VII.

Ah, that YET! fatal word! 'tis the moral of all Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since the Fall! It stands at the end of each sentence we learn; It flits in the vista of all we discern; It leads us, forever and ever, away To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 'Twas the same little fatal and mystical word That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah; Drooping Pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara!

VIII.

At the same time, pursued by a spell much the same, To these waters two other worn pilgrims there came: One a man, one a woman: just now, at the latter, As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her And judge for himself, I will not even glance.

IX.

Of the self-crown'd young kings of the Fashion in France Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so bright, Who so hail'd in the salon, so mark'd in the Bois, Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois? Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees In that town of all towns, where Debauchery sees On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere graven,— In Paris I mean,—where the streets are all paven By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging the way From Hell to this planet,—who, haughty and gay, The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois? Yes! he march'd through the great masquerade, loud of tongue, Bold of brow: but the motley he mask'd in, it hung So loose, trail'd so wide, and appear'd to impede So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed, That a keen eye might guess it was made—not for him, But some brawler more stalwart of stature and limb. That it irk'd him, in truth, you at times could divine, For when low was the music, and spilt was the wine, He would clutch at the garment, as though it oppress'd And stifled some impulse that choked in his breast.

X.

What! he,... the light sport of his frivolous ease! Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease? My friend, hear a parable: ponder it well: For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and Arnal, My eye fell on the face of a man at my side; Every time that he laugh'd I observed that he sigh'd, As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd that he sat Ill at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. "Sir," he said, "if what vexes me here you would know, Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours ago, I walk'd into the Francais, to look at Rachel. (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle!)—Well, I ask'd for a box: they were occupied all: For a seat in the balcony: all taken! a stall: Taken too: the whole house was as full as could be,— Not a hole for a rat! I had just time to see The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend In a box out of reach at the opposite end: Then the crowd push'd me out. What was left me to do? I tried for the tragedy... que voulez-vous? Every place for the tragedy book'd!... mon ami. The farce was close by:... at the farce me voici. The piece is a new one: and Grassot plays well: There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel: And Hyacinth's nose is superb:... yet I meant My evening elsewhere, and not thus to have spent. Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours! Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers."

I once met the Duc de Luvois for a moment; And I mark'd, when his features I fix'd in my comment, O'er those features the same vague disquietude stray I had seen on the face of my friend at the play; And I thought that he too, very probably, spent His evenings not wholly as first he had meant.

XI.

O source of the holiest joys we inherit, O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit! Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert sand, Grown impatient too soon for the long-promised land, He turns from the worship of thee, as thou art, An expressless and imageless truth in the heart, And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf And the gold of the Godless, to make to himself A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee, And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the knee. The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods: Like the prophets of Baal, our bosoms with rods We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till they bleed, But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to our need. The land is athirst, and cries out!... 'tis in vain; The great blessing of Heaven descends not in rain.

XII.

It was night; and the lamps were beginning to gleam Through the long linden-trees, folded each in his dream, From that building which looks like a temple... and is The Temple of—Health? Nay, but enter! I wis That never the rosy-hued deity knew One votary out of that sallow-cheek'd crew Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians; Jews—Hamburghers chiefly;—pure patriots,—Suabians;— "Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, And the dwellers in Pontus"... My muse will not weary More lines with the list of them... cur fremuere? What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum? Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come? Oh, what is the name of the god at whose fane Every nation is mix'd in so motley a train? What weird Kabala lies on those tables outspread? To what oracle turns with attention each head? What holds these pale worshippers each so devout, And what are those hierophants busied about?

XIII.

Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro, And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and No: Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance, And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of Chance. Through the wide-open doors of the distant saloon Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune; And an indistinct music forever is roll'd, That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold, From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze, Of figures forever eluding the gaze; It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass, And the weird words pursue it—Rouge, Impair, et Passe! Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat.

XIV.

The Duc de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of Chance. The idler from England, the idler from France, Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial pleasure: An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure, And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd away. 'Twas a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings;—the men who had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt, Is why, on the night I am speaking about, My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end.

XV.

Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began With a few modest thalers—away they all ran— The reserve follow'd fast in the rear. As his purse Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it: 'Tis an old law in physics—Natura abhorret Vacuum—and my lord, as he watch'd his last crown Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have deck'd On that day of all days when an empire was wreck'd On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd the last Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast! Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why, Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye Had long been intently regarding him there,— That some gaze was upon him too searching to bear. He rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it fable? Was it dream? Was it waking? Across the green table, That face, with its features so fatally known— Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely his own What was it? Some ghost from its grave come again? Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain? Or was it herself with those deep eyes of hers, And that face unforgotten?—Lucile de Nevers!

XVI.

Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem, Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream! 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hush'd, That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. The brief noon of beauty was passing away, And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. And now, as all around her the dim evening stole, With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved For the want of that tender assurance received From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye, Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou naught,—I am by!" And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd existence, Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance: A strange sort of faint-footed fear,—like a mouse That comes out, when 'tis dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, And the forms on the arras are all that move there.

In Rome,—in the Forum,—there open'd one night A gulf. All the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods: then the oracle said:— "Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd likely enough To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke: "O Quirites! to this Heaven's question is come: What to Rome is most precious? The manhood of Rome." He plunged, and the gulf closed. The tale is not new; But the moral applies many ways, and is true. How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy'd? 'Tis a warm human one that must fill up the void. Through many a heart runs the rent in the fable; But who to discover a Curtius is able?

XVII.

Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the source Of the sunrise; where, fair in their fabulous course, Run the rivers of Eden: an exile again, To the cities of Europe—the scenes, and the men, And the life, and the ways, she had left: still oppress'd With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable breast. The same, to the same things! The world she had quitted With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon flitted Through the salons and clubs, to the great satisfaction Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once more, To her old friend, the World, had reopen'd her door; The World came, and shook hands, and was pleased and amused With what the World then went away and abused. From the woman's fair fame it in naught could detract: 'Twas the woman's free genius it vex'd and attack'd With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell beyond The world's limit, to feel that the world could respond To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in naught, 'Twas no longer this earth's idle inmates she sought: The wit of the woman sufficed to engage In the woman's gay court the first men of the age. Some had genius; and all, wealth of mind to confer On the world: but that wealth was not lavish'd for her. For the genius of man, though so human indeed, When call'd out to man's help by some great human need, The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler uses. Genius touches the world at but one point alone Of that spacious circumference, never quite known To the world; all the infinite number of lines That radiate thither a mere point combines, But one only,—some central affection apart From the reach of the world, in which Genius is Heart, And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind, And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken, When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever men; Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurl'd Worlds new-fashioned for man, as mere men of the world. And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light, And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet, As though stretch'd out, the shade of some OTHER to meet, The woman felt homeless and childless: in scorn She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children unborn; And when from these sombre reflections away She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay For her presence within it, she knew herself friendless; That her path led from peace, and that path appear'd endless! That even her beauty had been but a snare, And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair.

XVIII.

With a face all transfigured and flush'd by surprise, Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep searching eyes She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said, Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray'd. She seem'd to smile through him, at something beyond: When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to respond To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied. Not so he. At the sight of that face back again To his mind came the ghost of a long-stifled pain, A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild And relentful regret like a motherless child Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, To the heart which resisted its entrance. Lucile And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd By the crowd unobserved. Not unnoticed, however, By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never Seen her husband's new friend. She had follow'd by chance, Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, had turn'd On Lucile and Lord Alfred; and, scared, she discern'd On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers He replied not, but murmur'd, "Lucile de Nevers Once again then? so be it!" In the mind of that man, At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought.

XIX.

"So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and reweave the old charm! And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me! Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be Loved by one—her own rival—more fair and more young?" The serpent rose in him; a serpent which, stung, Sought to sting. Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader.

XX.

The Duke with that sort of aggressive false praise Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly With the man he is minded to hang by and by), Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: and now Each was silent, preoccupied; thoughtful. You know There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is passing. And that In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence came To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame? What weighed down her head? All your eye could discover Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her bosom. "This poor flower," she said, "seems it not out of place In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace?" She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the while, And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined The significant pause with new trouble of mind. She lifted one moment her head; but her look Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, And dropp'd back on her flowret abash'd. Then, still seeking The assurance she fancied she show'd him by speaking, She conceived herself safe in adopting again The theme she should most have avoided just then.

XXI.

"Duke," she said,... and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burn'd, "You know, then, this... lady?" "Too well!" he return'd.

MATILDA.

True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now.

LUVOIS.

With emotion?

MATILDA.

Yes, yes! you described her, I know, As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd.

LUVOIS.

Alas! You mistook me completely! You, madam, surpass This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth Surpasses its best imitations; as truth The fairest of falsehood surpasses; as nature Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-glasses! "Yet you said,"—she continued with some trepidation, "That you quite comprehended"... a slight hesitation Shook the sentence,... "a passion so strong as"...

LUVOIS.

"True, true! But not in a man that had once look'd at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or"... Hush, hush!" She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. "Between man and woman these things differ so! It may be that the world pardons... (how should I know?) In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, It may be that we women are better than you."

LUVOIS.

Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some difference may make 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects Its social enchantments; but not as affects The one sentiment which it were easy to prove, Is the sole law we look to the moment we love.

MATILDA.

That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it. "Yes! yes! That is too true, indeed!"... the Duke sigh'd. And again For one moment in silence continued the twain.

XXII.

At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded: "And yet!... what avails, then, to woman the gift Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair, One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less fair Are exposed, when they love?" With a quick change of tone, As though by resentment impell'd he went on:— "The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took From love, not convention. Well, lady,... that look So excited, so keen, on the face you must know Throughout all its expressions—that rapturous glow, Those eloquent features—significant eyes— Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no surprise," (He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door, Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred)... "before, Have you ever once seen what just now you may view In that face so familiar?... no, lady, 'tis new. Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, Are you loved?"...

XXIII.

He look'd at her—paused—felt if thus far The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, As though some indefinite danger were near. With composure, however, at once she replied:— "'Tis three years since the day when I first was a bride, And my husband I never had cause to suspect; Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see— See, or fancy—some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that I too should forget it,—for you Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half-frightened rebuke, Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. There was silence again. A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that night, Had listen'd—long listen'd—no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirr'd. And so having suffer'd in silence his eye To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh:

XXIV.

"Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade By disclosing my own? The position," he said, "In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse The frankness and force of the words which I use. You say that your heart is your husband's: You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady... nay, Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. But, trust me, no true love there can be without Its dread penalty—jealousy. "Well, do not start! Until now,—either thanks to a singular art Of supreme self-control, you have held them all down Unreveal'd in your heart,—or you never have known Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs Which deep passion engenders; that anguish which hangs On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred. But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed Of a blissful security thus hath reposed Undisturb'd, with mild eyelids on happiness closed, Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust, To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, For how long I know not, continue to see A woman whose place rivals yours in the life And the heart which not only your title of wife, But also (forgive me!) your beauty alone, Should have made wholly yours?—You, who gave all your own! Reflect!—'tis the peace of existence you stake On the turn of a die. And for whose—for his sake? While you witness this woman, the false point of view From which she must now be regarded by you Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, The charms I admit she possesses. To me They are trivial indeed; yet to your eyes, I fear And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess How more lovely by far is the grace you possess, You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of art, You will take for the natural charm of the heart; Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, Will too soon in that fatal comparison be To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best eloquence. O then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart! While you see her, yourself you no longer will see,— You will hear her, and hear not yourself,—you will be Unhappy; unhappy, because you will deem Your own power less great than her power will seem. And I shall not be by your side, day by day, In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 'You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can wear'"

XXV.

This appeal, both by looks and by language, increased The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. Still she spoke with what calmness she could— "Sir, the while I thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, "For your fervor in painting my fancied distress: Allow me the right some surprise to express At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me The possible depth of my own misery." "That zeal would not startle you, madam," he said, "Could you read in my heart, as myself I have read, The peculiar interest which causes that zeal—"

Matilda her terror no more could conceal. "Duke," she answer'd in accents short, cold and severe, As she rose from her seat, "I continue to hear; But permit me to say, I no more understand." "Forgive!" with a nervous appeal of the hand, And a well-feign'd confusion of voice and of look, "Forgive, oh, forgive me!" at once cried the Duke "I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve) For one moment to speak of myself,—for I think That you wrong me—" His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd.

