Perhaps Oliver left the
market earlier than he used to do; or you mistook the house; or perhaps
some poor creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy
in chafing his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy drops
from his brow. Such things often happen (don't they, Arthur?) to people
of your trade, and some such thing has happened now; and that was the
reason you did not write. And if so, shall I repine at your silence? Oh no! At such a time the
poor Bess might easily be, and ought to be, forgotten. She would not
deserve your love if she could repine at a silence brought about this
way. And oh! may it be so! May there be nothing worse than this! If the sick
man--see, Arthur, how my hand trembles. Can you read this scrawl? What
is always bad, my fears make worse than ever. I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my friend himself be
sick, what will become of me? Of me, that ought to cherish you and
comfort you; that ought to be your nurse. Endure for you your sickness,
when she cannot remove it. Oh! that----I _will_ speak out--Oh that this strange scruple had never
possessed you! Why should I _not_ be with you? Who can love you and
serve you as well as I? In sickness and health, I will console and
assist you. Why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter and such
an aid as I would be to you? Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreary spot, where,
indeed, as long as I am thus alone, I can enjoy no comfort. Let me come
to you. I will put up with any thing for the sake of seeing you, though
it be but once a day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or
darkest alley will be good enough for me. I will think it a palace, so
that I can _but_ see you now and then. Do not refuse--do not argue with me, so fond you always are of arguing! My heart is set upon your compliance. And yet, dearly as I prize your
company, I would not ask it, if I thought there was any thing improper. You say there is, and you talk about it in a way that I do not
understand. For my sake, you tell me, you refuse; but let me entreat you
to comply for my sake. Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You write me long letters,
and tell me a great deal in them; but my soul droops when I call to mind
your voice and your looks, and think how long a time must pass before I
see you and hear you again. I have no spirit to think upon the words and
paper before me. My eye and my thought wander far away. I bethink me how many questions I might ask you; how many doubts you
might clear up if you were but within hearing. If you were but close to
me; but I cannot ask them here. I am too poor a creature at the pen,
and, somehow or another, it always happens, I can only write about
myself or about you. By the time I have said all this, I have tired my
fingers, and when I set about telling you how this poem and that story
have affected me, I am at a loss for words; I am bewildered and bemazed,
as it were. It is not so when we talk to one another. With your arm about me, and
your sweet face close to mine, I can prattle forever. Then my heart
overflows at my lips. After hours thus spent, it seems as if there were
a thousand things still to be said. Then I can tell you what the book
has told me. I can repeat scores of verses by heart, though I heard them
only once read; but it is because _you_ have read them to me. Then there is nobody here to answer my questions. They never look into
books. They hate books. They think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy,
who you say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can find to
amuse myself in a book. In her playful mood, she is always teasing me to
lay it aside. I do not mind her, for I like to read; but, if I did not like it before,
I could not help doing so ever since you told me that nobody could gain
your love who was not fond of books. And yet, though I like it on that
account more than I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly and
understand so well as I used to do when my mind was all at ease, always
frolicsome, and ever upon _tiptoe_, as I may say. How strangely (have you not observed it?) I am altered of late!--I, that
was ever light of heart, the very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, am
now demure as our old _tabby_--and not half as wise. Tabby had wit
enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor I have--but no
matter what. It will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons for
every thing! Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men sometimes too
_wise_ to be happy? I am now _so_ grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes get from me,
though she tries for it the whole day. But I know how it comes. Strange,
indeed, if, losing father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world,
penniless and _friendless_ too, now that _you_ forget me, I should
continue to smile. No. I never shall smile again. At least, while I stay
here, I never shall, I believe. If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him,--_near_ him, I
mean,--perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the sound
of his voice, asking, "Where is my Bess?" might produce a smile. Such a
one as the very thought produces now,--yet not, I hope, so transient,
and so quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say, to trouble,
and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis all very true. Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back good tidings, if
he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses my
request,--I don't know what may happen. Consent, if you love your poor
girl. E.H.




CHAPTER XLV. The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, did not hinder
me from paying the visit I intended. My friend noticed my discomposure. "What, Arthur! thou art quite the 'penseroso' to-night. Come, let me
cheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have thy favourite ditty." She
stepped to the instrument, and, with more than airy lightness, touched
and sung:--

          "Now knit hands and beat the ground
          In a light, fantastic round,
          Till the telltale sun descry
          Our conceal'd solemnity." Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end. My cheerfulness would not return even at her bidding. She again noticed
my sedateness, and inquired into the cause. "This girl of mine," said I, "has infected me with her own sadness. There is a letter I have just received." She took it and began to read. Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes steadfastly
upon her features. There is no book in which I read with more pleasure
than the face of woman. _That_ is generally more full of meaning, and of
better meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments of man; and
_this_ woman's face has no parallel. She read it with visible emotion. Having gone through it, she did not
lift her eye from the paper, but continued silent, as if buried in
thought.