Lord Hunsdon had already bought an album in Charlestown, and after copying the sonnet several times to practise his chirography, he inscribed it upon the first page--a pink one--signing it "Your most obedient Hunsdon," with an austere flourish. Then he carefully wrapped the album in tissue paper and sent it to Anne's room, with strict orders to his man not to leave it unless she were quite alone. The best of men have their vanities; the idea that the superior Mary Denbigh or the satirical Miss Bargarny might witness the offering's arrival was insupportable.
Anne was alone and unfolded the large square package with much curiosity. It was one of those albums that the young ladies of her day loved to possess; indeed, so far, she had been the only girl in Bath House without one, and had read the flattering verses in several with some envy. This tribute was sumptuously bound in brown calf embossed with gold, and all the leaves were delicately tinted. She turned over the pale greens and pinks, blues and canaries, with that subtle indefinable pleasure that colour gives to certain temperaments. She had not glanced at the servant, and fancied the album a present from Lady Constance. When she saw the signature on the first page she stared, for Lord Hunsdon was the last person she would have suspected of cultivating the muse. She began the sonnet with a ripple of laughter, but paled before she finished. Trifling as it was she recognised it as the work of Byam Warner. She could never be mistaken there. It resembled nothing of his that she knew, but the grace of the verse, the fine instinctive choice of words, the glitter and sweep of phrase, belonged to him and none other. Her heart leaped as she wondered if it were not the first bit of verse he had ever written while sober. And she had inspired it! The thought brought another in its train and she went suddenly to her window and stared through the jalousies at the dazzling sunlight on the palms, for the first time seeing nothing of the beauty of Nevis.
The poem had been written from himself to her. A phrase or two not intended for Hunsdon's unsuspecting eye assured her of that. It was not an old sonnet furbished up to fit the purpose of a friend. And fragile as the thing was, still it was poetry--and he had written it when sober--and to her---She repeated this discovery many times before she could give shape to the greater thought building in her brain. It was a beginning, a milestone. Might it not be within her compass to influence him so indelibly that his muse would continue to wake at her call, at the mere thought of her, with no aid from that foul hag of drink, which of late had almost made her hate his poetry as the work of a base alliance? She believed that if he did not love her he was yet so deep in admiration that she could inspire him with a profound attachment if she chose. And the result? If only she were a seer, as certain of her Scotch kin claimed to be. A hopeless love might inspire him to the greater work the world expected of him; she had read of the flowering of genius in the strong soil of misery. But he had suffered enough already, poor devil! The result of loving for the last time, with no hope of possession, might fling him from Parnassus into the Inferno, where he would roast in unproductive torment for the rest of his mortal span. Even that might not be for long. He looked frail enough beside these fresh young English sportsmen, or even the high-coloured planters, burnt without and within.