Virginia Vaughn : a romance in verse

Front matter

VIRGINIA VAUGHAN

RICHARD

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Book I

It was a pleasant room in which to wait, As Leon Grey, while waiting there, perceived ; A restful room, in blue and gold and white, With muslin curtains moving noiselessly As breezes from the near by fields stole in. And frolicked in their folds ; a tasteful room, With not too little nor too much therein, And not an object breathing forth discord. Of which a critic might complain : "Too rich Is this for its companion ornaments Thus put to shame:" or, "Rather heavy this, And out of true proportion to the things Surrounding."

Woman's eye and heart and hand Had all been there, as any might discern : An eye to truly see, a heart to feel, A hand to do, combining to make up A place not beautiful alone, but full Of sweet suggestion, as though something said To him who entered : " A most blessed calm Abides within these walls, though men toil on. And storms beat still, out in the world. "

The walls Were hung with pictures, such as one endowed As artist or as poet would select, Since they appealed to souls attuned (as souls Of poets are) to all true harmony ; To souls awake (as is the artist's soul) To all that's beautiful.

A few there are God sets apart from ordinary men, And makes them poet-artists, who create Work some call pictures, and some, poems ; while Still others, who love both through knowing both, Declare them picture-poems, as they are. The shallow half believe they understand, And cry: "How lovely!" "Oh, sublime — sublime!"

Then pass to something wholly lacking worth, Again to cry: "Oh, lovely!" "Oh, sublime!" He with the poet-soul may speak no praise. Though something deep within him sees that

which No eye can read, save his whose inmost self Responds to that which made the canvas breathe ; A something more than form and color, aye. And more than light and shadow, though,in truth, 'Twere nothing without these. He feels himself Has found expression thus through other hands. Nor deems it strange another seemed to know His thought, and did the thing he might have done Had he that other's genius and true skill. For painters, aye, and poets, be they true, Interpret, in some measure, man to man As they do God to man. And if we read Some sentiment so comprehensively That it seems but to echo our own thought. We're poets, too, though we nor paint nor rhyme.

It was the pictures, more than all, that made The young man willing to await that mom The advent of his hostess.

"Take your time.

My lady, " soft said he, "nor deem you are A stranger to the guest who waits, sometimes,

Among the things you love, and finds in them The thing you are. "

Then softly Leon mused : "If beauty felt within makes beautiful The self without, Virginia Vaughn, meseems. Beyond the usual type of womanhood Is beautiful. And I, who ofttimes build Backgrounds upon my canvas for fair women, Now build a woman, in my dreams, to fit A fair background. The mistress of this place, Who understands so well, apparently. The best arrangement of her furniture And bric-a-brac, knows too, I dare assume. The setting that becomes herself the best. Blue eyes look bluer still when they reflect The color of these walls ; and golden hair, Or hair of auburn tint, would well contrast With the blue velvet of this restful couch. I guess, therefore, her dreamful eyes are blue ; Her hair agleam with gold. And she — ah, well, A poet such as she could but be tall, And graceful as the rhythm of her smooth verse. "

The while he mused, he moved about the room,

Examining the pictures on the wall.

Then pausing, thus the man soliloquized :

' ' Ah, Leon Grey, let not yourself be proud

Because a poet true thought fit to place

Within her sight, a canvas covered o'er

With hues that once lay on your palette ! She,

Perhaps, came by it not because she would.

But that another chose it should be hers ;

Oft other things than greatness men find thrust

Upon them ; even poets would refrain.

Through kindness, from refusing well-meant gifts,

Howe'er ill-chosen. "

Through the open door The young man saw a wheel-chair in the hall, And said within himself : "A sufferer dwells Within these walls, which adds another grace Unto mine unknown lady. Women, I Have oft observed, who tend afflicted ones. Learn how to modulate the voice to tones More soft and sweet, and they grow sweeter faced Through sympathy with pain. Oft helplessness In those they love, awakes the mother-heart In virgins, e'en, and makes them tender-wise As mothers."

