In my ears The sound of waters. There he stood, my king!
I felt him, rather than beheld him. Up I rose, as if he were my king indeed, And then sate down, in trouble at myself, And struggling for my woman’s empery. ’Tis pitiful; but women are so made: We’ll die for you, perhaps,—’tis probable; But we’ll not spare you an inch of our full height: We’ll have our whole just stature,—five feet four, Though laid out in our coffins: pitiful! —‘You, Romney!—— Lady Waldemar is here?’
He answered in a voice which was not his. ‘I have her letter; you shall read it soon: But first, I must be heard a little, I, Who have waited long and travelled far for that, Although you thought to have shut a tedious book And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such a page, And here you find me.’ Did he touch my hand, Or but my sleeve? I trembled, hand and foot,— He must have touched me.—‘Will you sit?’ I asked, And motioned to a chair; but down he sate, A little slowly, as a man in doubt, Upon the couch beside me,—couch and chair Being wheeled upon the terrace. ‘You are come, My cousin Romney?—this is wonderful. But all is wonder on such summer-nights; And nothing should surprise us any more, Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.’
I signed above, where all the stars were out, As if an urgent heat had started there A secret writing from a sombre page, A blank last moment, crowded suddenly With hurrying splendours. ‘Then you do not know’— He murmured. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘I know. I had the news from Vincent Carrington. And yet I did not think you’d leave the work In England, for so much even,—though, of course, You’ll make a work-day of your holiday, And turn it to our Tuscan people’s use,— Who much need helping since the Austrian boar (So bold to cross the Alp by Lombardy And dash his brute front unabashed against The steep snow-bosses of that shield of God Who soon shall rise in wrath and shake it clear,) Came hither also,—raking up our vines And olive-gardens with his tyrannous tusks, And rolling on our maize with all his swine,’
‘You had the news from Vincent Carrington,’ He echoed,—picking up the phrase beyond, As if he knew the rest was merely talk To fill a gap and keep out a strong wind,— ‘You had, then, Vincent’s personal news?’ ‘His own,’ I answered. ‘All that ruined world of yours Seems crumbling into marriage. Carrington Has chosen wisely.’ ‘Do you take it so?’ He cried, ‘and is it possible at last’ ... He paused there,—and then, inward to himself, ‘Too much at last, too late!—yet certainly’ ... (And there his voice swayed as an Alpine plank That feels a passionate torrent underneath) ‘The knowledge, if I had known it, first or last, Had never changed the actual case for me. And best, for her, at this time.’ Nay, I thought, He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like a man, Because he has married Lady Waldemar. Ah, Vincent’s letter said how Leigh was moved To hear that Vincent was betrothed to Kate. With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world! Then I spoke,—‘I did not think, My cousin, you had ever known Kate Ward.’
‘In fact I never knew her. ’Tis enough That Vincent did, before he chose his wife For other reasons than those topaz eyes I’ve heard of. Not to undervalue them, For all that. One takes up the world with eyes.’
—Including Romney Leigh, I thought again, Albeit he knows them only by repute. How vile must all men be, since he’s a man.
His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed I did not surely love him, took the word; ‘You never got a letter from Lord Howe A month back, dear Aurora?’
‘None,’ I said.
‘I felt it was so,’ he replied: ‘Yet, strange! Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through Florence?’ ‘Ay, By chance I saw him in Our Lady’s church, (I saw him, mark you, but he saw not me) Clean-washed in holy water from the count Of things terrestrial,—letters and the rest; He had crossed us out together with his sins. Ay, strange; but only strange that good Lord Howe Preferred him to the post because of pauls. For me I’m sworn to never trust a man— At least with letters.’