I.

A dull little station, a man with the eye

Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;

A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,

The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.

The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,

Which always is billed for the theatre Life.

It runs on forever, from year unto year,

With scarcely a change when new actors appear.

It is old as the world is--far older in truth,

For the world is a crude little planet of youth.

And back in the eras before it was formed,

The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls

Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls

In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain

Was wholly intent on the incoming train.

That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,

Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

Paused scarcely a moment, and then sped away,

And two actors more now enliven our play.

A graceful young woman with eyes like the morn,

With hair like the tassels which hang from the corn,

And a face that might serve as a model for Peace,

Moved lightly along, smiled and bowed to Maurice,

Then was lost in the circle of friends waiting near.

A discord of shrill nasal tones smote the ear,

As they greeted their comrade and bore her from sight.

(The ear oft is pained while the eye feels delight

In the presence of women throughout our fair land:

God gave them the graces which win and command,

But the devil, who always in mischief rejoices,

Slipped into their teachers and ruined their voices.)

There had stepped from the train just behind Mabel Lee

A man whose deportment bespoke him to be

A child of good fortune. His mien and his air

Were those of one all unaccustomed to care.

His brow was not vexed with the gold seeker's worry,

His manner was free from the national hurry.

Repose marked his movements. Yet gaze in his eye,

And you saw that this calm outer man was a lie;

And you knew that deep down in the depths of his breast

There dwelt the unmerciful imp of unrest.

He held out his hand; it was clasped with a will

In both the firm palms of Maurice Somerville.

"Well, Reese, my old Comrade;" "Ha, Roger, my boy,"

They cried in a breath, and their eyes gemmed with joy

(Which but for their sex had been set in a tear),

As they walked arm in arm to the trap waiting near,

And drove down the shining shell roadway which wound

Through forest and meadow, in search of the Sound.

_Roger:_

I smell the salt water--that perfume which starts

The blood from hot brains back to world withered hearts;

You may talk of the fragrance of flower filled fields,

You may sing of the odors the Orient yields,

You may tell of the health laden scent of the pine,

But give me the subtle salt breath of the brine.

Already I feel lost emotions of youth

Steal back to my soul in their sweetness and truth;

Small wonder the years leave no marks on your face,

Time's scythe gathers rust in this idyllic place.

You must feel like a child on the Great Mother's breast,

With the Sound like a nurse watching over your rest?

_Maurice:_

There is beauty and truth in your quaint simile,

I love the Sound more than the broad open sea.

The ocean seems always stern, masculine, bold,

The Sound is a woman, now warm, and now cold.

It rises in fury and threatens to smite,

Then falls at your feet with a coo of delight;

Capricious, seductive, first frowning, then smiling,

And always, whatever its mood is, beguiling.

Look, now you can see it, bright beautiful blue,

And far in the distance there loom into view

The banks of Long Island, full thirty miles off;

A sign of wet weather to-morrow. Don't scoff!

We people who chum with the waves and the wind

Know more than all wise signal bureaus combined.

But come, let us talk of yourself--for of me

There is little to tell which your eyes may not see.

Since we finished at College (eight years, is it not?)

I simply have dreamed away life in this spot.

With my dogs and my horses, a book and a pen,

And a week spent in town as a change now and then.

Fatigue for the body, disease for the mind,

Are all that the city can give me, I find.

Yet once in a while there is wisdom I hold

In leaving the things that are dearer than gold,--

Loved people and places--if only to learn

The exquisite rapture it is to return.

But you, I remember, craved motion and change;

You hated the usual, worshiped the strange.

Adventure and travel I know were your theme:

Well, how did the real compare with the dream?

You have compassed the earth since we parted at Yale,

Has life grown the richer, or only grown stale?

_Roger:_

Stale, stale, my dear boy! that's the story in short,

I am weary of travel, adventure and sport;

At home and abroad, in all climates and lands,

I have had what life gives when a full purse commands,

I have chased after Pleasure, that phantom faced elf,

And lost the best part of my youth and myself.

And now, barely thirty, I'm heart sick and blue;

Life seems like a farce scarcely worth sitting through.

I dread its long stretch of dissatisfied years;

Ah! wealth is not always the boon it appears.

And poverty lights not such ruinous fires

As gratified appetites, tastes and desires.

Fate curses, when letting us do as we please--

It stunts a man's soul to be cradled in ease.

_Maurice:_

You are right in a measure; the devil I hold

Is oftener found in full coffers of gold

Than in bare, empty larders. The soul, it is plain,

Needs the conflicts of earth, needs the stress and the strain

Of misfortune, to bring out its strength in this life--

The Soul's calisthenics are sorrow and strife.

