The Argosy — page 135: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

120 A Tragedy. could not look in. Mary MacEveril and Georgiana Chandler were with him; Oliver Preen stood close by, leaning against the stump of a tree. I thought how sad his look was, and wondered what made it so. Within view of us, but not within hearing, in a dark, narrow walk Tom Chandler and Emma Paul were pacing side by side, absorbed evidently in one another. ‘The sun had set, the lovely colours in the sky were giving place to twilight. It was the hour when matter-of- fact prosaic influences change into romance; when, if there’s any sentiment within us it is safe to come out. ‘Tt is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale’s high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers’ vows Seem sweet in every whispered word,” as Lord Byron says. And who could discourse on love—the true ring of it, mind—as he did? “Do sing,” said Tod to Miss MacEveril; and I found they had been teasing her to do so for the last five minutes. She had a pleasant voice and sang well. ‘“‘T’m sure you don’t care to hear me, Mr. Todhetley.” ‘But I’m sure I do,” answered Tod, who would flirt with pretty girls when the fit took him. Flirt and flatter too. ‘“We should have everyone coming round us.” ) “Not a soul of them. They are all away somewhere, out of hearing. Do sing me one song.” She began at once, without more ado, choosing an old song that Mrs. ‘Todhetley often chose ; one that was a favourite of hers, as it was of mine: “ Faithless Emma.” ‘Those songs of the old days bore, all of them, a history. ‘‘T wandered once at break of day, While yet upon the sunless sea In wanton sighs the breeze delayed, And o’er the wavy surface played. Then first the fairest face I knew, First loved the eye of softest blue, And ventured, fearful, first to sip The sweets that hung upon the lip Of faithless Emma. So mixed the rose and lily white That nature seemed uncertain, quite, To deck her cheek which flower she chose, The lily or the blushing rose. IT wish I ne’er had seen her eye, Neer seen her cheeks of doubtful dye, Nor ever, ever dared to sip The sweets that hung upon the lip Of faithless Emma. ECORMICLIOOLKSs(E(e)