On the stairway in the hall He heard a step. 'Twas not the tread of one Soft shod or light upon her feet, and he Was thus aroused from his deep reverie. Was, then, the poet such an Amazon His vision of her need take flight, like bird Affrighted, at the sound of her foot-step?

"En wuz I easy den, meh honey?"

'Twas A negro woman spoke, in voice as soft As is the dove's low cooing; such a voice As ladies well might imitate who grace Fine parlors with soft manners ; and disgrace Them with harsh voices.

Kindly one replied : "You're always gentle, Leah. You may now Go back upstairs, and sweep and dust the rooms; I shall not need you for a little while. "

Then framed within the doorway, Grey beheld

One whom he scarce knew if to designate

As child or woman, though no child such eyes

Could have, that seemed to say : "I deeply see, And long have seen thus deeply. " Leon thought Of that Madonna Sichel painted, which Has eyes as deep and sweet as were Virginia's ; Such speaking eyes, in which one seems to read : ' ' I look forth bravely from a soul that feels More deeply and more sadly than most souls, Yet must bear more ; a soul foredoomed to grief. Yet blessed with an abiding peace and poise That keeps me calm."

The artist ne'er had seen A woman gowned as was Miss Vaughn that day ; She wore a garment of material Both light and soft, that seemed to Leon like The dresses children wear. It was, in truth, An empire gown, with alterations such As made it more childlike, while not a whit Less womanly. About her slender form. Close up beneath the arms, a sash was brought, And, from a bow at her left side, its ends Reached down until the silken fringe on them Was even with the edge of her long skirt. Her hair was merely parted, and in waves. Blue-black, hung unconfined quite to her knees. So might a dainty child look who had donned A long dress to play lady, and forgot That ladies' tresses are not worn unbound. However long and soft.

The young man bowed.

And asked as he advanced toward her: "Miss Vaughn?"

"Aye, Sir, Virginia Vaughn, " she made reply. And, with a smile, extended her white hand As frankly as she were, indeed, the child She so resembled.

Leon, leading her To the most restful chair within the room, Remembered how he dreamed, awhile before, It was, perhaps, ofttimes the resting place For one whose auburn hair had golden gleams ; j Whose form was tall and strong and straight.

"And straight?"

It was not so ; for, as Virginia turned To seat herself, her visitor saw why She chose to dress unlike her sisterhood ; Why such deep sadness brooded in her eyes; He saw, and grieved, alas ! to see, that she Who loved so well true beauty in all things, Was moulded in a form unbeautiful. Upon her shoulders, young and delicate, A burden he beheld; one that, he knew, Lay heavily, and might not be removed, Though she should live long years beyond the time Allotted man. Was it, then, to conceal This throbbing thing (a burden on her heart As well as on her back) God graciously Dropped over it a veil so glorious ?

Her hand, so small and white, in his lay cold, Although the day was warm, when Leon led Her to her chair. He felt within himself A wish to close enfold it, with its mate, In his warm palms, until the blood in them Ran warm with youthful life, as his blood ran. For he remembered when he once, while still A little lad, to his fond mother came. Complaining of the cold: "Jack Frost bites

hard — So hard it hurts !" And she, with loving grace, Knelt on the rug before the fire, and hid

His fingers in her hands the while she laughed : "Ten little red birds in a downy nest — Now blow, oh, South Wind, softly blow on them, And make them warm!" Then she blew her

sweet breath (A warm, warm zephyr from the balmy south). Upon his hands, till they felt chill no more Than fledglings do beneath their mother's wings. "Now fly, " she cried, "my pretty red, red birds, From your warm, downy nest ! Fly far, be glad, But come again, when cold or weary, back To shelter."

Leon's hands, had he played now That childish game, had been a nest for birds White as white flowers, fragile as birds unfledged Still in the home nest. Had Virginia known This fancy of his mind, she would, perhaps. Have asked : ' ' Do men, then, have such thoughts

as we.

