It was two o’clock when I returned to my lodgings; my dinner, just brought in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on the table; I sat down thinking to eat — had the plate been heaped with potsherds and broken glass, instead of boiled beef and haricots, I could not have made a more signal failure: appetite had forsaken me. Impatient of seeing food which I could not taste, I put it all aside into a cupboard, and then demanded, “What shall I do till evening?” for before six P.M. it would be vain to seek the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me it had but one) was detained by her vocation elsewhere. I walked in the streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own room from two o’clock till six; never once in that space of time did I sit down. I was in my chamber when the last-named hour struck; I had just bathed my face and feverish hands, and was standing near the glass; my cheek was crimson, my eye was flame, still all my features looked quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and stepping out, I was glad to see Twilight drawing on in clouds; such shade was to me like a grateful screen, and the chill of latter Autumn, breathing in a fitful wind from the north-west, met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to others, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the men had their coats buttoned close.

When are we quite happy? Was I so then? No; an urgent and growing dread worried my nerves, and had worried them since the first moment good tidings had reached me. How was Frances? It was ten weeks since I had seen her, six since I had heard from her, or of her. I had answered her letter by a brief note, friendly but calm, in which no mention of continued correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my bark hung on the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on what shoal the onward rush of the billow might hurl it; I would not then attach her destiny to mine by the slightest thread; if doomed to split on the rock, or run a aground on the sand-bank, I was resolved no other vessel should share my disaster: but six weeks was a long time; and could it be that she was still well and doing well? Were not all sages agreed in declaring that happiness finds no climax on earth? Dared I think that but half a street now divided me from the full cup of contentment — the draught drawn from waters said to flow only in heaven?

I was at the door; I entered the quiet house; I mounted the stairs; the lobby was void and still, all the doors closed; I looked for the neat green mat; it lay duly in its place.

“Signal of hope!” I said, and advanced. “But I will be a little calmer; I am not going to rush in, and get up a scene directly.” Forcibly staying my eager step, I paused on the mat.

“What an absolute hush! Is she in? Is anybody in?” I demanded to myself. A little tinkle, as of cinders falling from a grate, replied; a movement — a fire was gently stirred; and the slight rustle of life continuing, a step paced equably backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, in the apartment. Fascinated, I stood, more fixedly fascinated when a voice rewarded the attention of my strained ear — so low, so self-addressed, I never fancied the speaker otherwise than alone; solitude might speak thus in a desert, or in the hall of a forsaken house.

‘And ne’er but once, my son,’ he said,

‘Was yon dark cavern trod;

In persecution’s iron days,

When the land was left by God.

From Bewley’s bog, with slaughter red,

A wanderer hither drew;

And oft he stopp’d and turn’d his head,

As by fits the night-winds blew.

For trampling round by Cheviot-edge

Were heard the troopers keen;

And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge

The death-shot flash’d between,’ &c. &c.

The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause ensued; then another strain followed, in French, of which the purport, translated, ran as follows:—

I gave, at first, attention close;

Then interest warm ensued;

From interest, as improvement rose,

Succeeded gratitude.

Obedience was no effort soon,

And labour was no pain;

If tired, a word, a glance alone

Would give me strength again.

From others of the studious band,

Ere long he singled me;

But only by more close demand,

And sterner urgency.

The task he from another took,

From me he did reject;

He would no slight omission brook,

And suffer no defect.

If my companions went astray,

He scarce their wanderings blam’d;

If I but falter’d in the way,

His anger fiercely flam’d.

Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily entered. Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly in her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking, ere I entered, in poetry. Sir Walter Scott’s voice, to her a foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own heart. Her face was grave, its expression concentrated; she bent on me an unsmiling eye — an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly her tranquil room; but what — with her thoughtful look, her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration — what had she to do with love? “Nothing,” was the answer of her own sad, though gentle countenance; it seemed to say, “I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one is to be my support and the other my solace through life. Human affections do not bloom, nor do human passions glow for me.” Other women have such thoughts. Frances, had she been as desolate as she deemed, would not have been worse off than thousands of her sex. Look at the rigid and formal race of old maids — the race whom all despise; they have fed themselves, from youth upwards, on maxims of resignation and endurance. Many of them get ossified with the dry diet; self-control is so continually their thought, so perpetually their object, that at last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of their nature; and they die mere models of austerity, fashioned out of a little parchment and much bone. Anatomists will tell you that there is a heart in the withered old maid’s carcase — the same as in that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land. Can this be so? I really don’t know; but feel inclined to doubt it.

