Three Women Part 7

New York in the midsummer seems like the gay Upper servant who rules with the mistress away.

She entertains friends from all parts of the earth; Her streets are alive with a fict.i.tious mirth.

She flaunts her best clothes with a devil-may-care Sort of look, and her parks wear a riotous air.

There is something unwholesome about her at dusk; Her trees, and her gardens, seem scented with musk; And you feel she has locked up the door of the house And, half drunk with the heat, wanders forth to carouse, With virtue, ambition and industry all Packed off (moth-protected) with garments for Fall.

Zoe felt out of step with the town. In the song Which it sang, where each note was a soul of the throng, She seemed the one discord. Books gave no distraction.

She cared not for study, her heart longed for action, For pleasure, excitement. Wild impulses, new To her mind, came like demons and urged her to do All sorts of mad things. Mischief breathed through the air.

One could do as one liked in New York--who would care-- Who would know save the G.o.d who had left her alone In his world, unprotected, unloved? From her own Restless mind and sick heart she attempted once more To escape. One reads much of gay life at the sh.o.r.e-- Narragansett, she fancied, would suit her. The sea Would at least prove a friend; and, perchance, there might be Some heart, like her own, seeking comrades.h.i.+p there.

The days brought no friend. But the moist, salty air Was a stimulant, giving existence new charms.

The sea was a lover who opened his arms Every day to embrace her. And life in this place Held something of pleasure, and sweetness and grace, Though the eyes of the men were too ardent and bold, And the eyes of the women suspicious and cold, She yet had the sea--the sea, strong and mighty, Both father and mother of fair Aphrodite.

VII.

Mabel grieved for her child with a sorrow sincere, But she bowed to the will of her Maker. No tear Came to soften the hard, stony look in the eye Of her husband; she heard no complaint and no sigh From his lips, but he turned with impatience whenever She spoke of religion, or made one endeavor To lead his thoughts up from the newly turned sod Where the little form slept, to its spirit with G.o.d.

Long hours by that grave, Roger pa.s.sed, and alone.

The woes of her neighbors his wife made her own, But her husband she pointed to Christ; and in grief Prayed for light to be cast on his dark unbelief.

She flung herself into good works more and more, And saw not that the look which her husband's face wore Was the look of a man starved for love. In the mold Of a nun she was fas.h.i.+oned, chaste, pa.s.sionless, cold.

(Such women sin more when they take marriage ties Than the love-maddened creature who lawlessly lies In the arms of the man whom she wors.h.i.+ps. The child Not conceived in true love leaves the mother defiled.

Though an army of clergymen sanction her vows, G.o.d sees "illegitimate" stamped on the brows Of her offspring. Love only can legalize birth In His eyes--all the rest is but sp.a.w.n of the earth.)

Mabel Lee, as the maid, had been flattered and pleased By the pa.s.sion of Roger; his wild wooing teased That inquisitive sense, half a fault, half a merit, Which the daughters of Eve, to a woman, inherit.

His love fanned her love for herself to a glow; She was stirred by the thought she could stir a man so.

That was all. She had nothing to give in return.

One can't light a fire with no fuel to burn; And the love Roger dreamed he could rouse in her soul Was not there to be wakened. He stood at his goal As the Arctic explorer may finally stand, To see all about him an ice prisoned land, White, beautiful, useless.

Some women are chaste, Like the snows which envelop the bleak arid waste Of the desert; once melted, alas! what remains But the poor, unproductive, dry soil of the plains?

The flora of Cupid will never be found, However he toil there, to thrive in such ground.

Mabel Montrose was held in the highest esteem By her neighbors; I think neighbors everywhere deem Such women to be all that's n.o.ble. They sighed When they spoke of her husband; they told how she tried To convert him, and how they had thought for a season His mind was bent Christ-ward; and then, with no reason, He seemed to drift back to the world, and grew jealous Of Mabel, and thought her too faithful and zealous In duty to others.

The death of his child Only hardened his heart against G.o.d. He grew wild, Took to drink; spent a week at a time in the city, Neglecting his saint of a wife--such a pity.

It was true. Our friends keep a sharp eye on our deeds But the fine interlining of causes--who heeds?

The long list of heartaches which lead to rash acts Would bring pity, not blame, if the world knew the facts.

There are women so terribly free from all evil, They discourage a man, and he goes to the devil.

There are people whose virtues result in appalling, And they prove a great aid to his majesty's calling.

Roger's wife rendered goodness so dreary and cold, His tendril-like will lost its poor little hold On the new better life he was longing to reach, And slipped back to the dust. Oh! to love, not to preach.

Is a woman's true method of helping mankind.

The sinner is won through his heart, not his mind.

As the sun loves the seed up to life through the sod, So the patience of love brings a soul to its G.o.d.

But when love is lacking, the devil is sure To stand in the pathway with some sort of lure.

Roger turned to the world for distraction. The world Smiled a welcome, and then like an octopus curled All its tentacles 'round him, and dragged him away Into deep, troubled waters.

One late summer day He awoke with a headache, which will not surprise, When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise, And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier,"

Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clear Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon While his limbs were like lead.

In the glare of the noon, The follies of night show their makeup, and seem Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream.

The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine.

Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth."

The beach swarmed with bathers--to be more exact, Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact, Many beautiful women bathed but in the light Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight, Not the sea. From the sea's l.u.s.ty outreaching arms They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour, The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath, Roger paused in confusion, because in his path Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent On the form of a woman who leisurely went From her bathing house down to the beach. "There she goes,"

Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes With her whole ample weight. "What, the one with red hair?

Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare."

A man pa.s.sing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned, Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here, And at present the topic of talk at the Pier."

Roger followed their glances in time to behold For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold, And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white.

Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight.

