III
The changeful sand doth only know
The shallow tide and latest;
The rocks have mark'd its highest flow,
The deepest and the greatest;
And deeper still the flood-marks grow:—
So, since the hour I met thee,
The more the tide of time doth flow,
The less can I forget thee!
When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt—they were found in his room, and of course they must be his, just as partial critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.
Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.
Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity; jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was barking for another run with the verses.
“A lady's hand?” said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister; “I declare if it ain't! the wretch—so he receives lines from ladies.”
“I think I know the hand, too,” said Charlotte.
“You do?” exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.
“Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing.”
“So it is,” said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have burnt it; “to be sure—he was there before he came here.”
“Only for two days,” said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had raised.
“But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight,” returned Augusta, half crying; “and what do I see here? some words in pencil.”
The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood thus:—
Dearest, I will.
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That all must love thee when thou'rt near,
But one will ne'er forget thee!
“Will you, indeed?” said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and biting it; “but I must not destroy it—I must keep it to prove his treachery to his face.” She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.