The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 18, April, 1859

CHAPTER XXIII

There was naturally great surprise when Walter Monroe returned home to dinner and Alice was found to be missing. It was evident that it was not an accidental detention, for her trunk had been sent for an hour previous, and the messenger either could not or would not give any information as to her whereabouts. Mrs. Monroe was excessively agitated,—her faculties lost in a maze, like one beholding an accident without power of thought or motion. To Walter it was a heavy blow; he feared that his own advances had been the occasion of her leaving the house, and he reproached himself bitterly for his headlong folly. Their dinner was a sad and cheerless meal; the mother feeling all a woman's solicitude for a friendless girl; the son filled with a tumult of sorrow, remorse, love, and pity.

"Poor Alice!" said Mrs. Monroe; "perhaps she has found no home."

"Don't, mother! The thought of her in the streets, or among suspicious strangers, or vulgar people, is dreadful. We must leave no means untried to find her. Did she leave no word, no note?"

"No,—none that I know of."

"Have you looked?"

She shook her head. Walter left his untasted food, and hastily looked in the hall, then in the parlor, and at last in the library. There was the note in her own delicate hand.

"DEAR WALTER,—

"Don't be offended. I cannot eat the bread of idleness now that your fortune is gone and your salary stopped. If I need your assistance, you will hear from me. Comfort your mother, and believe that I shall be happier earning my own living. We shall meet in better times. God bless you both for your kindness to one who had no claim upon you!

"ALICE."

"The dear creature!" said Mrs. Monroe, taking the note and kissing it.

"Why did you let her trunk go, mother? You might have detained the man who came for it, and sent for me. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth."

"I don't know, my son. I was confused. I hardly knew what happened. I shook so that I sat down, and Bridget must have got it."

Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands trembled so that her fork dropped.

"Never mind, dear mother. Pray, be calm. I did not wish to disturb you."

There was a ring at the door. A gentleman wished to see Mr. Monroe. Rising from the table, he went into the parlor.

"Mr. Monroe," began the stranger, in an agitated manner, "do you know anything of a young lady named Lee,—Alice Lee?"

"Yes," replied Monroe, with equal excitement, "I know her well. What of her? Where is she? Have you found her?"

"Found her?" said the other, with surprise. "Is she not here?"

"No,—she left this morning."

"And left no word where she was going?"

"None."

"Let me beg of you not to trifle with me. Did she not hear my voice, my step, and attempt to excuse herself through you?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Walter.

"I beg pardon. I have been in search of her for two days. I could not believe she had eluded me just at the last. I do not wish to doubt your word."

"And who may you be, Sir, to take such an interest in the lady?"

"I can satisfy you fully. My name is Greenleaf."

"The painter?"

"Yes. You must have heard her speak of me."

"Never, to my recollection."

"Have you known her long?"

"She is my cousin. It is only recently that she came here, and her acquaintances of a year ago might naturally have been passed over."

"You seem surprised at her leaving you so abruptly. You will join me in making search for her?"

"I shall search for her, myself, as long as there is hope."

"Let me confess," said Greenleaf, "that I have the strongest reasons for my haste. She is betrothed to me."

"Since you have honored me with your confidence, I will return it, so far as to tell you what I heard from her this morning. I think I can remember the precise words:—'I have received a wound from the faithlessness of one lover, which never will heal.' If you are the person, I hope the information will be as agreeable to you as her absence and ill-judging independence are to me. I wish you good morning."

"Then she has heard!" said Greenleaf, soliloquizing. "I am justly punished." Then aloud. "I shall not take offence at your severity of tone. I have but one thought now. Good morning!"

He left the house, like one in a dream. Alice, homeless in the streets this bitter day,—seeking for a home in poverty-stricken boarding-houses,—asking for work from tailors or milliners,—exposed to jeers, coarse compliments, and even to utter want!—the thought was agony. The sorrows of a whole life were concentrated in this one hour. He walked on, frantically, peering under every bonnet as he passed, looking wistfully in at the shop-windows, expecting every moment to encounter her sad, reproachful face.

Walter had been somewhat ill for several days, and the accumulation of misfortunes now pressed upon him heavily. He did not tell his mother of the strange interview, but sat down moodily by the grate, in the library. He was utterly perplexed where in the city to search for Alice; and with his mental depression came a bodily infirmity and nervousness that made him incapable of effort. An hour passed in gloomy reverie,—drifting without aim upon a shoreless ocean, under a sullen sky,—when he was roused by the entrance of Easelmann.

"In the dumps? I declare, Monroe, I shouldn't have thought it of you."

"I am really ill, my friend."

"Pooh! Don't let your troubles make you believe that. Cheer up. You'll find employment presently, and you'll be surprised to find how well you are."

