Where sun and shadow on her branches played,
She sang while mortal voices slept.
One morn a wanderer strayed beneath her boughs;
He lingered oft, and sought her lovely face.
She gave her trust, he bound her heart with vows,
Yet she found not love, one day he left that place.
Long she waited, seasons rose and fell,
Till hope lay cold, her tender faith was rent.
Her silent wood became a hollow shell;
Joy no longer lived, her heart was spent.
At last, he came, an old man, bent with years,
To seek the Dryad where her branches grew.
She, fair as ever, tempered by her tears,
With sorrow turned away from love she once thought true.
“You held me then,” she said, “but nevermore.
To live, I vow to trust in men no more.”
Darcy read in silence, his brow intent, his lips pressed into a thin line. Elizabeth, though she pretended indifference by smoothing her napkin, could not help but glance at him.
His expression was unreadable, and then she saw his color deepen. He shifted, then he looked away from her, and his eyes strayed back to the open page.
Elizabeth, emboldened, teased lightly, “You look as though my poor scribblings were a sermon of Mr. Collins’s and you were the unwilling parishioner who was forced to listen.”
Darcy lifted his eyes to hers. They were darker than before, and she saw he was uncomfortable. “No,” he said quietly, “nothing could be further from the truth. Your words.” He stopped, as though the admission went too far, then closed the journal with care.
Elizabeth reached for it, but he held it a moment longer. “This is not the work of an idle fancy,” he said gravely. “It is deeply felt and painful and telling.”
Elizabeth, surprised at the sincerity of his tone, laughed a little to cover her discomfort. “You are too serious, Mr. Darcy. I began writing only to amuse myself, but now I am refining the poem and mean to submit it to a ladies’ journal, and then I shall pray they will publish it.”
“I wish you luck, Miss Elizabeth. What is your pen name?”
She grinned, the devil in her eye. “Mr. Elias Bennet.”
He returned the journal with a quiet chuckle. “It is a fine choice, and since it is a man’s, you will be certain to earn accolades.”
Elizabeth said playfully, “Sir, now you have read my little secret, I suppose I must demand something in return. Do you have no verses tucked away in your own pocketbook? Perhaps a sonnet to a lady’s eyebrow?”
The corner of his mouth curved, though not quite into a smile. “I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I am no poet. Words fail me more often than they serve.”
“Then you must leave them to me,” she said, tucking the journal away.
Darcy rose suddenly, consulted his watch, and spoke. “I must return, or Lady Catherine will suspect I have gone astray.” He paused, then turned back. “Miss Elizabeth, may I have a copy?”
Elizabeth rose, also, brushing the crumbs from her gown as she stood. “Yes, of course, if you wish it. Please do not betray my secret haunt to your formidable aunt. We have been granted the use of the gardens, but this folly lies outside the garden proper, and I hope she will not be offended that I make use of it.”
