“Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! How dare you drive me to an act like this, To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss You lured me on to think my rightful claim! O frail and puny woman! could you know The devil that you waken in the hearts You snare and bind in your enticing arts, The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow Would freeze in terror.
Strange you have such power To please or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things— Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. There, now I scorn you—scorn you from this hour, And hate myself for having talked of love!”
He pushed me from him. And I felt as those Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above Are closed against them.
With a feigned surprise I started up and opened wide my eyes, And looked about. Then in confusion rose And stood before him.
“Pardon me, I pray!” He said quite coldly. “Half an hour ago I left you with the company below, And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm. I came in time to see you swoon away. You’ll need assistance down the rugged side Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm.”
So, formal and constrained, we passed along, Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng To have no further speech again that day.
Next morn there came a bulky document, The legal firm of Blank and Blank had sent, Containing news unlooked for. An estate Which proved a cosy fortune—nowise great Or princely—had in France been left to me, My grandsire’s last descendant. And it brought A sense of joy and freedom in the thought Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be A panacea for my troubled mind, That longed to leave the olden scenes behind With all their recollections, and to flee To some strange country.
I was in such haste To put between me and my native land The briny ocean’s desolating waste, I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned To sail that week, two months: though she was fain To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine Would be our guide and escort.
No one dreamed The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. One bright October morning, when the woods Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods In honour of the Frost King, Vivian came, Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,— First trophies of the Autumn time.