Undeceived, Some careless words might open Vivian's eyes And spoil my plans. So reasoning in this wise, To all their sallies I in jest replied, To naught assented, and yet naught denied, With Roy unchanged remaining, confident Each understood just what the other meant.
If I grew weary of this double part, And self-imposed deception caused my heart Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze On Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal, As if she dwelt above the things material And held communion with the angels. So I fed my strength and courage through the days.
What time the harvest moon rose full and clear And cast its ling'ring radiance on the earth, We made a feast; and called from far and near, Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth.
Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro; But none more sweet than Helen's. Robed in white, She floated like a vision through the dance.
So frailly fragile and so phantom fair, She seemed like some stray spirit of the air, And was pursued by many an anxious glance That looked to see her fading from the sight Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.
And noble men and gallants graced the scene:
Yet none more noble or more grand of mien Than Vivian--broad of chest and shoulder, tall And finely formed, as any Grecian god Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod.
His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose, Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes That could be cold as steel in winter air, Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.
Weary of mirth and music, and the sound Of tripping feet, I sought a moment's rest Within the lib'ry, where a group I found Of guests, discussing with apparent zest Some theme of interest--Vivian, near the while, Leaning and listening with his slow, odd smile.
"Now, Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you,"
Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. "We Have been discussing right before his face, All unrebuked by him, as you may see, A poem lately published by our friend:
And we are quite divided. I contend The poem is a libel and untrue.
I hold the fickle women are but few, Compared with those who are like yon fair moon That, ever faithful, rises in her place Whether she's greeted by the flowers of June Or cold and dreary stretches of white space."
"Oh!" cried another, "Mr. Dangerfield, Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield The crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain, Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane."
All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me, I answered lightly, "My young friend, I fear You chose a most unlucky simile To prove the truth of woman. To her place The moon does rise--but with a different face Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear The poem read, before I can consent To pass my judgment on the sentiment."
All clamoured that the author was the man To read the poem: and, with tones that said More than the cutting, scornful words he read, Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:
HER LOVE.
The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman's love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every grass blade on the plain - A woman's love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away - A woman's love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part.
We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man--but just to hear The praise he whispers in her ear, Herself, not him, she holdeth dear - Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, Then throws them lightly by and laughs, Too weak to understand their pain.
As changeful as the winds that blow From every region, to and fro, Devoid of heart, she cannot know The suffering of a human heart.
I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyes Saw the slow colour to my forehead rise; But lightly answered, toying with my fan, "That sentiment is very like a man!
Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong; We're only frail and helpless, men are strong; And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing And make a shroud out of their suffering, And drag the corpse about with them for years.
But we?--we mourn it for a day with tears!
And then we robe it for its last long rest, And being women, feeble things at best, We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low:
Immortal ***ton he! whom Venus sends To do this service for her earthly friends, The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep."
The laugh that followed had not died away Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me to say The band was tuning for our waltz, and so Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent, And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went Out on the cool moonlighted portico, And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent His smiling eyes upon me, as he said:
"I'll try the mesmerism of my touch To work a cure: be very quiet now, And let me make some passes o'er your brow.
Why, how it throbs! you've exercised too much!
I shall not let you dance again to-night."
Just then before us, in the broad moonlight, Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face To catch the teasing and mischievous glance Of Helen's eyes, as, heated by the dance, Leaning on Vivian's arm, she sought this place.
"I beg your pardon," came in that round tone Of his low voice. "I think we do intrude."
Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone Ere I could speak or change my attitude.
