J. My brother! you do bear it—bear it well—
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained
Comfort your heart with music: all the air
Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands.
You like to feel them on you. Come and play.
M. My fate, my fate is lonely!
J. So it is— I know it is.
M. And pity breaks my heart.
J. Does it, dear Merton?
M. Yes, I say it does.
What! do you think I am so dull of ear
That I can mark no changes in the tones
That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride
And that coy quiet, chary of reply,
That held me distant: now the sweetest lips
Open to entertain me—fairest hands
Are proffered me to guide.
J. That is not well?
M. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain,
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything
But this—a fearless, sweet, confiding ease,
Whereof I may expect, I may exact,
Considerate care, and have it—gentle speech,
And have it. Give me anything but this!
For they who give it, give it in the faith
That I will not misdeem them, and forget
My doom so far as to perceive thereby
Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain;
They wound me—O they cut me to the heart!
When have I said to any one of them,
"I am a blind and desolate man;—come here,
I pray you—be as eyes to me?" When said,
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet
To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands
That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate,
And who will ever lend her delicate aid
To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!—
When have I said to her, "Comforting voice,
Belonging to a face unknown, I pray
Be my wife's voice?"
J. Never, my brother—no, You never have!
M. What could she think of me If I forgot myself so far? or what Could she reply?