University of Virginia Library

And so at eight o'clock the carriage came,
And entering it I drove to Lothian's.
At last I was alone with him once more!
He had been sitting at a table heaped
With manuscripts, and these he was correcting.
“I'm here to interrupt all this,” said I;
“Too long you 've kept your brain upon the stretch:
Why be so heedless of your health, your life?”
“But what are they to you, Miss Percival?”
“And that is what I 've come to let you know,”
Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold.
He flushed a little, only just a little,—
Replying, “That I'm curious to learn.”
And then, like one who, in the dark, at first
Moves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on,
I said: “Rash gambler that I am, I 've come
To put upon the hazard of a die
Much of my present and my future peace;
Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you,
Since 't will not be unwarned that I offend.
I know you guess my purpose, and you shrink
From hearing me avow it; but I will,
And that in homely English unadorned.
I'm here to offer you my hand; the heart
That should go with it has preceded it,
And dwells with you, so you can claim your own,
Or gently bid it go, to trouble you
Never again. If 't is unwomanly
This to avow, then I'm unlike my sex,
Not false to my own nature,—ah! not false.
I must be true or die; I cannot play
A masker's part, disguising hopes that cling
Nearest my brooding heart. But, say the word,
‘I cannot love you,’ and the bird who leaves
The cage where he has pined will sooner try
To enter it again, than I return
To utter plaint of mine within your hearing”

With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased.
Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my words
Came all too quick and earnestly for that.
And then resigned he listened. I had seen,
Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joy
At my avowal sparkle in his eyes,
And then an utter sadness follow it,
Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed.

“O divine Pity! what will you not brave?”
He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,—
“You bring her here, even to abase herself
To rescue me! Too costly sacrifice!
Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves,
But Drudgery is master of the house.
Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom.”
A hope flashed up. “Do you suppose,” said I,
“That any impulse less supreme than love—
Love bold to venture, but intemerate—
Could bring me here—that Pity could do this?”

“I believe all,” he answered, “all you say;
But do not bid me whisper more than this:
The circumstances that environ me,
And which none know,—not even my father knows,—
Shut me out utterly from any hope
Of marriage or of love. A wretch in prison
Might better dream of marrying than I.
But O sweet lady! rashly generous,—
Around whom, a protecting atmosphere,
Floats Purity, and sends her messengers
With flaming swords to guard each avenue
From thoughts unholy and approaches base,—
Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomely
Seem beautiful and gracious,—do not doubt
My memory of thy worth shall be the same,
Only expanded, lifted up, and touched
With light as dear as sunset radiance
To summer trees after a thunder-storm.”

And there was silence then between us two.
Thought of myself was lost in thought for him.
What was my wreck of joy, compared with his?
Health, youth, and competence were mine, and he
Was staking all of his to save another.
If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground,
Regrets and disappointments were forgotten
In the reflection, He, then, is unhappy!
“Good by!” at length I said, giving my hand:
“Even as I was believed, will I believe.
You do not deal in hollow compliment;
And we shall meet again if you 're content.
The good time will return—and I'll return!”
“If you return, the good time will return
And stay as long as you remain,” said he.