XXVI.

Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd.

XXVII.

"Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me," He continued, "a sorrow which draws me to side With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he cried, "At so strange an avowal. "I seek at a ball, For instance,—the beauty admired by all? No! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by the wits. All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect, Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my respect. No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong; But I seek to console, where I can. 'Tis a part Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart." These trite words, from the tone which he gave them, received An appearance of truth which might well be believed By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. And so He continued... "O lady! alas, could you know What injustice and wrong in this world I have seen! How many a woman, believed to have been Without a regret, I have known turn aside To burst into heartbroken tears undescried! On how many a lip have I witness'd the smile Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart the while!" Said Matilda, "Your life, it would seem, then, must be One long act of devotion" "Perhaps so," said he; "But at least that devotion small merit can boast, For one day may yet come,—if ONE day at the most,— When, perceiving at last all the difference—how great!— Twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart that can wait, Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain, Some woman, that else might have pass'd in disdain Or indifference by me,—in passing that day Might pause with a word or a smile to repay This devotion,—and then"...

XXVIII.

To Matilda's relief At that moment her husband approach'd. With some grief I must own that her welcome, perchance, was express'd The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast Of a conscience disturb'd, and her smile not less warm, Though she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on his arm. The Duke turn'd and adjusted his collar. Thought he, "Good! the gods fight my battle to-night. I foresee That the family doctor's the part I must play. Very well! but the patients my visits shall pay." Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife; And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife Of emotions which made her voice shake, murmur'd low Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a bow Which betoken'd a distant defiance, replied To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, her place She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance, Or resolved not to notice the half-frighten'd glance, That follow'd that movement. The Duke to his feet Arose; and, in silence, relinquish'd his seat. One must own that the moment was awkward for all But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, to melt; Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four Thro' the crowd saunter'd smiling.

XXIX.

Approaching the door, Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen behind, By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd. With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal, Which appear'd to imply, without words, "Let us feel That the friendship between us in years that are fled, Has survived one mad moment forgotten," she said: "You remain, Duke, at Ems?" He turn'd on her a look Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke; And then, with a more than significant glance At Matilda, maliciously answer'd, "Perchance. I have here an attraction. And you?" he return'd. Lucile's eyes had follow'd his own, and discern'd The boast they implied. He repeated, "And you?" And, still watching Matilda, she answer'd, "I too." And he thought, as with that word she left him, she sigh'd. The next moment her place she resumed by the side Of Matilda; and they soon shook hands at the gate Of the selfsame hotel.

XXX.

One depress'd, one elate, The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the glooms Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the Rooms. His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from the door. Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, experto (Me miserum quoties!) crede Roberto. In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. At last The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously pass'd.

LUVOIS.

Once more! yet once more!

ALFRED.

What?

LUVOIS.

We meet her, once more, The woman for whom we two madmen of yore (Laugh, mon cher Alfred, laugh!) were about to destroy Each other!

ALFRED.

It is not with laughter that I Raise the ghost of that once troubled time. Say! can you Recall it with coolness and quietude now?

LUVOIS.

Now? yes! I, mon cher, am a true Parisien: Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then The dance and the play. I am now at the play.

ALFRED.

At the play, are you now? Then perchance I now may Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until Such a moment, I waited...

LUVOIS.

Oh! ask what you will. Franc jeu! on the table my cards I spread out. Ask!

ALFRED.

Duke, you were called to a meeting (no doubt You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night When you went; and before you return'd it was light. We met: you accosted me then with a brow Bright with triumph: your words (you remember them now!) Were "Let us be friends!"

LUVOIS.

Well?

ALFRED.

How then, after that Can you and she meet as acquaintances?

LUVOIS.

What! Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of hers?

ALFRED.

In our converse to-night we avoided the past. But the question I ask should be answer'd at last: By you, if you will; if you will not, by her.

LUVOIS.

Indeed? but that question, milord, can it stir Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er?

ALFRED.

Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more. Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand, To MY WIFE!) to present her. I did so. Her hand Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe Respect to the name that is ours: and, if so, To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. Answer, Duc de Luvois! Did Lucile then reject The proffer you made of your hand and your name? Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because My title to do so is clear by the laws That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, For which, if your own virgin sister were by, From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, and I And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow.

XXXI.

The Duke Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said, And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts through his head: "Leave Ems! would that suit me? no! that were again To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, She herself will... et puis, il a raison: on est Gentilhomme avant tout!" He replied therefore, "Nay! Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, In those days, I was mad; and in some mad reply I threatened the life of the rival to whom That rejection was due, I was led to presume. She fear'd for his life; and the letter which then She wrote me, I show'd you; we met: and again My hand was refused, and my love was denied, And the glance you mistook was the vizard which Pride Lends to Humiliation. "And so," half in jest, He went on, "in this best world, 'tis all for the best; You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!) wedded to one Whose past can be called into question by none: And I (fickle Frenchman!) can still laugh to feel I am lord of myself; and the Mode: and Lucile Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there! A Dian in marble that scorns any troth With the little love gods, whom I thank for us both, While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart, That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave!"

XXXII.

The Duke, with a smile, Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, meanwhile, They had reach'd.

XXXIII.

Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown Heart and mind!) in the darkness bewilder'd, alone: "And so," to himself did he mutter, "and so 'Twas to rescue my life, gentle spirit! and, oh, For this did I doubt her?... a light word—a look— The mistake of a moment!... for this I forsook— For this? Pardon, pardon, Lucile! O Lucile!" Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal, Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his brain, As he stray'd down the darkness.

XXXIV.

Re-entering again The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to roulette, And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, and yet He still smiled: night deepen'd: he play'd his last number: Went home: and soon slept: and still smil'd in his slumber.

XXXV.