I came forward, bade Frances “good evening,” and took my seat. The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left; it stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers. I know not whether she had fully recognized me at first, but she did so now; and in a voice, soft but quiet, she returned my greeting. I had shown no eagerness; she took her cue from me, and evinced no surprise. We met as me had always met, as master and pupil — nothing more. I proceeded to handle the papers; Frances, observant and serviceable, stepped into an inner room, brought a candle, lit it, placed it by me; then drew the curtain over the lattice, and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright fire, she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right hand, a little removed. The paper on the top was a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands. Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing — a mere copy of verses. I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper. I had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse. The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer’s own experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested. Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied. I translate as before, and my translation is nearly literal; it continued thus:—

When sickness stay’d awhile my course,

He seem’d impatient still,

Because his pupil’s flagging force

Could not obey his will.

One day when summoned to the bed

Where pain and I did strive,

I heard him, as he bent his head,

Say, “God, she must revive!”

I felt his hand, with gentle stress,

A moment laid on mine,

And wished to mark my consciousness

By some responsive sign.

But pow’rless then to speak or move,

I only felt, within,

The sense of Hope, the strength of Love,

Their healing work begin.

And as he from the room withdrew,

My heart his steps pursued;

I long’d to prove, by efforts new;

My speechless gratitude.

When once again I took my place,

Long vacant, in the class,

Th’ unfrequent smile across his face

Did for one moment pass.

The lessons done; the signal made

Of glad release and play,

He, as he passed, an instant stay’d,

One kindly word to say.

“Jane, till to-morrow you are free

From tedious task and rule;

This afternoon I must not see

That yet pale face in school.

“Seek in the garden-shades a seat,

Far from the play-ground din;

The sun is warm, the air is sweet:

Stay till I call you in.”

A long and pleasant afternoon

I passed in those green bowers;

All silent, tranquil, and alone

With birds, and bees, and flowers.

Yet, when my master’s voice I heard

Call, from the window, “Jane!”

I entered, joyful, at the word,

The busy house again.

He, in the hall, paced up and down;

He paused as I passed by;

His forehead stern relaxed its frown:

He raised his deep-set eye.

“Not quite so pale,” he murmured low.

Now Jane, go rest awhile.”

And as I smiled, his smoothened brow

Returned as glad a smile.

My perfect health restored, he took

His mien austere again;

And, as before, he would not brook

The slightest fault from Jane.

The longest task, the hardest theme

Fell to my share as erst,

And still I toiled to place my name

In every study first.

He yet begrudged and stinted praise,

But I had learnt to read

The secret meaning of his face,

And that was my best meed.

Even when his hasty temper spoke

In tones that sorrow stirred,

My grief was lulled as soon as woke

By some relenting word.

And when he lent some precious book,

Or gave some fragrant flower,

I did not quail to Envy’s look,

Upheld by Pleasure’s power.

At last our school ranks took their ground,

The hard-fought field I won;

The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound

My throbbing forehead on.

Low at my master’s knee I bent,

The offered crown to meet;

Its green leaves through my temples sent

A thrill as wild as sweet.

The strong pulse of Ambition struck

In every vein I owned;

At the same instant, bleeding broke

A secret, inward wound.

The hour of triumph was to me

The hour of sorrow sore;

A day hence I must cross the sea,

Ne’er to recross it more.

An hour hence, in my master’s room

I with him sat alone,

And told him what a dreary gloom

O’er joy had parting thrown.

He little said; the time was brief,

The ship was soon to sail,

And while I sobbed in bitter grief,

My master but looked pale.

They called in haste; he bade me go,

Then snatched me back again;

He held me fast and murmured low,

“Why will they part us, Jane?”

“Were you not happy in my care?

Did I not faithful prove?

Will others to my darling bear

As true, as deep a love?

“O God, watch o’er my foster child!

O guard her gentle head!

When minds are high and tempests wild

Protection round her spread!

“They call again; leave then my breast;

Quit thy true shelter, Jane;

But when deceived, repulsed, opprest,

Come home to me again! ”

I read — then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking that “Jane” was now at my side; no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty’s curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master’s manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its expense into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow — to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour.

Frances rose, as if restless; she passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring; she lifted and put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece; her dress waved within a yard of me; slight, straight, and elegant;, she stood erect on the hearth.

There are impulses we can control; but there are ............