“The major half of life? Love scars the soul, as ’twere a searing brand: Ambition turns to ashes in our hand, Nor, ’til the glass has spilled its latest sand, Comes rest from urge and strife.
“O Birth! thou wanton wight That dost with smiles enmask thy mocking eyes! How dost thou cheat the unborn soul that flies Full-eager from its formless Paradise To realms of Death and Night!”
Theo sat breathless, a flush of expectation staining her dark skin, as the first page was laid aside and the second came to view. Before the remaining stanzas were finished, her heart was beating visibly through the thin morning dress, as her lips fashioned soundlessly the lines she had memorized at the second reading:
“O Love! more wanton e’en Than Birth or Hope or bold Ambition, thine To lift the quivering soul to heights divine, To mad the brain with Amor’s poisoned wine, To spread thy wonder-sheen
“O’er eyes that erst could see! Thy promises, how fair, how full of bliss! Are mortals born for rapture such as this? Helas! the web was cunning-wove, I wis, That e’en entangled me!”
“Theodora, are you _sure_ that Eileen wrote these verses?”
“Eileen? Goodness, no! She scrawls all over the paper. You never saw her write a neat little hand like that.”
“Why ... Lary, of course. I thought you knew he was the poet--the _real_ poet of the family. He wrote it last night. I saw his light burning at four o’clock this morning. I couldn’t sleep, either. Mine was ear-ache. His was another kind. He says you always have to agonize when you write anything worth while. And I think this poem is ... worth while ... don’t you?”
The solid ground of assurance was, somehow, slipping from beneath her feet. Lady Judith was not pleased. Her usually pale cheeks burned red, and there was an unfamiliar look in her eyes.
“Humph! You don’t think I’d show her Lary’s poem? He lets me see lots of things he writes, that mamma and the rest of them don’t know anything about--till they’re published. And if the stupid editors send them back--I never do tell. I wouldn’t ... for the world.”
“N-n-not exactly. He left the desk unlocked. Didn’t put the top quite all the way down, and one corner of the paper was sticking out. I had to see what it was, so that if it was something the others oughtn’t to see, I could put it under the blotter, out of sight.”