In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, "In the grief or mischance of a friend you may note, There is something which always gives pleasure." Alas! That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down— "No misfortune, but what some one turns to his own Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it There ever is somebody ready to profit: No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld! Fool! one man's wit All men's selfishness how should it fathom? O sage, Dost thou satirize Nature? She laughs at thy page.



CANTO II.

I.

COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED.

LONDON, 18—

"My dear Alfred, Your last letters put me in pain. This contempt of existence, this listless disdain Of your own life,—its joys and its duties,—the deuce Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse! I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg, And compel you to stump through the world on a peg. I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity!), To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread Of another—(what is it that Dante has said?) And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws! This pressure against all the purpose of life, This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife, Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth, The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with time, Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavor sublime, It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste The better, I take it. And this vice of snarling, Self-love's little lapdog, the overfed darling Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears, To my thinking, at least, in a man of your years, At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do, And every incentive for doing it too, With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing For prayer, and of joys more than most men for blessing; With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse, Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse! I wish I could get you at least to agree To take life as it is, and consider with me, If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers; It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. Do you think none have known but yourself all the pain Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain? And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, 'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's without? What one of us finds the world just as he likes? Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or strikes Without missing the thing that he strikes at the first? Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his thirst At one draught? Bah! I tell you! I, bachelor John, Have had griefs of my own. But what then? I push on All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. God means every man to be happy, be sure. He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. Our duty down here is to do, not to know. Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so. Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, come: It will wait to deliver its message; and some Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed A man does, but the way that he does it, should plead For the man's compensation in doing it. "Here, My next neighbor's a man with twelve thousand a year, Who deems that life has not a pastime more pleasant Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant. Yet this fellow goes through a contested election, Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection, All the day through upon a committee, and late To the last, every night, through the dreary debate, As though he were getting each speaker by heart, Though amongst them he never presumes to take part. One asks himself why, without murmur or question, He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion, For a labor of which the result seems so small. 'The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. He has just sense enough to be fully aware That he never can hope to be Premier, or share The renown of a Tully;—or even to hold A subordinate office. He is not so bold As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear With patience his modest opinions to hear. 'But he wants something!' "What! with twelve thousand a year? What could Government give him would be half so dear To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run? 'No; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain; The man would be more than his neighbor, 'tis plain; And the drudgery drearily gone through in town Is more than repaid by provincial renown. Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance; the goose, If the Fashion to him open one of its doors, As proud as a sultan returns to his boors.' Wrong again! if you think so, "For, primo; my friend Is the head of a family known from one end Of his shire to the other as the oldest; and therefore He despises fine lords and fine ladies. HE care for A peerage? no truly! Secondo; he rarely Or never goes out: dines at Bellamy's sparely, And abhors what you call the gay world. "Then, I ask, What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed task As the life of this man,—but the sense of its duty? And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty Have never inspired in my soul that intense, Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man, As I see him beside me;—there, wearing the wan London daylight away, on his humdrum committee; So unconscious of all that awakens my pity, And wonder—and worship, I might say? "To me There seems something nobler than genius to be In that dull patient labor no genius relieves, That absence of all joy which yet never grieves; The humility of it! the grandeur withal! The sublimity of it! And yet, should you call The man's own very slow apprehension to this, He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is! His work is the duty to which he was born; He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn: And this man is no uncommon type (I thank Heaven!) Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 'tis the reason That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason And tyranny elsewhere. "I wander away Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say. You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the soul Is immortal; and put this in rhyme, on the whole, Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art:— The Greek Psyche,—that's beauty,—the perfect ideal. But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real, With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too, Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. Geology opens the mind. So you know Something also of strata and fossils; these show The bases of cosmical structure: some mention Of the nebulous theory demands your attention; And so on. "In short, it is clear the interior Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire, To that of my poor parliamentary squire; But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete. You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at? My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. An old illustration's as good as a new, Provided the old illustration be true. We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly, Though we marvel to see them ascending so high; Things slight in themselves,—long-tail'd toys, and no more: What is it that makes the kite steadily soar Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth? I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's knee. In truth, I suspect little else do we learn From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood. "Your case Is exactly in point. "Fly your kite, if you please, Out of sight: let it go where it will, on the breeze; But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. No man is the absolute lord of his life. You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife. If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire, With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair, Some dull winter evening to solace and share With the love which the world its good children allows To shake hands with,—in short, a legitimate spouse, This thought has consoled me: 'At least I have given For my own good behavior no hostage to heaven.' You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if you do, I would rather break stones on a road than be you. If any man wilfully injured, or led That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head, Even though you yourself were the sinner! "And this Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss!) To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once, But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce. Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs, The wolf best received by the flock he devours Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. At least, this has long been my unsettled conviction, And I almost would venture at once the prediction That before very long—but no matter! I trust, For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on The score of such men as with both God and Mammon Seem so shrewdly familiar. "Neglect not this warning. There were rumors afloat in the City this morning Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows? would he fleece At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece? For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner, I say, lose no time! get it out of the grab Of her trustee and uncle, Sir Ridley McNab. I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a notion That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion, Have long been the only ostensible capital On which he does business. If so, time must sap it all, Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait, Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect; I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell Worth your hearing. We think that the Government here Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a peer, You will see by the Times. There are symptoms which show That the ministers now are preparing to go, And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes. It is evident that they are clearing the dishes, And cramming their pockets with bonbons. Your news Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman? I know That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take care Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there; But before I am free, you are sure to be gone. Good-by, my dear fellow. Yours, anxiously, JOHN."

II.

This is just the advice I myself would have given To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which, Heaven Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at That time to these homilies. Primum dementat Quem Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact Was behaving just then in a way to distract Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd have thought The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have caught, The more did his aspect grow listless to hers, And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. And Matilda, the less she found love in the look Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the Duke. With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, heart from heart, Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the table; Played high; and lost more than to lose he was able. He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse,— And here I must mention, what made matters worse, That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell That they all saw too much of each other. The weather Was so fine that it brought them each day all together In the garden, to listen, of course, to the band. The house was a sort of phalanstery; and Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover A mutual passion for music. Moreover, The Duke was an excellent tenor; could sing "Ange si pure" in a way to bring down on the wing All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord Would also, at times, when he was not too bored, Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill; With some little things of his own, showing skill. For which reason, as well as for some others too, Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendezvous. Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless coquette!) All the mischief she could not but mark? Patience yet!

