Point Lace and Diamonds | Page 8

nobody blamed you?In the end, when you got your divorce--?You were right enough there--she'd levanted?With Guelph, and you'd no other course.?What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,?The row would have never occurred,?And for you to be doing the tragic,?Strikes me as a little absurd.?As it stands, you've the best of the bargain,?And she's got a good deal the worst,?Leave it there, and--just touch the bell, will you??You're nearest, I'm dying of thirst."
IV.?AT AFTERNOON TEA.
"'In New York!' Yes, I met her this morning.?I knew her in spite of her paint;?And Guelph, too, poor fellow, was with her;?I felt really nervous, and faint,?When he bowed to me, looking so pleading--?I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you??If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;?But knowing her, what could I do??Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered--?I think it a sin, and a shame,?The way he was wrecked by that creature!?I know he was never to blame.?He never suspected. He liked her--?He'd known her for most of his life--?And of course, it was quite a temptation?To run off with another man's wife.?At his age, you know--barely thirty--?So romantic, and makes such a noise?In one's club--why, one can't but excuse him,?Now can one, dear? Boys will be boys.?I've known him so long--why, he'd come here?And talk to me just like a son.?It's my duty--I feel as a mother--?To save him; the thing can be done?Very easily. First, I must show him?How grossly the woman deceived?And entrapped him.--It made such a scandal?You know, that he can't be received?At all, any more, till he drops her--?He'll certainly not be so mad?As to hold to her still. Oh, I know him?So well--I'm quite sure he'll be glad?On any excuse, to oblige me?In a matter so trifling indeed.?Then the way will be clear. We'll receive him,?And the rest will soon follow our lead.?We must keep our eyes on him more closely?Hereafter; young men of his wealth?And position are so sorely tempted?To waste time, and fortune, and health?In frivolous pleasures and pastimes,?That there's but one safe-guard in life?For them and their money--we've seen it--?A really nice girl for a wife.?Too bad you've no daughter! My Mamie?Had influence with him for good?Before this affair--when he comes here?She'll meet him, I'm sure, as she should--?That is, as if nothing had happened--?And greet him with sisterly joy;?Between us I know we can save him.?I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."
THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PLAINT.
The Spring has grown to Summer;?The sun is fierce and high;?The city shrinks, and withers?Beneath the burning sky.?Ailantus trees are fragrant,?And thicker shadows cast,?Where berry-girls, with voices shrill,?And watering carts go past.
In offices like ovens?We sit without our coats;?Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,?No collars binds our throats.?We carry huge umbrellas?On Broad Street and on Wall,?Oh, how thermometers go up!?And, oh, how stocks do fall!
The nights are full of music,?Melodious Teuton troops?Beguile us, calmly smoking,?On balconies and stoops.?With eyes half-shut, and dreamy,?We watch the fire-flies' spark,?And image far-off faces,?As day dies into dark.
The avenue is lonely,?The houses choked with dust;?The shutters, barred and bolted,?The bell-knobs all a-rust.?No blossom-like spring dresses,?No faces young and fair,?From "Dickel's" to "The Brunswick,"?No promenader there.
The girls we used to walk with?Are far away, alas!?The feet that kissed its pavement?Are deep in country grass.?Along the scented hedge-rows,?Among the green old trees,?Are blooming city faces?'Neath rosy-lined pongees.
They're cottaging at Newport;?They're bathing at Cape May;?In Saratoga's ball-rooms?They dance the hours away.?Their voices through the quiet?Of haunted Catskill break;?Or rouse those dreamy dryads,?The nymphs of Echo Lake.
The hands we've led through Germans,?And squeezed, perchance, of yore,?Now deftly grasp the bridle,?The mallet, and the oar.?The eyes that wrought our ruin?On other men look down;?We're but the broken play-things?They've left behind in town.
Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature,?Whose wandering children come?To light with happy faces?The dear old mother-home,?Be tender with our darlings,?Each merry maiden bears?Such love and longing with her--?Men's lives are wrapped in theirs.
THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" P?AN.
The evenings are damper and colder;?The maples and sumacs are red,?The wild Equinoctial is coming,?The flowers in the garden are dead.?The steamers are all overflowing,?The railroads are all loaded down,?And the beauties we've sighed for all Summer?Are hurrying back into town.
They come from the banks of the Hudson,?From the sands of the Branch, and Cape May,?From the parlors of bright Saratoga,?From the dash of Niagara's spray.?From misty, sea-salt Narragansett,?From Mahopac's magical lake.?They come on their way to new conquests,?They're longing for more hearts to break.
E'en Newport is dull and deserted--?Its billowy beaches no more?Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed faces,?Love's beacon lights set on the shore.?The rugged White Hills of New Hampshire,?The last of their lovers have seen,?The echoes are left to their slumbers,?No dainty feet thread the ravine.
On West Point's delightful parade ground?Sighs many a hapless cadet,?Who's basked through the long days of Summer?In the smiles of a city coquette;?And now the incipient hero?Beholds his enchantress depart,?With the spoils of