious womankind ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay," he said, 
 " Not that— and yet all that. You are so young, 
 So joyous and so free from care, I must 
 Believe you choose a path in art that claims 
 A life of toil with little recompense 
 Without a thought of what it may portend ; 
 For certain 'tis, your choice comes not from vain 
 Desire to claim the empty praise of worlds, 
 Nor yet from disappointments that lead some 
 To choose a walk in life where busy scenes 
 Help them to bury griefs, to hide their woes." 
 His earnestness began to move her more 
 Than merely words he spoke ; she felt he sought 
 To know what lay beneath the gaiety 
 And mirth ; he sought to sting her to retort 
 By words less just than true. 
 
132 Edalaine. 
 
 " Do none e'er choose 
 The life you now describe in dread of woes 
 They feel may come?" she said. 
 
 " In morbid minds 
 Such dread mayhap may rise — but why should 
 
 thoughts 
 Like these become a guest in heart so light, 
 A life so young as yours ? What fear can wake 
 Within your heart the thought that life will prove 
 Less bright unto the end. It lies with you, 
 Where'er your fancy leads your heart, to raise 
 The standard victory, and claim at once 
 The citadel that sure must yield to powers 
 Of beauty, youth, and intellect." 
 
 " A truce," 
 She cried. " You now drop words of diplomat, 
 That fall like sounding brass upon the ear, 
 But lack the soul of truths that reach the heart. 
 And yet forgive you them I must, since not 
 
Edalaine. 133 
 
 Too weak to take offence at raillery, 
 
 Or to be hurt when earnest words are deemed 
 
 Too deep for puerile natures such as mine." 
 
 " And are you then unconscious of the power 
 You soon may wield o'er hearts of men," he asked. 
 " I only know the power that bids me seek 
 To voice the many conflicts of the heart." 
 "Ah, then, you are inspired, and will succeed. 
 But think you not this need you feel may soon 
 Complete within its counterpart become 
 When beats your heart response to one beloved ?" 
 And here he took her hands in his, and gazed 
 With searching earnestness upon her face. 
 " I ne'er shall wed," she made reply, " e'en though 
 I loved. That, then, can never, never be." 
 And something stern, though sad of voice and 
 
 mien, 
 Seemed then to check desire to ask her more 
 And he who never lacked for ready words 
 
134 E da lain e. 
 
 Could find no speech. 
 
 Just then her sister came. 
 " Dear Edalaine, do sing a good-night song, 
 The moon is playing hide-and-seek, and soon 
 Will mark the midnight stroke of bell." 
 
 "And what 
 Shall be the song ?" Her voice was strange to him 
 Who stood in silence at her side, and sent 
 A thrill of pleasure through that heart, unused 
 To yield to sudden impulses. They both 
 Were moved to something strange, — " The night," 
 
 he thought, 
 And she, — " I wish it need not move my heart 
 To say, I ne'er shall wed — a doom pronounced 
 E'er danger nears. I have not loved as yet. 
 Why need I fear ? And still, O God, I pray, 
 Remove from me the power to love, and all 
 Desire." 
 
 Poor child, the need of loving came 
 
Edalaine. 135 
 
 E'en with the prayer, as if to mock a heart 
 
 That dreamed this life were meant to be a dearth 
 
 Of all that's fair to usefulness. 
 
 She sang, 
 And never had her voice held half such charm. 
 She sang as if it respite gave to grief. 
 Her sister's tears bespoke a wakened past, 
 Its bitterness and grief, while others felt 
 The spell that marks ofttimes, in all our lives, 
 An epoch never more to be forgot. 
 As died the thrilling notes, she saw alone 
 The silent form of Arnold Deith, who stood 
 Apart, and never turned when others spoke. 
 "Good-night," the others said, and then aroused 
 From reveries so deep to wake was pain, 
 He said, " The voice speaks truths the lips would 
 
 fain 
 " Belie." Then bending o'er her hand, " Beware 
 Lest griefs too great be yours. The birthright love, 
 
136 Edalaine. 
 
 May never be denied. Though passion's strength 
 Be held in leash. The fiercest storms do come 
 When nature makes resistance 'gainst itself. v 
 And then, in softer tone, he said, " Good-night." 
 You'll sing, and hearts will wake to nobler things 
 Through magic of your voice — " and he was gone. 
 Yes, she would sing, she felt it so herself, 
 And wondered at her new and firm resolve. 
 His words were half command, which she could 
 
 not 
 Resist, and would not, if she could ; and then 
 Besought herself to think more light of one 
 A stranger still. 
 
 Long hours in wakefulness 
 That night she lay, then slept, to be disturbed 
 By phantoms of her childhood fears, that rose 
 In vivid, fearful forms. She saw again 
 Her father's death, and heard them say once more 
 
Edalaine. 1 3 7 
 
 " He's mad,"— and then her dreams more fearful 
 
 grew, 
 Until the awful dread of all these years 
 Became a real and hideous truth. She felt 
 Its dreaded power weight down her every sense ; 
 And. impotent to flee its bane, she cried, 
 " Alas, 'tis come at last, I'm mad, I'm mad !" 
 She woke in agony of fright, then slept 
 To dream again its horrors and dismay. 
 She dared not sleep a second time again 
 To feel herself a conscious being, yet 
 The author of strange deeds that were beyond 
 Control of will. 
 
 When morning came, she looked 
 With startled eyes upon the face of those 
 With whom she spoke, half fearing lest she there 
 Might read the knowledge that her dreams were 
 
 real 
 And that her words might soon reveal to them 
 
138 Jul a la inc. 
 
 The strangeness of unsettled mind. She watched 
 Her words till Arnold Deith in wonder stood, 
 And said within himself, u How cold she's grown 
 And proud, — dismayed perhaps because I read 
 To her somewhat the fires within her soul. 
 'Tis vain. The fires that smoulder burn no less 
 The fierce, when adverse winds bychance lay bare 
 The substance, which they, hidden, hold in bonds 
 Of glowing, living serfdom. Yes, she thinks 
 The passions buried ; hearts well veiled are dead. 
 She aims to be a marble statue, while 
 She acts in mimic form the real of life 
 Upon the stage. Nay, nay, 'tis not there lies 
 Her power, but only that she feel, and lives 
 To know the depth of soul, the noble pride 
 That suffers and is strong." 
 
 How far from truth 
 And yet how near, were musings such as these ! 
 Unconscious of his thoughts, she only fled 
 
Edalaine. 139 
 
 The throng, to teach herself such fears were weak 
 
 And brought no good. 
 
 Sometimes her musings chased 
 
 From life its worthiness, and pains she knew 
 
 Were meted her seemed heavier weight than she 
 
 Could bear, yet singularly she it was 
 
 Whose tender joyous face brought smiles and mirth, 
 
 Aye, happiness where'er she moved. 
 
 One morn 
 
 Awake at dawn she wandered to the deck 
 And walked its length, before the sailors came 
 To flood its planks till, white as snow, they gleam'd 
 Beneath the glancing sunlight of the day. 
 Afar a cloud peeped o'er the horizon, 
 Then gradually unfolded banners white 
 Of black and white, or glanced in prismic hues, 
 As it uprose to catch the sun. 
 
 Long time 
 She gazed upon the object, till, amazed, 
 
140 Edalaine. 
 
 She walked across the deck and timidly 
 Aroused the drowsy watchman who, with hand 
 Upon the wheel, was deep in revery 
 Or mayhap something nearer sleep. 
 
 "I beg 
 You, sir," she said, " is that a cloud, or do 
 We pass so near enchanted land ?" 
 
 At first 
 Surprised he follow'd her and raised his glass 
 To sweep the broad expanse of sea. The face 
 Beneath its bronze turned white. 
 
 " Good God defend,' 
 He cried, " enchanted lands were best, few miles 
 Away and bearing straight upon us, child. 
 It is an iceberg ! 
 
 Shrill he gave alarm, 
 And scarce an instant passed till through the ship 
 The word of danger rang, confused with cries, 
 And men with stern set faces gazed afar ; 
 
Edalaine. 1 4 1 
 
 Beheld their doom, then turned to battle 'gainst 
 Swift death. No holiday diversion this 
 To stand aside while panoramic fields 
 Of ice moved by. 
 
 The women came aloft 
 And huddled 'gainst the cabin. Many sobbed 
 Forgotten pray'rs, as toward them came what 
 
 might 
 Have been a splendid palace meant to bring 
 Them wondering joy instead of fear. 
 
 Amidst 
 
 The agonized throng, that only wait 
 
 While others work, Elizabeth with calm 
 
 And cheerful words moved here and there, now 
 
 spoke 
 Of hope, and too besought them govern fear 
 That men might better work to save their lives. 
 And Edalaine, as if this glittering mass 
 Had fascinated thus her very soul, 
 
142 E da lazne. 
 
 Leaned 'gainst the bulwarks lost in ecstacy 
 Of sight. 
 
 On, on it came and drove the sea 
 In fierce gigantic waves that bore aloft 
 The ship then dropped her down to darkness, 
 
 while 
 The towering wave she left, curled o'er to throw 
 Its lash of bitter brine as if it scoffed 
 A trivial thing. 
 
 Impenetrably black 
 The palace seemed, then through some broken 
 
 niche 
 A cavern vast of stalactites it shone 
 With thousand gleaming hues. 
 
 When Edalaine 
 Was roused by cries about her; roused to sense 
 Of danger to the ship, she felt annoyed 
 That life now seemed so small a thing and fear 
 Held in her heart no place. 
 
Edalaine. 143 
 
 Once Arnold Deith, 
 Who paused in passing, drenched himself with 
 
 brine, 
 Snatched from the deck a shawl which 'round her 
 
 form 
 He folded close, and so an instant held 
 Her in convulsive clasp and then was gone 
 Before her tremor of surprise had passed. 
 Useless skill of mariner! Though changed 
 The ship's swift course, yet ever nearer seemed 
 This moving world that menaced them, and like 
 A battle from afar whose musketry 
 Resounded with a deafening round of shot, 
 So came the chill reverberations, drowned 
 At times by rushing waves that deluged them 
 With icy foam, or rocked them in the abyss 
 Of waves. 
 
 At last above them grandly towered 
 The frightsome thing, and as they sank, all knew 
 
144 Edalainc. 
 
 The coming wave would dash them at its base. 
 Down, down they sink in furrows of the wave. 
 All souls not faint with fear, commend themselves 
 To saving grace; a curious muffled sound, 
 A shuddering shock ; men braced themselves like 
 
 steel, 
 And women hid their sight. " We are aground," 
 A skipper said, another wave that drove 
 Them closer, yet they were not freed, nor v/ere 
 They shattered by the shock. Above them loom'd 
 The glittering green, and here and there an arm 
 O'erhung them like a scaffold grim of death. 
 A fiercer wave, and they were wedged between 
 A gleaming fissure that an instant might 
 Suffice to engulph them 'neath a monument 
 As cruel as 'twas wildly grand. Loud creaked 
 The frozen raft, and thunders shook the wave 
 Beneath the ship, and groans like human woes, 
 From out the glittjring caves were borne to them, 
 
Edalaine. 145 
 
 Thick shadows fell and it was night before 
 
 They dreamed the day begun, though years 
 
 could not 
 Efface the eternity of the woe their hearts 
 Had known. All night the weak ones pray'd, the 
 
 strong 
 Could wait on God unsyllabled. Again 
 The morn uprose and they were drifting south, 
 A helpless wreck, now held by giant foe 
 While o'er it swept the lashing wave, enraged 
 That such a prize be snatched from out their 
 
 power. 
 Oft fear, like grief, will know a calm and wake 
 To strength through borrowed hopefulness. The 
 
 ship 
 Imprisoned, bore the onslaught of the waves 
 With small alarm of ill, the worst was done, 
 They only drove her firmer 'gainst the ice. 
 And now in deadly calm they pray and wait 
 
146 Edalaine. 
 
 Release that still must be a miracle — 
 
 While o'er them hung the cloud uncertainty, 
 
 The urgent needs of life demanded food 
 
 And this in rations carefully allowed, 
 
 And sleep — that first refused to dwell where cries 
 
 That seemed the spirit of the damned arose 
 
 Where thundering roars and creaking masses rent 
 
 The air, — at last crept o'er the grieving hearts. 
 
 And like a monody of peace its roar 
 
 Swept through their dreams like sweetest lullaby, 
 
 A solemn thing it is to daily dwell 
 
 With grim, unpitying death, to face the truth 
 
 Bereft of every subterfuge. In hearts 
 
 Of men such cleansing fires develop traits 
 
 That bless them whether life return, or Heaven's 
 
 Wide gates unclose to teach them spiritual things. 
 
