I loosed her hands. ‘In his name, no farewell!’
(She stood as if I held her,) ‘for his sake,
For his sake, Romney’s! by the good he meant,
Ay, always! by the love he pressed for once,—
And by the grief, reproach, abandonment,
He took in change’ . .
‘He, Romney! who grieved him?
Who had the heart for’t? what reproach touch’d him?
Be merciful,—speak quickly.’
‘Therefore come.’
I answered with authority,—‘I think
We dare to speak such things, and name such names,
In the open squares of Paris!’
Not a word
She said, but, in a gentle humbled way,
(As one who had forgot herself in grief)
Turned round and followed closely where I went.
As if I led her by a narrow plank
Across devouring waters, step by step,—
And so in silence we walked on a mile.
And then she stopped: her face was white as wax.
‘We go much further?’
‘You are ill,’ I asked,
‘Or tired?’
She looked the whiter for her smile.
‘There’s one at home,’ she said, ‘has need of me
By this time,—and I must not let him wait.’
‘Not even,’ I asked, ‘to hear of Romney Leigh?’