"I hope I shall be able to make the experiment."

"Well, suppose you walk out with me. There is a tailor I want you to see."

"A tailor? I can't sew or use shears, either."

"No,—nor sit cross-legged; I know that. But this tailor is no common Snip. He is a man of ideas and character. He has something to propose to you."

"Indeed! I am much obliged to you. To-morrow I will go with you; but, really, I feel too feeble to-day," said Monroe, languidly.

"Well, as you please; to-morrow it shall be. How is your mother?"

"Quite well, I thank you."

"And the pretty cousin, likewise, I hope?"

"She was quite well this morning."

"Isn't she at home?"

"No,—she has gone out."

"Confound you, Monroe! you have never let me have a glimpse of her. Now I am not a dangerous person; quite harmless, in fact; received trustfully by matrons with grown-up daughters. You needn't hide her."

"I don't know. Some young ladies are quite apt to be fascinated by elderly gentlemen who know the world and still take an interest in society."

"Yes,—a filial sort of interest, a grand-daughterly reverence and respect. The sight of gray hair is a wonderful antidote to any tenderer feeling."

"I am very sorry not to oblige you; but the truth is, that Cousin Alice, hearing of my losses, has left the house abruptly, to earn her own living, and we do not know where she has gone."

"The independent little minx! Now I rather like that. There's the proper spirit. She'll take good care of herself; I haven't a doubt."

"But it is a most mortifying step to us. It is a reflection upon our hospitality. I would have worked my fingers off for her."

"No doubt. But she will merely turn hers into nutmeg-graters, by pricking them with her needle, and save you from making stumps of your own. Oh, never fear,—we shall find her presently. I'll make a description of her, and leave it with all the slop-shop fellows. 'Strayed or stolen: A young lady answering to the name of Alice; five feet and no inches; dressed in black; pale, blue-eyed, smiles when properly spoken to; of no use to any person but the owner. One thousand dollars reward, and no questions asked.' Isn't that it? It won't be necessary to add, that the disconsolate advertiser is breaking his heart on account of her absence."

"My dear Easelmann, I know your kindly heart; but I cannot be rallied out of this depression. I have only the interest of a cousin, a friend, a protector, in the girl; but her going away, after my other misfortunes, has plunged me into an abyss. I can't be cheerful."

"One word more, my dear fellow, and I go. You know I threatened to bore you every day; but I sha'n't continue the terebrations long at a time. You told me about the way your notes were disposed of. Now they are yours, beyond question, and you can recover them from the holder; he has no lien upon them whatever, for Sandford was not authorized to pledge them. It's only a spoiling of the Egyptians to fleece a broker."

"Perhaps the notes themselves are worthless, or will be. Nearly everybody has failed; the rest will go shortly."

"I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I suppose. But don't hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown yourself in your wash-basin. Good bye!"

On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf, whom he had not seen before for many days.

"Whither, ancient mariner? That haggard face and glittering eye of yours might hold the most resolute passer-by."

"You, Easelmann! I am glad to see you. I am in trouble."

"No doubt; enthusiastic people always are. You fretted your nurse and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all, yourself. A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard."

"She is gone,—left me without a word."

"Who, the Sandford woman? I always told you she would."

"No,—I left her, though not so soon as I should."

"A fine story! She jilted you."

"No,—on my honor. I'll tell you about it some other time. But Alice, my betrothed, I have lost her forever."

"Melancholy Orpheus, how? Did you look over your shoulder, and did she vanish into smoke?"

"It is her father who has gone over the Styx. She is in life; but she has heard of my flirtation"—

"And served you right by leaving you. Now you will quit capering in a lady's chamber, and go to work, a sadder and a wiser man."

"Not till I have found her. You may think me a trifler, Easelmann; but every nerve I have is quivering with agony at the thought of the pain I have caused her."

"Whew-w-w." said Easelmann. "Found her? Then she's eloped too! I just left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress. It seems to be epidemic. There is a stampede of unhappy females. We must compress the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that they can't get away."

"Whom have you seen?"

"Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine."

"The same. The lady, it seems, is his cousin,—and is, or was, my betrothed."

"And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or thereabouts!"

"How is one to find her?"

"What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn't use them? Consider; she will look for employment. She won't try to teach, it would be useless. She is not strong enough for hard labor. She is too modest and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would be sure to be discovered. She will, therefore, be found in the employ of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder. How easy to go through those establishments!"

"You give me new courage. I will get a trades-directory and begin at once."

"To-morrow, my friend. She hasn't got a place yet, probably."

"So much the better. I shall save her the necessity."

"Go, then," said Easelmann. "You'll be happier, I suppose, to be running your legs off, if it is to no purpose. A lover with a new impulse is like a rocket when the fuse is lighted; he must needs go off with a rush, or ignobly fizz out."

