In the city by the lake; in two books, The shadow and The slave girl

Front matter

THE LIBRARY

OF

LOS ANGELES

Part I Love

There is a splendid city by a lake That beats against its sea-wall restlessly, Like a great heart that hungers; — ever beats With mournful, mystic music, as if chafed By a great nameless sorrow; — beats and beats, As if the secret heart-aches of all hearts That ever in that city beat and break, Were buried in it. Almost it would seem, Some great magician plied his magic art To build that city, for so swift it raised Its domes, and towers, and spires to the sun, Far swifter than the slowly-building hand Of man is wont to raise them. Up it sprang, Most like the phantom fabric of a dream. One day a lonely fort 'mid savage tribes Who scudded through the waving prairie grass After the deer and bison; and the next, A little village cradled by a lake That sang to it its solemn old sea-song, With but a handful of men's souls; the next, A busy town, an infant Hercules Among earth's splendid cities, even then, In sturdy childhood, giving prophecy

Of giant labors to be wrought; to-day,

A mighty city, and the whole world hears

Its roaring wheels of commerce, and its din

Of flying shuttles and of thunderous looms,

Fierce heart-throbs of its mighty engines driven

By the white steeds of lightning and of steam,

Whose splendid pulses to the borders roll; —

A city whose own breath has dimmed the sun.

And once a flying fiend of fire swept,

With lurid wings and blasting, stifling breath,

Across the city, and behold, a heap

Of dully glowing embers where it stood.

Again the great magician plied his art —

The spirit of the new age — and again

That city raised its gleaming domes and spires

To greet the early kisses of the sun.

Now men who cannot prick their slower brains

Up to the dizzy speed of life and thought

That through the streets upon the whirling car

Of progress, thunder, rub their eyes and gasp,

As if, like Rip Van Winkle, they had slept

For twenty years, "Ah! pray, what doth it mean?

Why, here we had a village yesterday!"

Out of the city's hot, tumultuous heart, Just out of sound of the fierce hum and hiss Of human insects spinning their cocoons, His little world of interest, each for self, To bury himself in it, and the buzz Of golden honey-makers, 'round one flower, A thousand swarming for its poison sweets; —

Just out of sound of these lived Robert Earle, A quiet, courtly man, who, having stored Enough of golden honey, had withdrawn Into his princely hive to live upon it, With his one child, a daughter, Edith Earle. He, in his youth, against the wish and will Of all his kindred, had been early wed Unto a simple maiden, who had naught To recommend her but a brave, true heart, Revealed within a sweetly serious face, As clearly as the silver sands that lie At bottom of a lucid mountain lake. So deep and constant was his love for her, That when she died at end of three bright years, And left him with a helpless babe, he kept Her memory like a fragrance in his heart, As if an angel, stooping, plucked a rose Out ol his bosom, but the perfume rare Lingered through all life's garments, sweetening all. "Edith, my rose! '' he called her in her life; Nor thought nor wish had he to wed again, No love but for his child — his child and hers. Now all of joy and hope and loveliness That wealth of gold and wealth of love could give To make life beautiful, to her were given; And little Edith had her mother's heart, As well as violet eyes and shining hair, And more — the careful culture of the mind. All rapturously the father watched his bud Unfolding into girlhood's radiant rose. "Edith, my rose!" he cried in clasping her —

"My rose without a thorn!" and kissed her cheek, First one and then the other, each a rose, And then the mouth, a rosebud in between, And then the forehead, like a snow-white dove Outgleaming from its nest of shining curls, And had no thought, no heart for aught but her, Except one friend, the comrade of his youth And later life. Between these two had grown A friendship that had ripened with the years Into a noble intimacy. He, Like Robert Earle, possessed an only child, The rosy star of his declining years. Now Lucius was a bright, gay, handsome youth A little rollicking but honorable, With kindly, courteous ways and easy grace That won all hearts, and pleased his father well. Now Robert Earle and Arthur Coventry Spoke much about the children, till it came To be the cherished idol of their hearts That they should love each other, and then wed. "Nothing by force!" said Robert, "we will sow The precious seed, then nurse the tender plant With gentle words of praise like summer dew, And sweet companionship like summer sun." So played the children, and the fathers smiled, And so the rosy hours of childhood flew, Like birds of passage, and were lost to sight, Far in the dim, blue distance of the past. All rapturously the father watched his bud Unfolding into girlhood's radiant rose, And had no thought, no heart for aught but her ;

And Edith loved her father ardently.