III.

In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the sun, By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when the heat Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. And here, with some friends of their own little world, In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd From the feet of the lindens, and crept through the grass, Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass. The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there, and sing Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there was tea (A luxury due to Matilda), and ice, Fruit and coffee. [Greek text omitted]! Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided, With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a thick head, And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked, And two Austrian Colonels,—that Alfred, who yet Was lounging alone with his last cigarette, Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, And joining her, cried, "Thank the good stars, we meet! I have so much to say to you!" "Yes?... "with her sweet Serene voice, she replied to him.... "Yes? and I too Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you." She was paler just then than her wont was. The sound Of her voice had within it a sadness profound. "You are ill?" he exclaim'd. "No!" she hurriedly said. "No, no!" "You alarm me!" She droop'd down her head. "If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to divine The purpose of what has been passing in mine, My farewell can scarcely alarm you."

ALFRED.

Lucile! Your farewell! you go!

LUCILE.

Yes, Lord Alfred.

ALFRED.

Reveal The cause of this sudden unkindness.

LUCILE.

Unkind?

ALFRED.

Yes! what else is this parting?

LUCILE.

No, no! are you blind? Look into your own heart and home. Can you see No reason for this, save unkindness in me? Look into the eyes of your wife—those true eyes, Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise The sweet soul shining through them.

ALFRED.

Lucile! (first and last Be the word, if you will!) let me speak of the past. I know now, alas! though I know it too late, What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate. Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! let it be! I but say what is due to yourself—due to me, And must say it. He rushed incoherently on, Describing how, lately, the truth he had known, To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her before, All the complicate coil wound about him of yore, All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled, "And then, O Lucile, what was left me," he said, "When my life was defrauded of you, but to take That life, as 'twas left, and endeavor to make Unobserved by another, the void which remain'd Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd, I have striven. One word of unkindness has never Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever Received my submission. And if, of a truth, I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth, I at least have been loyal to what I DO feel, Respect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, I speak not of love now, nor love's long regret: I would not offend you, nor dare I forget The ties that are round me. But may there not be A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me? May we not be yet friends—friends the dearest?" "Alas!" She replied, "for one moment, perchance, did it pass Through my own heart, that dream which forever hath brought To those who indulge it in innocent thought So fatal an evil awaking! But no. For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree would grow On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what lies? The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us, Are the days when with innocence we could discuss Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life! Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. And I—in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. "Hush! hush! I would say what I wish'd to have said when you came. Do not think that years leave us and find us the same! The woman you knew long ago, long ago, Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know, The germ of a joy in the years yet to be, Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me, I go my own way,—onward, upward! "O yet, Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,— The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead, But it is not corrupted. I too have at last Lived to learn that love is not—such love as is past, Such love as youth dreams of at least—the sole part Of life, which is able to fill up the heart; Even that of a woman. "Between you and me Heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see That our guardian angels can bear us no more. We each of us stand on an opposite shore. Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn, By an instinct men never attain, to discern Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, Matilda is young—see her now, sitting there!— How tenderly fashion'd—(oh, is she not? say,) To love and be loved!"

IV.

He turn'd sharply away— "Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair; Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware; But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child; Matilda loves not—" Lucile quietly smiled As she answer'd him—"Yesterday, all that you say Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, today." "How?—what mean you?" "I mean that to-day," she replied, "The statue with life has become vivified: I mean that the child to a woman has grown: And that woman is jealous." "What, she!" with a tone Of ironical wonder, he answer'd—what, she! She jealous!—Matilda!—of whom, pray?—not me!" "My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too, That so lately this passion within her hath grown. For who shall declare, if for months she had known What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?"

"Explain! explain, madam!" he cried, in surprise; And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. "How blind are you men!" she replied. "Can you doubt That a woman, young, fair, and neglected—" "Speak out!" He gasp'd with emotion. "Lucile! you mean—what! Do you doubt her fidelity?" "Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain From touching a subject so fragile. However, Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor To invade for one moment your innermost life. Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife, Are dear to me,—most dear! And I am convinced That you rashly are risking that honor." He winced, And turn'd pale, as she spoke. She had aim'd at his heart, And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, That her aim had not miss'd. "Stay, Lucile!" he exclaim'd, "What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed To alarm me? Matilda?—my wife?—do you know?"—

"I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. But I know not how far your continued neglect Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet dear, Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece From the glances of men, would disperse and depart At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart,— For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure; And the heart left too long to its ravage in time May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime."

V.

"Such thoughts could have never," he falter'd, "I know, Reach'd the heart of Matilda." "Matilda? oh no! But reflect! when such thoughts do not come of themselves To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves That seek lonely places,—there rarely is wanting Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting To conjure them to her." "O lady, beware! At this moment, around me I search everywhere For a clew to your words"— "You mistake them," she said, Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made. "I was putting a mere hypothetical case." With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. "Woe to him,..." he exclaim'd... "woe to him that shall feel Such a hope! for I swear, if he did but reveal One glimpse,—it should be the last hope of his life!" The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'd the strife She had roused in his heart. "You forget," she began, "That you menace yourself. You yourself are the man That is guilty. Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever? O think! The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink, You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endure; You bid her be true to the laws you abjure; To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder, With the force that has fail'd you; and that too, when under The assumption of rights which to her you refuse, The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse! Where the contract exists, it involves obligation To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. You unloose, in asserting your own liberty, A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. Then, O Alfred! be juster at heart: and thank Heaven That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it!"

VI.

In the silence that follow'd the last word she said, In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to impart A new germ of motion and life to that heart Of which he himself had so recently spoken As dead to emotion—exhausted, or broken! New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. In the husband indifferent no more to the wife She already, as she had foreseen, could discover That Matilda had gain'd at her hands, a new lover. So after some moments of silence, whose spell They both felt, she extended her hand to him....

VII.

"Well?"

VIII.

