University of Virginia Library

Up through the morning mist a horseman came,
Before the guests were stirring at the Inn,
Save Minta, who ran down the hill to meet
Her brother, recognized far off.
“See here!
A letter! 't is for Esther, marked ‘In haste!’
I hurried over with it.”
Haste, indeed!
It was Ruth's hand, and but a word or two:
“Esther, come back! on Isabel's account.
Leave Eleanor with Minta, if you can!”
No more. But Esther felt a heavy weight
Of fear condensed therein, and told her dread
To Miriam Willoughby, while yet asleep
Lay Eleanor. “Leave her here with me,” she said,
“And go with Minta and her brother. I
Will soften your departure. Dear! I love
Eleanor well as you do.”
With a pang
Of inward protest, Esther heard, but thanked
Her friend, and turned away. And ere the sun
Had passed meridian, Clement Summerfield
Stood with her at the lake-side, where the boat,
Puffing and panting, waited. Passengers
Were crossing to the deck. Farewells were said.
Esther, absorbed and lonely, stepped on board,
When some one called her name.
“Why, Doctor Mann!
I thought you meant to stay awhile. I thought,
With Eleanor there—”
What was she speaking of?
She stopped herself, and added: “Eleanor
I had to leave behind; and so was glad—
She is so delicate—that you would stay;
Her friend, and a physician.”
“But indeed
She sent me word—she had not left her room
When the coach started—to look after you,
As you might need my help. I pray you then,
If trouble should be,”—and her anxious face
Revealed its presence plainly,—“take my aid,
Just as you would a brother's.”
“And I will,”
Responded Esther, for a brother's name
Was dearer than all others to her dreams;
And then, if Eleanor cared for Doctor Mann,
As he for her, as everybody must—
To know her was to love her—by and by,
Perhaps—but there she broke her musings off
At her companion's voice, recalling her
To the fair vision of receding hills,
Now known as friends. She named them, one by one,
Black Mountain, Whiteface, Passaconaway;
And their snow patches seemed like kerchiefs waved
After her from afar. Chocorua,
Bending his crown of pearl, almost drew tears
Into her eyes: “He guards my Eleanor,”
Her heart said, with a grateful homesickness.

No railway-whistle then its discords mixed
With echoes of the hills; and they must wait
The morning stage-coach. Esther would have given
Worlds for the legendary tapestry
Of the Arabian Nights, to travel on
Without delay; and grudged the lovely hours
Of harvest-moonlight on the tinted woods
And dark pine-islands; the blue, rippling lake
Seemed whispering low forebodings and regrets;
And she was glad, upon the morrow morn,
Of every lumbering jolt that hurried her
On through her journey.
Wayside travellers
Dropped in and out again; among them, two
Who roused her from her anxious reveries,—
A prettily dressed girl, with wandering eyes,
And movements of the studied picturesque,
Followed by an unwilling squire, who bore
Shawls and umbrellas, and appealing looks,
Petulant or pathetic, with the same
Tired, uninterested air. “Bride or betrothed,”
Thought Esther, “she is baggage all the same,
Which he would gladly drop.” The stranger talked
With Doctor Mann, talked well. The beauty sat
Pouting beside him, trying now and then
To attract both from dull topics to herself,
Sometimes successfully; then her eyes shone
Through all their shallows; voluble nonsense poured
From her bright lips, while her companion blushed.

They left the coach, and Esther heard her say,
In tones most unendearing, “Ambrose, dear!”
Thinking herself unheard. The name flashed back
Ruth's story on her memory. This was he
Through whose desertion shipwreck had wellnigh
Come to her friend! She almost pitied him,
False as he was. With that vexatious bark
Always in tow, what harbor could he gain?
Were this indeed his bride, Ruth was avenged
In his ridiculously hopeless fate.