 E'en those that 'gainst the irrevocable 
 
 Do battle with unbending will, become 
 
 More chastened. 
 
Edalaine. 147 
 
 Edalaine these dreary days 
 Was like a spirit, bringing hopeful joy, 
 'Twas not the words she said, the hope sL 
 
 spake, 
 But resignation that illumined all 
 Her face with tender joyfulness. " Afraid ?" 
 " 'Tis nature to recoil from pain, but death 
 When once accepted, more we dread the ills 
 Of life, be sure its sad uncertainties 
 Are worse than death." 
 
 The days of anxious dread 
 Wore on, already they had drifted south 
 For fourteen days. Meridian suns had spent 
 Their force in vain to free th' imprisoned ship. 
 'Twas midnight, and a sudden tempest wak'd 
 Around the floating continent of ice. 
 Its ghostly minarets, its towers grand 
 Stood out like shining marble as the flames 
 Of lightning swift succeeding each 
 
148 Edalaine. 
 
 New fear 
 Clutched human hearts, these souls now used to 
 
 thought 
 Of death, and scarcely was the danger born 
 Before a cry of fire was heard. 
 
 " The boats!" 
 Vain cry ! These once reserved for urgent need 
 Were useless, wedged between the walls of ice, 
 A hopeless murmur passed all lips, then ceased, 
 They now were used to hopelessness — a pause 
 Succeeded as the flames uprose, — a calm 
 As if the elements stood still, or held 
 A consultation with their powerful hosts. 
 Then mightier thunders rose than mind conceives, 
 As bolt on bolt the ice king's palace rived 
 In twain. It parted swiftly, sweeping back 
 And left the weak, dismantled ship aflame. 
 Affrighted ones sprang o'er the sides to meet 
 In waves an enemy less dread than fire. 
 
Edalaine. 149 
 
 But Heaven now oped her gates to pour on them, 
 A deluge that no flame could live beneath, 
 And rocked between receding cliffs they rose 
 And fell, till life or death was one to them. 
 As morning came the waves had quieted, 
 Yet danger was so near that men who lived 
 Half envied those whose strife was o'er. 
 
 Three days 
 They drifted, hunger half appeased, — devoured 
 With thirst, — when joyous cry of " Sails, ho, sails !" 
 Arose. Strong men grew weak and scarce believed. 
 A woman, Edalaine, had fainted. Soon 
 Confirmed, the eager eyes, the haggard cheeks 
 Were turned to watch for signal, that they came 
 Indeed to save. 
 
 What need to follow them? 
 Some grieved for lost ones, scarcely wishing life, 
 The rest resigned, now woke again to life, 
 And brought to it a meaning never known 
 Before the rod of Might had chastened them. 
 
1 50 Edalaine. 
 
 Two years had looked upon the world, brought 
 
 change, 
 And left their calendar in hearts of men. 
 For Edalaine they opened such a wealth 
 Of lore, such joy of seeking but to find, 
 They seemed a dream of paradise ; bright days 
 Of sunshine, such as study ever brings 
 Th' enthusiast, and if at times the fear 
 Of future ill beset her tender heart, 
 The thousand occupations of her life 
 Were sure to dissipate the thought, as oft 
 The victim of a dire disease forgets 
 The doom of death. 
 
 Dean Brent, the same old friend 
 Had made of Paris in these years the field 
 Of new research, and famed as scientist 
 He stood among the men whose works had moved 
 With wonder all the world. 
 
Edalaine. 1 5 1 
 
 To Edalaine 
 He came with all his plans for future good 
 Unto mankind, and she with trustfulness 
 Into his ear her every secret poured 
 Except the one, — the hideous nightmare, worse 
 Than death, which came so oft to mar her peace. 
 Elizabeth had wondered not to see 
 These two become so dear. " He has forgot," 
 She mused, " and loves again, and so 'tis well. 
 What man could meet my sister's eyes, and gaze 
 Therein each day, without impassioned love ?" 
 And then she knelt to pray for blessings on 
 Their love, and once or twice took from her desk 
 A faded rose, a letter marked with tears 
 And after kissing them, stood o'er the grate 
 Irresolute, for something stayed her hand, 
 And then once more she hid them in their place. 
 One day he sought her side,— " Would speak," 
 he said, 
 
1 5 2 Edalaine, 
 
 " Of matters which he felt of grave import. 
 He seemed much moved. Elizabeth, as was 
 Her wont, was calm and placid, for she knew 
 Full well of what and whom he meant to speak. 
 " Elizabeth," he said, " 'tis years since near 
 The village stream I held your hand and lent 
 My thoughts to words which found offence to 
 
 heart 
 So loyal to the living charge. Sweet girl ! 
 She now fulfills, and more, your hopes for her, 
 And, like your love, has that of mine increased. 
 I ask of you, Elizabeth, my best 
 Beloved of friends, what word of words is mine 
 To bear the one we both do love ? Your work 
 All done, you sure can give her up, or else 
 Consent that you and I unite in care 
 Of one we both do love." 
 
 " Go, say to her," 
 Elizabeth replied, with outstretched hands, 
 
Edalaine. 153 
 
 "That to your wish, consent I gladly give, 
 
 That to this end I daily prayed the Lord. 
 
 Not now," she gently said, as he would kiss 
 
 Her brow, that paled beneath his look, " not now, 
 
 Leave me alone to think, — it is so new, 
 
 So sudden come, leave me alone, and go 
 
 To her, whilst I compose myself to think 
 
 Of dreams so bright, thus joyously fulfilled." 
 
 "All mine," he said to Edalaine, who smiled 
 
 Through tears, as both her hands he clasped in his. 
 
 " Go whisper in your sister's ear what most 
 
 Your heart would say. She needs brave words 
 
 from you. v 
 Not loth, she softly tapped upon the door. 
 No answer came at first, and then she spoke. 
 " My sister, let me in. You sure will hope 
 For me your door?" And soon a pallid face 
 With heavy lids and tear-stained cheeks, had met 
 Her own. 
 
154 
 
 Edalaine. 
 
 11 And is it then so sad a thing 
 
 The being loved?" the younger said. 
 
 11 Alas, 
 "lis giving up thy care," she sadly said, 
 " Oh, that is naught, indeed, it will not be, 
 I ne'er shall wed, you know." 
 
 "Will ne'er be wed?" 
 In wonder and amaze the elder asked. 
 " You ne'er will wed, and still accept the love 
 That's proffered you ?" 
 
 " Ah, no, though love there be, 
 And there arc men both good and grand, I ne'er 
 Must think of love that brings the marriage bond." 
 " Why, child, what words are these ? I fail to 
 
 read 
 The meani ng they do hide," 
 
 And Edalaine, 
 Love-sheltered in her sister's arms, replied, 
 " I never thought to tell you this, to grieve 
 
Edalaine* [eg 
 
 Your noble heart, hut since you gave so much 
 Through love of me— for Dean has told me all 
 That happened long ago— you now shall hear 
 
 The secret of my life." And then slur poured 
 Into her sister's ear the tale of nights 
 Of torture, grief, and fear thai oft beset 
 
 Her, spite of reasoning powers and strength of will 
 
 At bitter knowledge that to her must fall 
 
 The heritage of woe which years ago 
 
 Had rendered them both fat Iki less. She told 
 The tale that reached her orphaned ears, the 
 
 words 
 That buried themselves into her heart and brain. 
 For her, she learned, must love e'er be a book 
 Closed sealed, or else must brim; but sacrifice, 
 And yet love stays not hence by force of will. 
 " You love ?" her sister said. 
 
 "Alas, there's one," 
 
 And blushes crept o'er all her face, that Looked 
 
156 E da I nine. 
 
 A rose that sudden opes its petals wide 
 At kiss of sun. "I could have loved, I think, 
 Had bitterness not frightened me for dreams 
 So sweet. And now, my sister, I would fill 
 My life with art." 
 
 "And Dean, knows he of this?" 
 " Why pain the heart of one so kind with griefs 
 Like mine ? 'Twould do no good." 
 
 " And yet 'twere right 
 To tell him all, for fanciful alarms 
 Are these, and should be overcome, my child." 
 " That, as you think, Elizabeth. If so 
 You choose, I'll tell him all, or leave to you 
 The task, but let it not cast gloom upon 
 The brightness of your future life." And then 
 She left her sister, with a sigh, and sought 
 Her books and solitude. 
 
 Her sister knelt, 
 And wept again. All hope of joy in life 
 
Edalaine. 157 
 
 Seemed swept away in knowledge of this loss 
 To Edalaine. 
 
 " Weak fool, I dreamed to spare 
 Her all the ills of life ; and since a child, 
 Though walking side by side, we two, the earth, 
 I never knew the secret grief that wrecks 
 Her life ! Not done my work. 'Tis he perchance 
 Who yet may teach forgetfulness, may yet 
 Convince her these are idle fears alone." 
 A little later, and she nerved herself 
 To tell to Dean the story she had heard. 
 "Dear friend," she said, "our Edalaine declares 
 She ne'er will wed. Forgive me, then, if now," — 
 "'Tis ever Edalaine," he said, half vexed. 
 " I, well, I'm wrong, — you're right, the more my 
 
 love 
 For you ; but if she ne'er will wed, need that 
 Decrease our happiness?" His hearer gazed, 
 Her heart stood still, and then a sudden beat 
 
158 Edalaine. 
 
 Seemed near to burst its bounds with anger stirred 
 
 Her veins to tingle with a flood of fire. 
 
 Had he, then too, been tainted with the curse 
 
 That fell upon Ceresco's happy vale ? 
 
 " O Dean, can ears believe such words as these, — 
 
 Your happiness ? You dare to ask of me 
 
 My child to be disgraced by love unblest 
 
 By ring or holy wedlock band ?" 
 
 " Dare ask 
 For love ? Elizabeth, 'tis I who stand 
 Amazed ! For love unblest by heaven? No, 
 A thousand times I answer no ! Your love 
 I ask, — your hand I beg to bless my life. 
 Have I so meanly wooed that yet you'd yield 
 To Edalaine all life, all love, all praise ? 
 O my beloved, let all these years to you 
 Be witnesses of loyal love. To you 
 Alone I consecrate my life, and that 
 Which of your life must be a part." 
 
Edalaine, 159 
 
 And she, 
 In pallid wonder, struggled with herself. 
 " But — Edalaine — 'twill break her heart. She 
 
 loves — " 
 Then ceased, as Edalaine before her stood. 
 "Not brother Dean, dear sister mine," she laid 
 Her sister's trembling hand in his, then fled 
 The room to weep for joy. 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 Then marriage bells rang out their joyous chimes 
 
 Of hope fulfilled. To Edalaine they brought 
 
 A sense of freedom now to merge in art 
 
 The abnegation of her love, convinced 
 
 That naught could chain her to domestic life, 
 
 Elizabeth, her faithful friend, had found 
 
 The one to fill her heart with peace and love 
 
 All unaware that art would drift the child 
 
 She'd nourished long, so far from home and love. 
 
 Elizabeth beheld success that step 
 
 By step she gained, and was content. She came 
 
 And went, and ministered to other hearts 
 
 The peace she felt new-born within herself. 
 
 [161] 
 
1 62 Edalaine. 
 
 Sometimes unheralded on mimic stage 
 
 She trod, and 'midst the throng a face awoke 
 
 The power to give th' interpretation rare 
 
 To song, which marks the narrow line between 
 
 The great, and those who never reach beyond 
 
 The good, — that touch, that floods the list'ner's 
 
 soul 
 With thrills of exultation to exclaim, 
 "Ah, that is grand, 'tis heart that speaks, not 
 
 voice !*' 
 At such a time some wondering ones would ask, 
 u Who may she be that but to-day we hear 
 Her voice, and hearing her revere the name 
 Lately unknown to us in art of song ?'' 
 While listening to echoes of such praise, 
 She smiled, and thought, " They do not under- 
 stand 
 The art which shrinks from title of itself, 
 Avoiding undue public praise, is wise ; 
 
Edalaine. 163 
 
 Lest parts not moulded to a perfect whole 
 Forget the ideal realm at which they aim, 
 To bask in idle luxury and vain 
 Display." Nor would she yield the simple means 
 She chose to reach the zenith of her art, 
 When urged by worldlier minds to seek re- 
 nown, 
 Nor wait till fame unsought came of itself. 
 While now Elizabeth to duties dear 
 Of home and kindred ties lent all her thoughts, 
 She sometimes wondered at the flight of time 
 Since last she held her sister in her arms, 
 To note with jealous eye if aught of change 
 Had crept between them or supplanted love, 
 And youthful purity of deed and thought. 
 But frequent letters marked the flight of time ; 
 One came from Rome, another Naples, then 
 Perchance the next from German provinces 
 
1 64 Edalaine. 
 
