“Never mind,” said Mary, rising from her chair, and going to the cupboard; “here’s another, sir.”
“Well, master, am I to finish, or have you had enough of it?”
“Proceed, friend Dux, proceed; and believe that I am all attention.”
“Oh, that hallowed form is ne’er forgot
Which first love trac’d,
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory’s waste.
’Twas odour fled as soon as shed,
’Twas memory’s winged dream,
’Twas a light that ne’er can shine again
On life’s dull stream;
Oh, ’twas light that ne’er can shine again
On life’s dull stream.”
“Nay,” said the Dominie, again abstracted, “the metaphor is not just. ‘Life’s dull stream.’ ‘Lethe tacitus amnis,’ as Lucan hath it; but the stream of life flows—ay, flows rapidly—even in my veins. Doth not the heart throb and beat—yea, strongly—peradventure too forcibly against my better judgment? ‘Confiteor misere molle cor esse mihi,’ as Ovid saith. Yet must it not prevail! Shall one girl be victorious over seventy boys? Shall I, Dominie Dobbs, desert my post?—Again succumb to—I will even depart, that I may be at my desk at matutinal hours.”
“You don’t mean to leave us, sir?” said Mary, taking the Dominie’s arm.
“Even so, fair maiden, for it waxeth late, and I have my duties to perform,” said the Dominie, rising from his chair.
“Then you will promise to come again.”
“Peradventure I may.”
“If you do not promise me that you will, I will not let you go now.”