Your realm is the gloomy earth, mine the bright skies,
'Tis not likely that we should agree.
Farewell," said the boy, as he mounted in air,
"The heart that Gold worships, Love never can share."
Having boldly appended my own initials to this scarifying outburst, I waited patiently to watch its effect upon the false one. In a few days I saw her—she looked sad. Ha! she is touched, thought I; and, alas for the ferocity of human nature, I rejoiced in her apparent affliction. In a few moments, the sadness deepened on her brow; her lovely lashes became burdened with her pearly tears; resolution, revenge, injured feelings, all dissolved into nothing before the cruel shower. I'm not quite certain what immediately followed. I believe I flung myself enthusiastically on the carpet, before the Tipperary Niobe—beseeching her to repose her sorrows in my sympathizing bosom. At all events, I succeeded in calming her agitation, and after a delicious interview, wherein she thrilled my soul to its centre by the avowal that, however appearances might convict her of vacillation, I was, ever had been, and ever should be, the sole lord of her affections.
In that moment of blinding delirium, of course, all that had hitherto occurred was blotted from my memory as thoroughly as a damp sponge obliterates the records on a tablet of ass-skin. With the unreserved confidence of a relieved heart, she rested her cheek in dangerous proximity to my eager lips, but I had not sufficient courage to take advantage of the position. Her wonderful eyes looked sincerity and love even into the very depths of my soul. I was fascinated—bewildered—doubled up and done for, most effectually. "The evenings were now beautiful," she hinted, together with remote allusions to "soft twilight's balmy hour," setting suns, and such like delectations, until I actually summoned up courage sufficient to make an appointment to meet her
"By moonlight alone."
Nor had she any reserve while naming the particular grove where our trysting was to take place.
It was with the proud port of a conqueror that I deigned to tread the vulgar pavement after my never-to-be-forgotten interview with the Circean Polly; victory swelled within my expanding chest, like too much soup. Polly was mine; what a triumph I had achieved. I do verily believe, if, at this juncture, it were at all essential, or even could be remotely conducive to Polly's tranquillity, that I should go through the then popular amusement of hanging, I would have gone to the halter with nearly as much cheerfulness as though it were the altar; but, fortunately, I was not called upon to testify the loyalty of my devotion by asphyxiation.
Rory and I met as usual that afternoon, and I remarked that a sort of ill-concealed joy was working like an undercurrent through his features—now he would sing vociferously; anon, suddenly subside into quiet—it was very curious—I determined, however, to discover, if possible, the cause of his self-satisfaction.