Read Ebook: Three Women by Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 279 lines and 36491 words, and 6 pages

"Then I came From my shopping excursion in town by the same Fast express which brought you? Had I known that the friend Of my friends, was so near me en route for Bay Bend, I had waived all conventions and asked him to take One-half of my parcels for sweet pity's sake.

You sadden me sorely. As long as I live I shall mourn the great pleasure chance chose not to give.

Take courage, mon ami. Our fair friend, Miss Lee, Fills her time quite as full of sweet works as the bee; Like the bee, too, she drives out the drones from her hive. You must toil in her cause, in her favor to thrive.

She need but command me. To wait upon beauty And goodness combined makes a pleasure of duty.

Who serves Mabel Lee serves all Righteousness too. Pray, then, that she gives you some labor to do. The cure for the pessimist lies in good deeds. Who toils for another forgets his own needs, And mischief and misery never attend On the man who is occupied fully.

Our friend Has the town on her shoulders. Whatever may be The cause that is needy, we look to Miss Lee. Have you gold? She will make you disgorge it ere long; Are you poor? Well, perchance you can dance--sing a song-- Make a speech--tell a story, or plan a charade. Whatever you have, gold or wits, sir, must aid In her numerous charities.

Riches and brain Are but loans from the Master. He meant them, 'tis plain, To be used in His service; and people are kind, When once you can set them to thinking. I find It is lack of perception, not lack of good heart Which makes the world selfish in seeming. My part Is to call the attention of Plenty to need, And to bid Pleasure pause for a moment and heed The woes and the burdens of Labor.

One plea From the rosy and eloquent lips of Miss Lee Would make Avarice pour out his coffers of gold At her feet, I should fancy; would soften the cold, Selfish heart of the world to compassionate sighs, And bring tears of pity to vain Pleasure's eyes.

As the sunset a color on lily leaves throws, The words and the glances of Roger Montrose O'er the listener's cheeks sent a pink tinted wave; While Maurice seemed disturbed, and his sister grew grave. The false chink of flattery's coin smites the ear With an unpleasant ring when the heart is sincere. Yet the man whose mind pockets are filled with this ore, Though empty his brain cells, is never a bore To the opposite sex.

While Maurice knew of old Roger's wealth in that coin that does duty for gold In Society dealings, it hurt him to see The cheap metal offered to sweet Mabel Lee.

They had walked, two by two, down the elm shaded street, Which led to a cottage, vine hidden, and sweet With the breath of the roses that covered it, where Mabel paused in the gateway; a picture most fair. "I would ask you to enter," she said, "ere you pass, But in just twenty minutes my Sunday-school class Claims my time and attention; and later I meet A Committee on Plans for the boys of the street. We seek to devise for these pupils in crime Right methods of thought and wise uses of time.

I am but a vagrant, untutored and wild, May I join your street class, and be taught like a child?

If you come I will carefully study your case.

I must go along, too, just to keep him in place.

Then you think him unruly?

Decidedly so.

I was, but am changed since one-half hour ago.

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 , You seem, sir, a stranger to all and to each Of these ways of salvation.

Since yesterday, miss, When, unseen, I first saw you , 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 shore appetite May be somewhat subdued in its ravenous might.

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.

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.

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.

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 grass 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 casement and sighed, Strong and full in his heart surged love's turbulent tide. And thoughts of the woman he worshiped 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 Shining mass. With a reverent, worshipful awe, It was Mabel, fair Mabel, dear Mabel he saw, When he looked up to God.

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 blemishing 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 God's dome, A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home. And he? why of course he would worship 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.

When shall I tell my lady that I love her? Will it be while the sunshine 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 shine 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 shine 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.

The October day had been luscious and fair Like a woman of thirty. A chill in the air As the sun faced the west spoke of frost lurking near. All day the Sound lay without motion, and clear As a mirror, and blue as a blond baby's eyes. A change in the tide brought a change to the skies. The bay stirred and murmured and parted its lips And breathed a long sigh for the lost lovely ships, That had gone with the Summer.