In him was childhood's playmate, girlhood's friend,

Father and mother, almost lover he.

It chanced upon a night, (we say it chanced, Nor know if it be chance, or if, indeed, An unseen tether to a hand divine, Draw us so gently this way, that we go, Unconscious of the leading) a June night, That Edith met, as any one might meet, In all this labyrinth of human ways Where footpaths meet and cross, and meet no more, A quiet, sober man, a modest clerk In a great merchant house; young, but he seemed Older by ten years than in truth he was, For his had been a lonely, thoughtful life. Years make not old, but only thought that is The ripening frost of the eternal. Lo, Over the life of Walter Gray there flushed, On that June night, a color and a glow, When Edith Earle broke on him like the morn, A rosy light between monotonous hills Of toil and duty, till they burned and glowed Like colored altar-fires by angels fed. Day after day caught up the rosy light, » And flashed it kindling on from day to day, As morning beam is flashed from peak to peak, When, 'neath the white feet of the morning star, The crimson billows of the day surge up. A sudden inspiration filled his life, As when one turns the leaves of some old book,

And stumbles on a poem suddenly,

That flames afresh life's purpose in his soul.

So, slowly turning o'er the thumb-worn leaves

Of life's prosaic book with weary hands,

He stumbled on this poem — Edith Earle;

And all his thoughts ran into rhythmic words,

And set themselves to music in his brain.

For what is poetry but that which gives

A glory and divineness unto things

Of common names and uses? Men and women,

Who set us palpitating with the thrill

Of something loftier than we yet have dreamed,

Are God's sublimest poems.

Edith Earle

Felt in her life a sudden strength and breadth, A deepening downward toward unsounded depths, A lifting upward toward unmeasured heights; And all her soul shook out its gleaming sails, And through them blew a fresh, strong breath of life, Which brought her to a new mysterious world; As one, who, sailing on familiar seas, And carried by a fresh wind from his course, Is startled by an undiscovered land. How is it that one human soul draws out Another's grace and power, where a third Can find no strength or sweetness, as the sun Brings out the flush and flavor of the fruit From which the moonlight draws no taste or tint? Edith kept this first secret of her life Unshared with him who shared all things beside, And kept it through ng fear or bashfulness,

But through the wonder of it; — it seemed so strange,

As if a waiting angel stretched his hand

Just at the moment when the soul was right,

And touched a secret spring that opened wide

A mystic chamber that was unforeguessed;

And all her words and actions grew subdued,

As if to keep the music in her heart,

As a musician sometimes muffles up

The instrument to keep the music in.

Now Robert Earle looked wise, and in his heart

Shook hands with Cupid, smiling, but spoke not.

So, like a serpent taking tail in mouth,

Completed was the circle of the year,

Whose end and whose beginning met in June.

After the first sweet rapture of it all, A trouble thrust itself in Walter's heart, And beat there like a heart within a heart; And sometimes he would clasp his hands upon it, As if to ease it, for it seemed a thing So tangible, it ached and quivered so. Once in that second June he said to her: "Edith, my heart is troubled; I must speak. However hard the doing of a thing, 'Tis easier done than thought of night and day. I do but wrong you with this love of mine. Why should I love you — I, who am so poor In all those things which make life pleasurable? You have been used to costly robes and gems And fairy laces, and those lily hands Were never soiled with labor. This will change,

