Then smiling down, I said, "Dear one! my boon, I fear, is quite too silly or too sweet For my repeating: so we'll let it stay Between the moon and me. But if I may I'll listen now to your wish. Tell me, please!"
All suddenly she nestled at my feet, And hid her blushing face upon my knees.
Then drew my hand against her glowing cheek, And, leaning on my breast, began to speak, Half sighing out the words my tortured ear Reached down to catch, while striving not to hear.
"Can you not guess who 'twas about, Maurine?
Oh, my sweet friend! you must ere this have seen The love I tried to cover from all eyes And from myself. Ah, foolish little heart!
As well it might go seeking for some art Whereby to hide the sun in noonday skies.
When first the strange sound of his voice I heard, Looked on his noble face, and, touched his hand, My slumb'ring heart thrilled through and through and stirred As if to say, 'I hear, and understand.'
And day by day mine eyes were blest beholding The inner beauty of his life, unfolding In countless words and actions that portrayed The noble stuff of which his soul was made.
And more and more I felt my heart upreaching Toward the truth, drawn gently by his teaching, As flowers are drawn by sunlight. And there grew A strange, shy something in its depths, I knew At length was love, because it was so sad And yet so sweet, and made my heart so glad, Yet seemed to pain me. Then, for very shame, Lest all should read my secret and its name, I strove to hide it in my breast away, Where God could see it only. But each day It seemed to grow within me, and would rise, Like my own soul, and look forth from my eyes, Defying bonds of silence; and would speak, In its red-lettered language, on my cheek, If but his name was uttered. You were kind, My own Maurine! as you alone could be, So long the sharer of my heart and mind, While yet you saw, in seeming not to see.
In all the years we have been friends, my own, And loved as women very rarely do, My heart no sorrow and no joy has known It has not shared at once, in full, with you.
And I so longed to speak to you of this, When first I felt its mingled pain and bliss; Yet dared not, lest you, knowing him, should say, In pity for my folly--'Lack-a-day!
You are undone: because no mortal art Can win the love of such a lofty heart.'
And so I waited, silent and in pain, Till I could know I did not love in vain.
And now I know, beyond a doubt or fear.
Did he not say, 'If she I hold most dear Slipped from my life, and no least hope were left, My heart would find the years more lonely here Than if I were of wealth, fame, friends, bereft, And sent, an exile, to a foreign land'?
Oh, darling, you must LOVE, to understand The joy that thrilled all through me at those words.
It was as if a thousand singing birds Within my heart broke forth in notes of praise.
I did not look up, but I knew his gaze Was on my face, and that his eyes must see The joy I felt almost transfigured me.
He loves me--loves me! so the birds kept singing, And all my soul with that sweet strain is ringing.
If there were added but one drop of bliss, No more my cup would hold: and so, this eve, I made a wish that I might feel his kiss Upon my lips, ere yon pale moon should leave The stars all lonely, having waned away, Too old and weak and bowed with care to stay."
Her voice sighed in silence. While she spoke My heart writhed in me, praying she would cease - Each word she uttered falling like a stroke On my bare soul. And now a hush like death, Save that 'twas broken by a quick-drawn breath, Fell 'round me, but brought not the hoped-for peace.
For when the lash no longer leaves its blows, The flesh still quivers, and the blood still flows.
She nestled on my bosom like a child, And 'neath her head my tortured heart throbbed wild With pain and pity. She had told her tale - Her self-deceiving story to the end.
How could I look down on her as she lay So fair, and sweet, and lily-like, and frail - A tender blossom on my breast, and say, "Nay, you are wrong--you do mistake, dear friend!
'Tis I am loved, not you"? Yet that were truth, And she must know it later.
Should I speak, And spread a ghastly pallor o'er the cheek Flushed now with joy? And while I, doubting pondered, She spoke again. "Maurine! I oft have wondered Why you and Vivian were not lovers. He Is all a heart could ask its king to be; And you have beauty, intellect and youth.
I think it strange you have not loved each other - Strange how he could pass by you for another Not half so fair or worthy. Yet I know A loving Father pre-arranged it so.
I think my heart has known him all these years, And waited for him. And if when he came It had been as a lover of my friend, I should have recognised him, all the same, As my soul-mate, and loved him to the end, Hiding my grief, and forcing back my tears Till on my heart, slow dropping, day by day, Unseen they fell, and wore it all away.