He turned from the waves that leaped at him in wrath To find Mabel Lee, like a wraith, in his path. The rose from her cheek had departed in fear; The tip of her eyelash was gemmed with a tear. The rude winds had disarranged mantle and dress, And she clung with both hands to her hat in distress. "I am frightened," she cried, in a tremulous tone; "I dare not proceed any farther alone. As I came by the church yard the wind felled a tree, And invisible hands seemed to hurl it at me; I hurried on, shrieking; the wind, in disgust, Tore the hat from my head, filled my eyes full of dust, And otherwise made me the butt of its sport. Just then I spied you, like a light in the port, And I steered for you. Please do not laugh at my fright! I am really quite bold in the calm and the light, But when a storm gathers, or darkness prevails, My courage deserts me, my bravery fails, And I want to hide somewhere and cover my ears, And give myself up to weak womanish tears."

Her ripple of talk allowed Roger Montrose A few needed moments to calm and compose His excited emotions; to curb and control The turbulent feelings that surged through his soul At the sudden encounter.

"I quite understand," He said in a voice that was under command Of his will, "All your fears in a storm of this kind. There is something uncanny and weird in the wind; Intangible, viewless, it speeds on its course, And forests and oceans must yield to its force. What art has constructed with patience and toil, The wind in one second of time can despoil. It carries destruction and death and despair, Yet no man can follow it into its lair And bind it or stay it--this thing without form. Ah! there comes the rain! we are caught in the storm. Put my coat on your shoulders and come with me where Yon rock makes a shelter--I often sit there To watch the great conflicts 'twixt tempest and sea. Let me lie at your feet! 'Tis the last time, Miss Lee, I shall see you, perchance, in this life, who can say? I leave on the morrow at break o' the day."

Indeed? Why, how sudden! and may I inquire The reason you leave us without one desire To return? for your words seem a final adieu.

I never expect to return, that is true, Yet my wish is to stay.

Are you not your own master?

Alas, yes! and therein lies the cause of disaster. Myself bids me go, my calm, reasoning part, The will is the man, not the poor, foolish heart, Which is ever at war with the intellect. So I silence its clamoring voices and go. Were I less my own master, I then might remain.

Your words are but riddles, I beg you explain.

No, no, rather bid me keep silent! To say Why I go were as weak on my part as to stay.

I think you most cruel! You know, sir, my sex Loves dearly a secret. Then why should you vex And torment me in this way by hinting at one?

Let us talk of the weather, I think the storm done.

Very well! I will go! No, you need not come too, And I will not shake hands, I am angry with you.

And you will not shake hands when we part for all time?

Then read me your riddle!

No, that were a crime Against honor and friendship; girl, girl, have a care-- You are goading my poor, tortured heart to despair.

His last words were lost in the loud thunder's crash; The sea seemed ablaze with a sulphurous flash. From the rocks just above them an evergreen tree Was torn up by the roots and flung into the sea. The waves with rude arms hurled it back on the shore; The wind gained in fury. The glare and the roar Of the lightning and tempest paled Mabel Lee's cheek, Her pupils dilated; she sprang with a shriek Of a terrified child lost to all save alarm, And clasped Roger Montrose with both hands by the arm, While her cheek pressed his shoulder. An agony, sweet And unbearable, thrilled from his head to his feet, His veins were like rivers, with billows of fire: His will lost control; and long fettered desire Slipped its leash. He caught Mabel Lee to his breast, Drew her face up to his, on her frightened lips pressed Wild caresses of passion that startled and shocked. Like a madman he looked, like a madman he talked, Waiting not for reply, with no pause but a kiss, While his iron arms welded her bosom to his. "Girl, girl, you demanded my secret," he cried; "Well, that bruise on your lips tells the story! I tried, Good God, how I tried! to be silent and go Without speaking one word, without letting you know That I loved you; yet how could you look in my eyes And not see love was there like the sun in the skies? Ah, those hands on my arm--that dear head lightly pressed On my shoulder! God, woman, the heart in my breast Was dry powder, your touch was the spark; and the blame Must be yours if both lives are scorched black with the flame. Do you hate me, despise me, for being so weak? No, no! let me kiss you again ere you speak! You are mine for the moment; and mine--mine alone Is the first taste of passion your soft mouth has known. Whoever forestalls me in winning your hand, Between you and him shall this mad moment stand-- You shall think of me, though you think only to hate. There--speak to me--speak to me--tell me my fate; On your words, Mabel Lee, hangs my whole future life. I covet you, covet you, sweet, for my wife; I want to stay here at your side. Since I first Saw your face I have felt an unquenchable thirst To be good--to look deep in your eyes and find God, And to leave in the past the dark paths I have trod In my search after pleasure. Ah, must I go back Into folly again, to retread the old track Which leads out into nothingness? Girl, answer me, As souls answer at Judgment."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet