Oh! if not for my sake, at least for your own, reconsider
before the hot irons sear your brow; and hide it here,
my love; keep it white and pure and unfurrowed here,
in the arms that will never weary of sheltering and
clasping you close and safe from the burning brand
of fame. Literati! A bondage worse than
Roman slavery! Help me to make a proper use of
my fortune, and you will do more real good to your
race than by all you can ever accomplish with your
pen, no matter how successful it may prove. If
you were selfish and heartless as other women, adulation
and celebrity and the praise of the public might satisfy
you. But you are not, and I have studied your
nature too thoroughly to mistake the result of your
ambitious career. My darling, ambition is the
mirage of the literary desert you are anxious to traverse;
it is the Bahr Sheitan, the Satan’s water, which
will ever recede and mock your thirsty, toil-spent
soul. Dear little pilgrim, do not scorch your
feet and wear out your life in the hot, blinding sands,
struggling in vain for the constantly fading, vanishing
oasis of happy literary celebrity. Ah! the Sahara
of letters is full of bleaching bones that tell where
many of your sex as well as of mine fell and perished
miserably, even before the noon of life. Ambitious
spirit, come, rest in peace in the cool, quiet, happy,
palm-grove that I offer you. My shrinking violet,
sweeter than all Paestum boasts! You cannot cope
successfully with the world of selfish men and frivolous,
heartless women, of whom you know absolutely nothing.
To-day I found a passage which you had marked in one
of my books, and it echoes ceaselessly in my heart:
“‘My future will
not copy fair my past.’
I wrote that once; and thinking
at my side
My ministering life-angel
justified
The word by his appealing
look upcast
To the white throne of God,
I turned at last,
And there instead saw thee,
not unallied
To angels in thy soul! * *
Then I, long tired
By natural ills, received
the comfort fast;
While budding at thy sight,
my pilgrim’s staff
Gave out green leaves with
morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy of life’s
first half:
Leave here the pages with
long musing curled,
Write me new my future’s
epigraph.
New angel mine—unhoped-for
in the world!’”
He had passed his arm around her and drawn her close
to his side, and the pleading tenderness of his low
voice was indeed hard to resist.
“No, Mr. Murray, my decision is unalterable.
If you do really love me, spare me, spare me, further
entreaty. Before we part there are some things
I should like to say, and I have little time left.
Will you hear me?”
He did not answer, but tightened his arm, drew her
head to his bosom, and leaned his face down on hers.
“Mr. Murray, I want to leave my Bible with you,
because there are many passages marked which would
greatly comfort and help you. It is the most
precious thing I possess, for Grandpa gave it to me
when I was a little girl, and I could not bear to
leave it with any one but you. I have it here
in my hand; will you look into it sometimes if I give
it to you?”