 Brought greetings filled with cheerful, loving 
 
 phrase. 
 All climes, all nations that are one with art, 
 Were each and all made points of pilgrimage. 
 At last she wrote of Egypt, and was gone 
 Ere anxious love could pray her stay near home. 
 And she, devoted now to song, thought not 
 The world too wide, nor knew that they who wait 
 Have more of pain than those who do and dare. 
 Somehow, this voyage brought to mind her first, 
 And faces rose, with power to move her soul, 
 And taught that nor toil nor study could 
 O'ercome the longings of the human heart. 
 The sunlight as it kissed the wave seemed that 
 Which filled the day, at sea when listening 
 To Arnold Deith, he glowingly in words 
 Had pictured her the Orient — Five years ! 
 How long and yet how swift their flight had been ! 
 
Edalaine. 165 
 
 And he— had like forgot the " little girl," 
 
 For so he chose to call her then, — one short 
 
 And hasty visit as he turned from France 
 
 To treat with Mexico for some new code. 
 
 A bantering word, a smile half earnest, then 
 
 " Good-by," and when she thought him gone, she 
 
 felt 
 A weight upon her heart which she herself 
 Could not explain. 
 
 " Good-by," he had returned, 
 " My sister would God-speed in other guise 
 Have granted me, since death treats not as guests 
 The stranger in the land to which I go." 
 And she, if power of eyes that woo'd her own, 
 Or glance her sister gave which said, " Be kind," 
 Could not have told, but speed of sister then 
 She gave. 
 
 " God bless you, sir, and bring you safe 
 To sisters' hearts." And then at thought of them, 
 
1 66 Edalaine. 
 
 More eloquent than words, those orbs fit termed 
 The soul's reflection, screened themselves behind 
 A trembling sea of tears, which rested there 
 As if resolved to wash their color out. 
 And now, each breeze that blew, the gulls that 
 
 skimmed 
 The air, the shadows on the waves, the songs 
 Of sailors, or the boatswain's call, seemed each 
 To wake some word he uttered, or his glance. 
 One day, while dreaming thus, her heart stood still 
 To see a child that played about the deck 
 Stand heedless, while a quickly low'ring spar 
 Was threat'ning death. With cry of fright, she 
 
 sprang 
 And seized the fragile babe, that screamed it knew 
 Not why, as oft contagious fear is worse 
 Than that we can explain ; and Edalaine, 
 Soothing her fears with tender words and smiles, 
 Soon found, reclining in her chair, " Mamma," 
 
Edalaine. 167 
 
 Where, helpless, pale, and sad, she sat alone. 
 
 Such beauty seldom found a counterpart, 
 
 And, as her earnest voice spoke words of thanks, 
 
 Its gentle sadness waked in Edalaine 
 
 An inward sense that here was one whose need 
 
 Of strength to overcome deep-seated woe 
 
 Was greater than her own. 
 
 All day she sat 
 In cheerful converse, or she read, to lead 
 The thoughts to outward things, nor dared to show 
 In word or deed the sympathy she felt. 
 " Tis strength she needs," thought Edalaine, made 
 
 wise 
 By knowledge of the human heart ; and so 
 Each day she ministered unquestioning 
 A mind disordered by its fears and woes. 
 " She's stronger than I thought," she said to self, 
 As day by day she watched the efforts made 
 To overcome the pressure of some grief 
 
1 68 E da lame. 
 
 She hid from human eyes, until at length 
 
 The child began to droop, and soon they saw 
 
 That death stood waiting for the breaking threads. 
 
 Within the mother's frame new life infused, 
 
 She silently bent o'er her child, to fight 
 
 With death, nor spoke, but looked her thanks to 
 
 all 
 Who came to aid, or bring new-found relief, 
 To Edalaine she clung for sympathy, 
 And oft, when agonized, her eyes made speech 
 In mute appeal for hope to Edalaine, 
 It seemed a cruel irony of fate 
 That one who suffered much must bear yet more. 
 But come it must, this added grief, and when 
 One night a murky darkness, blent with roar 
 Of wind and creak of mast, when waves o'erswept 
 The vessel's deck, as if to laugh in scorn 
 At man's presumptuous skill, to send adrift 
 A mechanism that should dare to cope 
 
Edalaine. 169 
 
 With might of stormy winds, the last thread 
 
 snapped 
 In twain, and life had been extinct for hours 
 Before they dared reveal the truth to her. 
 And when it broke upon her sense they stood 
 Amazed at wildness of her grief. 
 
 " O wind 
 And wave, but bear me from this wretched life ! 
 Sole witness of my guilt sustain'd my life. 
 Chained to my sin, I lived to bear my cross 
 Until I loved it more than life,— now gone 
 My punishment is that I live alone I" 
 In ravings such as these to Edalaine 
 Somewhat of this poor creature's grief became 
 Revealed. 
 
 " Poor soul ! moer sinned against, I ween, 
 Then one who sinned. With time alone can grief 
 Be overcome and peace restored." And so 
 
1 70 Edalaine. 
 
 When strength gave way 'neath such a strain of 
 
 nerve, 
 To Edalaine and to her maid was left 
 The friendly care she needed then. Long time 
 She lay to reason lost, and Edalaine, 
 Whom sacred trust felt words which came from 
 
 lips 
 That spoke without the guard of consciousness, 
 Tried not to heed, till from her lips there fell 
 A name that made the pulses of her heart 
 Stand still. 
 
 " O Arnold, Arnold Deith, forgive, 
 Forgive ! nor send me forth to exile worse 
 Than death !" And then her words, more indistinct, 
 Became but fitful moan, while she who heard 
 Sat still as if an icy hand had clutched 
 Her heart, and held it there relentlessly. 
 She rose, and faced the night. She tried to think 
 What fancy turned this blackness o'er her heart. 
 
Edalaine, 1 7 1 
 
 The heated cabin ? Then to chaos turned, 
 Her thoughts refused to question or reply. 
 In vain her vision sounded heaven's dark vault, 
 And naught walked with her there but agony. 
 Her vow of years ago came back, — " I ne'er 
 Will wed, e'en though I love. O God, deny 
 The power to love and all desire !" And now 
 Was this then love ? A maddened jealousy ? 
 A spectre pitiless to haunt her steps 
 And laugh in wild derision of her woes ? 
 Oh, bitterness to other beings spared ! 
 Why could she not have lived in ignorance 
 Of heart-aches such as these, and think it grand 
 To saennce a love when most it plead 
 The worthiness of object loved ? But no, 
 Not so to learn at once she loved, and he 
 Had another wronged, t' unveil the niche 
 That held the idol of her heart, and prove 
 
1 72 Edalaine. 
 
 At once its worthlessness, was punishment 
 She had not thought deserved. 
 
 At last she turned 
 And sought repose, but still with dumb, white face, 
 Her eyes oped wide and gazing into space, 
 She lay all night. " Tis past," she said at morn. 
 " I feel no grief, no woe is mine. 'Twas night 
 That weighted down my heart, — there is no love. 
 Ah, well, I mean such love as I did dream 
 Last night." And so, in reasoning, she half 
 Believed it was a dream, but facing then 
 The suff'ring stranger, such a pity filled 
 Her breast, she felt a consecration pure 
 To ease with loyal sisterhood her grief. 
 Their voyage ended, still she proffered her 
 Protecting friendship ; paused 'midst cares of art 
 To minister the balm of hopefulness 
 Within the lonely heart she felt was pure. 
 And witnessing the crowned success in song 
 
Edalaine. \ 73 
 
 Of her, so strong and yet so beautiful, 
 The weaker one oft said, " Your beauty grows, 
 Dear Edalaine, with loving care you give 
 Your work. Might I but fill my life with such 
 A glorious task 'twere yet methinks less sad 
 To live ; but even voice has been denied 
 To me, and worthlessly my life drifts on." 
 
 The singer sighed. " Ah, yes, it lightens 
 grief 
 To work, but you were made to lighten toil 
 Of others; there alone beside the hearth, 
 Your work is found." And as the other paled 
 And shivered, hearing hopeful words like these, 
 The speaker added, " Yes, I know you think 
 Them lost for aye ; but mark my promises, — 
 'Tis better be the pjrson wronged than do 
 Another wrong." 
 
 " Alas, alas, no more, 
 I pray, there is no hope for me, no hope ! 
 
1 74 Edalaine. 
 
 The very heavens stand appalled at sin 
 
 Like mine." And Edalaine. who sought to cheer, 
 
 Had made as one is prone, the heart more sad. 
 
 u Forgive me, Geraldine," she said, " I wound 
 
 Where I would cheer. Let not thy sin do wrong 
 
 Beyond itself, but seek for comforting 
 
 In higher thoughts. Decide thyself to do 
 
 Some good on earth, however sad the heart. 
 
 Till grow in courage when the good done man 
 
 In daily rounds of ordered tasks revert 
 
 At last to cheer thy own poor stricken life." 
 
 With spring-time Edalaine had turned toward home, 
 
 And that with eagerness. Not all the praise 
 
 She took with her could stifle in her heart 
 
 A longing for her sister's loving words 
 
 And quiet ways. Some chord within her breast 
 
 Was out of tune. " 'Tis spring," she said, " at 
 
 home 
 I'll find with rest a lighter heart," and she 
 
Edalaine. 175 
 
 Who'd now become indeed a sister's care 
 
 Sobbed out her grief at being left alone. 
 
 She dared not say, " Return with me ;" she felt ] 
 
 'Twas better not, and so without a word 
 
 Of hope, though such she felt within herself, 
 
 She said good-by. She had not even heard 
 
 Her story, for, when once she strove to speak, 
 
 But stopped to struggle with her rising sobs, 
 
 Then Edalaine said, " Nay, I can but love 
 
 And cherish you for what you are. I know 
 
 Whate'er the past, the wrong was not your own 
 
 Alone ; and suffering that purifies 
 
 Has magnified the best that nature gave. 
 
 Be hopeful, true unto yourself until 
 
 In time you reap both peace and happiness." 
 
 And gratefully the little woman twined 
 
 Her arms about hsr generous friend, whose depth 
 
 Of generosity she did not dream 
 
 (How could she know whom Edalaine had loved ?) 
 
1 76 Edalaine. 
 
 She kissed the lips that spoke such confidence, 
 And watched the steamer westward bound, with 
 
 eyes 
 That looked through blinding tears. 
 
 And Edalaine 
 At home once more, for Paris still she claimed 
 As home, had found so much of heart-felt love 
 And peace, she scarce believed her heart e'er knew 
 A grief. The children that she left were changed 
 In all but love and confidence, and then 
 What restful balm she felt her sister's love. 
 
 One day, while wandering slowly through 
 the Louvre, 
 She met and greeted Arnold Deith. Her words 
 Playfully spoken, covered up her pain 
 With seeming raillery and mirth ; but how 
 Her gentle heart beneath it all was pierced 
 With sorrow, thinking of her Geraldine ! 
 Their friendship was renewed ; they wandered oft 
 
Edalaine. 177 
 
 Through scenes of art and beauty, and she felt 
 
 In wonder at herself a deep belief 
 
 That he was innocent of wrong, and then 
 
 By duty stifled in her breast, she found 
 
 In undercurrents of his words a clew 
 
 To base suspicions which devoured her heart 
 
 Though sternly holding self responsible 
 
 To justice. 
 
 Oft, when softened by the glimpse 
 Of what in truthful souls would bear the name 
 Of sentiment, that can be known alone 
 In souls accord with thoughts sublime, she forced 
 Herself to find them false as he was base, 
 Until his very attributes and grace 
 Of mind appeared arraigned by justice stern, — 
 The very essence of a villainy 
 Refined. At other times she shrank with fear 
 And horror at her own black doubts. " How vile 
 My mind must be to turn to baser ends 
 
i yS Edalaine. 
 
 What seems so fair!" and then some whisper soft 
 Of breezes, bearing on their breath the name 
 Of Geraldine, gave strength to doubts. 
 
 One eve 
 Tney sat beneath the vines till stars came out 
 Through twilight tremblingly, and night had 
 
 touched, 
 With soft and solemn melancholy, earth. 
 The planets whirled above their heads so swift 
 Their evolutions were not marked, but seemed 
 To stand in motionless array. 
 
