Chapter LX

Still would doubt
Survive, and question if, when off my guard,
In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceived
As I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed,
That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love?
And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin.
My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled off
To point and probe it.
Strangely was it solved.
I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act,
In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”

She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush,
That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truth
From hers contagious, like a boy confused,
All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim,
I blurted out about my older love;
To root it out would root out love itself,
And not to do so, leave none else a place.

“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed,
My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor.
But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks,
I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth;
For had I wrench’d it from her bodily,
Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’d
My wresting rudely such a secret thence.
At one bound then my honor had return’d.
A bandit had I been, to force the spring
That lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!—
And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,”
I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power,
New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart,
And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins;
And then I check’d it. She was not for me,
Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!

“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend,
And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend;
Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man.
I go to him.”
“Nay not to him,” she urged.

But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d,
Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit;
Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.