Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked
By a hundred needles, we’re to hang the tie
’Twixt class and class in England,—thus, indeed,
By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift
The match up from the doubtful place. At once
He thanked me, sighing, . . murmured to himself,
‘She’ll do it perhaps; she’s noble,’—thanked me twice,
And promised, as my guerdon, to put off
His marriage for a month.’
I answered then.
‘I understand your drift imperfectly.
You wish to lead me to my cousin’s betrothed,
To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand
If feeble, thus to justify his match.
So be it then. But how this serves your ends,
And how the strange confession of your love
Serves this, I have to learn—I cannot see.’
She knit her restless forehead. ‘Then, despite,
Aurora, that most radiant morning name,
You’re dull as any London afternoon.
I wanted time,—and gained it,—wanted you,
And gain you! You will come and see the girl,
In whose most prodigal eyes, the lineal pearl
And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs
Is destined to solution. Authorised
By sight and knowledge, then, you’ll speak your mind,
And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way,
He’ll wrong the people and posterity