 Of this 
 They talked when silence fell upon them both. 
 At last he spoke, as if he gave to thought 
 Unconscious utterance. 
 
 " What subtle, rare 
 Delight to sound the soul of one we meet 
 Unmindful, then, awaking to know our thoughts 
 Enthralled by mystery that we find in life 
 
Edalaine. 1 79 
 
 Of one but late unknown. You'll ne'er believe 
 What mystery you are to me, my friend, 
 I've noted you when least you thought, and much 
 Have wondered o'er the oneness of your life. 
 Though gay, you're often sad ; though young 
 
 seem old ; 
 Esprit and beauty that would lead not few 
 To give their lives to pleasure and delight, — 
 These have no power to lure you from the path 
 Of meditation, study, and of art. 
 How few among the narrow world that scorns 
 The stage could understand all this, when I, 
 A man that's seen the whole of life, its good 
 And ill, can scarcely comprehend." 
 
 And she, 
 " Why not? Is good so rare, unknown a thing? 
 The doubting ones find life upon the stage 
 Impossible with purity; but why? 
 Tis true, that 'stead of stern control o'er all 
 
180 Jul a la inc. 
 
 Emotions of the heart, their gifts to bring 
 Before the world the best and worst of life. 
 But learn the teachers not themselves as well 
 The lesson taught?" 
 
 " Alas, such reasoning 
 Sounds well, dear Edalaine, but see we not 
 Examples all around of women lost, 
 Who flaunt their sins upon the stage ? And you 
 Must bear contempt because of them," 
 
 She flushed 
 A little, then turned pale. 
 
 " That phrase sounds hard 
 But some compassion fills my heart for those 
 Who do not know that while they may contemn 
 The stage, and find in other fields their means 
 Of teaching, 'twould be ill of you, who might 
 Administer some good, where want is known 
 To say, " Who needs this help must come to me 
 
Edalaine. 1 8 1 
 
 In place of seeking through the haunts where most 
 Such needs do congregate. Upon the stage 
 We reach a class that come not there for good, 
 But only seek in life to be amused ; 
 And did we publish it, 'twould likely fright 
 Them from the door, but all the more must we 
 Sincerer ones, amidst their pleasure drop 
 Some seed of good, that all unconsciously 
 Will spring within their hearts, and then at last 
 Bear fruit." 
 
 "Ah, yes, but what can one pure girl 
 Amidst such reckless company e'er hope 
 To do ? What good from lessons taught by those 
 The world thinks guilty of immoral deeds?" 
 A flash of anger sprang into her face, 
 To his a glimmering smile she did not see. 
 "You go too far," she said, " for such low minds 
 Though our contempt out-weight their own, we 
 hold 
 
1 82 Edalaine. 
 
 Ourselves above of giving them a thought. 
 
 Although 'tis fashion of all ages known 
 
 To heap examples of the evils there, 
 
 None ever took an equal pains to show 
 
 The like in circle of their quiet homes, 
 
 Or more (and God forbid they should) within 
 
 Their church." And now aroused to keenest 
 
 sense 
 Of grief and anger both, the tears rolled down 
 Her cheeks. " And counted I the wrongs of those 
 I knew as child and woman, people screened 
 By influence of home, and those I've known 
 Since then upon the stage, I'd say at once 
 Its highway safer far than subtleties 
 That came to ruin those I left behind. 
 Oh, could I tell the world what sacrifice 
 Is hidden 'neath the trappings of the stage ! 
 How nobly struggle timid girls to drive 
 
 • 
 
Edalaine. 183 
 
 From door of home its want. I've known poor 
 
 girls 
 Whose sense of neatness shrank to meet my glance 
 That boots gave silent witness of their needs, 
 Or shabby dress was sad and queer exchange 
 For sheeny costume they had worn but now 
 Upon the stage. Oh, how my heart has warmed 
 Toward them, scarce comprehending such a weight 
 Of life, to know, that, with a sigh that spoke 
 Content, and yet the piteous thought the sum 
 Was far too small, the envelope which held 
 Their pay, unopened, found its way to hand 
 Of mother, so to pay the needs of home 
 Which ever seemed to be ahead of toil !" 
 " But then," he interrupts, " think of yourself ; 
 The most of those you meet have not so fine 
 A sense of feeling. Think you not that one 
 Must feel an influence — " 
 
 11 1 comprehend. 
 
1 84 Edalaine, 
 
 But let us turn to life at home," her tears 
 
 Had dried themselves upon the heavy lids 
 
 That shrouded eyes whose tenderness seemed half 
 
 Appeal through speaking words decisively. 
 
 " The man that tends your petted steed, that hands 
 
 You forth your whip, the boy who blacks your 
 
 boots, 
 The one who trims your hair, or gives by chance 
 A light for your cigar, who brings the news, — 
 Are they not of your life essential part ? 
 And yet the abstract portion born to serve. 
 Their phrases set, you hear each day, your word 
 Of kindliness, unconsciously bestowed. 
 They treasure fast within their hearts ; but they 
 Of influence upon your life have none, 
 And of your day each plays his part, then goes 
 Forgot till habit calls his services." 
 " 'Tis not the same," and he, the speaker, shook 
 
'Edalatne. 185 
 
 His head in doubt, "these people think them- 
 selves 
 Your equal, or your peer, do criticise 
 Or more, become familiar— that degrades 
 The most, it does not seem to make you fear." 
 " Nay, pause," she said, and this time spoke with 
 
 more 
 Of sternness, which he coulu not comprehend. 
 " Tis said familiar ways breed that contempt 
 We may full soon resent— ours then the blame. 
 I understand the scope, you'd say when we 
 Take in our hands a coal, it leaves upon us there 
 The token of its black'ning, grimy touch. 
 Where do we find escape from those whose touch 
 May bring pollution ? In the hearts of men 
 We own as equals hides there not deceit, 
 Base treachery, and worse, foul acts against 
 All justice, mercy, truth, humanity, 
 Or love ?" 
 
1 86 Edalaine, 
 
 " Too true, too true, your words awake 
 The shadows of a past I dare not now 
 Disclose," and agitation swept his face 
 That plainly proved to her his guilt. 
 
 " But how 
 Our words have led us from my first intent," 
 He said, when thrice he'd paced the length that lay 
 Between the garden walls, " for, Edalaine, 
 My bitter arguments against the stage 
 Are selfish ones, I love you as my life ! 
 And though I've tried full long to stifle love, 
 Have tried to teach my heart a disbelief 
 In you, with all the world of womankind, 
 Your life has cast its radiance round my own, 
 Has chased away its shadows one by one, 
 Till once again I look upon the world 
 To say, ' Some good there yet remains while lives 
 My Edalaine.' Tis strange, you think, to woo 
 With doubting words, alas, the curse has been 
 
Edalaine. 187 
 
 My own. Bring hope, nay heav'n itself renewed 
 
 By blessed sounding words that shall bring faith 
 
 And drop upon my soul with tender touch 
 
 The balm forgetfulness of all that's vile. 
 
 For so I think all bitter pain that's dulled 
 
 My past would vanish, could I hear thee say 
 
 ' I love thee, Arnold, and will be thy wife.' " 
 
 An icy chill had fallen on the heart 
 
 Of Edalaine ; she heard the words as if 
 
 They were pronounced afar, nor could she think 
 
 Or fashion her reply, until he came 
 
 And, ere she knew, had clasped her in his arms. 
 
 A viper's cold and clammy touch had not 
 
 More startled her, she shrank. 
 
 " Nay, Arnold Deith, 
 Could I but love you, 'twere my least of griefs ; 
 I ne'er should wed, but yet 'twere better live 
 In loving from afar, than know the God 
 We worshiped was but clay!" 
 
1 88 Edalaine. 
 
 " What problem this?" 
 He said, " I do not understand." 
 
 <l Thy heart 
 Its guilt doth better comprehend than words 
 Of mine. I know not if with phrase of love, 
 If promises of future blissfulness 
 And honor moved the confidence of one 
 Who, dragged to precipice of wrong, you left, 
 Without a hope in life. Abhorred of self, 
 Betrayed by you, she wandered. 
 
 Well for me 
 Who shrined an idol all unconsciously 
 Within my heart, I found her ere too late, 
 But not too late for her despair, nor my 
 Poor peace of mind, for ill the heart that aye 
 Must gaze upon a shattered heap of clay. 
 Poor Geraldine !" 
 
 He paled. " Poor Geraldine ! you met 
 My wife !" and beads of agony diffused 
 
Edalaine, 1 89 
 
 His brow, and she with wonder-stricken face 
 Had echoed too, his words of inquiry. 
 " Your wife ? she, Geraldine, is then your wife?'' 
 " She is my wife. She zvas my wife," and when 
 She would have silenced him, he sternly bade 
 Her listen. " Stay, for Edalaine, whate'er 
 Your mandate, I have right to claim respect, 
 And dare not for my future good leave doubt 
 In mind of her I love as hope of heaven. 
 For it is my hope of future peace," and pale 
 As death he faced her whom he dared not' touch. 
 " You think me traitor, doubly so, since I 
 Have offered love to you. I never thought 
 My lips could name the past. Indeed, it seemed 
 To me that if one named its shameful page 
 Scarce would I hold myself from dealing death 
 To him who dared to word my deep disgrace." 
 " Nay, do not tell me," Edalaine had said, 
 Her only wish the reparation just. 
 
1 90 Edalaine. 
 
 " It must be told, else peace there s none on earth 
 
 When you are thinking ill of me. You know 
 
 Somewhat my life, that duties in the past 
 
 Have often called me from my home, — enough. 
 
 My brother is a priest, and when away, 
 
 He served as guardian in the home I left. 
 
 On one return of absence long, I marked 
 
 In person of my wife the signs of guilt — " 
 
 And here he faltered, then a moment paused 
 
 To gain his strength, and spoke again. " 'Twas 
 
 full 
 Two years before I saw your face. I made 
 No sign ; hence fear was banished, for they knew 
 I must depart, and so could be deceived. 
 I watched for guilty paramour of her 
 Who bore, to thus degrade my honored name. 
 Oh, shame, oh agony ! dissembling thus ! 
 What rage and horror of dishonor felt. 
 At times I rushed from out the house in fear 
 
Edalaine. 1 9 1 
 
 Lest passion overcame desire for just 
 
 Revenge to strike to earth this woman, who 
 
 Had held my name so light. I waited not 
 
 In vain, for soon I tracked the pair to this 
 
 Same street, and shame, a million times more great 
 
 I felt, dishonor, grief, ingratitude 
 
 Forced on my soul at once ; for he who dealt 
 
 The mortal blow was one I'd cherished long. 
 
 He was the only one I ever loved 
 
 Beyond the parents who had blessed my youth. 
 
 But more than that and worse, O Edalaine, 
 
 That I must be so cruelly debased, 
 
 One mother bore us both I" and here his voice 
 
 To whispers that its horror full betrayed 
 
 Had sunk. 
 
 " You wonder that I let them pass 
 With life? I knew their sins would find them out. 
 I made no sign, but kept them both in view 
 Till born her child. I faced her with her guilt 
 
192 Edalaine, 
 
 And his; but she, with obstinacy strange, 
 Denied the charge, until I thought her crazed. 
 I gave her means, and sent her far from home 
 On pain of utter ruin and disgrace 
 Before the world. I made him disappear 
 Unknown to her. The child had reached three 
 
 years 
 When some one where she dwelt had found a clue 
 To her identity. Again I sent 
 Her forth. The child first died, and she in grief 
 Took ill, was carried from the ship, and then 
 Came word that, fever setting in, she, too, 
 Had gone to answer for her grievous sin. 
 Then came a letter, never read, for why 
 Take notice of such glaring subterfuge ?" 
 He paused, and Edalaine — 
 
 M Your reason is 
 At fault, you quite forget that even sin 
 Hath right to plead its cause, as you have plead 
 
E da lain e. 193 
 
 Unconsciously within my heart by this 
 Sad tale." 
 
 " O Edalaine, 'tis not the worst ! 
 For five long years, without belief in God 
 Or man, I've lived to prove that naught remains 
 But ill ; have sought to bring the ruin which 
 When wrought I spurned with contumely and jest; 
 Have given curses, and had curses rained 
 On me." 
 
