Eleanor, to my dying day, I shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish and scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not repress it; a woman's love is too mighty to be put down with little reasonings. I called to him in terror, "Bernard, Bernard!" He did not turn; gave no sign of having heard.
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my life. I've never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere, perhaps on God's earth he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck,--a woman with fame, without love.
"Vengeance is an arrow that often falleth and smiteth the hand of him that sent it."
Soft breezes blow and swiftly show Through fragrant orange branches parted, A maiden fair, with sun-flecked hair, Caressed by arrows, golden darted. The vine-clad tree holds forth to me A promise sweet of purple blooms, And chirping bird, scarce seen but heard Sings dreamily, and sweetly croons At Bay St. Louis.
The hammock swinging, idly singing, Lissome nut-brown maid Swings gaily, freely, to-and-fro; The curling, green-white waters casting cool, clear shade, Rock small, shell boats that go In circles wide, or tug at anchor's chain, As though to skim the sea with cargo vain, At Bay St. Louis.
The maid swings slower, slower to-and-fro, And sunbeams kiss gray, dreamy half-closed eyes; Fond lover creeping on with foot steps slow, Gives gentle kiss, and smiles at sweet surprise.
The lengthening shadows tell that eve is nigh, And fragrant zephyrs cool and calmer grow, Yet still the lover lingers, and scarce breathed sigh, Bids the swift hours to pause, nor go, At Bay St. Louis.
The poor old year died hard; for all the earth lay cold And bare beneath the wintry sky; While grey clouds scurried madly to the west, And hid the chill young moon from mortal sight. Deep, dying groans the aged year breathed forth, In soughing winds that wailed a requiem sad In dull crescendo through the mournful air.