Unless we be your father's pensioners, Which never can be. I but do you wrong To link your life with mine, and mar it so." Then Edith turned upon him with her face Flushed like the sunrise, answering, "I do pray No darker trouble ever come to you, My Walter. When I was a little child, And my good nurse would clothe my baby limbs In costly garments, I would run away, And find my father, sobbing piteously, 'My father, take them off — I cannot play.' I like the best to wear a simple dress, And only wear the costlier ones to please My father, who delights to see me clad In beautiful garments. True, these idle hands Have never learned to toil, but I am strong; I hate the ease and languor of my life, And it will be a joy to strive with you, To brave the things that other hearts have braved, - So taste the life most men and women live. My father shall not help his children more Than fathers help their children commonly. O Walter, we are both so young and strong!" She paused all breathless, for the hurrying words Had tripped each other, coming tremulously, As if each had a heart that beat too fast; And such a high, sweet courage lit her face, A tender mist came over Walter's eyes. He knew her maiden fancy tinged the truth, But had no heart to tell her, for she looked So flushed and splendid, so he, only gazed,

And almost worshiped her. Instinctively We "bow the head before the soul that dares. "Another thing" — he said, "have you no dread Of his, your father's anger?" Edith smiled: "My father never yet has frowned on me; He never crossed my will in anything; To make me happy is his happiness, But I will tell him of it now, this night."

So Edith came and laid her shining head

Against her father's knee, and clasped his hand,

And looking up with her frank, fearless gaze,

She said, "My father, I have kept too long

My secret; I have loved now for a year. "

Then Robert Earle brushed something large and

bright,

That like a jewel rolled down from his cheek, And laid a hand upon the shining head: "My daughter does but share the common fate, For every one will have his time to love As surely as he has his time to die. And does he love my rose? But wherefore ask? Could any help it, being loved by her?" "He loves me, father."

"Where is he — the rogue!

Why comes he not to ask my blessing? Go, And send for Lucius; tell him I would see him. " Then Edith looked aghast, and all the rose Died from her cheek, like sunset from the west When suddenly a cloud drops down the sky. "It is not Lucius that I love — no, no!

My father, you have never seen his face." The hand slipped downward from the shining 1iead. For the first time in all her whole sweet life, Her father frowned upon her, and she drooped. 'Edith, why have you kept this thing so long? This surely is a fancy that will flit Across your brain, and leave it clear again." He pushed her from him, clinging to his knees, And, rising, paced the room three times, then turned, Saying, "Go bring him to me, and I swear To bless you both, if he be worthy of you. " Again he paced the room, and shook his head, And muttered to himself, "What cursed fools Men are when they adjudge themselves most wise." Meanwhile came Edith to where Walter stood, Leaning against a pillar of the porch. She said, "He asks to see you, Walter, come! " And Walter followed her, as one who goes To meet his doom. One's seldom at his best, Feeding himself on trial. He only does His noblest in the sweet unconsciousness Of observation. Walter never missed His manly poise so far as on that night. He sat uneasily upon his chair,

And plucked his fingers, groping through his words, And almost felt the manhood in him die; And, feeling that he shamed her he loved most, Was thrice unmanned; but Robert Earle was cool And critical, probing calmly, point by point, His mind and prospects, noticed every flaw, Without discriminating between those

Which were by nature and by habit wrought Into the substance, and those which were made Upon the surface, idle finger marks Of the occasion, to be brushed away By the next happier moment. When at last, Ihe trial ended, the accused dismissed, Came Edith in her fleecy robe of white, And nestled like a lamb between his knees, Who dropped his withered hands like autumn leaves Upon the golden summer of her hair. She, thinking to herself that he had seen The manhood through the moment's awkwardness, Let her sad heart beat lighter. Then he spoke: "Edith, my rose, he is not worthy of you, Has neither personal grace nor gifts of mind — A stupid, penniless fellow, who but seeks To make his own nest soft with others' down. Wake from this dream! — he is not worthy of you." She drew away from his caressing touch. "You shall not speak so, father; you have heard How any one may wear a guilty look, \Vhen put upon his trial; and besides, No man was ever seen alike by two. My nature has a side for every friend; No one may stand upon a middle height, And view the complex whole. Do you not know We often seem least noble in the hour When we would seem our noblest? Furthermore, We see the thing we seek for, good or ill, Far easier than the thing we would not see. You should not judge him, knowing him one hour;

