Thus goes the tender duet: 

“You should know my cousin Austin, Lucy.—­Darling!  Beloved!”

“My own!  Richard!”

“You should know my cousin Austin.  You shall know him.  He would take to you best of them all, and you to him.  He is in the tropics now, looking out a place—­it’s a secret—­for poor English working-men to emigrate to and found a colony in that part of the world:—­my white angel!”

“Dear love!”

“He is such a noble fellow!  Nobody here understands him but me.  Isn’t it strange?  Since I met you I love him better!  That’s because I love all that’s good and noble better now—­Beautiful!  I love—­I love you!”

“My Richard!”

“What do you think I’ve determined, Lucy?  If my father—­but no! my father does love me.—­No! he will not; and we will be happy together here.  And I will win my way with you.  And whatever I win will be yours; for it will be owing to you.  I feel as if I had no strength but yours—­none! and you make me—­O Lucy!”

His voice ebbs.  Presently Lucy murmurs—­

“Your father, Richard.”

“Yes, my father?”

“Dearest Richard!  I feel so afraid of him.”

“He loves me, and will love you, Lucy.”

“But I am so poor and humble, Richard.”

“No one I have ever seen is like you, Lucy.”

“You think so, because you”—­

“What?”

“Love me,” comes the blushing whisper, and the duet gives place to dumb variations, performed equally in concert.

It is resumed.

“You are fond of the knights, Lucy.  Austin is as brave as any of them.—­My own bride!  Oh, how I adore you!  When you are gone, I could fall upon the grass you tread upon, and kiss it.  My breast feels empty of my heart—­Lucy! if we lived in those days, I should have been a knight, and have won honour and glory for you.  Oh! one can do nothing now.  My lady-love!  My lady-love!—­A tear?—­Lucy?”

“Dearest!  Ah, Richard!  I am not a lady.”

“Who dares say that?  Not a lady—­the angel I love!”

“Think, Richard, who I am.”

“My beautiful!  I think that God made you, and has given you to me.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and, as she lifts them heavenward to thank her God, the light of heaven strikes on them, and she is so radiant in her pure beauty that the limbs of the young man tremble.

“Lucy!  O heavenly spirit!  Lucy!”

Tenderly her lips part—­“I do not weep for sorrow,”

The big bright drops lighten, and roll down, imaged in his soul.

They lean together—­shadows of ineffable tenderness playing on their thrilled cheeks and brows.

He lifts her hand, and presses his mouth to it.  She has seen little of mankind, but her soul tells her this one is different from others, and at the thought, in her great joy, tears must come fast, or her heart will break—­tears of boundless thanksgiving.  And he, gazing on those soft, ray-illumined, dark-edged eyes, and the grace of her loose falling tresses, feels a scarce-sufferable holy fire streaming through his members.