Every night, about the same time, the lady entered. The first time she
saw the new couch, she started with a half-smile; then her face grew
very sad, the tears came to her eyes, and she laid herself upon the
couch, and pressed her face into the silken cushions, as if to hide from
everything. She took notice of each addition and each change as the work
proceeded; and a look of acknowledgment, as if she knew that some
one was ministering to her, and was grateful for it, mingled with the
constant look of suffering. At length, after she had lain down as usual
one evening, her eyes fell upon some paintings with which Cosmo had just
finished adorning the walls. She rose, and to his great delight, walked
across the room, and proceeded to examine them carefully, testifying
much pleasure in her looks as she did so. But again the sorrowful,
tearful expression returned, and again she buried her face in the
pillows of her couch. Gradually, however, her countenance had grown more
composed; much of the suffering manifest on her first appearance had
vanished, and a kind of quiet, hopeful expression had taken its place;
which, however, frequently gave way to an anxious, troubled look,
mingled with something of sympathetic pity.
Meantime, how fared Cosmo? As might be expected in one of his
temperament, his interest had blossomed into love, and his love--shall
I call it RIPENED, or--WITHERED into passion. But, alas! he loved a
shadow. He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not
hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would
cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon he sang to himself: "I shall die for love of the maiden;"
and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready to
break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for her,
the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never appeared
to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown would give his
life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his separation from her,
by thinking that perhaps some day she would see him and make signs to
him, and that would satisfy him; "for," thought he, "is not this all
that a loving soul can do to enter into communion with another? Nay,
how many who love never come nearer than to behold each other as in a
mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward life; never enter
the other soul; and part at last, with but the vaguest notion of the
universe on the borders of which they have been hovering for years? If
I could but speak to her, and knew that she heard me, I should be
satisfied." Once he contemplated painting a picture on the wall, which
should, of necessity, convey to the lady a thought of himself; but,
though he had some skill with the pencil, he found his hand tremble so
much when he began the attempt, that he was forced to give it up. . . .
. .