Hearing his tones of faith, Seeing his saintly look of sympathy, I felt, there being between us no dissent In spirit, dogmas were of small account: And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.

At length he noticed me, and recognized.

"Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you?

But when and why did you return from England?"

"I've never been in England, never been Out of my native country," I replied.

"But that is unaccountable," said he; "For I've seen letters, written as from you, Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts Of certain sums of money, dated London."

"No money have I had but what I've earned,"

Was my reply; "and who should send me money?"

Said he: "I have a carriage at the door; I would learn more of this; you'll not object To take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."

Leaving the patient in good hands, we went, And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.

Then all I'd ever known about my parents He drew from me; and all my history Since I had parted from him; noted down Carefully my address, and gave me his.

Then to my lodgings driving with me back, He left me with a _Benedicite_!

He's rich: has he been sending money, then?

What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.

VII.

Gently as thistle-downs are borne away From the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.

I heard her dying utterance; it was: "I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!"

No priest was by, so sudden was her going.

When Blount came in, there was no tenderness In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried, Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.

What will he do without a drudge to tread on?

Counting himself a privileged lord and master, He'll condescend to a new victim soon, And make some patient waiter a sad loser.

VIII.

"Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know.

There was a time when I resolved, if ever I could secure a modest competence, I would be married; and the competence Is now secure--but where is my resolve?

Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality?

Leave it to chance, and take no active step Myself to seek what I so hope to find?

Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance, That man should change his single lot at will, But woman be the sport of circ.u.mstance, A purposeless and pa.s.sive accident, Inert as oysters waiting for a tide, But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for?

"Ah! woman's strength is in pa.s.sivity,"

Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head, And withering me with a disdainful stare.

Nay! woman's strength is in developing, In virtuous ways, all that is best in her.

No superst.i.tious waiting then be mine!

No fancy that in coy, alluring arts, Rather than action, modest and sincere, Woman most worthily performs her part.

Here am I twenty-five, and all alone In the wide world; yet having won the right, By my own effort, to hew out my lot, And create ties to cheer this arid waste.

How bleak and void my Future, if I stand Waiting beside the stream, until some Prince-- Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp-- Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat, Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet!

Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!

But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooing Must always be offensive to a man Of any dignity." The dignity That modest truth can shock is far too frail And sensitive to mate with love of mine, Whose earnestness might crush the feeble hand Linked in its own. So good by, dignity!

I shall survive the chill of your repulse.

Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's, Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he think That a _man's_ wooing never is offensive To _woman's_ dignity? In either s.e.x The disaffection is not prompted by The wooing but the wooer; love can never Be an unwelcome tribute to the lover; Though freedom premature, or forwardness Unwarranted, may rightly fail to win.

And so I'll run my risk; for I confess-- (Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)-- That there is one whom I could love--could die for, Would he but--Tears? Well, tears may come from strength As well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these; I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.

IX.

I've found him--seen him! The Directory Gave me his residence. He keeps a school, One for young ladies only; and at once My coward heart hit on a good excuse For calling on him: Would he take a pupil?

Rachel, my protegee? Of course he would.

A flush of tender, joyful wonderment, Methought, illumed his face at seeing me; Then, as it faded, I was grieved to mark How pale and thin and worn with care he looked.

I took my leave, promising to return Within a week; and on the outer steps I met his father. "Turn and walk with me A square or two," said I; and he complied.

"What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work: He puts too much of conscience into it.

Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps on Doing the labor two or three should share.

What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?"

"I know not,--only something must be done, And that at once," said I, in tones which made The old man turn to get a look at me.

I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted....

What if I write Charles Lothian a letter?

Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper, But face to face say what I have to say.

This very evening must I call again.

Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!

X.

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 ma.n.u.scripts, 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 'twill 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 'tis unwomanly This to avow, then I'm unlike my s.e.x, 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 circ.u.mstances 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.