 His hearer shuddered. " Oh, my friend, 
 How aches my heart to know that, wronged, you 
 
 know 
 Not grace of soul to cast its poison forth, 
 Hast thou ne'er seen the ruddy apples heaped 
 Upon the ground of some New England field ? 
 Nor marked that when a rotten apple crushed 
 'Gainst cheek of ruddiest, firmest apple, there 
 It soon decayed, till, truthfully with you, 
 One might exclaim, 'They all are rotten-cored, 
 
194 Edalainc. 
 
 This apple had a rosy cheek, but see, — 
 Tis like the rest*!' forgetful that its own 
 Impurity hath brought decay. Good friend, 
 We make the world, and for our peace of mind 
 Must shield us from the sin by calling forth 
 The good. Some gross mistake exists. That you 
 Were wronged I do not doubt, yet not all wrong. 
 Your wife who expiates her sin — yes, still 
 She expiates her sin — start not, your wife 
 Still lives to suffer; and though woman-born 
 Myself, and therefore stern disposed, perhaps, 
 Tow'rd sin that blots th' escutcheon of my sex, 
 Her grief, her patience, her fortitude, and more, — 
 Her innocence, — leave me to doubt but that 
 Her punishment was greater than her sin. 
 And she more wronged than sinning.'' 
 
 Arnold Deith 
 Had buried now his face, his attitude 
 Was hopelessness itself. 
 
Edalaine. 195 
 
 " Oh, Arnold Deith, 
 Be just, if not for them, your soul's best good 
 Demands that you should know the very truth." 
 He started as with anger. " What, debase 
 Myself by inquiry? What matters it ? 
 The sin was palpable enough. I ask 
 What palliation of the wrong could there 
 Exist?" 
 
 And Edalaine — " Would not there be 
 Some comfort, could you know at least the man 
 You loved had never wronged you ; that instead 
 He sought to guard the honor of your wife, 
 And you by shielding her? Such things have 
 been, 
 
 And she" 
 
 " But," angrily he silenced her, — 
 tl Imagination may do much for minds 
 More weak, but I am right, and that you shield 
 
ig6 Edalaine. 
 
 The acts of those who've wronged me seems most 
 
 strange." 
 " Nay, Arnold, you do wrong, believe, to my 
 Best motives; you are hurt and angered, so 
 At present, cannot understand that souls 
 Are only ministered by good when free 
 From that foul taint of sin by others done. 
 Oh, lay some balm upon thy suffering heart 
 In thinking though I have been wronged, let me 
 Be merciful, that mercy may bedew 
 My life/' 
 
 " Ah, Edalaine, 'tis easy said, 
 But when the iron hath pierced a pride like mine 
 And at the very moment when I thought 
 I clutched a saving hand, as once I dreamed 
 To find in thee, again the ghosts arise 
 From out the past, to snatch it from my grasp. 
 Why talk of hope in anything ?" 
 
 "And am 
 
Edalaine, 197 
 
 I less your friend than half an hour aback? 
 Nay, now I feel I can be friend, and aid." 
 " Be friend ! I love you, Edalaine, and till 
 I thought myself quite free to ask your love, 
 Say, did I not avoid your presence when 
 It seemed most strange ? You never noted it, 
 But oft I've fled your presence, did not dare 
 Meet eyes that looked in mine so fearlessly, 
 Lest they should read the passion of my soul 
 Awakened by their purity." 
 
 " I knew 
 I wronged you by my ling'ring doubts. Say more- 
 Than that I cannot, for it is not meet 
 To broach myself. Recall the words I said 
 So long ago, ' I ne'er shall wed/ alas, 
 The sentence hides a life-long woe, which, told, 
 Might aid your spirit to a nobler trust 
 In duties of this life above desires. 
 But that must be when you have proved by acts 
 
198 Eclalaiiie. 
 
 The bitterness within your heart has been 
 O'ercome ; and first of all I'd lend in part 
 Your heart somewhat the pity that I feel 
 For Geraldine." 
 
 "And would you have me take 
 Her back again ?" his eyes held dangerous light. 
 " She would not choose to daily read within 
 Your eyes the guilt upon her soul, if guilt — 
 A voluntary guilt — there be. But think 
 You not, in useful life some place would come 
 If you could meet her once and hear her wrongs? 
 For such I feel they were." 
 
 "If they were wrongs 
 Why came she not at once to me?" he said, 
 Impatient yet at her discourse. 
 
 " Are you 
 So gentle in your charities that one 
 So timid did not fear some wrongful act ? 
 And if, I say, once met, you could but say, 
 
Edalaine. 199 
 
 ' Poor Geraldine, go thou thy way, I'm not 
 
 Thy judge, and can forgive what more hath 
 
 wronged 
 Thyself,' think you it would not bring some peace 
 Into the desolation of that life?" 
 " 'Tis very fine, dear Edalaine, but not 
 The creed that's lettered in my heart, and you 
 Can scarcely understand (since that you know 
 Not love) the double bitterness to-day. 
 Deceived by one, unloved by other, yet 
 A slave to both. A weaker man would say, 
 With heartfelt bitterness, ' O Death, where is 
 Thy sting?'" 
 
 " Ah, that to live needs greater strength 
 At times than choosing death, all living know. 
 Nor would we yield with Hamlet that the grave 
 Hath ills unknown the more than life, for who 
 Can truthfully foretell the griefs to come ?" 
 And then her own strength feeling much the strain 
 
200 Edalaine, 
 
 Of such discourse, she stretched her hand to him. 
 
 ''Think not, good friend, my life hath not its ills, 
 
 Perhaps more hard to bear for being hidden. 
 
 Refuse my friendship, mine the loss, nor can 
 
 I change the impulse of my heart to hate." 
 
 "A woman may, perhaps," he said, u find means 
 
 To modify a love to friendship's code. 
 
 Not so a man, and I belie my strength 
 
 To promise it, at least until I've learned 
 
 The magic alchemy you fain would teach, 
 
 To touch to sweet the bitterness my life 
 
 Hath known. 'Tis pity that the art's not known 
 
 More widely." Then with smile of bitterness 
 
 Had touched her hand with burning lips, and went 
 
 Ere she could frame a last farewell. 
 
 Oh, weight 
 Of woe ! It seemed some dream, and yet her grief 
 Has mingled with so much of his and that 
 
Edalaine. 201 
 
 Of Geraldine, so much of query, hope, 
 
 And, too, despair she scarce could tell, if hers 
 
 Or theirs, touched most her heart. 
 
BOOK V, 
 
 And now a cloud had settled over France 
 Had crept above the brilliant capitol, 
 Until its slowly gathering folds had wrapped 
 Themselves about its spires, crept through its 
 
 streets, 
 Enveloping and clouding all its cheer, 
 And ominous, was heard at intervals 
 The sound of musketry. " Our youth do fear 
 To lose their skill," some said, but wiser ones 
 Then shook the head and murmured, •' Nay, not so, 
 Such sounds portend much graver mark; and balls, 
 Not shot alone do there resound, and spurt 
 
 Of blood responds to well timed aim. The air 
 
 [203] 
 
204 Edalaine* 
 
 Is foul with presence of an enemy." 
 
 And then again the sounds had ceased, to be 
 
 Forgotten, timid ones took heart, these last, 
 
 The maid that waited for her bridal morn, 
 
 Or mother of some noble son who burned 
 
 To walk in footsteps of his fallen sire. 
 
 And oft this last, from out some sacred nook, 
 
 Or recess of their humble homes, took down 
 
 The gun tow'rd which from earliest youth he'd 
 
 looked 
 With vague alarm, and then, when older grown, 
 Had listened to its history with cheeks 
 Aflame, resolved if ever war broke forth, 
 That gun should bring him victory, or death. 
 And now, in secret, lest the wish out-sped 
 The coming of the storm, with loving hand, 
 The youth, while fancy painted pageantry 
 Of war where prancing steeds and cries, " La France 
 Et Liberie 1 aussi^ brought victory, 
 
Edalaine. 205 
 
 He polishes the sturdy steel, half awed 
 
 To think his sire one time had done the same. 
 
 " But now we meet another foe, ma foi /' 
 
 He mused, " les gens let / to think to conquer us !" 
 
 And not too soon, each peasant grasped his gun. 
 
 The cloud descended till it wrapped their loved, 
 
 And beauteous city in its treach'rous folds, 
 
 And strangers, whether pleased or not, could find 
 
 No means to make escape. Some felt to flee 
 
 Was sheer ingratitude tow'rd nation that 
 
 Had sheltered them in prosperous days, and made 
 
 The cause their own. Dean Brent was one of 
 
 these, 
 And Edalaine had said, " I too can aid." 
 Her sister feared for her. " Is't not enough 
 My husband gives his skill and we our work 
 At home ?" But Edalaine saw greater need 
 Within the teeming hospitals. " Not all," 
 She said, " had teaching such as we at home, 
 
206 Edalaine. 
 
 Nor know the skillful touch these sufferers 
 
 Do need." And so there burned upon her breast 
 
 The Scarlet Cross ; that sacred sign that made 
 
 Of foes a brotherhood. Where'er she walked 
 
 Its gleam oped wide the ranks to let her pass. 
 
 Confusion's self, would oft give way at sign 
 
 Or word, " I am a servant of the cross." 
 
 One day they came to say a lady ask'd 
 
 For her, and through the crowded wards she 
 
 walked, 
 Too full of homely cares to wonder or 
 To ask " What name?" At cry half plaintive, half 
 Afraid, of " Edalaine !" she clasped with joy 
 The trembling form of Arnold's wife. "You are 
 Not angry that I came, 'twas you advised 
 To choose some useful work, and I am come 
 To do somewhat my share." 
 
 " But you, so frail, — " 
 Cried Edalaine, then seeing tears begin 
 
Edalazne. 207 
 
 To rise within the limpid eyes, lest come 
 She prove unwelcome, " here in truth you'll find 
 The need of gentle hand and tender look, 
 They often soothe severest wound beyond 
 The doctor's skill." 
 
 And Geraldine soon felt 
 Her usefulness, forgot herself amidst 
 The suffering, until a dainty pink 
 Shone through the lilies of her face, and light 
 Of happiness had brighten'd sombre eyes. 
 A faithful bearer of the cross, content 
 She ne'er had known now dwelt within her heart. 
 The name of Arnold Deith ne'er passed the lips 
 Of Edalaine, who mused, " Why probe a wound 
 Till healing can be brought, and now sometimes 
 She feared it never could be done, she saw 
 As yet no clear solution of the way 
 To straighten, in the embittered lives of those 
 She fondly loved, such strangely tangled threads. 
 
208 Edalaine. 
 
 At times she tried to doubt of Geraldine. 
 
 Impossible ! And once she questioned her. 
 
 " Dear Edalaine, my brain has near gone mad 
 
 In efforts vain to solve the mystery 
 
 That shrouds the sin that blots my life. The sin 
 
 'Tis like you have divined, but more than that, 
 
 I would I might relate, an endless round 
 
 Of queries in my mind o'er problem that 
 
 Is never near solution, frights a mind 
 
 More strong than mine, and Oh, dear Edalaine, 
 
 Your confidence and love have brought me hope 
 
 That gives me strength to live !" 
 
 'Midst roll of drum, 
 The call of troops, excitements, fears and ills 
 Of the besieged and anxious city, thoughts 
 Found daily cares that crowded from the mind 
 One's individual woes. Sometimes a word 
 From Arnold Deith reached Edalaine. He too 
 Had found much need of work. To Edalaine 
 
Edalaine* 209 
 
 He wrote to flee the dangers yet unknown ; 
 
 Still found it in his power to aid her leave 
 
 The now beleaguered city, would she go? 
 
 "You are unkind," she answered him, "to wish 
 
 Me comprehend that only helplessness 
 
 Can be the lot of womankind. Men stay, 
 
 And why not I, since envious the work 
 
 They do, urged on by roll of drum, the sound 
 
 Of thrilling strains, till these are merged to din 
 
 And roar of battle, clash of steel, and cries 
 
 That fire ambitious souls to something outside 
 
 The consciousness of personal alarms. 
 
 Our countrymen would say : how strange that you 
 
 And I, nay, all Americans that fired 
 
 To deep enthusiasm, do their part. 
 
 'Tis not their land, it's hardly natural ! 
 
 Has then humanity a native land ? 
 
 And too, what happiness the thought, whoe'er 
 
 The exile, quick to sympathize and do, 
 
210 Edalaine. 
 
 But may not find a welcome in the hearts 
 
 Of suffering humanity. To-day 
 
 A soldier died upon my arm. His one 
 
 Faint smile, the last, would aid me toil for those 
 
 Who are not learned in gentle gratitude. 
 
