"My little girl,"
The father said, "the heart's impulsive choice
May guide us safely when the act must be
Born of the instant, but let Reason rule
When Reason may. For some twelve years, I lived
A wandering life in Europe; not so crushed
By my most harsh experience but I
Could find, in study and in change of scene,
How much of relish life has for the mind
As well as the affections; still I felt
Mine was a nature in which these must play
No secondary part; and so the void
Enlarged as age drew nearer; and at forty
A weariness of life came over me,
And I was sick at heart; for many a joy
Had lost the charm that made it joy. I took
A house in London, all for solitude,
And there got what you may not find in Egypt,
Or on Mont Blanc.
"One day as I was crossing
An obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmen
Gathered around a man upon the ground:
A rafter from a half-built house had fallen,
And he was badly injured. Seeing none
To act with promptness in the case, I hailed
A cab, and had him driven to my house.
Finding he was a fellow-countryman,
I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sent
For the best surgeon near. His report was,
The wound itself was nothing serious,
But there was over-action of the brain,
Quite independent, which might lead to danger,
Unless reduced in season; and the patient
Should have the best of watching and attendance,
And not be left to brood on any trouble,
But be kept cheerful. Then with some directions
For diet, sedatives, and laxatives,
The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left.
My guest lay sad and silent for a while,
Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick;
I'm from Chicago—was a broker there.
A month ago my wife eloped from me;
And her companion, as you may surmise,
Was one I had befriended—raised from nothing.
I'm here upon their track."
"'Why so?' I asked.
'What do you want of them?'—'What do I want?'
He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly.
'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency!
Here's a true man would try to overtake
An untrue mate! If she's not sterling gold
And loyal as the loadstone,—not alone
In every act, but every thought and throb,—
Why should you care who puts her to the proof,
Takes her away, and leaves you free again?
Show me 'tis an illusion I adore,
And I will thank you, though it be in anguish.
To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'
"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only once
Where I could take him by the throat, and measure
My strength with his!'—'Tut, tut! the kind physician
Who warns you of some lurking taint, to which
The cautery should be applied at once,
Is not, in act, if not intent, your friend
More certainly than he you rave against.
And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times,
Of the poor runaway?'—'Ay, that I have!
Bitterly jealous.'
"'Jealousy and love
Were never yet true mates; for jealousy
Is born of selfish passion, lust, or pride,
While love is so divine and pure a thing,
It only takes what cannot be withheld.
It flies constraint. All that it gives is given,
Even as the lily renders up its perfume,
Because it cannot help it. Would it crave
Return less worthy? Would it be content
With a grudged gift? Then it is something else,
Not love—not love! Ah me! how men and women
Cozen themselves with words, and let their passions
Fool them and blind, until they madly hug
Illusions which some stunning shock like yours
Puts to the proof, revealing emptiness.
Have you a loving heart, and would you feed it
On what the swine have left,—mock it with lies?'
'Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,'
Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him,
And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the list
Of 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundred
Instantly caught my eye. It merely said:
'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy,
A place as nurse for any invalid.
Address 681, Times Office.' So
I wrote and told 681 to call
Upon me at a certain hour.
"And now,
My dear, this little girl with eager eyes
Has, for a summer morning, heard enough.
The weather is the crown of all that June
Has of most fair,—the year's transcendent day;
When the young foliage and the perfect air
Intoxicate the birds, and put our hearts
In harmony with their extravagance
Of joy and love. Come, come! To slight this day
Would be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park,
And take our dinner there, and see the flowers,
The children, and the swans, and all the places
Which Linda used to love in babyhood,
When, in her little carriage, like a queen
She'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."
The father had his way; and in the Park
They spent the happy time, and felt the charm
Which harmony complete with Nature brings
When loving spirits, unpreoccupied,
Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving.
O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs!
To human happiness, like daily bread,
Your blessings come, till the unthinking heart
Recks not the debt we owe your silent powers.
If ye can give so much, what may not He
Of whose omnipotence ye are but shadows
Have in reserve in his eternities!