Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily entered.Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly in her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking, ere I entered, in poetry.Sir Walter Scott’s voice, to her a foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own heart.Her face was grave, its expression concentrated; she bent on me an unsmiling eye—an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly her tranquil room; but what—with her thoughtful look, her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration—what had she to do with love? “Nothing,” was the answer of her own sad, though gentlecountenance; it seemed to say, “I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one is to be my support and the other my solace through life.Human affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me.” Other women have such thoughts.Frances, had she been as desolate as she deemed, would not have been worse off than thousands of her sex.Look at the rigid and formal race of old maids—the race whom all despise; they have fed themselves, from youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance.Many of them get ossified with the dry diet; self- control is so continually their thought, so perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of their nature; and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned out of a little parchment and much bone.Anatomists will tell you that there is a heart in the withered old maid’s carcase—the same as in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land.Can this be so? I really don’t know; but feel inclined to doubt it.
I came forward, bade Frances “good evening,” and took my seat.The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers.I know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my greeting.I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise.We met as me had always met, as master and pupil— nothing more.I proceeded to handle the papers; Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right hand, a little removed.The paper on the top was a translation ofsome grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands.Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing—a mere copy of verses.I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper.I had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse.The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer’s own experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested.Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied.I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal; it continued thus:—When sickness stay’d awhile my course, He seem’d impatient still,Because his pupil’s flagging force Could not obey his will.
One day when summoned to the bed Where pain and I did strive,I heard him, as he bent his head, Say, “God, she must revive!”
I felt his hand, with gentle stress, A moment laid on mine,And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign.
But pow’rless then to speak or move, I only felt, within,The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,
Their healing work begin.
And as he from the room withdrew, My heart his steps pursued;I long’d to prove, by efforts new; My speechless gratitude.
When once again I took my place, Long vacant, in the class,Th’ unfrequent smile across his face Did for one moment pass.
The lessons done; the signal made Of glad release and play,He, as he passed, an instant stay’d,
One kindly word to say.
“Jane, till to-morrow you are free From tedious task and rule;This afternoon I must not see That yet pale face in school.
“Seek in the garden-shades a seat, Far from the play-ground din;The sun is warm, the air is sweet:
Stay till I call you in.”
A long and pleasant afternoon
I passed in those green bowers; All silent, tranquil, and aloneWith birds, and bees, and flowers.
Yet, when my master’s voice I heard Call, from the window, “Jane!”
I entered, joyful, at the word,
The busy house again.
He, in the hall, paced up and down; He paused as I passed by;His forehead stern relaxed its frown: He raised his deep-set eye.
“Not quite so pale,” he murmured low.
Now Jane, go rest awhile.”
And as I smiled, his smoothened brow Returned as glad a smile.
My perfect health restored, he took His mien austere again;And, as before, he would not brook
The slightest fault from Jane.
The longest task, the hardest theme Fell to my share as erst,And still I toiled to place my name In every study first.
He yet begrudged and stinted praise, But I had learnt to readThe secret meaning of his face, And that was my best meed.
Even when his hasty temper spoke In tones that sorrow stirred,My grief was lulled as soon as woke By some relenting word.
And when he lent some precious book, Or gave some fragrant flower,I did not quail to Envy’s look,
Upheld by Pleasure’s power.