You should believe me who have had a year

For passing judgment." Robert Earle looked down

Into the glowing face upturned to him,

And, like an angel gleam in every look

And queenly motion, saw her mother's soul,

But stronger, loftier, and set himself,

With all his strength of will, against the man,

Who dared to win her heart, while being so far

Unworthy of her, and the ominous clouds

Began to gather on his brow; the smile

Died down upon his lips, and left them dark.

"Take a month, Edith — think of it a month."

"My father, I have thought of it a year."

But take another month now that you know My heart is set against it, and he seems To me unworthy of you, for you know That you are all I have on earth to love." He motioned, and she rose and sadly went.

In those dark days of coldness and restraint,

The first between them, Sorrow first appeared —

Sorrow, who never slighted human heart, —

And touched her, shrinking. Walter shook his head,

Saying in sadness, "He will never yield."

But Edith answered, "Walter, never fear,

Because he loves me so."

Now when a month,

A golden wheel that forward bears the year Upon its circle, turned upon itself, Came Edith in a fleecy robe of white, And nestled like a lamb between his knees,

Who laid a hand upon her shining head: "Edith, my rose, speak, tell me that this dream Has vanished in the light of sober thought." She answered softly: "Learn to love? — not hard; Unlearn it? — surely God can unmake souls Most easier than we do that, being true. I am not dreaming, therefore cannot wake." "Take a month, Edith, take another month, Then come again, and speak the final word; Remember you are all I have on earth." He motioned, and she rose and sadly went. "Edith, I know that he will never yield," Said Walter Gray, and sadly shook his head. "And if he will not, Walter, we will wed, And when 'tis done past all undoing, then I know he will relent, and bless us both — He loves me so!"

So slipped another month,

Wanting yet two nights only. Walter walked Beside the lake, and listened to it sob, As if the heart-aches of all human hearts Were hidden in it, and his strong soul shook With a great storm of passion. "Help me," he

prayed,

"O God, to do the thing I ought. I hate The social forms which made her rich, me poor, With neither praise nor blame to her or me; That make the inward good the outward wrong; That rob earth of its glory and its grace, And make a man's life war with manfulness; But since these things are, help me, God, to be

M

Heroic, strong and noble." So he prayed. The smiling August moon rose from the lake, And clambered into heaven among the stars, Leaving a silver trail across the waves He felt the shadow of an unseen woe Slanting across the future years, until It sloped to meet his footsteps. So he prayed, Until he felt his heart and purpose strong — Felt through his inmost being all the strength The triumph of self over self can give.

So when they sat within the marble gaze

Of Schiller's statue gleaming through the trees

Clasping some tender poem in its hand,

While snowy moonlight drifted through the shade,

Said Walter, "Edith, I have done you wrong;

I will not wrong you further." Edith turned,

A mingled shade and splendor on her face,

As comes a cloud at morning from the east,

Trailing the sunrise: "If you love me not,

Then have you spoken wisely."

"Nay," he said,

"Say not, if I love not, but, if I love So much that I would rather die than bring A weight of care and trouble on your life. I give my heart a willing sacrifice, And in that sacrifice my heart is strong, To spare you grief and trouble."

"Listen," she said,

"You give your heart a willing sacrifice To spare me grief and trouble, and you make

A life-long anguish for us both; I give

A little ease I love not over much,

And in the sacrifice my heart is strong,

To make you joy, and both of us are blest.

Which sacrifice is nobler — yours or mine?"

Her sweet, firm voice and gentle strength of will

Shook his strong soul, and in her tender smile

He felt his purpose vanish, like a drift

Of foolish snow beneath an April sun.