Glad children and sad poets (poets are Child- hearted save in gladness) put to use In play and rhyme?" But knowing not, she said, Her full eyes fixed on his : "I fear you have Grown tired, sir; 'tis wearisome to wait."

"Not here, " and he encircled with a glance The pictured walls. "To wait in such a room Affords one pleasure, though he wait, as I, To greet a poet whose melodious songs Have touched his soul."

Virginia bowed her thanks, And Leon Grey continued, smilingly: "Yet you are, doubtless, used to compliments, And hear your poems praised as frequently As most of us must hear the weather blamed. "

"I've not heard spoken praise enough," she

smiled, "To call it common."

"Your community, One therefore would surmise, must be composed Of beings dumb? — so partially, at least. "

"Not dumb concerning much, " she made reply, "Though so concerning books; they needs must

be Who know them not. And why should I complain Because my friends peruse not what I write? That my imperfect pen makes no appeal To those who know me best, scarce signifies My friends as friends are failures. We must learn. Who write for publication, to expect Appreciation more from those afar, To whom ourselves are strangers, rather than From nearer, dearer ones we fain would please. " She spoke half lightly, and a smile played round Her coral lips, but did not brighten once Her dark, grave eyes. (Eyes are more true than

lips In this, at least : they cannot smile when they Would speak for saddened hearts.) And in a

flash.

The man divined her poet-soul felt need Of true companionship, though with light words She tried to veil the truth.

' ' Ofttimes our friends Seem not to realize, " he answered her, "That we who dedicate our lives to art. Put, verily, ourselves into our work ; And if our art is little known to tliem. Ourselves are, too, and they love rather that

We seem to be, than that we really are. "

"You, too, no doubt, have had experience," She smiled. "And yet, methinks, your work

appeals More strongly than does mine, to men ; for scores Admire both form and color, to whom words Are lifeless things. Why, even children, still Untaught, look on a picture with glad eyes, Exclaiming : ' Pretty ! ' And adults can scarce Be blinded to the beauty children see — Though but in part."

"Aye, but in part, as all Perceive, who look for form and color only ! Who sees but these, sees scarcely more than one Who reads a verse, nor truly comprehends The sentiment ; to such, words are but words. 'Tis true most people love to look on pictures. Yet many read your book, which finds its way To homes both far and near, where one beholds My picture. That, howe'er, is not the point : I grant an artist's friends more apt to be Acquainted with his work, than poets' friends, With theirs. But think. Miss Vaughn: it takes

less time To look upon a picture on a wall. Than read a volume through, from back to back. "

"Yet you," she interposed, "who hitherto Have rendered that which shall more readily With recognition meet, now condescend To hide, between the covers of a book, Creations of your brush. "

' ' We none create, In one sense of the word, " protested he.

" It is the part of true art to construe The Lord's creations. "

"You speak truly, Sir, "

And she bowed gravely. ' ' We forget, sometimes, We're human, and but follow after God Both in conception and achievement- He With power so God-like thrills our higher selves In highest moments. Could we always walk Upon that noble height we sometimes reach, How near divine were we!"

"And yet," he mused, ' ' Unto what depths the noblest sometimes sink ! And they who climb the highest, feel it most That they must evermore descend, and walk More oft along the lowly, shadowed vale Than on the gleaming height. "

"Let us be glad,"

Virginia, clasping her fair hands, implored, "Not only that we do, though seldom times, Attain the heights, but that 'tis given us To look up to them from the lowly vale Wherein we walk. But we meet not today To speak of high plateaus and lowly plains : It surely does me honor that one whom My father praised, while I was yet a child, As artist likely to attain the heights, Should now consent to illustrate a book From my poor pen. My father, if he knows, (And think you not departed spirits are Oft mindful of us here?) is glad with me. "

The words touched Leon as no words of praise Had touched him hitherto, e'en while he felt Unworthy of them.

