I struggled to precipitate myself Head-foremost to the rescue of my soul In that white face, ... till some one caught me back, And so the world went out,—I felt no more. What followed, was told after by Lord Howe, Who bore me senseless from the strangling crowd In church and street, and then returned alone To see the tumult quelled. The men of law Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire, And made all silent,—while the people’s smoke Passed eddying slowly from the emptied aisles. Here’s Marian’s letter, which a ragged child Brought running, just as Romney at the porch Looked out expectant of the bride. He sent The letter to me by his friend Lord Howe Some two hours after, folded in a sheet On which his well-known hand had left a word. Here’s Marian’s letter. ‘Noble friend, dear saint, Be patient with me. Never think me vile, Who might to-morrow morning be your wife But that I loved you more than such a name. Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it once,— My Romney. ‘’Tis so pretty a coupled word, I have no heart to pluck it with a blot. We say ‘my God’ sometimes, upon our knees, Who is not therefore vexed: so bear with it ... And me. I know I’m foolish, weak, and vain; Yet most of all I’m angry with myself For losing your last footstep on the stair, That last time of your coming,—yesterday! The very first time I lost step of yours, (Its sweetness comes the next to what you speak) But yesterday sobs took me by the throat, And cut me off from music. ‘Mister Leigh, You’ll set me down as wrong in many things. You’ve praised me, sir, for truth,—and now you’ll learn I had not courage to be rightly true. I once began to tell you how she came, The woman ... and you stared upon the floor In one of your fixed thoughts ... which put me out For that day. After, some one spoke of me, So wisely, and of you, so tenderly, Persuading me to silence for your sake ... Well, well! it seems this moment I was wrong In keeping back from telling you the truth: There might be truth betwixt us two, at least, If nothing else. And yet ’twas dangerous. Suppose a real angel came from heaven To live with men and women! he’d go mad, If no considerate hand should tie a blind Across his piercing eyes. ’Tis thus with you: You see us too much in your heavenly light; I always thought so, angel,—and indeed There’s danger that you beat yourself to death Against the edges of this alien world, In some divine and fluttering pity. ‘Yes, It would be dreadful for a friend of yours, To see all England thrust you out of doors And mock you from the windows. You might say, Or think (that’s worse), ‘There’s some one in the house