 Our best in this strange labyrinth, — the right 
 
 And wrong of life, is done because we say 
 
 We knew not how to help ourselves. And then 
 
 Some kindly soul would flatter us. We are 
 
 Inspired now the word recalls the fact 
 
 You told me once I was inspired and must 
 
 Succeed. May not one be a second time 
 
 Inspired, this time to drop awhile the thought 
 
 Of selfish aims ?" And so the letter closed. 
 
 Yet Edalaine had been unlike her sex 
 
 Had not such thoughtful care brought restfulness,, 
 
 And with it feelings of security. 
 
 Steadily disease amidst the maimed 
 
Edalaine. 211 
 
 Crept in, and touched the brow of one, breathed 
 
 o'er 
 The lips of others till, unwelcome guest, 
 He held the secrets, ruled with dread the house. 
 Fearlessly amidst contagious ills 
 And added cares, walked Edalaine, her calm 
 And cheerful spirit lending hope to those 
 Who would have fled from out the wretched place. 
 Nor was the dread procession at an end. 
 The weighty ambulance — forerunner grim 
 Of blight, disease, of pain and death itself, 
 Came day or night to leave its moaning charge. 
 One day, as Geraldine had loosed the band 
 That half concealed the face of one poor man, 
 Who, conscious, suffered agonies of death, 
 She gave a cry, and, ere they reached her side, 
 Fell fainting to the floor. 
 
 " Poor child," they said, 
 "The sight was more than she couid bear." 
 
2 1 2 Edalaine. 
 
 " Alas !" 
 The doctor sighed, "I fear 'tis more than fright. 
 She has been brave enough ere now, at sight 
 Of cruel marks of hatred and of strife, 
 May God forbid it being fell disease." 
 When Edalaine had seen her friend restored 
 To speech, she said : 
 
 " No more to-day, my friend 
 You must have rest." 
 
 " Oh, no, it was not that — 
 I thought, O grief !" — and then her lips turned 
 
 pale, 
 And once again she slipped from consciousness. 
 'Twas long before her eyelids oped themselves, 
 And then the doctor would not let her speak. 
 " Be quiet, dear," entreated Edalaine, 
 " Myself will take the cares that fall to you." 
 A grateful glance scarce answered her, ere gone. 
 She understood, when bending o'er the cot 
 
Edalaine. 2 1 3 
 
 Of him the surgeons sought to ease, and felt 
 Her own heart give a sudden bound of fright. 
 " How foolish, yet there is a likeness found. 
 Poor child, I understand ! How well she hides 
 The gritf that's ever present to her heart !' 
 'Twas midnight. Long the patient slept through 
 
 aid 
 Of drugs the doctors left, when suddenly 
 He spoke : " Ah, look, 'tis he ! My brother leads 
 The column on the right, I'll reach his side 
 Or meet my death ! Say, friend, remember this, 
 If fate decrees that I must fail, you'll find 
 The papers here, which give into his hand, — 
 Oh, God ! I'm lost — they're ordered to the rear ! 
 The foe now moves between my friends and me I 
 I see him now, — alas ! he falls, — if death, 
 I'd scarcely yield a sigh, so welcome like 
 Would be to me ! Thank God, 'tis come, I die !" 
 At this he sprang upright, when Edalaine 
 
214 Edalaine. 
 
 Till now a startled listener, had touched 
 His arm. 
 
 " Be quiet, sir, you're safe with friends, 
 Your papers lie beside your hand. All's done 
 That can be done till health returns to you." 
 Amazed, he gazed upon her face. 
 
 " Till health— 
 I thought the end had come, and must I die again ? 
 Who knows ? I may be doomed, alas, 
 To hundred deaths?" 
 
 11 Not so, good friend, the death 
 We most do fear more lenient is, perhaps, 
 Than Pain, who sometimes takes upon himself 
 His semblance pale." 
 
 Soothed once again by words 
 Of hopefulness, the patient slept for hours. 
 When next he woke, long time he lay in thought, 
 Or watched the face of Edalaine that now, 
 Deep lost in meditation, witness bore 
 
Edalaine. 215 
 
 Of ever present grief. At last aware 
 
 He wakeful lay, she bent above the cot. 
 
 " You're better, sir, can aught be done for you?'* 
 
 " I'm better, yes, the calm preceding death. 
 
 My pain is gone, affrighted by the touch 
 
 And chill of death that's creeping through my 
 
 limbs. 
 Nay, — listen, 'tis but truth : Sometimes the vail 
 Is torn from off our sight, revealing sense 
 Of things unknown in health, so now with me. 
 Thine eyes beseech me live for sake of friends, 
 They also tell me trust my woes to thee. 
 Then lend me now thy listening ear to learn 
 A tale that proves our very virtues are, 
 Sometimes, the pitfall of unwary feet. 
 We claim we have the will to make our world 
 When circumstance can weave intangibly 
 A chain, to trip the footsteps of the wise, 
 That once unlinked would make him seem a fool. 
 
2 1 6 Edalaine. 
 
 In youth I came to France. My father's wealth 
 
 Placed all advantages of knowledge 'neath 
 
 My very hand, and more than that, I spent, 
 
 As boys will do, a goodly share of time 
 
 In folly and in search of pleasures vain. 
 
 It fell that, in a home to which my name 
 
 Had given free access, I met a girl 
 
 Whose beauty woke my youthful heart to love. 
 
 Both loved — but vainly. All my wealth could not 
 
 Atone for differences of birth, lest that 
 
 She followed me to share my native land. 
 
 The more they sought to break the bond, the more 
 
 We clung to love, until our fate was sealed. 
 
 We planned a flight, but were betrayed and failed, 
 
 And she was sent from Paris to the home 
 
 Of one who nursed her as a child. But love 
 
 Finds means to balk his enemies, and gold 
 
 Unlocks the strongest bars. I found her nurse. — 
 
 Enough. At last in secret we were wed. 
 
Edalaine. 2 1 7 
 
 The months rolled by, a child was born, and still 
 Her parents thought her banishment but just, 
 And righteous chastisement in that she e'er 
 Declared herself not yet content to yield. 
 Alas ! though safely passed a period 
 We feared might bring discovery, there came 
 A sudden call for me to turn tow'rd home. 
 My father ill, I dared not find excuse, 
 And, torn between two terrible extremes, 
 I said farewell ; but she, as if her strength 
 Refused one grief the more, had breathed her last, 
 'Ere I had reached my home, while till the last 
 She prayed her parents ne'er should know the 
 
 truth. 
 ' Tis useless that I here repeat the grief, 
 Despair and hopelessness my life then knew, 
 And had our child not lived, my strength to face 
 My life had fled with hers. 
 
 At last I hid 
 
2 1 8 Edalaine, 
 
 My heavy grief beneath the garb of priest, 
 
 And so estranged my father's heart. One friend, 
 
 My brother, now remained to me, and he 
 
 Upheld my steps through days of poverty 
 
 And grief, nor knew what drove me thus to wear 
 
 The heavy cross. At last he too, was wed. 
 
 There is no love,' he said, ' on either side, 
 
 It is my father's wish, through pride of birth. 
 
 She weds me for my father's gold, I — well, 
 
 I have not loved and am not like to know 
 
 Its mastery — why should I not please him ? 
 
 His bitterness against one son is quite 
 
 Enough.' 
 
 I shuddered at his coldness then, 
 For, many years my junior, yet he seemed 
 A cynic born. 
 
 His wife was young and gay, 
 But pure and amiable, nor seemed to know 
 How serious 'twas to wed, and, from the first; 
 
Edalaine. 2 1 9 
 
 I vowed, scarce thinking that such oath could 
 
 mean 
 So much, to guard from her all ills that might 
 Beset her path, and wake to grief the man 
 I loved above all else. 
 
 One day she came 
 For absolution — for her faith was mine — 
 ' O holy father, absolution make 
 For sins of thought; a youth has come 
 Into my life, and though we never spoke, 
 His ardent gaze hath taught me life hath much 
 I cannot understand, — I scarce can breathe 
 When looks he so, and 't seems to me I do 
 His will and not mine own.' 
 
 I questioned her, 
 I gave advice, and more, I followed her 
 To see with mine own eyes the youth who thus 
 Had waked a sleeping heart. Alas, alas ! 
 Oh, complications strange of daily life ! 
 
220 Edalaine. 
 
 It was my son ! and yet not claimed as mine. 
 
 He knew me only as his teacher, friend, 
 
 And confidant. I turned tow'rd home half 
 
 stunned. 
 My brother absent oft for months, knew not 
 The peril of unloved, unloving wife. 
 And I scarce knew how best to interfere 
 Without some serious harm. And day by day 
 I waited. Sad mistake ! The torrents vast 
 Of pent-up love are swifter, fiercer far 
 Than else can be." The speaker paused to 
 
 breathe 
 And tried to speak again, " And Geraldine " — 
 But here his voice had fluttered on his lips, 
 A purplish, ghastly white shot o'er his face, 
 The light within his sunken eyes was quenched, 
 And Edalaine, in sudden agony, 
 Hung o'er the senseless form to know if this 
 Indeed were death. It could not, must not be, 
 
E da lame. 221 
 
 That death would rilace his seal upon a truth 
 Important to her heart ! the brother this, 
 And had he not desired to tell the tale 
 To clear himself ? 
 
 At last a flicker touched 
 His lips, 'twas scarce a breath, but like a shade 
 That touches trees and flowers so light we half 
 Believe it fancy of our sight, for clouds 
 Are absent from the sky, it touched his cheek, 
 Then moved across his brow and o'er his lids 
 Had trembled. Once again she touched his lips 
 With cordials, rubbed emaciated hands, and 
 Stroked the pallid brow until the lids 
 Had slowly lifted, but the poor, weak lips 
 Could frame no words. Once more she bathed the 
 
 lips. 
 " Too late, read this!" the lips then whispered her, 
 " I did my best, my best, forgive, for — !" 
 She closed the eyes and gently loosed the hands 
 
222 Edalaine. 
 
 That grasped against his breast the written word, 
 
 Laid straight the Jimbs, then closed the sightless 
 
 eyes, 
 
 And all within the room, scarce consciously, 
 
 Placed carefully to rights. 
 
 " Poor soul ! too late to reach 
 
 The goal forgiveness, yet I feel his life 
 
 Was marked by some great act of sacrifice. 
 
 Be mine the happiness," she mused, " to swift 
 
 Completion crown the work he left undone ! " 
 * * -k **-■** * 
 
 As morning broke upon the slumbering world 
 In presence of the dead, with reverent hands 
 She slipped the ribbon from the written sheets 
 And read : 
 
 " Oh, punishment, more fleet thy course 
 To overtake unwary, stumbling feet ! 
 My cross was weighty ever, now, alas, 
 I sink beneath its added grief and care I 
 
Edalaine. 223 
 
 One day while I absorbed in study sat 
 
 Alone, my son, for so I dare to call 
 
 Him here, burst, unannounced, upon the room. 
 
 His face was pale, his manner wild, distracted. 
 
 Beholding me, he wrung his hands and cried : 
 
 1 Oh, holy father, pity me and take 
 
 My life ! I cannot, dare not live ! My look, 
 
 My touch pollutes this holy place, pollutes 
 
 Your presence ! Pity me, and take my life !' 
 
 Long time it was, while agony my heart 
 
 Had filled with dire imaginings of wrong, 
 
 Ere I could learn from him the crime he wept. 
 
 Oh, shame ! I scarce can pen the wretched tale ! 
 
 He long had followed Geraldine, and felt 
 
 Himself at first by her beloved, and then 
 
 She would not meet his pleading eyes, or glanc'd 
 
 But coldly at him when he passed. He swore 
 
 Some enemy had poisoned her against 
 
 His love, as if she knew his friends or foes! 
 
224 Edalaine. 
 
 And then, Hope bearing him on wide-spread 
 
 wings, 
 He vowed such love as his could only live 
 As echo of her purer heart. 'She loves, 
 As I love her, could I but reach her side !' 
 And more and more his love to madness burned, 
 When, following that day, he found 
 The maid had left her seated in the ' Bois ' 
 Alone, and watching there her lovely face, 
 He saw her head droop 'gainst a tree until 
 She slept. 
 
 * My love!' he whispered bending there, 
 1 What chance but fate that leaves thee to my care?' 
 And .as he gazed, temptation seized and ruled 
 The fevered spirit of his heart. Within 
 His breast he bore an Oriental drug, 
 Most potent 'gainst all evils and disease ; 
 Or drawn into the lungs the dreamy soul 
 
Edalaine. 
 
 225 
 
 Could steep in ecstacy, or warp the will 
 
 To stronger minds. Swift glancing round that 
 
 none 
 Observed, he placed upon her dainty lace 
 A crystal drop from which arose like mist 
 A subtle odor, — first a tremor moved 
 Her blue-veined lids, and then her lips apart 
 Like leaves of roses trembled to a smile. 
 An instant served to bear her from the spot 
 To hail a carriage and be gone. And here 
 The youth with sobs was shook, then spake : 
 
 1 Oh, joy 
 Supreme, to bear her in my arms, my life, 
 My own ! And frenzied quite with joy, I reached 
 My street, dismissed the man, and hastened thro' 
 The court, as yet observed by none. I clasped 
 My treasure ! How I joyed o'er her, and when 
 The drug was nearly spent, her senses scarce 
 Beneath the spell, what new delight to feel 
 
226 Edalaine. 
 
 Her conscious that caresses showered themselves 
 On her, until a dagger pierced my heart, 
 When, in her murmured words I heard her name 
 Another ! " Husband, then you love your wife ! 
 And 'tis no shame to feel my pulse beat high 
 With love for thee !" At words like these my heart 
 Stood still, the rapture of its purer love 
 Then died, and hate for him, desire for her 
 Alone remained — and, holy father, there 
 The innocent doth lie, of crime I've done, 
 Unhappy victim ! while I know too late 
 As, waking to its dread enormity, 
 I've only earned her hatred and contempt.' 
 1 She waked to consciousness?' I sternly asked. 
 ' To consciousness, and yet she never ceased 
 To name me Arnold, and her love.' 
 
 1 Thank God 
 For that !' Forgetting then my priesthood's 
 vows, 
 
Edalaine. 227 
 
 My love for him, with curse I drove him forth. 
 A father's awful curse, and threatened him 
 With instant death, if e'er he ventured near 
 The shores of France. 
 
 I saved my brother's wife 
 From lightest word, for she awoke at home. 
 Ofttimes she wore a strange and puzzled air, 
 Or oped her lips as if she'd speak to me, 
 Then hesitation turned her speech. One day, 
 Confessing sin that she had feared, not done, 
 She said : ' I cannot tell, — but memory 
 Or dreams do mock my thoughts, — my husband 
 
 came, 
 And Oh, my father, love was born in me, 
 A love I never knew before, and then 
 A blank came o'er my dream, and now I know 
 'Twas vain, although my consciousness cannot 
 Gainsay its truth.' 
 
228 Edalaine. 
 
 Some months had passed when you, 
 My brother, came, and oft I trembled lest 
 You saw the change. 
 
 ' My dreams were mockery,' 
 She said to me, ' My husband seems more stern 
 Than e'er before, and when I told my dream 
 He gazed at me with bitter scorn ! His looks 
 Demanded secrets which I ne'er have held.' 
 Alarmed at this, I bore for her a guilt 
 Of which her soul was pure. Her health declined, 
 And more the puzzled air dwelt on her face. 
 I then persuaded her a doctor seek, 
 And he in turn, through sign from me, had pressed 
 Upon her mind the needs of country air. 
 Aware of what now menaced her, I firm 
 Resolved to hold from you the wretched truth, 
 The consequence of other's sin. 
 
 You traced 
 Our steps, and laid the blame of wrong on me. 
 
Edalaine. 229 
 
 Too deeply stunned, I dared not tell the truth, 
 
 I dared not rouse within her mind again 
 
 The image of the youth whose glance had waked 
 
 Her heart, then left it guarded by its own 
 
 Fair innocence. I could not then betray 
 
 My son, and silently I bowed to blame, 
 
 Too late aware it was my greatest sin. 
 
 God knows 'twas much to give in love for thee ; 
 
 For her, and him, the son I cursed and loved. 
 
 That day thy rage had torn me from the spot, 
 
 Yet all my thought was grief for Geraldine, 
 
 Who stood accused of guilt unarmed with proofs 
 
 Of innocence. 
 
 Three years I passed on seas 
 Of trackless breadth before I found the means 
 To turn toward home, and when I came I found 
 No trace of her. I entered the defence 
 Of Paris, there at least I found a clue 
 I thought would lead to thee. I could not die, 
 
230 Edalaine. 
 
 And hope to sleep in peace, with weight of wrongs 
 
 Like these upon my soul. Alas, I fail. 
 
 The changing scenes, the perils of these times 
 
 Do mock me all, God grant my strength fail not." 
 
 And here the story ended, while his pen 
 
 Had added, with a trembling hand, the words: 
 
 11 In that I loved thee much, my best beloved, 
 
 My brother, suffered I the more. Alas ! 
 
 It hath not spared to thee a bitter grief. 
 
 How can we mortals choose the way ? Oar best 
 
 Is oft the worst, and he who tangles first 
 
 The tiny threads that weave the mesh of life, 
 
 Is tripped thereby his weary life-time through! 
 
 Forgive, my brother, Geraldine, forgive, 
 
 And love at least thy brother's memory, 
 
 Who'd gladly give his worthless life for thee 
 
 And thine. M And then bedewed with many a tear, 
 
 Was traced the boyhood's name, and Edalaine, 
 
Edalaine. 231 
 
 Witli swelling heart exclaimed, " God grant to him 
 
 His written prayer !" 
 
 # •* # * * * * 
 
 Not at an end the cares of Edalaine. 
 
 The dead to earth restored, her living charge 
 
 Was Geraldine, whose fluctuations 'twixt 
 
 The grave and life, had filled her anxious heart 
 
 With sad misgivings. 
 
 Geraldine had said : 
 11 The end is come, why seek to baffle death? 
 The summer ends with winter blasts ; the leaves, 
 When nature fills requirements of her law, 
 Do fall to mingle with the earth again. 
 I do not ask why was I born, who knows ? 
 The butterfly that flutters through one day 
 Has like, less need to ask," and Edalaine — 
 " Hush, child, the moths devote to tasks of love 
 Tow'rd fellow creatures, must have taught thee laws 
 Of recompense. Look back upon your youth 
 
232 
 
 Edalaine. 
 
 That now seems distant, less from years than pain. 
 Had joy the conscious meaning of to-day ? 
 " The meaning of all earthly joy is past. 
 To thrilling of one word life's pulses stir, 
 And that would prove, I think, the golden key 
 To open wide the doors of future bliss. 
 Forgiveness mine, my pilgrimage is done. 
 Nay, Edalaine, chide not the wish to die. 
 'Tis God that taketh thus the sting of death, 
 By dimming worldly joys when comes the hour 
 To go — this peaceful longing to be gone, — 
 The blessing from His hand, disarming death. 
 The sweetest joys of life would seem a weight 
 I could not choose, and if I long to hear 
 One voice again, 'tis that I know while sweet 
 To be forgiven, so forgiving brings 
 Its blessedness, and I my saddened life 
 Would end with twice-told blessings crowned." 
 
E da lain c. 233 
 
 And she, 
 The listener, was silent. " Will he come ?" 
 " You know, dear Edalaine," the other spoke, 
 " I never loved the man I wed and wronged, 
 Until too late. I was a child to whom 
 They pictured life of freedom ; sacrificed 
 My youth to spare the name my father bore. 
 I ne'er had learned as yet what freedom meant. 
 And when I might have learned, 'twas there I 
 
 failed ! 
 Oh, Edalaine ! What have I done to bring 
 Upon my life and those who claimed respect, 
 Such shame?" And like a wounded deer, her 
 
 eyes 
 Bespoke her agony, then drowned themselves 
 In tears whose passion frightened Edalaine. 
 
 Her plaint, the only witness of her grief, 
 Seemed come from out a tortured heart that half 
 
234 Edalaine. 
 
 Was frightened when 'twas done, that she had 
 
 dared 
 Complain, though suddenly it swept across 
 Her weary heart the wrong she had endured. 
 " Be calm, dear Geraldine, I pray, such grief 
 Endangers life, I could not tell it you 
 Before, you were too ill, and now I wish 
 You were content with sole assurance that 
 The accusation 'gainst your name must be 
 Withdrawn, by proofs that echo from beyond 
 The grave. There is no conscious wrong for which 
 To plead forgiveness.'' So at last she soothed 
 The stricken one. 
 
 At midnight came a sound 
 Of clattering hoofs, and softly Edalaine 
 Had led the way to bed-side of her friend. 
 " There's some one here, dear Geraldine." 
 
 " I know," 
 She said, " I heard the horseman, then the step 
 
Edalaine. 235 
 
 Of Arnold. God hath marked the sparrow s fall, 
 I die in peace if he — " 
 
 And Arnold clasped 
 Her in his arms. 
 
 11 Poor, suffering dove ! 
 What sacrifice would not be made if all 
 That's past could be undone. Poor Geraldine ! 
 Forgiveness from your lips were sweet. To ask 
 I dare not." Edalaine then softly closed 
 The door upon a scene she thought to see 
 Was worth the being born. 
 
 When later she 
 Returned, the dawn was resting o'er the land ; 
 Already had it drawn in clear-cut lines 
 Each branch or vine that clambered o'er the Church 
 That served them in this time of need as house 
 Of refuge for the sick, and as the wind 
 Had swayed religiously the trees, it seemed 
 To Edalaine that Peace then moved across 
 
236 Edalaine. 
 
 The scene to leave a benediction o'er 
 The sleeping world. 
 
 Like chiseled marble lay 
 The lovely face of Geraldine against 
 Her husband's breast, but when he spoke, she 
 
 oped 
 Her eyes and smiled on Edalaine. 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 And then he stooped to catch her murmured 
 
 words. 
 " Remember — love, my — Edalaine — dear Ar — !" 
 The weary life was done. 
 
 The longed-for peace 
 Had come to France, and while the scars of strife 
 Must live for generations in the hearts 
 Of men, time covered o'er its ruder touch 
 On wall, on temple ; tower, of war-swept towns, 
 And once again fair Paris ruled the world 
 
Edalaine. 237 
 
 Of fashion ; once again awoke to art, 
 And lured its students from all lands and climes. 
 The life of Edalaine, since fearlessly 
 She bade a last farewell to Arnold Deith, 
 Had lost its charm — 'twas when he told to her 
 The dying words of Geraldine and said : 
 "The angel choir must weep if we do part." 
 " Twere better that their tears bedew the right 
 We do, than weep a curse I'd bring mankind." 
 And then she told him what her cross must be. 
 " Oh, Edalaine, thou art too sensible, 
 To let the chatter of those ignorant 
 Old dames such gloomy heritage portend 
 To wrong thy strong young life and wreck my 
 love. 
 
 And if thy fear and reasoning were just, 
 Who has more right to dedicate their life 
 To thee, what'er it bring ?" 
 
238 Edalazne. 
 
 " Thou, Arnold Deith, 
 Wouldst make such sacrifice, wouldst choose a 
 
 wife 
 Whose light may go out utterly, not pale 
 To silence while the senses fail ; their last, 
 Best sense, the seeing, hearing, touching thee? 
 Not that, but go out horribly, one sense 
 Betraying all the rest. Mine eyes see hate 
 Within thine eyes ; this life discolored, till 
 The strangeness of my glance would sting thee 
 
 more 
 Than venom of a serpent, telling thee 
 It is thy love's — thy wife's, or if escaped — 
 (And here, like rose that sleeps within a shell, 
 The color dyed the rounded cheek, then swept 
 Off white the coral lips) and if escaped 
 (I have escaped as yet) a score of years, 
 How could you bear our children weighing words 
 Of her — their mother, glances sharp as prick 
 
Edalaine. 239 
 
 Of needles shoved straight to the eye, not less 
 The sure that furtively it's done?" 
 
 " Nay, love," 
 " Nay, Arnold, perfect love like thine was meant 
 For no such sacrifice in saying yes, 
 As woman's lonely heart would lead me do, 
 For building me a niche above the needs 
 Of love, my weary wings oft flutter prone to earth 
 Of other women, till my reason cries 
 Who, what art thou, that seekst to float an isle, 
 And live without the distance man proscribed 
 Of air, nor breathe like them the oxygen allowed, 
 And when thy lungs hath used its store, flat falls 
 Thy weight as theirs might do. In saying yes, 
 This yes of other women, easy said, 
 I'd feel a doom pronounced to happiness 
 That now lives sole in knowledge of this love, 
 That is so great it deems no sacrifice, 
 To still declare in face of witnesses 
 
240 Edalaine. 
 
 Like these, my life long fears, — I love thee, love, 
 My Edalaine, and live to wear thee on 
 My breast." 
 
