Chapter XVIII

To this rose no reply to Edith’s lips.
I mark’d, instead, a gentle trembling there,
Like ripples roused upon a tranquil sea
That rise from deep, unseen disturbances.
“They fail to read her rightly,” thought I, then—
You know no man can flinch it: woman’s grief,
If there be any manhood left in him,
Will rouse his efforts to bespeak her peace—
I found myself her soul’s expositor
To clear the channel of its overflow.

“And when the thought is in one, when it springs,
Why, then, not let it spring? The world is not
So fill’d with thoughts that it can spare our own.
And if we startle folks, jog off the guise
Of their deceit, we spy them as they are.
Between souls thus discover’d, Edith deems
That love must flow; while friendship caught by craft
Is lost by confidence. I think her right.
Why not? We all when in our noblest moods
Crave homage for our souls’ nobility.
But what our souls are in themselves, who know,
Save as our rôles report us outwardly?
Did not divine hands form us as we are?
Who love us as we are, love higher things
Than those who love what earth would make of us.”

“My champion!” Edith cried; and waved her thanks,
With white sleeves fluttering from her shapely sides—
Ah me, a wing’d one sent to save my soul
Had scarcely stirr’d in me a greater joy.