But, Roger, what folly to stand in youth's prime

And talk like a man who could father old Time.

You have life all before you; the past,--let it sleep;

Its lessons alone are the things you should keep.

There is virtue sometimes in our follies and sinnings;

Right lives very often have faulty beginnings.

Results, and not causes, are what we should measure.

You have learned precious truths in your search after pleasure.

You have learned that a glow worm is never a star,

You have learned that Peace builds not her temples afar.

And now, dispossessed of the spirit to roam,

You are finely equipped to establish a home.

That's the one thing you need to lend savor to life,

A home, and the love of a sweet hearted wife,

And children to gladden the path to old age.

_Roger:_

Alas! from life's book I have torn out that page;

I have loved many times and in many a fashion,

Which means I know nothing at all of the passion.

I have scattered my heart, here and there, bit by bit,

'Til now there is nothing worth while left of it;

And, worse than all else, I have ceased to believe

In the virtue and truth of the daughters of Eve.

There's tragedy for you--when man's early trust

In woman, experience hurls to the dust!

_Maurice:_

Then you doubt your own mother?

_Roger:_

She passed heavenward

Before I remember; a saint, I have heard,

While she lived; there are scores of good women to-day,

_Temptation has chanced not to wander their way._

The devil has more than his lordship can do,

He can't make the rounds, so some women keep true.

_Maurice:_

You think then each woman, if tempted, must fall?

_Roger:_

Yes, if tempted her way--not one way suits them all--

They have tastes in their sins as they have in their clothes,

The tempter, of course, has to first study those.

One needs to be flattered, another is bought;

One yields to caresses, by frowns one is caught.

One wants a bold master, another a slave,

With one you must jest, with another be grave.

But swear you're a sinner whom she has reformed

And the average feminine fortress is stormed.

In rescuing men from abysses of sin

She loses her head--and herself tumbles in.

The mind of a woman was shaped for a saint,

But deep in her heart lies the devil's own taint.

With plans for salvation her busy brain teems,

While her heart longs in secret to know how sin seems.

And if with this question unanswered she dies,

Temptation came not in the right sort of guise.

There's my estimate, Reese, of the beautiful sex;

I see by your face that my words wound and vex,

But remember, my boy, I'm a man of the world.

_Maurice:_

Thank God, in the vortex I have not been hurled.

If experience breeds such a mental disease,

I am glad I have lived with the birds and the bees,

And the winds and the waves, and let people alone

So far in my life but good women I've known.

My mother, my sister, a few valued friends--

A teacher, a schoolmate, and there the list ends.

But to know one true woman in sunshine and gloom,

From the zenith of life to the door of the tomb,

To know her, as I knew that mother of mine,

Is to know the whole sex and to kneel at the shrine.

_Roger:_

Then you think saint and woman synonymous terms?

_Maurice:_

Oh, no! we are all, men and women, poor worms

Crawling up from the dampness and darkness of clay

To bask in the sunlight and warmth of the day.

Some climb to a leaf and reflect its bright sheen,

Some toil through the grass, and are crushed there unseen.

Some sting if you touch them, and some evolve wings;

Yet God dwells in each of the poor, groping things.

They came from the Source--to the Source they go back;

The sinners are those who have missed the true track.

We can not judge women or men as a class,

Each soul has its own distinct place in the mass.

There is no sex in sin; it were folly to swear

All women are angels, but worse to declare

All are devils as you do. You're morbid, my boy,

In what you thought gold you have found much alloy

And now you are doubting there is the true ore.

But wait till you study my sweet simple store

Of pure sterling treasures; just wait till you've been

A few restful weeks, or a season, within

The charmed circle of home life; then, Roger, you'll find

These malarial mists clearing out of your mind.

As a ship cuts the fog and is caught by the breeze,

And swept through the sunlight to fair, open seas,

So your heart will be caught and swept out to the ocean

Of youth and youth's birthright of happy emotion.

I'll wager my hat (it was new yesterday)

That you'll fall in love, too, in a serious way.

Our girls at Bay Bend are bewitching and fair,

And Cupid lurks ever in salt Summer air.

_Roger:_

I question your gifts as a prophet, and yet,

I confess in my travels I never have met

A woman whose face so impressed me at sight,

As one seen to-day; a mere girl, sweet and bright,

Who entered the train quite alone and sat down

Surrounded by parcels she'd purchased in town.

A trim country lass, but endowed with the beauty

Which makes a man think of his conscience and duty.

Some women, you know, move us that way--God bless them,

While others rouse only a thirst to possess them

The face of the girl made me wish to be good,

I went out and smoked to escape from the mood.

When conscience through half a man's life has been sleeping

What folly to wake it to worry and weeping!

_Maurice:_

The pessimist role is a modern day fad,

But, Roger, you make a poor cynic, my lad.

Your heart at the core is as sound as a nut,

Though the wheels of your mind have dropped into the rut

Of wrong thinking. You need a strong hand on the lever

Of good common sense, and an earnest endeavor

To pull yourself out of the slough of despond

Back into the highway of peace just beyond.

And now, here we are at Peace Castle in truth,

And there stands its Chatelaine, sweet Sister Ruth,

To welcome you, Roger; you'll find a new type

In this old-fashioned girl, who in years scarcely ripe,

And as childish in heart as she is in her looks,

And without worldly learning or knowledge of books,

Yet in housewifely wisdom is wise as a sage.

She is quite out of step with the girls of her age,

For she has no ambition beyond the home sphere.

Ruth, here's Roger Montrose, my comrade of dear

College days.

The gray eyes of the girl of nineteen

Looked into the face oft in fancy she'd seen

When her brother had talked of his comrade at Yale.

His stature was lower, his cheek was more pale

Than her thought had portrayed him; a look in his eye

Made her sorry, she knew not for what nor knew why,

But she longed to befriend him, as one needing aid

While he, gazing down on the face of the maid,

Spoke some light words of greeting, the while his mind ran

On her "points" good and bad; for the average man

When he looks at a woman proceeds first to scan her

As if she were horse flesh, and in the same manner

Notes all that is pleasing, or otherwise. So

Roger gazed at Ruth Somerville.

"Mouth like a bow

And eyes full of motherhood; color too warm,

And too round in the cheek and too full in the form

For the highest ideal of beauty and art.

Domestic--that word is the cue to her part

She would warm a man's slippers, but never his veins;

She would feed well his stomach, but never his brains.

And after she looks on her first baby's face,

Her husband will hold but a second-class place

In her thoughts or emotions, unless he falls ill,

When a dozen trained nurses her place can not fill.

She is sweet of her kind; and her kind since the birth

Of this sin ridden, Circe-cursed planet, the Earth,

Has kept it, I own, with its medleys of evil

From going straight into the hands of the devil.

It is not through its heroes the world lives and thrives,

But through its sweet commonplace mothers and wives.

We love them, and leave them; deceive, and respect them,

We laud loud their virtues and straightway neglect them.

They are daisy and buttercup women of earth

Who grace common ways with their sweetness and worth.

We praise, but we pass them, to reach for some flower

That stings when we pluck it, or wilts in an hour.

"You are thornless, fair Ruth! you are useful and sweet!

But lovers shall pass you to sigh at the feet

Of the selfish and idle, for such is man's way;

Your lot is to work, and to weep, and to pray.

To give much and get little; to toil and to wait

For the meager rewards of indifferent fate.

Yet so wholesome your heart, you will never complain;

You will feast on life's sorrow and drink of its pain,

And thank God for the banquet; 'tis women like you

Who make the romancing of preachers seem true.

The earth is your debtor to such large amounts

There must be a heaven to square up accounts,

Or else the whole scheme of existence at best

Is a demon's poor effort at making a jest."

That night as Ruth brushed out her bright hazel hair

Her thoughts were of Roger, "His bold laughing air

Is a cloak to some sorrow concealed in his breast,

His mind is the home of some secret unrest."

She sighed; and there woke in her bosom once more

The impulse to comfort and help him; to pour

Soothing oil from the urn of her heart on his wounds.

Where motherhood nature in woman abounds

It is thus Cupid comes; unannounced and unbidden,

In sweet pity's guise, with his arrows well hidden.

But once given welcome and housed as a guest,

He hurls the whole quiver full into her breast,

While he pulls off his mask and laughs up in her eyes

With an impish delight at her start of surprise.

So intent is this archer on bagging his game

He scruples at nothing which gives him good aim.

Ruth's heart was a virgin's, in love menaced danger

While she sat by her mirror and pitied the stranger.

But just as she blew out her candle and stood

Robed for sleep in the moonlight, a change in her mood

Quickly banished the dreamer, and brought in its stead

The practical housekeeper. Sentiment fled;

And she puzzled her brain to decide which were best,

Corn muffins or hot graham gems, for the guest!