At last the travellers heard the river rush
Over the rocks at Amoskeag; and close
Winding along the widening Merrimack,
As the coach rumbled on, the Doctor told
Strange Western stories. Prairie-grasses waved,
And great lakes glistened through his talk; mounds rose,
Wondrous with handiwork of tribes unknown:
The fading trail of tawny races died
Along the Mississippi's turbid sweep,
And over white sierras, into haze
Of the Pacific. New horizons grew
On Esther's thought, and almost a surprise
Came to her, in the line of factory-lights
Shimmering up from the river to the stars,
Lengths of reflected jewels.
At the door
Opening familiar in the long brick row,
Ruth met her, smileless.
“Where is Isabel?”
“O Esther, hush! I know not.”
Doctor Mann
Saw fear dissolve in anguish on the face
Of Esther Hale, and hastened, without pause,
To Pastor Alwyn.
Meanwhile, everything
Ruth had to tell was of the Monday past,
When Isabel, for a headache, left her work,
And never had returned; had taken all
Her little wardrobe, too.
Looking far back,
The two girls called up memories now, which meant
Much pain, as fear translated them; and blame
Took Esther to herself for hints let slip:
And, self-reproved for all the happy days
Spent out of sight of Isabel, she said,
“Whoever dares to entertain a joy
Does it at risk of letting sorrow in,
And a whole rabble of regrets. My fault
It is, my fault! my poor lost Isabel!
I should have stayed with her, and I must go
To the ends of the earth to find her.”
Now there came
A timid rap; two little girls peeped in:
“We saw her go,—that pretty Isabel,—
We saw her in a chaise; a gentleman
Was driving fast. 'T was up the Boston road,
Where they are building the great railway-arch;
And Ann and I were gathering ferns and leaves
To trim the grammar-school room, where we've been
All summer, for examination-day.
The gentleman got out to fix the reins
And then drove off quick; but he dropped this card.”
And Alice laid in Esther's hand the name
Of Rodney Willoughby.
“Why, Ruth! why, Ruth!
The very name of our dear lady-friend
Up under Ossipee Mountains, where I left
Our Eleanor! Scarcely could kin of hers
A villain be; but this may prove a clew.”

The little messengers had slipped away,
And now came Pastor Alwyn.
All being told,
He said: “Take heart! Give me this card, and soon
Tidings will come to you. Do not despair
Of her who wanders! followed by our prayers,
And by the All-Loving Heart, she must be saved”:—
Divulging not who waited to depart
In quest of Isabel.

The sleepless night
Passed by at last, and Esther said to Ruth:
“To stay here is impossible; I must track
Isabel's footsteps. While a penny lasts
I'll spend it looking for her. 'T is the fault
Of my self-confidence, if she has strayed.
I never thought a girl could be beguiled
Easily as men say. Beauty like hers
Is its own dreadful snare, I learn too late.
No! not too late! It shall not be too late!”

Before the day closed Esther found herself
Sheltered in Boston, underneath the roof
Of a kind work-mate's mother, an old house
Which had seen better days, though now reduced
To a cheap lodging-place for sewing-girls,
Shop-tenders, tailoresses, milliners;—
A tall, quaint building of Colonial date,
Upon the western slope of Beacon Hill,
In an irregular street, where clean-patched clothes
And stiff brocades found jostling neighborhood.
The chat of the house-inmates wearied much
The soul of Esther,—idle prattle, all
Of fashions, scandal, good looks, stylish beaux:
She wondered at it greatly; used, herself,
To talk that held some meaning. Could it be
That much toil on the outside shows of things
Deadened the deeper faculties? Her room
Became the refuge of her restless heart,
High in the attic-eaves, whence she could look
Over the city; and, in wakefulness,
She watched the twinkling lights that went and came,
Blooming and fading out like golden flowers
In gardens of the Night. Souls of her dead,
Mother, friends, sisters, in that starry hush
Appeared, and disappeared, and reappeared
Through memory's dusk. The mystery of Death
Had approached Esther in her earliest years.
Familiar with his lineaments undefined,
Ever a friendly Awe seemed waiting near,
Under whose shadowy cloak her best-beloved
Were shielded from earth's harm.
Extinguished light,
She could not think one heart's love had become
Which had enkindled steady flame in hers,
Flame that illumed the untrodden wilderness
Of the Unknown, the vast Beyond of life.
This was her heart's unburdening in such hours:—

THE CITY LIGHTS.