It was half an hour afterward, possibly more, As Roger swam farther and farther from sh.o.r.e, With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain, That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain.

Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave Shone a woman's white face. "Keep your courage; be brave; I am coming," he shouted. "Turn over and float."

His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boat Through the billows. Six overhand strokes brought him close To the woman, who lay like a wilted white rose On the waves. "Now, be careful," he cried; "lay your hand Well up on my shoulder; my arms, understand, Must be free; do not touch them---please follow my wishes, Unless you are anxious to fatten the fishes."

The woman obeyed him. "You need not fear me,"

She replied, "I am wholly at home in the sea.

I knew all the arts of the swimmer, I thought, But confess I was frightened when suddenly caught With a cramp in my knee at this distance from sh.o.r.e."

With slow even breast strokes the strong swimmer bore His fair burden landward. She lay on the billows As lightly as if she were resting on pillows Of down. She relinquished herself to the sea And the man, and was saved; though G.o.d knows both can be False and fickle enough; yet resistance or strife, On occasions like this, means the forfeit of life.

The throng of the bathers had scattered before Roger carried his burden safe into the sh.o.r.e And saw her emerge from the water, a place Where most women lose every vestige of grace Or of charm. But this mermaid seemed fairer than when She had challenged the glances of women and men As she went to her bath. Now her clinging silk suit Revealed every line, from the throat to the foot, Of her beautiful form. Her arms, in their splendor, Gleamed white like wet marble. The round waist was slender, And yet not too small. From the twin perfect crests And the virginlike grace of her beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s To the exquisite limbs and the curve of her thigh, And the arch of her proud little instep, the eye Drank in beauty. Her face was not beautiful; yet The gaze lingered on it, for Eros had set His seal on her features. The mouth full and weak, The blue shadow drooping from eyelid to cheek Like a stain of crushed grapes, and the pale, ardent skin, All spoke of volcanic emotions within.

By her tip tilted nose and low brow, it was plain To read how her impulses ruled o'er her brain.

She had given the chief role of life to her heart, And her intellect played but a small minor part.

Her eyes were the color the sunlight reveals When it pierces the soft, furry coat of young seals.

The thickly fringed lids seemed unwilling to rise, But drooped, half concealing them; wonderful eyes, Full of secrets and bodings of sorrow. As coa.r.s.e And as thick as the mane of a finely groomed horse Was her bright ma.s.s of hair. The sea, with rough hands, Had made free with the braids, and unloosened the strands Till they hung in great cl.u.s.ters of curls to her knees.

Her voice, when she spoke, held the breadth and the breeze Of the West in its tones; and the use of the _R_ Made the listener certain her home had been far From New England. Long after she vanished from view The eye and the ear seemed to sense her anew.

There was that in her voice and her presence which hung In the air like a strain of a song which is sung By a singer, and then sings itself the whole day, And will hot be silenced.

As birds flock away From meadow to tree branch, now there and now here, So, from beach to Casino, each day at the Pier Flock the gay pleasure seekers. The balconies glow With beauty and color. The belle and the beau Promenade in the sunlight, or sit tete-a-tete, While the chaperons gossip together. Bands play, Gla.s.ses clink; and 'neath sheltering lace parasols There are plans made for meeting at drives or at b.a.l.l.s.

Roger gat at a table alone, with his gla.s.s Of mint julep before him, and watched the crowd pa.s.s.

There were all sorts of people from all sorts of places.

He thought he liked best the fair Baltimore faces.

The South was the land of fair women, he mused, Because they were indolent. Women who used Mind or body too freely. Changed curves into angles, For beauty forever with intellect wrangles.

The trend of the fair s.e.x to-day must alarm Every lover of feminine beauty and charm.

As he mused Roger watched with a keen interest For a sight of his Undine. "All coiffured and drest, With her wonderful body concealed, and her hair Knotted up, well, I doubt if she seem even fair,"

He soliloquized. "Ah!" the word burst from his lips, For he saw her approaching. She walked from the hips With an undulous motion. As graceful and free From all effort as waves swinging in from the sea Were her movements. Her full molded figure seemed slight In its close fitting gown of black cloth; and the white Of her cheek seemed still whiter by contrast. Her clothes Were tasteful and quiet; yet Roger Montrose Knew in some subtle manner he could not express ('Tis an instinct men have in the matters of dress) That they never were made in New York. By her hat One can oft read a woman's whole character. That Which our fair Undine wore was a thing of rich lace, Flowers and ribbons like others one saw in the place.

Yet the width of the brim, or the twist of its bows, Or the way it was worn made it different from those.

As it drooped o'er the eyes full of mystery there, It seemed, all at once, both a menace and dare; A menace to women, a dare to the men.

She bowed as she pa.s.sed Roger's table; and then Took a chair opposite, spread her shade of red silk, Called a waiter and ordered a cup of hot milk, Which she leisurely sipped. She seemed unaware Of the curious eyes she attracted. Her air Was of one quite at home, and entirely at ease With herself, the sole person she studied to please.

She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone, Without maid or escort, and nothing was known Of her there, save the name which the register bore, "Mrs. Travers, New York." Men were mad to learn more But the women were distant. One can't, at such places, Accept as credentials good figures or faces.

There was an unnameable _something_ about Mrs. Travers which filled other women with doubt And all men with interest. Roger, blase, Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the sway Of her strong personality, there as she sat Looking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hat With dark eyes on the sea. Few people had power To draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hour As this woman had done; she was food for his mind, And he sought by his inner perceptions to find in what cla.s.s she belonged. "An adventuress? No, Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think so And one-half of the men; but that role leaves a trace, An expression, I fail to detect in her face.

Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would say That her sins lie before her, and not far away.

She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim Fate Will aid her in solving the riddle too late.

Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyes The sensuous foe to all happiness lies.

As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun, Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one."