Stoop through the heavens, thou blushing August

moon,

And lay thy full, red cheek against the dark! Open unto their uttermost, ye stars, Your bright, unwearying eyelids! It is light — More light we want on earth. Then Walter bowed His head upon his breast, and clasped her hands: "Choose, Edith, for us both— I cannot choose." She answered softly, "Walter, I have chosen!"

Night in the city, and its ponderous heart

Begins to beat low with the jar and clash

Of change and exchange half-subsiding. Lo,

There souls are dying — souls are being born.

Hark! — some are praying, and not far away

The sound of wassail, and the gambler's oath

Who loses, and his chuckle who wins. Hark! —

The moan of anguish, like the wandering wind

Amid the naked branches, and, dear God,

The very babes have curses on their lips,

Who know not what a curse means. Hark!— the

sound

Of gospel singing, and not far away

The babble of the drunkard, and, lo! there

A little twelve-year girl is taken up drunk

From off the stones, and laid in the patrol.

O God, how can your angels sing in heaven,

With sights and sounds like these on one pale star?

Yonder the thief prepares his midnight tools,

The murderer like a serpent stealthily seeks

An ambush, where he coils and waits his prey.

Lo, there a three-months' bride, with streaming

tears,

Showers her passionate kisses on cold lips That but an hour since answered kiss with kiss. Some word of hope strikes bell-like deep and sweet, With multiple echoes. Listen! — do you hear The music of a lover's first kiss? Hush! — The sobbing of a lonely heart that breaks, Like a wild wave upon a desolate shore, Thrice lonely in a city full of hearts. Across the rainbow fringes of the light, The mirthful murmur of some social joust Is heard not far away, and from the lake The pale fog-angel comes and spreads his wings, Smoke tinged, above the city; over all 'The passionless stars, in bright, eternal hush, Unsleeping ever, almost seem to sleep.

This night came Edith in her fleecy robe, And nestled like a lamb between his knees, Who laid a hand upon her shining head, And waited for her word. She gently said:

"My father, can it be that you forget How you once wed, against the wish and will Of all your kindred, a poor simple girl, Who made three years of life so sweet to you, You could not love another? Do you hold My love more cheaply? Father, I have chosen." She thought his fond caressing touch a sign Of melting, but 'twas only as the brook, After the first frost, feels the morning sun, And thaws a little, but congeals again Into a twofold winter iciness, After it feels the second night of frost. The force of will that in his youth was strength, The winter in his blood made obstinacy. So men do sometimes nurse some foolish wish And give the dearest thing they hold in life Rather than calmly yield it to events. The hand slipped downward from the shining head, And Robert Earle arose, and thrice he strode Across the room and thrice again, then turned, And motioned her to leave him: "Go!" he said, "Henceforth I am alone and childless. Go!" She gave a sharp cry like a wounded thing, And sprang into his arms, and clasped his neck: "Edith, your rose! My father, say it not!" He tore away the tender arms that clung Like ivy tendrils to his bosom: "Go, And come not back again, except, — " he smiled A scornful, bitter smile that burned itself Into her bosom, where it ached and throbbed Heart-like unto her dying day — "except

You or your children hunger, or are cold,

Or shelterless, then come to me again,

And I will give you shelter, bread and clothes."

She turned, and like a wounded bird that tries

After the hunter's shot to fly again

But flutters helplessly along the grass,

She crept away to Walter, where he stood,

Leaning against a pillar of the porch.

She slipped her hand in his, and whispered, "Come!"

She looked so white and wounded that he caught

Both fluttering hands, and held her gently back:

"Choose yet again," he said, and gravely bent

And kissed her with a long and passionate kiss.

The spirit of a sweet smile, timorous, bright,

Uncertain if it dare to light at all,

Hovered about her young lips' tempting red:

"It is not yet too late — choose once again!"

And Edith answered, "Walter, I have chosen."