But every hour of daylight Esther spent
Searching hotel-books and stage-offices;
Met, oftentimes, by insult or rebuff:
She cared not. And through streets unfrequented
By maid or matron, she went, sorrowful,
Undaunted by coarse look or muttered sneer
Of masculine unmanliness. She saw
Vanishing in blind alleys, through dim doors,
Faces that thrilled her with a horrible hint
Of likeness to the wanderer. Womanhood,
Sunk to its lowest, scoffed at the pure eyes
Looking with questioning pity into theirs;
For the dark secret of their straying still
Bewildered Esther, and the atmosphere
Poisoned her, with its stench of unclean souls.
Daily her heart grew humbler, at the sight
Of misery and despair; her ignorance
Of life's bad possibilities appalled her. “This,
This is the second death!” she said, “and these
Are spirits in prison! What deeper hell can be?”

O, what relief, after a day like this,
To snatch from one hour's sleep a heavenly dream
Of the clear mountain-heights and Eleanor!

And one day, watching an arriving coach
With anxious eagerness, lo! Eleanor!
And Miriam Willoughby, and a man,—yes, Ralph,
Lifting out Eleanor! The face beloved
Was paler than its wont. With words of joy
Broken by sobbing questions, Esther caught
Her darling's hand.
“Esther, control yourself!”
Said Miriam, gently. Strange that such reproof
Esther, the staid, sedate, should need! Her will
Had borne her over-wearied heart too long,
Which cried out, as a babe a nurse lets fall.
“Esther, control yourself! for she is ill,
Our Eleanor. Here must we rest to-night.
Stay with us! We have much to tell and hear!”

But Esther, entering, glanced back, and saw
A beckoning eye. “Miss, if you please!” one said,
In tones respectful, reaching out to her
A paper slip. “News of the wanderer;
Good news!”—no more; in handwriting unknown.

Back Esther's self-reliance surged. She kissed
Eleanor, resting in a quiet room;
Promised Miss Willoughby to come to her
To-morrow, in her quiet country-seat,
Westward, beyond the Charles, and then returned
To her own lodging. A note waited her
In the same unknown hand. “In such a street,
At such a number, look for her you seek.”

She found the place, well kept, respectable,
A dining-room with girl-attendants. She,
Seating herself, yet veiled, saw one approach,
Let her come close, then took her hand, and said,
“Isabel!” softly. Isabel would have fled,
But that a warm grasp held her, close as heaven's;
She dropped into a chair, pale, still as death.

Esther said, “Isabel, come! go home with me!”
She whispered back, “But you must hear me, first.”
And, asking leave, withdrew with her. The two
Paced the long gravel-paths beneath the elms
Of Boston Common, while the gold leaves blew
About them, in the chilly sunset-light.

Isabel's sorrow, her pent-up remorse,
Burst through its flood-gates now.
“I 've been a fool
Esther, a fool! unworthy of such love
As yours,—yet not so wicked as I seem;
Though I deceived you, and deceived the man
Who has forsaken me. We never met
Except on Sundays, between services;
Never but once, last April, by the Falls
He passed me, following some friends of his;
But loitered with his silly flatteries
Till Eleanor came in sight. Those Sunday noons
You used to think me lingering with the girls,
I walked with him, but never let him come
Near the mills with me. Telling half the truth,
I wove romances for him. He believed
I was an orphan seamstress, who was born
To wealth and luxury. Of my factory life
I never hinted, thinking by and by
To be his lady-bride, and, far away,
Lose every memory of my working days.

“I thought I loved him; and he said enough
Of loving me at first sight, and all that,
To turn my silly head; then suddenly,
In a five-minutes' talk, the Sunday noon
Before I came away, said all was planned:
We to be wedded the next day; his ship
To sail on Tuesday; business hurrying him
Out of the country. On his grand estates
I should live like a princess. Time to think
He would not give me. Here we drove, post-haste.
He left me, on arriving at an inn,
Bonneted, waiting his return. Since then
I have not seen him. That some accident
Kept him, I feared. But the landlady laughed
At such a hint, with knowing looks. My tears
Awoke her pity, and she found me work.
It was so dreadful, that uncertainty,
Waiting for him I trusted, all whose words
Had sounded honorable,—left alone
And penniless,—life looked so black with fears!
Yet I must live,—I would earn honest bread;
I begged for any drudgery.
“Back to you
I was ashamed to come. But O the hard,
The hideous whispers men and women, too,
Have made me listen to, have meant for me!
I have risked my good name! What shall I do?
You all must hate me! Eleanor I 've killed,
Perhaps. I wish I could but kill myself!—
And yet, except in wanderings of my heart,
I am an innocent girl.”
It was not strange
That, next day, under Miriam Willoughby's roof
Isabel found a refuge. It was like
Her Christian, womanly heart,—this Miriam,
Who called not anything she had her own,
Not even the stones of her ancestral hearth,
That echoed proud traditions. Human need,
With her, drowned out aristocratic claims,
And under her calm, helpful eyes, these girls
Sat down to look new futures in the face.
She was not spared her pang. A message came
From Ralph, returned to business. “Dearest aunt,
Rodney has disappeared. Embezzlements
Are known. They must be his. He has escaped
Arrest, and I shall cover his disgrace
By payment. Doubtless he has crossed the sea.”

