‘As martyrs jest, dear, (if you’ve read their lives) Upon the axe which kills them. When all’s done By me, ... for him—you’ll ask him presently The colour of my hair—he cannot tell, Or answers ‘dark’ at random,—while, be sure, He’s absolute on the figure, five or ten, Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, And I a woman?’ ‘Is it reparable, Though _I_ were a man?’ ‘I know not. That’s to prove. But, first, this shameful marriage.’ ‘Ay?’ I cried, ‘Then really there’s a marriage?’ ‘Yesterday I held him fast upon it. ‘Mister Leigh,’ Said I, ‘shut up a thing, it makes more noise. The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I’ve known Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so: You feel I’m not the woman of the world The world thinks; you have borne with me before, And used me in your noble work, our work, And now you shall not cast me off because You’re at the difficult point, the _join_. ’Tis true Even I can scarce admit the cogency Of such a marriage ... where you do not love, (Except the class) yet marry and throw your name Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape To future generations! it’s sublime, A great example,—a true Genesis Of the opening social era. But take heed; This virtuous act must have a patent weight, Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, Interpret it, and set in the light, And do not muffle it in a winter-cloak As a vulgar bit of shame,—as if, at best, A Leigh had made a misalliance and blushed A Howard should know it.’ Then, I pressed him more— ‘He would not choose,’ I said, ‘that even his kin, ... Aurora Leigh, even ... should conceive his act Less sacrifice, more appetite.’ At which He grew so pale, dear, ... to the lips, I knew I had touched him. ‘Do you know her,’ he enquired, ‘My cousin Aurora?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and lied, (But truly we all know you by your books) And so I offered to come straight to you, Explain the subject, justify the cause, And take you with me to St. Margaret’s Court To see this miracle, this Marian Erle, This drover’s daughter (she’s not pretty, he swears) Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked By a hundred needles, we’re to hang the tie ’Twixt class and class in England,—thus, indeed, By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift The match up from the doubtful place. At once He thanked me, sighing ... murmured to himself, ‘She’ll do it perhaps; she’s noble,’—thanked me twice, And promised, as my guerdon, to put off His marriage for a month.’ I answered then. ‘I understand your drift imperfectly. You wish to lead me to my cousin’s betrothed, To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand