Three Women Part 3

The change is too sudden to be of much worth; The deepest convictions are slowest of birth.

Conversion, I hold, to be earnest and lasting, Begins with repentance and praying and fasting, And (begging your pardon for such a bold speech), You seem, sir, a stranger to all and to each Of these ways of salvation.

_Roger:_

Since yesterday, miss, When, unseen, I first saw you (believe me in this), I have deeply repented my sins of the past.

To-night I will pray, and to-morrow will fast-- Or, make it next week, when my sh.o.r.e appet.i.te May be somewhat subdued in its ravenous might.

_Maurice:_

That's the way of the orthodox sinner! He waits Until time or indulgence or misery sates All his appet.i.tes, then his repentance begins, When his sins cease to please, then he gives up his sins And grows pious. Now prove you are morally brave By actually giving up something you crave!

We have frica.s.seed chicken and strawberry cake For our dinner to-day.

_Roger:_

For dear principle's sake I could easily do what you ask, were it not Most unkind to Miss Ruth, who gave labor and thought To that menu, preparing it quite to my taste.

_Ruth:_

But the thought and the dinner will both go to waste, If we linger here longer; and Mabel, I see, Is impatient to go to her duties.

_Roger:_

The bee Is reluctant to turn from the lily although The lily may obviously wish he would go And leave her to muse in the sunlight alone.

Yet when the rose calls him, his sorrow, I own, Has its recompense. So from delight to delight I fly with my wings honeyladen.

Good night.

_Oh, love is like the dawnlight That turns the dark to day, And love is like the deep night With secrets hid away._

_And love is like the moonlight Where tropic Summers glow, And love is like the twilight When dreams begin to grow._

_Oh, love is like the sunlight That sets the world ablaze.

And love is like the moonlight With soft illusive rays._

_And love is like the starlight That glimmers o'er the skies.

And love is like the far light That s.h.i.+nes from G.o.d's great eyes._

III.

Maurice Somerville from his turreted den Looked out of the window and laid down his pen.

A soft salty wind from the water was blowing, Below in the garden sat Ruth with her sewing.

And stretched on the gra.s.s at her feet Roger lay With a book in his hand.

Through the ripe August day, Piped the Katydids' voices, Jack Frost's tally-ho Commanding Queen Summer to pack up and go.

Maurice leaned his head on the cas.e.m.e.nt and sighed, Strong and full in his heart surged love's turbulent tide.

And thoughts of the woman he wors.h.i.+ped with longing Took shape and like angels about him came thronging.

The world was all Mabel! her exquisite face Seemed etched on the sunlight and gave it its grace; Her eyes made the blue of the heavens, the sun Was her wonderful hair caught and coiled into one s.h.i.+ning ma.s.s. With a reverent, wors.h.i.+pful awe, It was Mabel, fair Mabel, dear Mabel he saw, When he looked up to G.o.d.

They had been much together Through all the bright stretches of midsummer weather, Ruth, Roger, and Mabel and he. Scarce a day But the four were united in work or in play.

And much of the play to a man or a maid Not in love had seemed labor. Recital, charade, Garden party, church festival, musical, hop, Were all planned by Miss Lee without respite or stop.

The poor were the richer; school, hospital, church, The heathen, the laborer left in the lurch By misfortune, the orphan, the indigent old, Our kind Lady Bountiful aided with gold Which she filched from the pockets of pleasure--G.o.d's spoil, And G.o.d's blessing will follow such lives when they toil Through an infinite sympathy.

Fair Mabel Lee Loved to rule and to lead. She was eager to be In the eyes of the public. That modern day craze Possessed her in secret, and this was its phase.

An innocent, even commendable, fad Which filled empty larders and cheered up the sad.

She loved to do good. But, alas! in her heart, She loved better still the authoritative part Which she played in her town.

'Neath the saint's aureole Lurked the feminine tyrant who longed to control, And who never would serve; but her sway was so sweet, That her world was contented to bow at her feet.

Who toils in the great public vineyard must needs Let other hands keep his own garden from weeds.

So busy was Mabel with charity fairs She gave little thought to her home or its cares.

Mrs. Lee, like the typical modern day mother, Was maid to her daughter; the father and brother Were slaves at her bidding; an excellent plan To make a tyrannical wife for some man.

Yet where was the man who, beholding the grace Of that slight girlish creature, and watching her face With its infantile beauty and sweetness, would dare Think aught but the rarest of virtues dwelt there?

Rare virtues she had, but in commonplace ones Which make happy husbands and home loving sons She was utterly lacking. Ruth Somerville saw In sorrow and silence this blemis.h.i.+ng flaw In the friend whom she loved with devotion! Maurice Saw only the angel with eyes full of peace.

The faults of plain women are easily seen.

But who cares to peer back of beauty's fair screen For things which are ugly to look on?

The lover Is not quite in love when his sharp eyes discover The flaws in his jewel.

Maurice from his room Looked dreamily down on the garden of bloom, Where Ruth sat with Roger; he smiled as he thought How quickly the world sated cynic was brought Into harness by Cupid. The man mad with drink, And the man mad with love, is quite certain to think All other men drunkards or lovers. In truth Maurice had expected his friend to love Ruth.

"She was young, she was fair; with her bright sunny art She could scatter the mists from his world befogged heart.

She could give him the one heaven under G.o.d's dome, A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home.

And he? why of course he would wors.h.i.+p her! When Cupid finds the soft spot in the hearts of such men They are ideal husbands." Maurice Somerville Felt the whole world was shaping itself to his will.

And his heart stirred with joy as, by thought necromancy, He made the near future unfold to his fancy, And saw Ruth the bride of his friend, and the place She left vacant supplied with the beauty and grace Of this woman he longed for, the love of his life, Fair Mabel, his angel, his sweet spirit wife.

Maurice to his desk turned again and once more Began to unburden his bosom and pour His heart out on paper--the poet's relief, When drunk with life's rapture or sick with its grief.

_Song._

When shall I tell my lady that I love her?

Will it be while the suns.h.i.+ne woos the world, Or when the mystic twilight bends above her, Or when the day's bright banners all are furled?

Will wild winds shriek, or will the calm stars glow, When I shall tell her that I love her so, I love her so?

I think the sun should s.h.i.+ne in all his glory; Again, the twilight seems the fitting time.

Yet sweet dark night would understand the story, So old, so new, so tender, so sublime.

Wild storms should rage to chord with my desire, Yet faithful stars should s.h.i.+ne and never tire, And never tire.

Ah, if my lady will consent to listen, All hours, all times, shall hear my story told.

In amorous dawns, on nights when pale stars glisten In dim hushed gloamings and in noon hours bold, While thunders crash, and while the winds breathe low, Will I re-tell her that I love her so.

I love her so.