"Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung,
And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me;
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."
If Captain Alvanley thinks so, why does n't he come? "O, my cousin, shallow-hearted!" Tennyson must decidedly alter his verses, and make the gentleman the one who is "falser than all fancy fathoms."
Two o'clock strikes, and no sight or sound of carriage. I pace again down the Avenue-road. There is faithful Amy, still at her window—still on the watch. She looks as though she had been weeping, and I try, by friendly signs and nods, to comfort her. "She speaks, and yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses." As I look up to her, I wish that "I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek;" and, of course, I think of "Romeo and Juliet," and the Balcony Scene. But where is her Romeo? Are his "love's light wings" impeded by a yellow post-chaise? Once more, I silently go back to my mile-stone.
I hum operatic snatches, and go through the chief part of my vocal performances; but Trap has a delicate ear for music, and he howls down my attempts. Another hour slowly passes, and still no Captain Alvanley.
I steal under the shadow of the trees, and I see poor Amy looking so sad, that I have scarcely the heart to approach her without good tidings. I go back, therefore, to my mile-stone; and my comforting cigar-case is being rapidly diminished. Only one weed is left, for I did not calculate on such a lengthened vigil—so I husband it; but, at last, it is smoked out, and I am cigarless. And still there is no carriage—no Captain Alvanley!
