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And it shall 'please me,' in your words, to know
You yield your wife, protection, freedom, ease,
And very tender liking. May you live

So happy with her, Romney, that your friends
May praise her for it. Meantime, some of us
Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant

Of what she has suffered by you, and what debt
Of sorrow your rich love sits down to pay:
But if 'tis sweet for love to pay its debt,
'Tis sweeter still for love to give its gift;
And you, be liberal in the sweeter way,-
You can, I think. At least, as touches me,
You owe her, cousin Romney, no amends;
She is not used to hold my gown so fast,
You need entreat her now to let it go:
The lady never was a friend of mine,
Nor capable,—I thought you knew as much,—
Of losing for your sake so poor a prize
As such a worthless friendship. Be content,
Good cousin, therefore, both for her and you!
I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull your noon,
Nor vex you when you're merry, nor when you

rest:

You shall not need to put a shutter up

To keep out this Aurora. Ah, your north

Can make Auroras which vex nobody,

Scarce known from evenings! also, let me say,
My larks fly higher than some windows. Right;
You've read your Leighs. Indeed 'twould shake a
house,

If such as I came in with outstretched hand,
Still warm and thrilling from the clasp of one ..
Of one we know, .. to acknowledge, palm to palm,
As mistress there. . the Lady Waldemar.'

'Now God be with us'. . with a sudden clash Of voice he interrupted-' what name's that? You spoke a name, Aurora.'

'Pardon me;

I would that, Romney, I could name your wife
Nor wound you, yet be worthy.'

'Are we mad?'
He echoed-wife! mine! Lady Waldemar!
I think you said my wife.' He sprang to his feet,
And threw his noble head back toward the moon
As one who swims against a stormy sea,

And laughed with such a helpless, hopeless scorn, I stood and trembled.

'May God judge me so,'

He said at last,'I came convicted here,
And humbled sorely if not enough. I came,
Because this woman from her crystal soul
Had shown me something which a man calls light:
Because too, formerly, I sinned by her

As, then and ever since, I have, by God,

Through arrogance of nature,—though I loved ..
Whom best, I need not say, since that is writ
Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds;
And thus I came here to abase myself,
And fasten, kneeling, on her regent brows
A garland which I startled thence one day
Of her beautiful June-youth. But here again
I'm baffled!-fail in my abasement as

My aggrandisement: there's no room left for me,
At any woman's foot, who misconceives
My nature, purpose, possible actions.

What!

Are you the Aurora who made large my dreams To frame your greatness? you conceive so small? You stand so less than woman, through being more,

And lose your natural instinct, like a beast,
Through intellectual culture? since indeed
I do not think that any common she
Would dare adopt such fancy-forgeries
For the legible life-signature of such

As I, with all my blots: with all my blots!
At last then, peerless cousin, we are peers-
At last we're even. Ah, you've left your height;
And here upon my level we take hands,
And here I reach you to forgive you, sweet,
And that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago

You seldom understood me,-but, before,

I could not blame you. Then you only seemed
So high above, you could not see below;
But now I breathe,—but now I pardon !—nay,
We're parting. Dearest, men have burnt my house,
Maligned my motives,—but not one, I swear,
Has wronged my soul as this Aurora has,
Who called the Lady Waldemar my wife.'

'Not married to her! yet you said'. .

'Again?

Nay, read the lines' (he held a letter out) 'She sent you through me.'

By the moonlight there,

I tore the meaning out with passionate haste

Much rather than I read it.

Thus it ran.

NINTH BOOK.

EVEN thus. I pause to write it out at length,
The letter of the Lady Waldemar.-

'I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this,
He says he'll do it. After years of love,
Or what is called so,-when a woman frets
And fools upon one string of a man's name,
And fingers it for ever till it breaks,—
He may perhaps do for her such thing,
And she accept it without detriment
Although she should not love him any more.
And I, who do not love him, nor love you,
Nor you, Aurora,―choose you shall repent
Your most ungracious letter, and confess,
Constrained by his convictions, (he's convinced)
You've wronged me foully. Are you made so ill,
You woman-to impute such ill to me?

We both had mothers,-lay in their bosom once.
Why, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh,
For proving to myself that there are things
I would not do, . . not for my life . . nor him . .
Though something I have somewhat overdone,—
For instance, when I went to see the gods
One morning, on Olympus, with a step
That shook the thunder in a certain cloud,
Committing myself vilely. Could I think,
The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast
To soften, had herself a sort of heart,
And loved my mortal? Ile, at least, loved her;
I heard him say so; 'twas my recompence,

VOL. III.- -21

When, watching at his bedside fourteen days,
He broke out ever like a flame at whiles
Between the heats of fever. . . 'Is it thou?
'Breathe closer, sweetest mouth!' and when at last
The fever gone, the wasted face extinct
As if it irked him much to know me there,

He said, 'Twas kind, 'twas good, 'twas womanly,' (And fifty praises to excuse one love)

'But was the picture safe he had ventured for?'
And then, half wandering . . 'I have loved her well,
'Although she could not love me.'--'Say instead,'
I answered, 'that she loves you.'—'Twas my turn
To rave: (I would have married him so changed,
Although the world had jeered me properly
For taking up with Cupid at his worst,
The silver quiver worn off on his hair.)
'No, no,' he murmured, 'no, she loves me not;
" Aurora Leigh does better: bring her book
'And read it softly, Lady Waldemar,

'Until I thank your friendship more for that,
'Than even for harder service.' So I read
Your book, Aurora, for an hour, that day:
I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis;
My voice, empaled upon rhyme's golden hooks,
Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor revolt;
I read on calmly,-calmly shut it up,
Observing, 'There's some merit in the book.
'And yet the merit in't is thrown away
As chances still with women, if we write

'Or write not: we want string to tie our flowers,
'So drop them as we walk, which serves to show
'The way we went. Good morning, Mister Leigh;
You'll find another reader the next time.

A woman who does better than to love,

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