' ' Also, I am pleased Your publishers made this request of me ;

For, in its first edition, I have read

Your poem, more than once, and am not bhnd

To pictures therein Hmned by your true pen ;

Word-pictures whose companion piece

One could dehght to paint, with his best brush. "

"Grave pictures, some of them, I fear," she sighed ; "I'd none to whom I might submit my work. And ask: 'Is this too sad a thing for truth?' "

Her guest arose, and through the window looked Upon a summer landscape, calm and still, Divining that Virginia Vaughn, so small To look upon, yet large to feel and love. Knew lack of love, and so was sorrowful With sorrow endless as seems life on earth To those who love it not. But Leon Grey IvOved life, for it had been most kind to him, Save for a brief, sad while in early youth. And he had reason to rejoice that Hope, By being shattered, proved deliverance From after misery. We should be glad. We who are prone to magnify sad truths : There are glad "might-have-beens" in every life, And much we lose, we live to count well lost.

Strong men, it has for ages been agreed,

Are tenderest of heart, and Leon none

Would name a weakling. In his soul awoke

Compassion for Virginia, not alone

Because she was a woman, but one bom

To suflfer, though in her the child still lived.

He wished child-likeness and child-gladness might

Walk hand in hand together, joyous twins

Forever on life's path. He was not free,

Alas ! to speak the sympathy he felt,

And so he lightly said, to hide from her What filled his heart : ' ' How fair a scene you may Look daily on, Miss Vaughn ! No city walls Shut from your view the ever changing sky, And those far hills and nearer fields it smiles Or frowns upon, according to its mood. "

Virginia rose, and, going to his side,

Also looked out upon the smiling scene.

Had he outstretched his arm, she might have stood

Beneath it, her dark head not touching quite

His outheld hand. "I love the sky," she said,

' ' And, could I always have my will as now.

Would never live again within the town.

Where structures high, and oft unbeautiful,

Would stand between me and the canopy

God stretched o'erhead. I've room for breathing

here.

For freedom, and for — growth. "

Upon tiptoe.

For one brief moment, she arose, her arms Upraised, as though to signify she thus Would rise to larger stature, by and by. So might a little child, with hands upheld As far above his head as he could reach, Make boast: "I shall be tall as that some day!" But Leon knew 'twas spirit-growth she meant. And that her soul toward higher things must needs Aspire, although her mortal self were slain Through her soul's aspiration. Then she spoke, Her feet descending to a level plane — As did her thought — once more, of how the crops Were suffering for rain, and would respond Most gladly to a shower ; how the fruit Was more abundant than it was the year • Preceding, for which truly she gave thanks.

"And you," asked Leon, "are a farmer, too, As well as poet?"

' ' In true love of all Pertaining to the soil, I am, indeed. And could but be, for such my neighbors are, Who thus earn that which keeps together here The body and the spirit for awhile. It is the life I like the best of all, So free, — so independent of mankind. Yet, plainly, so dependent upon God. For men say not unto the farmer, 'Go' Or 'Come,' at their sweet will. If he his day Of toil begin more early than most do, 'Tis not because one drives him forth, But that successive seasons, each in turn. Declare what tasks await for him to do. Thus speaking for the One whose voice they are. And he must labor as the seasons bid ; Must plough and plant, and plough again, and

reap And gamer in, according to the will Of Him who wisely rules the elements Of all the worlds, if he would bring his fields To glad fruition. "

"Therefore," Leon said, "The farmer better reads the changing face Of nature than most do. He sees revealed Through her thin veil (not thin, howe'er, to those Of poorer sight) some truths concerning her That we see not. And well for him 'tis so : For none beside, unless it be, forsooth, The sailor on the sea, so needs to read Her prophecies aright. To some, a cloud Is but a cloud ; a pretty thing to look Upon the while it slowly floats o'erhead. With varying form ; now like a graceful swan,

Snow-white; and now, an iceburg on the sea; And now, an angel reaching down and down, As though — they look no more! E'en changeful

clouds Hold not for long, men's roving, restless eyes. But to the farmer, whose parched lands contain Unnumbered multitudes of thirsty roots, A cloud may be a promise, from on high, Of bread to feed himself and family. And he discerns it while 'tis still afar, A tiny, floating speck one city bred Would scarcely see ; nor fears to prophesy. From the direction whence it comes, as well As other signs found true, if rain will fall Ere noon or night, or if the cloud will pass. And bear the blessing far, to regions strange. "