"Farewell, for to-day. I'll see you to-morrow," said Greenleaf, already some paces off.

[To be continued.]

PRAYER FOR LIFE

 
  Oh, let me not die young!
  Full-hearted, yet without a tongue,—
  Thy green earth stretched before my feet, untrod,—
  Thy blue sky bending over,
  As her most tender lover,
  With infinite meaning in its starry eyes,
  Full of thy silent majesty, O God!
  And wild, weird whispers from the solemn deep
  Of the Great Sea ascending, with the sweep
  Of the Wind-angel's wings across the skies,
  Burdened with hints of awful memories,
  Whose half-guessed grandeur thrills us till we weep!—
  I love thy marvellous world too well—
  Its sunny nooks of hill and dell,
  Its majesty of mountains, and the swell
  Of volumed waters—for my heart to yearn
  Away from the deep truth which veils its splendor
  In beauty there less dazzling, but more tender.
  With grave delight I turn
  To all its glories, from the tiniest bloom
  Whose hour-long life just sweetens its own tomb
  As with funereal spices,
  To the far stars which burn
  And blossom in fire through their vast periods,—
  Borne in thy palm,
  Like the pale lotus in the hand of Isis,
  When throned white, and calm,
  In solemn conclave of the mythic gods.
 
 
  Oh, let me not die young,
  A brother unclaimed among
  The countless millions of thy happy flock,
  Whose deepest joy is to obey,
  Whereby they feel the measured sway
  Of thy life in them, their own living part,
  Whether in centuried pulses of the rock
  By slow disintegration
  Ascending to its higher,
  Or the quick fluttering of the Storm-god's heart,—
  An instant's palpitation
  Through all its arteries of fire!
  One common blood runs down life's myriad veins,
  From Archangelic Hierarchs who float
  Broad-winged in the God-glory, to the mote
  That trembles with a braided dance
  In the warm sunset's vivid glance;
  And one great Heart that boundless flow sustains!
  In all the creatures of thy hand divine
 
 
  Thy love-light is a living guest,
  Whether a petal's palm confine
  Its glitter to a lily's breast,
  Or in unbounded space a starry line
  Stretches, till flagging Thought must droop her wing to rest.
 
 
  Oh, let me not die young,
  A powerless child among
  The ancient grandeurs of thy awful world!
  I catch some fragment of the mighty song
  Which, ere to darkness hurled,
  My elder brothers in the eternal throng
  Have caught before,—
  Faint murmurs of the surge,
  The deep, surrounding, everlasting roar
  Of a life-ocean without port or shore,—
  Ere I depart, compelled to urge
  My fragile bark with trembling from the verge
  Of this Earth-island, into that Unknown,
  Where worlds, like souls forlorn, go wandering alone!
 
 
  Oh, let me not die young,
  With all that song unsung,
  A swift and voiceless fugitive,
  From darkness coming and in darkness lost,
  Before thy solemn Pentecost,
  Dawning within the soul, shall give
  The burning utterance of its flaming tongue,—
  The boon whereby to other souls we live!
  Thy worlds are flashing with immortal splendor,
  For human speech on heights of human song
  Faintly to render,
  And pour back along
  Its mountain grandeur, the accumulate rain
  Of star-light, dream-light, thoughts of joy and pain,
  Of love, hate, right and wrong,
  In floods of utterance sublime and strong,
  In dewy effluence beautiful and tender.
 
 
  The kindred darknesses
  Of caverned earth and fathomless thought,
  Of Life and Death, and their twin mysteries,
  Before and After, on my spirit press
  Tempting and awful, with high promise fraught,
  And guardian terrors, whose out-flashing swords
  Beleaguer Paradise and the holy Tree
  Sciential. Step by step the way is fought
  That leads from Darkness, through her miscreant hordes,
  Back to the heavens of wise, and true, and free:
  Minerva's Gorgon, Ammon's cyclic Asp,
  And the fierce flame-sword of the Cherubim,
  That flashed like hate across the pallid gasp
  Of exiled Eve and Adam, flare, and glare,
  And hiss venenate, round the steps of him
  Who thirsts for heavenly Wisdom, if he dare
  Climb to her bosom, or with artless grasp
  Pluck the sweet fruits that hang around him, ripe and fair.
 
 
  Oh! glorious Youth
  Is the true age of prophecy, when Truth
  Stands bared in beauty, and the young blood boils
  To hurl us in her arms, before the blur
  Of time makes dim her rounded form,
  Or the cold blood recoils
  From the polluted swarm
  Of armed Chimeras that environ her.
  But worthy Age to ripened fruit shall bring
  The glorious blooming of its hopeful spring,
  And pile the garners of immortal Truth
  With sheaves of golden grain,
  To sow the world again,
  And fill the eager wants of the New Age's youth.
 