 The words like burning lava poured 
 Across her lips that seemed, with all her form, 
 A carven image cold to look upon. 
 And once she smiled — why, tears were not so sad, 
 And she who never spoke that all her form 
 Was not in consonance and thrilled to tips 
 Of rosy fingers, she, whose earnest soul 
 Was animate in every graceful curve 
 Of neck, of wrist, of silence' self, now stood 
 A frozen image of herself, and spoke 
 As if she feared to hear her own sad words. 
 And he who listened was not, strange to tell, 
 Quite dumb to understanding of her strange 
 And frozen way, and then, as if to melt 
 The ice with which she proudly clothed herself, 
 He caught her in his arms and wept o'er her, 
 
Edalaine. 241 
 
 With sudden kisses wiping out each tear 
 That fell from his upon her drooping face. 
 Releasing gently hands that held her fast, 
 She looked at him again. 
 
 " No hope?" Alas, 
 The gloom remained within her eyes, and there 
 He read his doom, and so once more he went 
 'Midst dangers, while she turned to walk alone. 
 But art had lost its power, or else she found 
 Her labors there too far from definite 
 Fruition of their useful ends, and so, 
 Oft questioned with herself, if life were not 
 Unhinged, or else quite narrowed to the aim 
 Existence only, then confessed to self — 
 A woman, not an angel, mind — confessed 
 Discouragement that art in song — the song 
 That reached perfection, found no wider scope 
 For mind, then technical precision, like 
 Some mechanism which, once set, will make 
 
242 Edalaine. 
 
 Its ceaseless round. A wheel within a wheel 
 Will do the same, or engine at the touch 
 Of master hand will speed the iron horse. 
 And yet when borne upon the soaring wings 
 Of soul-inspiring verse and perfect sound, 
 These leaden weights, reality, were lost, 
 And only sense of freedom — love, what love 
 Should be, enthralled her being then, until 
 Intoxicated with its pain or joy, 
 She'd cry : " How blessed is the power of song!" 
 But oftener of late she felt constrained 
 To muse : " 'Tis art alone I give the world, 
 For well I know the difference. My song 
 Has lost its soul," and then, half smilingly, 
 " It sure has gone a-gypsying," the smile 
 Then dying to a sigh, she thought on one 
 Who urged her once to sing, and, since he went, 
 She'd rather weep. 
 
E da lain e. 243 
 
 What weather vanes we are, 
 We women, fit to do, we think, what men 
 Have done, and then a passing face sets nerves 
 A-tremble, till our awkward hand has blurred 
 The figures on the black-board of our lives, 
 And, all at once, the problem (nearly solved 
 We thought) has lost its interest. We'd rub 
 It wholly out but that we'd shame our past 
 Perverseness. Now we wish, without the need 
 Of knowing 'tis a wish, that he might come, 
 And, holding fast resisting hands (we still 
 Resist,) would take the sponge and deftly blot 
 It out and set his problems there, or else 
 Solve ours for us with flattering words, " You soil 
 Those gentle hands, I see you have it, leave 
 To me the finishing, while you look on." 
 And then, safe sheltered in his arms, what ease 
 To see mistakes and point them out, till he 
 Thinks woman's wit beyond his own. 
 
244 Edalaine. 
 
 One night 
 She stood before a listening throng that drank 
 The music that her lips poured forth, as if 
 Athirst for all she gave. With every note 
 They longed for more, when all at once a cry 
 Rang through the place, that sent a thrill of fear 
 And horror to each trembling heart. 
 
 " Dear friends," 
 The singer spoke, and something in her look 
 Made each one oause to listen. 
 
 " I am 'twixt 
 The fire and you. I then beseech you, one 
 And all, take no alarm, while here I wait 
 Your quiet exit, life depends on that." 
 And then, as if her will held back the ones 
 Who felt themselves hemmed in by surging crowds, 
 The tide swept slowly out, their latest glance 
 Tow'rd her who stood like gleaming angel that 
 Had said, "Obey, and I will give you life." 
 
Edalaine. 245 
 
 Till last the waiting ones who watched her face, 
 Thereon to read its hope or fear, were free 
 To go, when some cried out to her in fear, 
 As now they saw the darting flames above 
 Her head, or dropping brands of fire. And one 
 Rushed back to seize her bodily. But no, 
 Before the stage was reached, she moved aside. 
 The lines that held the curtain burned away, 
 It fell with stunning crash between the two, 
 A sheet of angry flame. The stranger paused 
 To feel an iron hand upon his arm. 
 " Go, seek your friends, 'tis mine the task to save 
 Or perish there with her !" And then the smoke 
 Swept through the place and hid the face of him 
 Who spoke, to disappear amidst the flames. 
 The fierce, mad element licked out each mark 
 Of art within the place, devoured the walls 
 With wild insatiate hate, and filled the hearts 
 Of those that watched, with awe and thankfulness 
 
246 Edalaine. 
 
 At their escape, or agony of fear 
 For those who not yet found might be amidst 
 The flames. And when a cry of joy had sped 
 From lip to lip, they knew that Edalaine 
 Had been from peril freed, unconscious yet 
 To what had passed or loving words of him 
 Who imperiled life in saving her. 
 
 The morn 
 That marked the horror of the night with charr'd* 
 Remains, revealed that five poor victims lay 
 Beneath the ruined walls, and Edalaine 
 The sacred duty took upon herself 
 To give them kindly burial, and wept 
 Above the blackened forms of those who were 
 Her humble aids while striving so to reach 
 True excellence. 
 
 * Five pupils of Francesco Lamperti were burned in an 
 Opera House at Nice, and Julia Valda, an American then 
 singing there, took charge of the remains. The maestro 
 was unable to continue his duties for a year, such was the 
 shock to his nerves. — Author. 
 
Edalaine. 247 
 
 One day when all was past, 
 And wonderingly she mused upon her own 
 Escape, and marveled that she ne'er could learn 
 The name of him who saved her life that night, 
 The servant entered, bringing her a card. 
 " Dear Edalaine," it read, " I scarce dare come, 
 But something tells me that misfortune claims, 
 As ever, gentle treatment at your hands, 
 And I have such a longing for the voice 
 Of some old friend, I cannot wait the day 
 My ills have passed from me." And she with heart 
 Whose strong emotion choked her voice, had said : 
 11 Please send to me the bearer of this card." 
 Then looked as if she fain would flee the room. 
 And when a moment later, pale but calm, 
 The face of Arnold Deith, — the broad, white brow 
 The full and speaking eyes, had met her own, 
 She stood a palpitating presence, while 
 The well-known music of his voice had said, 
 

 248 Edalaine. 
 
 In playful tone, the speech pathetic made 
 By truthfulness : 
 
 " You see we stand apart. 
 You needs must come to me, for though I still 
 Can clasp your hands in two strong, friendly ones, 
 I cannot reach your side quite yet without 
 This aid." And here he marked with glance a 
 
 crutch. 
 She did not move, but seemed denied the power. 
 Then, o'er her face there grew a glowing light, 
 As, struggling with a doubt, it breaks away. 
 The light transfused her eyes and speaking face, 
 And with its glory she had seemed transformed. 
 A mantle that had wrapped her round, seemed 
 
 then 
 To fall away, — the darkness of the doubt, 
 And radiantly, as if she trod on air 
 Or borne along by his desire, she reached 
 His outstretched waiting arms, for o'er his soul 
 
Edalaitie. . 249 
 
 The light had shed its glory, bringing joy 
 
 He thought had been unborn for him. All earth 
 
 Had turned to chaos as these two did solve 
 
 The problem in a kiss, whose lingering touch 
 
 Of passion breathed a sigh whose rapture swelled 
 
 The chord of ecstacy to break against 
 
 The shores of infinite bliss in shuddering moan. 
 
 And she at last had voiced : " I might have known 
 
 Who came to save a life I held but light 
 
 If sacrificed for full a thousand lives !" 
 
 And he with happy eyes: " Just that, I claimed 
 
 What you had thrown away as valueless. 
 
 You see," he laughed, " my generosity 
 
 Was born of earth and is perhaps at fault. 
 
 The life once yours is mine to hold and keep, 
 
 I would not, if you wished, restore it you." 
 
 At which, though silently, she looked at him, 
 
 Her tender smile was tremulous with tears. 
 
 The twilight sank to dusk, the dark to night, 
 
250 Edalaine. 
 
 And still their thoughts were linked in ready 
 
 words, 
 The leaves of roses pricked together each 
 With tiny thorn, as children weave in play 
 Their garlands. So they made, more gravely, 
 
 shroud 
 To twine about the past at burial. 
 And some without the thorns were garlanded, 
 To strew, with eager heart, the path that stretched 
 Beyond their feet. So strange that emblems serve 
 So differently. We weep for grief, and yet 
 How easy 'tis to show'r our joys with tears. 
 A lark shot upward, caught the growing light 
 Upon the wing, and sent to sleeping earth 
 Ecstatic notes that herald joyous morn. 
 The house cat stretched upon the narrow edge 
 Of latticed fence, oped wide her green-gray eyes, 
 To bathe them with the lambent light, and touch 
 To yellow gold their sleepy disks, then stretched 
 Her suppleness to lazier comfort. Leaves, 
 
E da lain e. 251 
 
 Dyed black by night, assumed their dainty green, 
 And then a flame of red shot o'er the sea 
 Before he rose and whisoered : 
 
 11 Edalaine, 
 My pilgrimage is like the conqueror 
 Who went from home in humble guise, but who 
 Returning wears the royal crown and robes. 
 'Tis more than I deserved, or hoped of late." 
 " Ah, hush !" she said, " the conqueror must still 
 Be merciful in dealing with the conquered, 
 Or like worthy diplomat, receive a gift 
 As if the favor were conferred else that 
 My wilfulness betray again my heart. 
 Your pow'r has waked me from the night-mare 
 
 fear, 
 And lo ! at your command, ' Believe,' I place 
 My fingers wonderingly within the wound 
 That's left by cruel nails upon the cross, 
 And confident reply, ' I do believe.' 
 And generous, you promise mc rny art— 
 
252 
 
 Edalaine. 
 
 Though man, in thinking it a bauble toy. 
 
 But I accept the gift as if you knew 
 
 Its worth. I willingly o'erlook the slight 
 
 In recognition of the sacrifice, 
 
 It may, perchance (though but a toy), demand. 
 
 I know at last the loneliness of fame, 
 
 The incompleteness of a life when once 
 
 The magic hand has swept its slumbering strings 
 
 To sound of love. I now can sing as ne'er 
 
 Before. My life divided 'twixt my art 
 
 And thee, had lost its power. Once more I know 
 
 Completion, and can verify the truth. 
 
 How slow we are to grow in mind ! I thought 
 
 My art had nothing more, because my life 
 
 Stood still. But art is broader, higher yet 
 
 Than fame. To stop at fame were robbing art 
 
 Of highest worth, the inner consciousness 
 
 Of what art is, not comprehended quite 
 
 By those who dip our name in crucible 
 
 That luminous, is moulded to the word 
 
Edalaiue. 253 
 
 Of 'Fame.' 
 
 And he, with slowly budding smile : 
 " But what will say the world of him who lets 
 The bird once caged, wing other flights?" 
 
 " Ah, there 
 We meet again the blindness that hath naught 
 Of sight beyond the meagreness of fame. 
 One says, ' I'd never let any wife take wing.' 
 Confessing so, and unaware, the man's 
 Pure selfishness. That man would let his wife 
 Bake bread, or mend his vest, go fetch his boots, 
 His slippers, cap, his coat or wine ; do all 
 Those things a servant better might have done, 
 Learned only in such usefulness of life, 
 And thinks himself unselfish that he takes 
 From out her hand life's chosen work. He clips 
 Her ready wings, until, no matter what 
 Her flutterings may be, she fain must stay 
 Content to hop around the homestead hearth, 
 To peck the crumbs there thrown to her, and ape 
 
254 Edalaine, 
 
 Humility that's born without the wings." 
 He smiles indulgently, to hear her talk 
 Half bitterly, and half with that contempt 
 That's born observing yet the serfdom laid 
 On womanhood, and whispered : 
 
 " What of her 
 Whose noble strength has stemmed the storms ? 
 
 Will she 
 At last be glad to fold awhile the wings ; 
 Those weary wings, and rest at home with me?" 
 " How, traitor, born a diplomat, I need 
 Not say, be diplomatic still, you'd have 
 Your way, convincing me I have my own !" 
 " Oh, sweetest lips that ever spoke a truth, 
 You steal my very thoughts and so I seal, 
 The future while your lips are formed to shape 
 The dear impertinence, — ' Can love e'er tell 
 What love may do?' " 
 
 FINIS. 
 

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