The criminal was her nephew! All the more
Would Miriam shield the girl whom he had left
Exposed to ruin. Yet she could but feel
How the great body of humanity
Shares every member's stain. One loss
The misery, meanness, and disease! One hope
Breaking through heavenly vistas on mankind!

Isabel's hands were deft, and work for them
Found Miriam; kept her at white sewing-work
By Eleanor's bedside, who had rallied now,
Though restless with the wanderer out of sight;
So restless, Isabel said, through tears and smiles,—

“You are severe with me as Sister Sterne,—
The blessed, cross old thing! Upon my knees
I 'd fall before her, if I could! I know
She always meant my good. You both are saints,
Though so unlike; saintly antipodes.
O Eleanor, I laugh, when I should weep!
But will you never trust me, never more?”

For Isabel would not stray again. Her life
Bared now its firm foundations, overgrown
Before with falsehoods, that she pruned away
As she perceived them; and so beautiful
She grew, self-conquering, strangers, seeing her,
Wondered about her, as at fairy tales.

But Isabel now beheld not her own face
With any pleasure. From her glass a ghost,
Refusing to be laid, looked out at her
With her own eyes,—such as hers might have been,
Hope's light extinguished, pure tears burned away.
If Rodney Willoughby had truly meant
What he had promised, she had walked ashamed
Beside him, as a banished felon's wife,
Arrayed in thievery's spoil. With that vile fate
Compared, a menial's lot were Paradise.

Esther watched Eleanor's pale loveliness,
And marvelled at it, too. If Doctor Mann
Could see her now! Thinking of him, she said:
“Once, Eleanor, I liked not this your friend.
He seemed to patronize us working-girls,
As some strange, pitiable phenomena,—
Lusus naturæ to all well-bred folk.

But either I mistook him, or he found
Himself mistaken; for more deferent
Or manlier courtesy never have I met,
Nor wiser thinking listened to than his.
On your account I should dislike him still,
For I believe he loves you. But I 've grown
Magnanimous. God bless him!”
A strange look,
A far-off smile, came into Eleanor's eyes:
“Esther,—yes, he is good. But do you know,
I have a lovely secret of my own,
And I shall wed another. By and by
I'll tell you all about it.”
That same night
Came the young Doctor, with kind messages
From Pastor Alwyn; spent a brief half-hour
In low, calm talk with Eleanor alone,—
For Eleanor loved him with a cousinly trust,
And she to him was like own kith and kin;
Truly his cousin, by a few removes,—
Then asked for Esther Hale.
The house was hushed
When he departed; not so Esther's heart,
Astonished at itself and at his words,
Disturbed with a new presence, hopes and fears
Never before admitted. All the while
It had been Esther his soul bowed before,—
Her warm heart, her illumining intellect,
Her charity, blent with stainless rectitude;
He felt himself grow manlier, loving her.

And in their short acquaintance she had seen
Great depths of an unconscious nobleness
Glimpsed by his words and actions. He it was
Who found out Isabel, Esther kept in sight,
Plunging into foul places for a pearl
Counted as lost.
If now he sought to join
This strong, pure woman's heart to his, to go
Through the sick world beside her, carrying health
And hope, as in an overflowing cup,—
The cup of love the hands of two hold,—
What then? and why not so?
But Esther stood
Dismayed at revelations of herself,
Weak where she had seemed strong, and shrinking back
From visions that reality might spoil.
Disloyalty to Eleanor? to her own
Half-builded plans and purposes? No, no!
She could not choose her own lot. God knew best!
And with this prayer at last she closed her eyes:—