"Lucile," he replied, as that soft quiet hand In his own he clasp'd warmly, "I both understand And obey you." "Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. "O yet, One word, I beseech you! I cannot forget," He exclaim'd, "we are parting for life. You have shown My pathway to me: but say, what is your own?" The calmness with which until then she had spoken In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken. She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly. "Nay, I know not," she murmur'd, "I follow the way Heaven leads me; I cannot foresee to what end. I know only that far, far away it must tend From all places in which we have met, or might meet. Far away!—onward upward!" A smile strange and sweet As the incense that rises from some sacred cup And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up Her whole face, with those words. "Wheresoever it be, May all gentlest angels attend you!" sighed he, "And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are!" And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd.

IX.

From afar That kiss was, alas! by Matilda beheld. With far other emotions: her young bosom swell'd, And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd. The Duke Adroitly attracted towards it her look By a faint but significant smile.

X.

Much ill-construed, Renown'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, strew'd With arguments page upon page to teach folks That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them, That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them!



CANTO III.

I.

When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a king, Through the wilds of creation—the very first thing That his naked intelligence taught him to feel Was the shame of himself; and the wish to conceal Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave, To the furbelow'd flounce and the broad crinoline Of my lady—you all know of course whom I mean— This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast; And that drama of passions as old as the hills, Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, Is only reveal'd now and then to our eyes In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize.

II.

In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, 'Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough trembled, And the deep-bosom'd lilac, emparadising The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing, The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only, A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom; Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom, Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories, Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian stories. But at length the long twilight more deeply grew shaded, And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded. And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough, Through the shadowy garden were slumbering now. The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk, Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. And, as each little sprightly and garrulous leaf Woke up with an evident sense of relief, They all seem'd to be saying... "Once more we're alone, And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are gone!"

III.

Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air, Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there, Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look'd down O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was their own, When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, And enter'd the garden, unseen, unattended. Her forehead was aching and parch'd, and her breast By a vague inexpressible sadness oppress'd: A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how, And she scarcely knew why... (save, indeed, that just now The house, out of which with a gasp she had fled Half stifled, seem'd ready to sink on her head)... Out into the night air, the silence, the bright Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night! Her husband that day had look'd once in her face, And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace, And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. He, of late so indifferent and listless!... at last Was he startled and awed by the change which had pass'd O'er the once radiant face of his young wife? Whence came That long look of solicitous fondness?... the same Look and language of quiet affection—the look And the language, alas! which so often she took For pure love in the simple repose of its purity— Her own heart thus lull'd to a fatal security! Ha! would he deceive her again by this kindness? Had she been, then, O fool! in her innocent blindness, The sport of transparent illusion? ah folly! And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy, She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own, For true love, nothing else, after all, did it prove But a friendship profanely familiar? "And love?... What was love, then?... not calm, not secure—scarcely kind, But in one, all intensest emotions combined: Life and death: pain and rapture?" Thus wandering astray, Led by doubt, through the darkness she wander'd away. All silently crossing, recrossing the night. With faint, meteoric, miraculous light, The swift-shooting stars through the infinite burn'd, And into the infinite ever return'd. And silently o'er the obscure and unknown In the heart of Matilda there darted and shone Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to expire, Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire.

IV.

She enter'd that arbor of lilacs, in which The dark air with odors hung heavy and rich, Like a soul that grows faint with desire. 'Twas the place In which she so lately had sat face to face, With her husband,—and her, the pale stranger detested Whose presence her heart like a plague had infested. The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted. Through the darkness there rose on the heart which it daunted, Each dreary detail of that desolate day, So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away The acacias were muttering, like mischievous elves, The whole story over again to themselves, Each word,—and each word was a wound! By degrees Her memory mingled its voice with the trees.

V.

Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused by the root Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its fruit, To the heart of Matilda the trees seem'd to hiss Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, which is The right of reprisals. An image uncertain, And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the curtain Of the darkness around her. It came, and it went; Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent: It pass'd and repass'd her; it went and it came, Forever returning; forever the same; And forever more clearly defined; till her eyes In that outline obscure could at last recognize The man to whose image, the more and the more That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of yore, From her husband detach'd itself slowly, with pain. Her thoughts had return'd, and return'd to, again, As though by some secret indefinite law,— The vigilant Frenchman—Eugene de Luvois!

VI.

A light sound behind her. She trembled. By some Night-witchcraft her vision a fact had become. On a sudden she felt, without turning to view, That a man was approaching behind her. She knew By the fluttering pulse which she could not restrain, And the quick-beating heart, that this man was Eugene. Her first instinct was flight; but she felt her slight foot As heavy as though to the soil it had root. And the Duke's voice retain'd her, like fear in a dream.

VII.

"Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which seem Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too? Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you? Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn, By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn To revisit the memories left in the place Where so lately this evening I look'd in your face. And I find,—you, yourself,—my own dream! "Can there be In this world one thought common to you and to me? If so,... I, who deem'd but a moment ago My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe, Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to believe— —Ah, but ONE word, but one from your lips to receive"... Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, "I sought, Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought, Which I needed."... "Lives solitude only for one? Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone? Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for this?— The same thought in both hearts,—be it sorrow or bliss; If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady—you, Are you not yet alone,—even though we be two?"

"For that,"... said Matilda,... "needs were, you should read What I have in my heart"... "Think you, lady, indeed, You are yet of that age when a woman conceals In her heart so completely whatever she feels From the heart of the man whom it interests to know And find out what that feeling may be? Ah, not so, Lady Alfred? Forgive me that in it I look, But I read in your heart as I read in a book."

"Well, Duke! and what read you within it? unless It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, And some sadness?" "No doubt. To all facts there are laws. The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause."

VIII.

Matilda shrank back; for she suddenly found That a finger was press'd on the yet bleeding wound She, herself, had but that day perceived in her breast.

"You are sad,"... said the Duke (and that finger yet press'd With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)— "You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be Beloved, and to love. You are sad: for you see That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you were: You are sad: for that knowledge hath left you aware That you have not yet loved, though you thought that you had. "Yes, yes!... you are sad—because knowledge is sad!"

