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The task he from another took；
From me he did reject；
He would no slight omission brook；
And suffer no defect。
If my companions went astray；
He scarce their wanderings blam’d；
If I but falter’d in the way；
His anger fiercely flam’d。
Something stirred in an adjoining chamber； it would not do to
be surprised eaves…dropping； I tapped hastily； And as hastily
entered。 Frances was just before me； she had been walking slowly
in her room； and her step was checked by my advent： Twilight
only was with her； and tranquil； ruddy Firelight； to these sisters；
the Bright and the Dark； she had been speaking； ere I entered； in
poetry。 Sir Walter Scott’s voice； to her a foreign； far…off sound； a
mountain echo； had uttered itself in the first stanzas； the second； I
thought； from the style and the substance； was the language of her
own heart。 Her face was grave； its expression concentrated； she
bent on me an unsmiling eye—an eye just returning from
abstraction； just awaking from dreams： well…arranged was her
simple attire； smooth her dark hair； orderly her tranquil room； but
what—with her thoughtful look； her serious self…reliance； her bent
to meditation and haply inspiration—what had she to do with
love？ “Nothing；” was the answer of her own sad； though gentle
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countenance； it seemed to say； “I must cultivate fortitude and
cling to poetry； one is to be my support and the other my solace
through life。 Human affections do not bloom； nor do human
passions glow for me。” Other women have such thoughts。 Frances；
had she been as desolate as she deemed； would not have been
worse off than thousands of her sex。 Look at the rigid and formal
race of old maids—the race whom all despise； they have fed
themselves； from youth upwards； on maxims of resignation and
endurance。 Many of them get ossified with the dry diet； self…
control is so continually their thought； so perpetually their object；
that at last it absorbs the softer and more agreeable qualities of
their nature； and they die mere models of austerity； fashioned out
of a little parchment and much bone。 Anatomists will tell you that
there is a heart in the withered old maid’s carcase—the same as in
that of any cherished wife or proud mother in the land。 Can this be
so？ I really don’t know； but feel inclined to doubt it。
I came forward； bade Frances “good evening；” and took my
seat。 The chair I had chosen was one she had probably just left； it
stood by a little table where were her open desk and papers。 I
know not whether she had fully recognized me at first； but she did
so now； and in a voice； soft but quiet； she returned my greeting。 I
had shown no eagerness； she took her cue from me； and evinced
no surprise。 We met as me had always met； as master and pupil—
nothing more。 I proceeded to handle the papers； Frances；
observant and serviceable； stepped into an inner room； brought a
candle； lit it； placed it by me； then drew the curtain over the
lattice； and having added a little fresh fuel to the already bright
fire； she drew a second chair to the table and sat down at my right
hand； a little removed。 The paper on the top was a translation of
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some grave French author into English； but underneath lay a
sheet with stanzas； on this I laid hands。 Frances half rose； made a
movement to recover the captured spoil； saying； that was
nothing—a mere copy of verses。 I put by resistance with the
decision I knew she never long opposed； but on this occasion her
fingers had fastened on the paper。 I had quietly to unloose them；
their hold dissolved to my touch； her hand shrunk away； my own
would fain have followed it； but for the present I forbade such
impulse。 The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I
had overheard； the sequel was not exactly the writer’s own
experience； but a composition by portions of that experience
suggested。 Thus while egotism was avoided； the fancy was
exercised； and the heart satisfied。 I translate as before； and my
translation is nearly literal； it continued thus：—
When sickness stay’d awhile my course；
He seem’d impatient still；
Because his pupil’s flagging force
Could not obey his will。
One day when summoned to the bed
Where pain and I did strive；
I heard him； as he bent his head；
Say； “God； she must revive！”
I felt his hand； with gentle stress；
A moment laid on mine；
And wished to mark my consciousness
By some responsive sign。
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But pow’rless then to speak or move；
I only felt； within；
The sense of Hope； the strength of Love；
Their healing work begin。
And as he from the room withdrew；
My heart his steps pursued；
I long’d to prove； by efforts new；
My speechless gratitude。
When once again I took my place；
Long vacant； in the class；
Th’ unfrequent smile across his face
Did for one moment pass。
The lessons done； the signal made
Of glad release and play；
He； as he passed； an instant stay’d；
One kindly word to say。
“Jane； till to…morrow you are free
From tedious task and rule；
This afternoon I must not see
That yet pale face in school。
“Seek in the garden…shades a seat；
Far from the play…ground din；
The sun is warm； the air is sweet：
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Stay till I call you in。”
A long and pleasant afternoon
I passed in those green bowers；
All silent； tranquil； and alone
With birds； and bees； and flowers。
Yet； when my master’s voice I heard
Call； from the window； “Jane！”
I entered； joyful； at the word；
The busy house again。
He； in the hall； paced up and down；
He paused as I passed by；
His forehead stern relaxed its frown：
He raised his deep…set eye。
“Not quite so pale；” he murmured low。
Now Jane； go rest awhile。”
And as I smiled； his smoothened brow
Returned as glad a smile。
My perfect health restored； he took
His mien austere again；
And； as before； he would not brook
The slightest fault from Jane。
The longest task； the hardest theme
Fell to my share as erst；
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And still I toiled to place my name
In every study first。
He yet begrudged and stinted praise；
But I had learnt to read
The secret meaning of his face；
And that was my best meed。
Even when his hasty temper spoke
In tones that sorrow stirred；
My grief was lulled as soon as woke
By some relenting word。
And when he lent some precious book；
Or gave some fragrant flower；
I did not quail to Envy’s look；