With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skilful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.
Brief letters came from Helen, now and then:
She was quite well--oh yes! quite well, indeed!
But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again.
She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss.
Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma's little pearl.
No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told.
It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.
Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat.
And when the Roman Summer's languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.
I was a willing worker. Not an hour Passed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on To swell the tide of hours forever gone.
My first completed picture, known as "Joy," Won pleasant words of praise. "Possesses power," "Displays much talent," "Very fairly done."
So fell the comments on my grateful ear.
Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed, With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried.
The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth That certain sign of merit--a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises--so Proving conclusively the pictures' worth.
These critics and reviewers do not use Their precious ammunition to abuse A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim Too much of public notice. But this shot Resulted only in some noise, which brought A dozen people, where one came before, To view my pictures; and I had my hour Of holding those frail baubles, Fame and Pow'r.
An English Baron who had lived two score Of his allotted three score years and ten Bought both the pieces. He was very kind, And so attentive, I, not being blind, Must understand his meaning.
Therefore, when He said, "Sweet friend, whom I would make my wife, The 'Joy' and 'Sorrow' this dear hand portrayed I have in my possession: now resign Into my careful keeping, and make mine, The joy and sorrow of your future life," - I was prepared to answer, but delayed, Grown undecided suddenly.
My mind Argued the matter coolly pro and con, And made resolve to speed his wooing on And grant him favour. He was good and kind; Not young, no doubt he would be quite content With my respect, nor miss an ardent love;
Could give me ties of family and home; And then, perhaps, my mind was not above Setting some value on a titled name -
Ambitious woman's weakness!
Then my art Would be encouraged and pursued the same, And I could spend my winters all in Rome.
Love never more could touch my wasteful heart That all its wealth upon one object spent.
Existence would be very bleak and cold, After long years, when I was gray and old, With neither home nor children.
Once a wife, I would forget the sorrow of my life, And pile new sods upon the grave of pain.
My mind so argued; and my sad heart heard, But made no comment.
Then the Baron spoke, And waited for my answer. All in vain I strove for strength to utter that one word My mind dictated. Moments rolled away - Until at last my torpid heart awoke, And forced my trembling lips to say him nay.
And then my eyes with sudden tears o'erran, In pity for myself and for this man Who stood before me, lost in pained surprise.
"Dear friend," I cried, "dear generous friend, forgive A troubled woman's weakness! As I live, In truth I meant to answer otherwise.
From out its store, my heart can give you naught But honour and respect; and yet methought I would give willing answer, did you sue.
But now I know 'twere cruel wrong I planned - Taking a heart that beat with love most true, And giving in exchange an empty hand.
Who weds for love alone, may not be wise:
Who weds without it, angels must despise.
Love and respect together must combine To render marriage holy and divine; And lack of either, sure as Fate, destroys Continuation of the nuptial joys, And brings regret, and gloomy discontent To put to rout each tender sentiment.
Nay, nay! I will not burden all your life By that possession--an unloving wife; Nor will I take the sin upon my soul Of wedding where my heart goes not in whole.
However bleak may be my single lot, I will not stain my life with such a blot.
Dear friend, farewell! the earth is very wide; It holds some fairer woman for your bride; I would I had a heart to give to you, But, lacking it, can only say--adieu!"
He whom temptation never has assailed, Knows not that subtle sense of moral strength; When sorely tried, we waver, but at length, Rise up and turn away, not having failed.
The Autumn of the third year came and went; The mild Italian winter was half spent, When this brief message came across the sea:
"My darling! I am dying. Come to me.
Love, which so long the growing truth concealed, Stands pale within its shadow. Oh, my sweet!
This heart of mine grows fainter with each beat - Dying with very weight of bliss. Oh, come!
And take the legacy I leave to you, Before these lips for evermore are dumb.
In life or death,--Yours, Helen Dangerfield."
This plaintive letter bore a month old date; And, wild with fears lest I had come too late, I bade the old world and new friends adieu, And with Aunt Ruth, who long had sighed for home, I turned my back on glory, art, and Rome.
