“This tiny, snow-white hand, sparkling with diamonds—this fresh, pure, delicate thing!—a jewel itself!—how can it be put to the uses to which my wife’s hand must be put, Elsie?”
She looked at him with passionate devotion, saying:
“Take the jewels off and cast them from thee, Magnus—do!”
“And this slender wrist—you have such a beautiful arm, Elsie! What a round, full, graceful curve from the elbow to the forearm, and how elegantly it tapers off to the slender wrist! Ah! this arm, so pure and fresh, so well decked with this sparkling diamond bracelet—like icicles upon snow! How will it support labor?”
“The bracelet offends you, too? It was my father’s birthday gift; but I like it no longer—it offends you. Take it off and cast it from you. Press your thumb and finger around my arm instead. Press it tightly, so that you will leave a ring there. It will be a red bracelet—or even a black one; so that when I can no longer see you, I may close my eyes, and, feeling the impress of your fingers, cheat my heart with the fancy that you still grasp my wrist with a sweet violence. It will be another dearer bracelet that I will wear in remembrance of you. Oh, don’t you know I understand now the enthusiasm of the saints?”
“Dearest Elsie, let us go forth from here. The light, the glare, the crowd, the noise here is insufferable. Let us go forth in the fresh air under the light of the holy stars. Come, love! My heart hungers, faints, to press you to itself. Come, love!” And opening a leaf of the bay window, he led her forth. It was a mild, clear, beautiful starlight night for the season, yet the air was chill, and Elsie was lightly clad. He looked at her and glanced around. The lighted window of a sitting room in the angle of the building showed that apartment to be vacant. He led her there. It was one of those small, conical wainscoted parlors so common in old houses. A fine fire was burning in the chimney, and a little old-fashioned green settee drawn up on one side of the fireplace. The room had an air of delightful snugness, comfort, and repose. He led her to this sofa and seated himself beside her, opened his arms, and whispered: “Come to my bosom, my own soul’s love!” and folded her closely there. “Elsie, my pure, fresh, delicate, elegant Elsie, can you go with me indeed to share my lot of poverty and struggle? Oh, Elsie! if you do, will you never repent? Oh, Elsie! do you know what poverty is? Born and brought up in luxury and wealth, do you know what poverty is? Oh, Elsie, my little idealist, there is no poetry in poverty. Oh, Elsie, my little epicurienne, every sense is shocked and tortured in poverty. You see unsightly things, you hear discordant sounds, you come in contact with roughness, you partake of coarse food; oh, Elsie! ideality is wounded and saddened, sense is shocked, and love itself, perhaps, revolted!”
“Never! oh, never!” she said fervently.
“Oh, Elsie! my bright, beautiful Elsie! my delicate, elegant Elsie! I am worse than an executioner to marry you. I feel it, and yet I shall do it. God knows that I will have you, and let the future take care of itself!” he said, pressing her strongly to his bosom.
“Yes, have me, have me; let me be always with you. It will be bliss ineffable. I should die if you were to leave me. My heart would consume itself in its own fires. I do not care for wealth, or rank, or distinction, or for ease or luxury. I only care for the wealth and luxury of your affection, and your constant society. I do not fear to have ‘ideality wounded and saddened.’ No, for the soul creates its own poetry. I do not fear to have every sense shocked. I do not fear to live amid unsightly objects and discordant sounds, and rough contacts; oh, no, for the soul creates its own heaven of beauty and harmony. I do not fear to have love revolted. Oh! no, no, no! I only fear a separation from you. My whole being trembling, tends toward you—so strong, as it would lose itself in you. Shut out the world, shut out light and sound, only let me feel your arms around me, pressing my bosom to your heart as now. All my life is compressed within my heart, and it is bursting to meet yours. I am blind, deaf, dead to all but you. I have scarcely self enough to say ‘I have no self.’ I love myself in you. Oh, my greater self! my larger life!”
So the softly flushed and moist cheeks, the heavy, liquid eyes, and the palpitating bosom said, but no word escaped the parted and glowing lips. Nor could a word have escaped between the kisses that were pressed upon them. Then he released her, and they sat upon the old-fashioned sofa by the glowing hickory fire in the old wainscoted parlor, and, hand in hand, talked. Oh, how they talked! Sometimes with profound earnestness, sometimes with light and bantering gayety.