He made me work. He made me drag logs to and fro, but I actually didn't
care. The girl made it all worthwhile, and I didn't care how cheesy it
sounded either. But the only problem was, I kept slipping into thought and
not working.
"There be some sports are painful, and their labour delight in them sets off. Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone; and most poor matters point to rich ends. This my mean task would be as heavy to me as odious, but the mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, and makes my labours pleasures. O, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed – and he's composed of harshness. I must remove some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness had never like executor. I forget. But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, most busy, least when I do it."
But she came over just as I started to work again.
"Alas, now pray you work not so hard. I would that the lightning had burnt up those logs that you are enjoined to pile. Pray set it down, and rest you. When this burns 'twill weep for having wearied you. My father is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself – he's safe for these three hours." She was so sweet and simple, but I had to do the work, and when she offered to do it for me I couldn't stand it.
"No, precious creature, I'd rather crack my sinews, break my bag, than you should such dishonour undergo, while I sit lazy by." She kept offering, and making worried comments about how tired I looked, but I brushed it off – technically I was tired, but I didn't feel it as long as she stood by me. I finally found out her name, although she seemed upset that by doing so she was breaking her word to her father. Miranda. It was a perfect name, and she was so much more perfect than any other woman I had ever known. I told her so.
"I do not know one of my sex," she replied, "No woman's face remember, save from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen more that I may call men than you, good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad I am skilless of; but by my modesty, the jewel in my dower, I would not wish any companion in the world but you; nor can imagination form a shape besides yourself, to like of."
It was strange to think of how different our lives had been; she'd been isolated all her life while I'd been in the public eye; while my eye had wandered from woman to woman hers had been restrained by necessity, although I could hardly imagine her being anything else in any other situation, she was so sweet and pure.
Then came the question, and the answer seemed so obvious to me I could hardly believe she asked it.
"Do you love me?" she said timidly.
"O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, and crown what I profess with kind event if I speak true; if hollowly, invert what best is boded me to mischief. I, beyond all limit of what else i'th'world, do love, prize, honour you." To my horror, the effect of my profession of love was that its object burst into tears.
"I am a fool to weep at what I'm glad of," she said, wiping her eyes.
"Wherefore weep you?" I asked anxiously.
"At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what I desire to give, and much less take what I shall die to want. But I am your wife, if you will marry me; if not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant whether you will or no."
I knelt before her, filled with an incredible kind of joy.
"My mistress, dearest, and I thus humble ever." I meant it. For her... anything.
"My husband then?" she asked, seemingly unable to believe it.
"Aye, with a heart as willing as bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand."
"And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell till half an hour hence." She smiled gently and turned, walking away.
"A thousand thousand," I said softly.
I watched her go, then wandered off on my own, my head and heart both full to bursting point. So much had happened in, what, a few hours? One minute I was happier than I'd ever been in my life, the next I was thoroughly miserable and filled with feelings of guilt for concentrating all my thoughts on Miranda and not my father. But I couldn't help it. There was something almost magical about her. It struck me briefly that if we could never marry, I didn't think I'd be able to bear destroying her honour, even in the remote place that this island seemed to be. I hoped her father would chill a bit; he was so harsh!
"There be some sports are painful, and their labour delight in them sets off. Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone; and most poor matters point to rich ends. This my mean task would be as heavy to me as odious, but the mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, and makes my labours pleasures. O, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed – and he's composed of harshness. I must remove some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness had never like executor. I forget. But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, most busy, least when I do it."
But she came over just as I started to work again.
"Alas, now pray you work not so hard. I would that the lightning had burnt up those logs that you are enjoined to pile. Pray set it down, and rest you. When this burns 'twill weep for having wearied you. My father is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself – he's safe for these three hours." She was so sweet and simple, but I had to do the work, and when she offered to do it for me I couldn't stand it.
"No, precious creature, I'd rather crack my sinews, break my bag, than you should such dishonour undergo, while I sit lazy by." She kept offering, and making worried comments about how tired I looked, but I brushed it off – technically I was tired, but I didn't feel it as long as she stood by me. I finally found out her name, although she seemed upset that by doing so she was breaking her word to her father. Miranda. It was a perfect name, and she was so much more perfect than any other woman I had ever known. I told her so.
"I do not know one of my sex," she replied, "No woman's face remember, save from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen more that I may call men than you, good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad I am skilless of; but by my modesty, the jewel in my dower, I would not wish any companion in the world but you; nor can imagination form a shape besides yourself, to like of."
It was strange to think of how different our lives had been; she'd been isolated all her life while I'd been in the public eye; while my eye had wandered from woman to woman hers had been restrained by necessity, although I could hardly imagine her being anything else in any other situation, she was so sweet and pure.
Then came the question, and the answer seemed so obvious to me I could hardly believe she asked it.
"Do you love me?" she said timidly.
"O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, and crown what I profess with kind event if I speak true; if hollowly, invert what best is boded me to mischief. I, beyond all limit of what else i'th'world, do love, prize, honour you." To my horror, the effect of my profession of love was that its object burst into tears.
"I am a fool to weep at what I'm glad of," she said, wiping her eyes.
"Wherefore weep you?" I asked anxiously.
"At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what I desire to give, and much less take what I shall die to want. But I am your wife, if you will marry me; if not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant whether you will or no."
I knelt before her, filled with an incredible kind of joy.
"My mistress, dearest, and I thus humble ever." I meant it. For her... anything.
"My husband then?" she asked, seemingly unable to believe it.
"Aye, with a heart as willing as bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand."
"And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell till half an hour hence." She smiled gently and turned, walking away.
"A thousand thousand," I said softly.
I watched her go, then wandered off on my own, my head and heart both full to bursting point. So much had happened in, what, a few hours? One minute I was happier than I'd ever been in my life, the next I was thoroughly miserable and filled with feelings of guilt for concentrating all my thoughts on Miranda and not my father. But I couldn't help it. There was something almost magical about her. It struck me briefly that if we could never marry, I didn't think I'd be able to bear destroying her honour, even in the remote place that this island seemed to be. I hoped her father would chill a bit; he was so harsh!