He could not have read more profoundly her heart. "What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start, "Such strange power?" "To read in your thoughts?" he exclaim'd "O lady,—a love, deep, profound—be it blamed Or rejected,—a love, true, intense—such, at least, As you, and you only, could wake in my breast!"

"Hush, hush!... I beseech you... for pity!' she gasp'd, Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasp'd, In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot.

"For pity?"... he echoed, "for pity! and what Is the pity you owe him? his pity for you! He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew! The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair, And matchless! (whose happiness did he not swear To cherish through life?) he neglects her—for whom? For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloom Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale, Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of flowers Her symbol is not, and this pure world of ours Has no second Matilda! For whom? Let that pass! 'Tis not I, 'tis not you, that can name her, alas! And I dare not question or judge her. But why, Why cherish the cause of your own misery? Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you? Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks through? And why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand, The love which you need and deserve to command, Why shrink? Why repel it?" "O hush, sir! O hush!" Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one blush. "Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life! Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his wife?"

IX.

"And have I not, lady," he answer'd,... "respected HIS rights as a friend, till himself he neglected YOUR rights as a wife? Do you think 'tis alone For three days I have loved you? My love may have grown, I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs. But, O lady! I loved you before I believed That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved. Then I deem'd you were happy—I deem'd you possess'd All the love you deserved,—and I hid in my breast My own love, till this hour—when I could not but feel Your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal! I knew, years ago, of the singular power Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till the hour In which he revea'd it himself, did I,—say!— By a word, or a look, such a secret betray? No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had broken Which bound YOUR heart to him. And now—now, that his love For another hath left your own heart free to rove, What is it,—even now,—that I kneel to implore you? Only this, Lady Alfred!... to let me adore you Unblamed: to have confidence in me: to spend On me not one thought, save to think me your friend. Let me speak to you,—ah, let me speak to you still! Hush to silence my words in your heart if you will. I ask no response: I ask only your leave To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you grieve!"

X.

"Leave me, leave me!"... she gasp'd, with a voice thick and low From emotion. "For pity's sake, Duke, let me go! I feel that to blame we should both of us be, Did I linger." "To blame? yes, no doubt!"... answer'd he, "If the love of your husband, in bringing you peace, Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your release By the hand of another. One moment! but one! Who knows when, alas! I may see you alone As to-night I have seen you? or when we may meet As to-night we have met? when, entranced at your feet, As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow The thoughts which are pining for utterance now?" "Duke! Duke!"... she exclaim'd,... "for Heaven's sake let me go! It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know. We must not be seen here together. The night Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright! It is time to return to my lord." "To your lord?" He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word. "To your lord? do you think he awaits you in truth? Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth? Return to your lord!... his restraint to renew? And hinder the glances which are not for you? No, no!... at this moment his looks seek the face Of another! another is there in your place! Another consoles him! another receives The soft speech which from silence your absence relieves!"

XI.

"You mistake, sir!"... responded a voice, calm, severe, And sad,. . . "You mistake, sir! that other is here." Eugene and Matilda both started. "Lucile!" With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. "Ho, oh! What! eaves-dropping, madam?"... the Duke cried... "And so You were listening?" "Say, rather," she said, "that I heard, Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word,— Heard—and therefore reply." "Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke, Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled... "you know That your place is not HERE." "Duke," she answer'd him slow, "My place is wherever my duty is clear; And therefore my place, at this moment, is here. O lady, this morning my place was beside Your husband, because (as she said this she sigh'd) I felt that from folly fast growing to crime— The crime of self-blindness—Heaven yet spared me time To save for the love of an innocent wife All that such love deserved in the heart and the life Of the man to whose heart and whose life you alone Can with safety confide the pure trust of your own."

She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her Her soft quiet hand... "'Tis, O lady, the honor Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night— Save for both of you, lady! for yours I revere; Duc de Luvois, what say you?—my place is not here?"

XII.

And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, Wound one arm round her waist unresisted and sought Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not, But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lucile Her tender and delicate burden could feel Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt down, Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her own The poor bosom beating against her. The moon, Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of June, Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale, And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one pale, Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car, Thus to each of those women revealing the face Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame. With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile Trembled visibly yet; for she could not but feel That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light. "In the name of your husband, dear lady," she said, "In the name of your mother, take heart! Lift your head, For those blushes are noble. Alas! do not trust To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's. Take heart! and take refuge and strength in your life's Pure silence,—there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, and wait!" "Saved, Lucile!" sobb'd Matilda, "but saved to what fate? Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes." "Hush!" the sweet voice replied. "Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And return For the love you can give, with the love that you yearn To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now? Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how Love is nourish'd by love. Well! henceforth you will prove Your heart worthy of love,—since it knows how to love."

XIII.

"What gives you such power over me, that I feel Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?" Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face Of Lucile. There pass'd suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. "The pupil of sorrow, perchance,"... she replied. "Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaim'd... "O confide To my heart your affliction. In all you made known I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!"

"And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears Of another have not flow'd for me many years."

It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and Thus together they enter'd the house.

XIV.

'Twas the room Of Matilda. The languid and delicate gloom Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. The casement oped into the garden. The pale Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone nightingale Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side, Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, Save by guardian angels. As when, sparkling yet From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech, Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, So united, yet diverse, the two women there Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows? All that heart gain'd from heart? Leave the lily, the rose, Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew? A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen, The footsteps of sentinel angels between The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell From earth's heart, which it eased... "All is well! all is well!"



CANTO IV.

I.

The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it; But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic, Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly!"

As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly; But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard Better far than Longinus himself can reward The appeal to her feelings of which she approves; And the critics I most care to please are the Loves.

Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head And a brass on his breast,—when a man is once dead? Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's?—a creed by posterity learnt A century after its author is burnt! The poet's?—a laurel that hides the bald brow It hath blighted! The painter's?—Ask Raphael now Which Madonna's authentic! The stateman's?—a name For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim! The soldier's?—three lines on the cold Abbey pavement! Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for naught Save the name of John Milton! For all men, indeed, Who in some choice edition may graciously read, With fair illustration, and erudite note, The song which the poet in bitterness wrote, Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this— The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss The grief of the man: Tasso's song—not his madness! Dante's dreams—not his waking to exile and sadness! Milton's music—but not Milton's blindness!... Yet rise, My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth! Say—the life, in the living it, savors of worth: That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim: That the fact has a value apart from the fame: That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days: And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writings were lost, And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt All that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where, pure On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moan'd with the Moor!

