Told of his friend, his promise true; told like his very heart would break:
"Oh, my dearest! what shall I do? shall I not sell it for your sake?"
Ghostlike she lay, as still as doom; turned to the wall her weary head;
Icy-cold in the pallid gloom, silent as death . . . at last she said:
"Do! my husband? Keep your vow! Guard his secret and let me die. . . .
Oh, my dear, I must tell you now -- THE WOMAN HE LOVED AND WRONGED WAS I;
Darling! I haven't long to live: I never told you -- forgive, forgive!"
For a long, long time Brown did not speak;
sat bleak-browed in the wretched room;
Slowly a tear stole down his cheek,
and he kissed her hand in the dismal gloom.
To break his oath, to brand her shame;
his well-loved friend, his worshipped wife;
To keep his vow, to save her name, yet at the cost of what? Her life!
A moment's space did he hesitate, a moment of pain and dread and doubt,
Then he broke the seals, and, stern as fate,
unfolded the sheets and spread them out. . . .
On his knees by her side he limply sank,
peering amazed -- EACH PAGE WAS BLANK.
(For oh, the supremest of our art are the stories we do not dare to tell,
Locked in the silence of the heart,
for the awful records of Heav'n and Hell.)
Yet those two in the silence there, seemed less weariful than before.
Hark! a step on the garret stair, a postman knocks at the flimsy door.
"Registered letter!" Brown thrills with fear;
opens, and reads, then bends above:
"Glorious tidings! Egypt, dear! The book is accepted -- life and love.
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