I had already planned my course of action. I only waited for an opportunity to carry it out. No longer desired I to remain unrecognised by her. The barrier that had hitherto restrained me from giving sign or word—and that would still have continued to do so—had now been removed, happily as unexpectedly. In my heart, now filled and thrilling with joy, there was no motive for further concealment; and I resolved at once to declare myself. Not openly, however; not by speech, nor yet by gesture. Either might provoke an exclamation; and draw upon us prying eyes that were observing at no great distance. As stated, I had already shaped out my course; and, for a minute or more, had been waiting for the very opportunity that now offered.
During the conversation above detailed, I had not been an inactive listener. I had taken from my pocket a scrap of paper, and pencilled upon it three simple words. I knew the paper on which I was writing: it was the half-leaf of a letter well-remembered. The letter itself was not there: it was within the folds of my pocket-book; but there was writing on the fly-leaf, and on both faces of it. On one side were those cherished verses, whose sweet simple strain, still vibrating upon the chords of my heart, I cannot help repeating:
“I think of thee, when Morning springs
From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew,
And like a young bird lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.
And when at Noon the breath of love
O’er flower and stream is wandering free,
And sent in music from the grove,
I think of thee - I think of thee!
“I think of thee, when soft and wide
The Evening spreads her robe of light;
And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of night.
And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs
In light o’er heaven’s deep waveless sea;
And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee - I think of thee!”
“O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you; and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live.
“Lilian Holt.”
On the reverse side of the page I had penned, or rather pencilled, a response. Not then, but in an idle hour by the way: with the presentiment, that it might some time reach the hands of her for whom it was intended. In those hands I was now determined to place it—leaving the issue to the cipher itself. The answer ran thus:
To Lilian.
“As music sweet, thy gentle lay
Hath found an echo in my heart;
At morn, at eve, by night, by day,
’Tis never from my thoughts apart:
I hear the strain in every breeze
That blows o’er flower, and leaf, and tree;
Low murmuring, the birds and bees
All seem to sing - I think of thee!
“Perhaps, of me no more a thought
Lingers within thy bosom blest:
For time and absence both are fraught
With danger to the lover’s rest?
O Lilian! if thy gentlest breath
Should whisper that sad truth to me,
My heart would soon be cold in death—
Though dying, still ’twould think of thee!”
“Edward Warfield, The Indian Hunter.”
The words at the moment added were those appended to my own name—which I had introduced to aid in the recognition. However inappropriate might be the scheme for making myself known, I had no time to conceive any other. The interruption caused by the mulatta had hindered me from a verbal declaration, which otherwise I might have made; and there was no longer an opportunity for the periphrasis of speech. Even a word might betray me. Under this apprehension, I resolved to remain silent; and watch for the occasion when I might effect the secret conveyance of the paper.