II.

When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return'd He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd As though half out of humor to find itself there Forced to light for no purpose a room that was bare. He sat down by the window alone. Never yet Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new moon! The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon, Wide open to heaven; and the stars on the stream Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the dream Of a lover; and all things were glad and at rest Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. He endeavor'd to think—an unwonted employment, Which appear'd to afford him no sort of enjoyment.

III.

"Withdraw into yourself. But, if peace you seek there for, Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare for," Wrote the tutor of Nero; who wrote, be it said, Better far than he acted—but peace to the dead! He bled for his pupil: what more could he do? But Lord Alfred, when into himself he withdrew, Found all there in disorder. For more than an hour He sat with his head droop'd like some stubborn flower Beaten down by the rush of the rain—with such force Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the course Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim, From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for him. At one moment he rose—rose and open'd the door, And wistfully look'd down the dark corridor Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sigh Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly Back again to his place in a sort of submission To doubt, and return'd to his former position,— That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the face, And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space. The dream, which till then had been lulling his life, As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought; and his wife And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, Forgotten; but now o'er the troubled abysses Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had been Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen.

IV.

How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not, Till he started, as though he were suddenly shot, To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, Which was making some noise in the passage without. A sound English voice; with a round English accent, Which the scared German echoes resentfully back sent; The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver; Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot Which reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot: And the door was flung suddenly open, and on The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major On some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless bestow With a warmth for which only starvation and snow Could render one grateful. As soon as he could, Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces. Then the two men sat down and scann'd each other's faces: And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken With unwonted emotion. The hand that had shaken His own trembled somewhat. In truth he descried At a glance, something wrong.

V.

"What's the matter?" he cried. "What have you to tell me?"

JOHN.

What! have you not heard?

ALFRED.

Heard what?

JOHN.

This sad business—

ALFRED.

I? no, not a word.

JOHN.

You received my last letter?

ALFRED.

I think so. If not, What then?

JOHN.

You have acted upon it?

ALFRED.

On what?

JOHN.

The advice that I gave you—

ALFRED.

Advice?—let me see? You ALWAYS are giving advice, Jack, to me. About Parliament, was it?

JOHN.

Hang Parliament! no, The Bank, the Bank, Alfred!

ALFRED.

What Bank?

JOHN.

Heavens! I know You are careless;—but surely you have not forgotten,— Or neglected... I warn'd you the whole thing was rotten. You have drawn those deposits at least?

ALFRED.

No, I meant To have written to-day; but the note shall be sent To-morrow, however.

JOHN.

To-morrow? too late! Too late! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait?

ALFRED.

Mercy save us! you don't mean to say...

JOHN.

Yes, I do.

ALFRED.

What! Sir Ridley?

JOHN.

Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too!

ALFRED.

But his own niece?... In Heaven's name, Jack...

JOHN.

Oh, I told you The old hypocritical scoundrel would...

ALFRED.

Hold! you Surely can't mean we are ruin'd?

JOHN.

Sit down! A fortnight ago a report about town Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas! I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now let that pass. A run on the Bank about five days ago Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though. I drove down to the city at once; found the door Of the Bank close: the Bank had stopp'd payment at four. Next morning the failure was known to be fraud: Warrant out for McNab: but McNab was abroad: Gone—we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to get Information: have learn'd nothing certain as yet— Not even the way that old Ridley was gone: Or with those securities what he had done: Or whether they had been already call'd out: If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. Twenty families ruin'd, they say: what was left,— Unable to find any clew to the cleft The old fox ran to earth in,—but join you as fast As I could, my dear Alfred?*

*These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse; Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire, Or Time was calcined by electrical fire; Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic.

VI.

He stopp'd here, aghast At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space. "Courage, courage!"... said John,... "bear the blow like a man!" And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. There ran Through that hand a quick tremor. "I bear it," he said, "But Matilda? the blow is to her!" And his head Seem'd forced down, as he said it.

JOHN.

Matilda? Pooh, pooh! I half think I know the girl better than you. She has courage enough—and to spare. She cares less Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress.

ALFRED.

The fault has been mine.

JOHN.

Be it yours to repair it: If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t.

ALFRED.

I might have averted.

JOHN.

Perhaps so. But now There is clearly no use in considering how, Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here. Broken shins are not mended by crying—that's clear! One has but to rub them, and get up again, And push on—and not think too much of the pain. And at least it is much that you see that to her You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows? Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.

"O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd! I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! And now, in a flash, I see all things!" As though To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on And fell momently, heavily, one after one. John felt no desire to find instant relief For the trouble he witness'd. He guess'd, in the grief Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition: Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own Cordial heart for Matilda. Thus, silently lost In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there, That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown Unconscious of Alfred. And so for a space There was silence between them.

VII.

At last, with sad face He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, Approach'd him,—stood o'er him,—and suddenly laid One hand on his shoulder— "Where is she?" he said. Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, Unable to answer. "Where is she?" repeated His cousin. He motioned his hand to the door; "There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no more, And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications. So again there was silence. A timepiece at last Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. Roused by them, he cast A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew The hands down from his face. "It is time she should know What has happen'd," he said,... "let us go to her now." Alfred started at once to his feet. Drawn and wan Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was—a man. Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through With a manly resolve. If that axiom be true Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine That "id sum quod cogito;"—that which, in fine A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought And feeling, the man is himself. He had fought With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow The survivor of much which that strife had laid low At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of fame And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely In all save the love he could give her. The lord Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself, But of her; as he murmur'd, "One moment, dear jack! We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, There is none that can know me as you do; and none To whom I more wish to believe myself known. Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know. Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about. Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake Of those old recollections of boyhood that make In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago? Or is it... (I would I could deem it were so!) That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem; from my innermost nature Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature? Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native fire Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd To my own self?"

JOHN.

No, Alfred! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long. Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!

"Do you think," he resumed,... "what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?"