Virginia's eyes grew bright as she exclaimed : ' ' You know and love the country even as I ! And yet, before you came, I was afraid You'd find our quiet life monotonous. "

"My father was a farmer, " he replied,

"And I was bom and bred a country lad. "

" Things are reversed with us, " the lady mused ;

"I was a little city child, and now

Dwell far from scenes of active life ; while you,

A boy bred in the country, spend the years

Of manhood 'mid the busy haunts of men.

How strange the changes that into most lives

Come thus with time ! And yet, it seems, they

come In ways so natural, we sometimes feel Life had been stranger still had they not come. "

"True, life is strange," her visitor replied,

' ' But strange not altogether, we concede Who find it sweet. "

"Aye, sometimes sweet, but sad More oft than sweet," Virginia said. Then

smiled, Her hands outstretched impulsively, her mood Quickly transformed. ' ' Regarding changes, who — Long years ago — imagined I today Would own those near-by fields, and would collect From them, each autumn-tide, sufficient rent To — buy my dresses with!"

The young man laughed : " 'Tis not a princely fortune, certainly! Not much more than your childhood's wealth:

for then.

Your dresses came unbought, for aught you knew, And pleased you no less well because 'twas so. "

The girl, grown grave again, told presently Of those despairing days, eight years before, When she awoke at last from the first shock Her mother's death had caused, to realize She was alone, with never kith nor kin In all the world, of whom she might expect The temporary aid of bed or board.

"And all the heart within me turned, " she said, "With longing toward the open, kindly skies That would, with silent sympathy, look down. Nor ask how I endured life thus bereaved. Nor if my loneliness were hard to bear, As mortals sometimes do. And so a friend — The best I had (he was my teacher once) — Found this fair spot, which since has been my

home.

And is the more beloved because 'twas he

Made the selection."

Leon drew her chair Before the open window, bidding her To seat herself, and so reserve her strength For tasks that would engage the two ere long. "For I, " he warned, and as he spoke, his eyes. As if to contradict the words he said, With laughter twinkled, "tolerate in those Whose tasks are one with mine, no idleness Nor dallying, though they would rest or dream. "

"But oftentimes, " she claimed, the while she sank Among the cushions of the chair he brought, "The weary one finds rest — from weariness Of mind, at least — in work ; and he who knows Rest both of mind and heart, will not remain Long weary bodily. And dreamers, who But toil because they must, do not, I hold, Yield of necessity their dreams ; for men May dream while the)^ are working, and make

sweet Their daily task that else had not been so. Then, please, " and she held out her hands, palms

up.

To her companion, smilingly, as though With earnestness and strong glad faith she prayed Some precious boon, "withhold not work from

me!"

"Believe me, " Leon laughed, "a few days hence

Those lips, that now so eagerly implore

For work, will cry, 'Enough!' Those pleading

hands.

Today for tasks so ready, will not scorn To fold themselves in restful idleness. "

"Do artists, then," she queried, as though half

BeHeving what he said, ' ' demand so much

Of those whose books they illustrate? You see, "

She did not pause for a response, but thus

Went on in explanation of her need

Of knowledge on that score, "naught heretofore

That I have done, has won embellishment

Of artists' brush or pen, and I, therefore.

Know not the part expected now of me."

