Knowing that Hester was fond of a good ballad, he thought at first to try his hand on one: it could not be difficult, he thought! But he found that, like everything else, a ballad was easy enough if you could do it, and more than difficult enough if you could not: after several attempts he wisely yielded the ambition; his gift did not lie in that direction! He had, however, been so long in the habit of writing drawing-room verses that he had better ground for hoping he might produce something in that kind which the too severe taste of Hester could yet admire! It would be a great stroke towards placing him in a right position towards her—one, namely, in which his intellectual faculty would be more manifest! It should be a love song, and he would present it as one he had written long ago: as such it would say the more for him while it would not commit him.
So one evening as he stood by her piano, he said all at once:
"By the bye, Miss Raymount, last night, as I was turning over some songs I wrote many years ago, I came upon one I thought I should like you just to look at—not the music—that is worth nothing, though I was proud enough of it then and thought it an achievement; but the words I still think are not so bad—considering. They are so far from me now that I am able to speak of them as if they were not mine at all!"
"Do let me see them!" said Hester, hiding none of the interest she felt, though fearing a little she might not have to praise them so much as she would like.
He took the song from his pocket, and smoothed it out before her on the piano.
"Read it to me, please," said Hester.
"No; excuse me," he answered with a little shyness, the rarest of phenomena in his spiritual atmosphere; "I could not read it aloud. But do not let it bore you if—"
He did not finish his sentence, and Hester was already busy with his manuscript.
Here is the song:
If thou lov'st I dare not ask thee,
Lest thou say, "Not thee;"
Prythee, then, in coldness mask thee,
That it may be me.
If thou lov'st me do not tell me,
Joy would make me rave,
And the bells of gladness knell me
To the silent grave.
If thou lovest not thy lover,
Neither veil thine eyes,
Nor to his poor heart discover
What behind them lies.
Be not cruel, be not tender;
Grant me twilight hope;
Neither would I die of splendor,
Nor in darkness mope.
I entreat thee for no favor,
Smallest nothingness;
I will hoard thy dropt glove's savor,
Wafture of thy dress.
So my love shall daring linger!
Moth-like round thy flame;
Move not, pray, forbidden finger—
Death to me thy blame.