Part II Life

So Edith Earle and Walter Gray were wed, And made their nest up in a pleasant flat, Upon a quiet street, and merrily chirruped And sang like birds about its furnishing. Then Edith set herself to learn new arts, Turning her pretty hands to homely tasks, Laughing about her blunders and mishaps,

Rehearsing them to Walter with such art

And graceful humor that he also laughed,

Until the tears would come. And many a night

They walked and talked together, while they heard

The restless waters moaning to the shore

Their sad, mysterious longings, that awake

Emotions that have lain too deep for thought,

As thought will often lie too deep for words.

They watched the people thronging to and fro

Beneath the lamplight — lovers hand in hand,

Grave men and women weary and worn with toil,

And children bubbling over with young life;

All waiting for the wave-washed winds that come

Whispering shoreward, shaking their cool wings.

And so they walked and talked and read and dreamed,

All in a rosy mist of life and love;

And so the summer and the autumn went

And Edith never spoke of that deep wound,

Too deep for time's slow healing.

Christmas came, The glad, white Christmas. "Our first Christmas^

time,"

He whispered as he clasped her, and she smiled. But Walter thought the smile was mixed with shade, Like sunlight with the shadows of the leaves. He looked at her so keenly that she dropped Her lashes low to hide the blinding tears, Saying, "We are so happy, but you know The brightest day will have a little cloud, And there's a mournful thought creeps to my heart — My father sits alone and sad to-night."

She lifted up her eyes and saw his face

Was grave and troubled, and she blamed herself

For having spoken of it. Every day

She watched and waited for the tender word:

"Edith, my rose, my darling, come to me! " —

The word that never came. Oh, dull, slow pain

Of watching for a good that does not come,

And which the watcher has no power to speed!

Still Edith's heart beat lightly, for she hoped,

And life and love were young and strange and sweet

So was it that almost before she knew

That they had come, the weeks and months flashed by,

Like shining sheets of water and green groves

And banks of flowers, seen from a flying train.

Edith was never used to hoard and count

The pennies, and; although she planned and saved

And calculated wisely, yet she found,

As household cares increased, expenditures

Exceeded income, and with all her thrift,

She could not make the two perverse ends meet.

She spoke no word to Walter, but she sold

The jewels from her casket one by one,

Telling herself she should not wear them more,

And meantime she would find a better way.

A shadow sometimes crept across her brow,

A look of anxious trouble in her eyes,

But Walter only saw the perfect smile.

It happened once upon a holiday That Walter sat with Edith in the house, When many flags were flying in the sun,

Orchestral music throbbing through the streets, And all the city in its gay attire, For Walter took his holidays for rest. He held a book, and thinking that he read, She propped her elbow on her knee, and leaned Her chin upon her hand, and gravely gazed Upon the busy street, but nothing saw Of all the life and tumult that were there. She saw before and after, and there came A look of anxious trouble in her eyes. And Walter, with his book before his face, Seeming to read, but looking keenly at her Over the top, observed the troubled gaze, The sudden shadow cross the sunny brow, As swift and noiseless as a flying world Across the golden forehead of the sun. He felt a sudden anguish in his breast, As if his heart had beat against a thorn. "Does she pine for the old life with its ease, Its pleasure and its plenty? Does she hide A stinging, live regret within her heart Forever, like a wasp within a rose?" He leaned a little forward, speaking low: "Edith, my darling, could you choose again To-day, would you so choose? I thought I saw A shadow of regret upon your brow." She turned to meet his hungry questioning gaze Then bent to brush away a teasing fly That troubled little Robert's rosy dream, Who lay upon his pillow flushed and fair, With dewy breath of sleep from unseen flowers,

And cool, white fountains sparkling in green glades.

She laid a hand upon his rosy palm,

Flung out upon the pillow like a flower,

Then turned again to Walter, speaking low:

"Oh! life has many sweet relationships,

The tender ties that hold the heart to earth

Through which its pulses run but to return

Enriched upon the heart — the sweet upflow