A BROKEN VOW
It was a broken hearted boy who vowed a solemn vow,
I will not write a letter to that pretty little Editoress anyhow;
I will not do that fearsome thing, I will not pen a jest,
About the beautiful Hostess who mocks the staying guest.
He made a postscript to his vow, he made a codicil,
He was serious as tho he formed his will,
And then he sat down and smiled with all his might
About all the love letters he did not have to write.
But in a day or two he felt exceedingly queer and strange,
A restless something filled his mind, he longed for a change;
He asked the doctor what was wrong, the doctor gave a pill,
And made a memorandum to add twenty to his bill.
Then the pictures of all the girls he knew,
Came flocking to his brain;
Marie's lovely angel face marched sternly in the train,
And each of them and all of them compelled him to think
Just as a man thinks when he quits smoke or drink.
At last a little disappointing note came—then he said:
Just one more farewell love note I'll write;
It shall not be serious, something fancy and light.
He wrote a love letter,
Just as a man who says he has sworn off;
Takes Rock and Rye or some such thing to stop a cough.
But why pursue this sorry tale,
Why tell of what he did;
'Twas like the one more smoke or drink
That throws away the lid.
He wrote of the things she'd wrote and said,
Of memories of sweet caresses that haunted the heart and head;
He wrote of how much better she was than the other girl of the South,
Of her beautiful eyes and ruby mouth.
He wrote of love for her,
And how well she had served cocoa and consommé;
He wrote of love lost and debauched,
Until the break of day.
And when they came and found him ill
And sought to nurse him thru,
They said, "Here taste this chicken soup
She made, it will be good for you."
Robert became very despondent. He no longer took an interest in his work. Mr. Kennelworth finally wrote to Walter in New York, telling him of Robert's lack of interest in business, and that he wondered what had brought such a change in him. Walter, of course, had received letters from Robert about his break with Marie, so he wrote his father frankly and told him to have patience with Robert, that when this love affair passed away, he was sure he would be all right again.
Upon receiving Robert's letter, Marie wrote:
My dear Robert,
This is to be my farewell letter to you. I quote from Solomon, 2:5, "Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love." Robert, I would rather have green apples and a stomach-ache, like Solomon says, for I am sick of what you call love. I want you to read St. Paul again, and see if the way you are acting is the way love acts. Paul says that "Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil." Robert, if love is founded on faith and trust, it cannot be jealous. Love is the foundation of understanding, and if you understood me and if I thoroughly understood you, we would be in love yet, and be happy.
"Love seeketh not its own to please
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."
So long as you persist in jealousy and accuse me falsely, how can I go on loving, because you are not the old Robert who first loved me and taught me to love all of these years, and was never jealous before. Love that has been founded on years of confidence cannot change in a moment for another, and my love has not changed to Edward Mason, as you think. I still love you, but you have been wrong in your accusations.
I am sending you a little article, "Love," and hope that you may some day see how wrong you have been, and when you do, if you feel that way, write and tell me so.
Regretfully,
Marie.