"Myself must plead, " so Leon made reply, "To ignorance, too, if we regard alone Experience like to this: For ne'er before Have I received commission thus to paint, From nature, scenes described in any book Of prose or verse. It seems to me, perhaps The author's part would merely be to point Out such and such a place, as having led To such and such a sentiment expressed Within the book. So might the painter's mood. Adaptive to his art, with truth respond Unto the poet's mood, enabling him To paint a picture with such atmosphere As would suggest the thought she had expressed. "

"Ah, that were easy done! More easy done," Virginia smiled, "than that those ask who bring A poet's book, fresh from the press, to him. To read therefrom aloud, and make request: 'Now what inspired this thought?' or, 'How came

you By such conception as this theme reveals?' Ignoring that the poet often builds His sweetest songs of sorrows he has known, And may not take such poems thus apart Without deep probing, till it bleeds anew,

Some unhealed wound; and songs that most

appeal To hearts of men, are songs thus bom of pain In sorrow's night. But scenes his pen describes, Though felt within the soul, as beauty is, And can but be by those who truly see, Are not a very part of self, and he May point thereto, nor fear to thus betray The joy or grief deep buried in his breast. "

"At least, " and Leon smiled, "may one not ask, And not offend, a poet how she came To choose a certain story as the cord Whereon to string her gleaming pearls of thought ? For, peradventure, many stories told In verse have little plot, and scarce are more Than threads, that serve to hold upon themselves Rare gems of truth. But, serving end so good, They should be never overlooked by those Who treasure pearls. I truly treasure them, Yet now make no inquiry where you found This one ; nor why that one has lustre quite Beyond its mates ; nor why yon noble one Thrills all my heart, yet bids me not forget Pearls ne'er would be if wounds, alas ! were not. But I would ask, whence came the cord on which, With taste and care exquisite, you arranged The peerless gems found in your latest book?"

"Ah, thereby hangs a little story, " she Made ready answer, "whose unfoldment will Disclose me as a bard who borrowed theme To set to music ! Ere we have achieved Or fame or money, some, believing they Were bom to wield great pens, submit to us Examples of their work. One who had read

My printed thoughts since first I launched them

forth Upon the world, enclosed to me a verse Her hand had penned, requesting me to say If it were meritorious, or not.

'Twas short, and crudely were the thoughts expressed, As though the mind in which they were conceived Had mastered not the rules of prosody, Or scorned to use them.

'Word and form,' to her I frankly wrote, 'are far inferior To thought and spirit ; yet a homely phrase May spoil a pretty thought ; an ugly form. Conceal a lovely spirit. You might well, 1 think, reclothe so worthy a brain-child In worthier garb.'

Returning then the lines, I failed to note that one fine thought they held Had deeply taken root within my mind To grow and bloom, until a fragrance, sweet As dew- wet roses are, thrilled all my soul With new delight. Then, as within myself I felt the wish to share this gift with men, The memory came that 'twas not mine, alas! To spread abroad. I kept the theme two years Imprisoned, though it struggled more and more For light and freedom. Then the idea came To make inquiry of that one whose thought Was thus suggestive, if it had been used, Or yet would be ; if not, then might not I Enlarge upon and use it as I would?

"She wrote at once, a long kind letter; she '^^ ] Had never used, and never would , she said, The verses sent to me for criticism;

She now was wife and mother, and since God Enriched her thus, she had nor wish nor time To poetize.

'The while I write,' she said, T hold a perfect poem to my breast — My babe beloved — the beating of whose heart Makes truer rhythm and purer melody Than words were ever set to. Could you see My darling now, in her white, lace trimmed dress. I think you would concede I clothe my child More tastefully than ever I clothed thoughts In dreamful, idle days. And you, I hope, Would take it not amiss (so sweet she is !) That she is called Virginia, after you.' "

As she concluded, through the house was borne The silver tinkle of the dinner bell. The girl arose, and to the dining room Invited the young man. Here they were met By an old lady, whom she introduced As her grand-aunt.

" 'Tis Mister Grey, Aunt Jane," She said in louder tones than she had used When speaking to her guest. "I told you. Aunt, That he was coming."

"Eh? Who's coming, dear?"

Miss Jane bowed hurriedly, as if surprised To see the young man there, then fixed her eyes Upon the door, expectantly.

"No one."

Virginia laid a hand upon her aunt's. Thus to attract attention to herself. "I told you 'tis the artist — Mister Grey — Come from the city. "