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 bearAs 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 others whichcontrol us， because they attain us with a tiger-leap， and are ourmasters ere we have seen them.Perhaps， though， such impulses are seldom altogether bad； perhaps Reason， by a process as brief as quiet， a process that is finished ere felt， has ascertained the sanity of the deed Instinct meditates， and feels justified in remaining passive while it is performed.I know I did not reason， I did not plan or intend， yet， whereas one moment I was sitting solus on the chair near the table， the next， I held Frances on my knee， placed there with sharpness and decision， and retained with exceeding tenacity.
“Monsieur！” cried Frances， and was still： not another wordescaped her lips； sorely confounded she seemed during the lapse of the first few moments； but the amazement soon subsided； terror did not succeed， nor fury： after all， she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before， to one she habitually respected and trusted； embarrassment might have impelled her to contend， but self-respect checked resistance where resistance was useless.
“Frances， how much regard have you for me？” was my demand.No answer； the situation was yet too new and surprising to permit speech.On this consideration， I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence， though impatient of it： presently， I repeated the same question—probably， not in the calmest of tones； she looked at me； my face， doubtless， was no model of composure， my eyes no still wells of tranquillity.
“Do speak，” I urged； and a very low， hurried， yet still arch voice said—“Monsieur， vous me faites mal； de grace lachez un peu ma main droite.”
In truth I became aware that I was holding the said “maindroite” in a somewhat ruthless grasp： I did as desired； and， for thethird time， asked more gently—
“Frances， how much regard have you for me？”
“Mon ma？tre， j’en ai beaucoup，” was the truthful rejoinder.“Frances， have you enough to give yourself to me as my wife？—to accept me as your husband？”
I felt the agitation of the heart， I saw “the purple light of love” cast its glowing reflection on cheeks， temples， neck； I desired to consult the eye， but sheltering lash and lid forbade.
“Monsieur，” said the soft voice at last，—“Monsieur désire savoir si je consens—si—enfin， si je veux me marier avec lui？”
“Justement.”
“Monsieur sera-t-il aussi bon mari qu’il a été bon ma？tre？” “I will try， Frances.”
A pause； then with a new， yet still subdued inflexion of the voice—an inflexion which provoked while it pleased me— accompanied， too， by a “sourire a la fois fin et timide” in perfect harmony with the tone：—“C’est-à-dire， monsieur sera toujours un peu entêté exigeant， volontaire—？”
“Have I been so， Frances？” “Mais oui； vous le savez bien.” “Have I been nothing else？”
“Mais oui； vons avez été mon meilleur ami.” “And what， Frances， are you to me？”
“Votre dévouée élève， qui vous aime de tout son coeur.”
“Will my pupil consent to pass her life with me？ Speak English now， Frances.”
Somemomentsweretakenforreflection；theanswer，pronounced slowly， ran thus：—
“You have always made me happy； I like to hear you speak； I like to see you； I like to be near you； I believe you are very good， and very superior； I know you are stern to those who are careless and idle， but you are kind， very kind to the attentive and industrious， even if they are not clever.Master， I should be glad to live with you always；” and she made a sort of movement， as if she would have clung to me， but restraining herself she only added with earnest emphasis—“Master， I consent to pass my life with you.”
“Very well， Frances.”