 
  A thousand flashes of uncertain light
  Cleave the thick darkness, driving far athwart
  The up-piled glooms, as lightnings plough their bright
  Fire-furrows through the barren cloud
  They sow with thunders. Thought on burning thought
  Shatters the doubts and terrors which have bowed
  Weak hearts on weaker leaning in a crowd
  Self-crushing and self-fettering; gleams are caught
  From some far centre set by God to keep
  His brave world spinning, or some drifting isle
  Of swift wildfire shot out by the wide sweep
  Of wings demoniac,
  Far winnowing and black,
  Our cheated souls to 'wilder and beguile.
  Only the years, the imperturbable,
  Impassionate years, can sheave the scattered rays
  Into one sun, these mingled arrows tell
  Each to its quiver, the divine and fell,
  And life's lone meteors to their centre trace.
 
 
  O Father, let me not die young!
  Earth's beauty asks a heart and tongue
  To give true love and praises to her worth;
  Her sins and judgment-sufferings call
  For fearless martyrs to redeem thy Earth
  From her disastrous fall.
  For though her summer hills and vales might seem
  The fair creation of a poet's dream,—
  Ay, of the Highest Poet,
  Whose wordless rhythms are chanted by the gyres
  Of constellate star-choirs,
 
 
  That with deep melody flow and overflow it,—
  The sweet Earth,—very sweet, despite
  The rank grave-smell forever drifting in
  Among the odors from her censers white
  Of wave-swung lilies and of wind-swung roses,—
  The Earth sad-sweet is deeply attaint with sin!
  The pure air, which incloses
  Her and her starry kin,
  Still shudders with the unspent palpitating
  Of a great Curse, that to its utmost shore
  Thrills with a deadly shiver
  Which has not ceased to quiver
  Down all the ages, nathless the strong beating
  Of Angel-wings, and the defiant roar
  Of Earth's Titanic thunders.
 
 
  Fair and sad,
  In sin and beauty, our beloved Earth
  Has need of all her sons to make her glad;
  Has need of martyrs to re-fire the hearth
  Of her quenched altars,—of heroic men
  With Freedom's sword, or Truth's supernal pen,
  To shape the worn-out mould of nobleness again.
  And she has need of Poets who can string
  Their harps with steel to catch the lightning's fire,
  And pour her thunders from the clanging wire,
  To cheer the hero, mingling with his cheer,
  Arouse the laggard in the battle's rear,
  Daunt the stern wicked, and from discord wring
  Prevailing harmony, while the humblest soul
  Who keeps the tune the warder angels sing
  In golden choirs above,
  And only wears, for crown and aureole,
  The glow-worm light of lowliest human love,
  Shall fill with low, sweet undertones the chasms
  Of silence, 'twixt the booming thunder-spasms.
  And Earth has need of Prophets fiery-lipped
  And deep-souled, to announce the glorious dooms
  Writ on the silent heavens in starry script,
  And flashing fitfully from her shuddering tombs,—
  Commissioned Angels of the new-born Faith,
  To teach the immortality of Good,
  The soul's God-likeness, Sin's coeval death,
  And Man's indissoluble Brotherhood.
 
 
  Yet never an age, when God has need of him,
  Shall want its Man, predestined by that need,
  To pour his life in fiery word or deed,—
  The strong Archangel of the Elohim!
  Earth's hollow want is prophet of his coming:
  In the low murmur of her famished cry,
  And heavy sobs breathed up despairingly,
  Ye hear the near invisible humming
  Of his wide wings that fan the lurid sky
  Into cool ripples of new life and hope,
  While far in its dissolving ether ope
  Deeps beyond deeps, of sapphire calm, to cheer
  With Sabbath gleams the troubled Now and Here.
 
 
  Father! thy will be done,
  Holy and righteous One!
  Though the reluctant years
  May never crown my throbbing brows with white,
  Nor round my shoulders turn the golden light
  Of my thick locks to wisdom's royal ermine:
  Yet by the solitary tears,
  Deeper than joy or sorrow,—by the thrill,
  Higher than hope or terror, whose quick germen,
  In those hot tears to sudden vigor sprung,
  Sheds, even now, the fruits of graver age,—
  By the long wrestle in which inward ill
  Fell like a trampled viper to the ground.
  By all that lifts me o'er my outward peers
  To that supernal stage
  Where soul dissolves the bonds by Nature bound,—
  Fall when I may, by pale disease unstrung,
  Or by the hand of fratricidal rage,
  I cannot now die young!
 

* * * * *