These messages were very encouraging but it was now 2 o'clock and Robert began to be keenly disappointed—he had raised his hopes so high that Marie would appear or some news would come. He paced the floor in anxiety, his heart beating rapidly and was forced to admit to himself that he had been over hopeful. He started to send a telegram to Mr. Kennelworth asking him to wire or 'phone just as soon as possible if any news had been received of Marie and asked him to call up Marie's parents and find out if they had heard anything. Minutes now began to drag slowly, as they had on Sunday when Robert had watched the clock and saw his hopes slowly waning. They were now waning again and Robert grew heartsick, but cheered himself with the thought that the day was not over yet. There was plenty of time for Marie to show up.
Robert decided to read awhile to quiet his anxiety. He picked up the book of "Poems That Have Helped Me," and read the "Isle of Long Ago."
Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time,
As it flows thru the realm of years,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the ocean of years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between;
And the years in the sheaf—so they come and they go
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As they glide in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical Isle up the River Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing,
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are staying.
And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow—
There are heaps of dust, but we love them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair.
There are fragments of songs that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer,
There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle
All the day of our life till night,
And when evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight.
It made him realize that on the "river of time" there are many trials, tribulations and disappointments. While he was young in years he had experienced many of them, and it seemed to him that the last five days had been five years. When he read the lines of the poem: "Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, when the wind down the river is fair" and "Our eyes are closing in slumber awhile," he thought of Marie, her beautiful eyes and sweet voice; all the happy things she had ever said; the things that she had written, and like a voice coming across the stillness of the night, he seemed to hear Marie calling as she used to call: "Robert, dear," "Robert dear." He jumped from his chair, startled, because for a moment he thought it was her voice, for he had been hoping and expecting each moment to hear her voice, but alas it was only a ghost of imagination and no Marie was there and no news of her.
Robert turned another page and read: "Crossing the Bar," by Tennyson:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me,
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep,
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark;
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
For tho' from out our bourne of time and place,
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
He read the last verse several times.
Robert thought of Marie, his pilot, his star, his hope. When he had driven his ship across the uncertain sea of finance it would be Marie's beautiful face that would keep the lovelight burning upon the altar of his heart, ever to guide her captain safely home. He had looked to her to pilot him into the path of peace, lead him to the fields of contentment and, at last, to the height of eternal peace. He had looked forward to this day, his birthday, when she would return to him and he might claim her for his own. Thought of Marie's words, that hope and anticipation are greater than realization, but felt that nothing in the world could give him greater pleasure than the realization of this moment if he could hold Marie in his arms, kiss her sweet lips and hear the sweet words of love she had spoken to him in the past. Robert's heart for a moment sank within him. It was too much for him. He sobbed and cried like a baby but then he thought of his faith, of God and his power supreme.
Again as he was wondering what to do, he got the crumpled note that Marie wrote and put in his pocket on Sunday and read it again: "According to your faith, be I unto you. Love will always hope, understand and wait. Time proves all things. You will get everything you want. I will come to you when I mean the most and your need for love is the greatest." Only a few short lines, but so much said in them and so much left unsaid, Robert thought. Yet they contained an assurance, they left no doubt about a hope for the future and on that hope and with that faith Robert would cling to the future. Time would prove his love. Marie stated plainly that he would get everything he wanted and he knew that the greatest thing in the world he wanted was Marie. So at the close of another day of disappointment he felt that there was room for hope and that the future was lined with hopes. He resolved never to waver. Then read "A Psalm of Life" by Longfellow:
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream,
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living present!
Heart within and God o'erhead.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.