“‘Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, howe’er so witty;
The beggar that is dumb, you know,
Deserves our double pity.’
“Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship. I wish you to speak for me.”
“What, speak to Mrs St. Felix?”
“Yes, be my ambassador. I have attempted to write some verses; but somehow or another I never could find rhymes. The poetic feeling is in me, nevertheless. Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?”
“But what makes you think that the widow is favourably inclined?”
“What? why, her behaviour, to be sure. I never pass her but she laughs or smiles. And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading too much; always finding fault. However, the time may come—I repeat my request; Tom, will you oblige me? You ought to have a fellow-feeling.”
This last remark annoyed me. I felt convinced that Mrs St. Felix was really laughing at him, so I replied, “I shall not refuse you, but recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself, is not likely to succeed for others. You shall have your answer very soon.”
“Thanks, Tom, thanks. My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is ‘Friendship and Love.’”
I quitted the shop, and went into that of Mrs St. Felix, who, I thought, looked handsomer than ever.
“Come at last, Tom!” said the widow, extending her hand. “I thought you would have called yesterday. Your sister was here.”