I looked her in the eyes, and held her hands,
And said ‘I am his cousin,—Romney Leigh’s;
And here I’m come to see my cousin too.’
She touched me with her face and with her voice,
This daughter of the people. Such soft flowers
From such rough roots? The people, under there,
Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . . faugh!
Yet have such daughters!
No wise beautiful
Was Marian Erle. She was not white nor brown,
But could look either, like a mist that changed
According to being shone on more or less.
The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls
In doubt ’twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear
To name the colour. Too much hair perhaps
(I’ll name a fault here) for so small a head,
Which seemed to droop on that side and on this,
As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight,
Though not a breath should trouble it. Again,
The dimple in the cheek had better gone
With redder, fuller rounds; and somewhat large
The mouth was, though the milky little teeth
Dissolved it to so infantine a smile!
For soon it smiled at me; the eyes smiled too,
But ’twas as if remembering they had wept,
And knowing they should, some day, weep again.
We talked. She told me all her story out,
Which I’ll re-tell with fuller utterance,
As coloured and confirmed in aftertimes
