XXXIII.

With a start The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him, To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dim Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within, Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun) Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plume Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloom Which momently put out the world.

XXXIV.

To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved... "Ah!"... he sigh'd, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, All the mother's! The old things again! "Do not rise. You suffer, young man?"

THE BOY.

Sir, I die.

THE DUKE.

Not so young!

THE BOY.

So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein... but it will not. Yes, Duke, young—so young! And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable!... late, too late to repair. If I knew any means... but I know none!... I swear, If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!) To include it! Not too late, however, for me To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?

THE DUKE.

You wrong—my forgiveness—explain.

THE BOY.

Could I live! Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter... Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence. Ah! you could not surmise That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not!) While the battle was flowing between us: nor what Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent, Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain! Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which said... "Off! he is there!" I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave. But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. Duke, I swear, As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!) That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois, I loved your niece—loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw, And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend... Oh why, whilst there was room In life left for warning, had no one the heart To warn me? Had any one whisper'd... "Depart!" To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse! Had any one hinted... "Beware of the curse Which is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell, Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, And then... then the blow fell on BOTH! This is why I implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knows How unwittingly!

THE DUKE.

Ah!... and, young soldier, suppose That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?—

THE BOY.

Of whom?

THE DUKE.

Of yourself.

THE BOY.

Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought That honors you not. In all this there is naught 'Tis for me to forgive. Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these, Were they so many lying and false witnesses, Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue? I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you! In this great world around us, wherever we turn, Some grief irremediable we discern; And yet—there sits God, calm in Heaven above! Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love? I judge not.

THE DUKE.

Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth Your father and I—foes we were in our youth. It matters not why. Yet thus much understand: The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his hand. I was not of those whom the buffets of fate Tame and teach; and my heart buried slain love in hate. If your own frank young heart, yet unconscious of all Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall, And unable to guess even aught that the furrow Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, 'Twill at least comprehend how intense was the strife Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby I seek in the son of my youth's enemy The friend of my age. Let the present release Here acquitted the past! In the name of my niece, Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me,—and live?

Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy: As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined, Struggles outward through shadows, the varying wind Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison, So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb; A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him. With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank On the breast of the nun, who stood near. "Yes, boy! thank This guardian angel," the Duke said. "I—you, We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live! be true To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake!" "Yes, Duke: I will live. I MUST live—live to make My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, "For joy does not kill!" Back again the faint head Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw And leave them a moment together. He eyed Them both with a wistful regard; turn'd and sigh'd, And lifted the tent-door, and pass'd from the tent.

XXXV.

Like a furnace, the fervid, intense occident From its hot seething levels a great glare struck up On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise, Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and ting'd with strange dyes, Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird shapes As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, apes, Chimeras, and hydras: whilst—ever the same In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his flame, And changed by his influence!) changeless, as when, Ere he lit down to death generations of men, O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which there With wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to mimic in air, The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone. And shall shine on the ages we reach not—the sun!



XXXVI.

Nature posted her parable thus in the skies, And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors arise And fall, pass and change, group themselves and revolve Round the great central life, which is love: these dissolve And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there terror; And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, And endless complexity, lasts but a while; Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile Of God, on the soul in the deep heart of Heaven Lives changeless, unchanged: and our morning and even Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's.

XXXVII.

While he yet Watched the skies, with this thought in his heart; while he set Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and wind, And embraced the new life which that hour had reveal'd,— Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and conceal'd; Lucile left the tent and stood by him. Her tread Aroused him; and, turning towards her, he said: "O Soeur Seraphine, are you happy?" "Eugene, What is happier than to have hoped not in vain?" She answer'd,—"And you?" "Yes." "You do not repent?" "No." "Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. He musingly bent His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart Where he stood, sigh'd, as though to his innermost heart, "O bless'd are they, amongst whom I was not, Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot, Predicts a pure evening; who, sunlike, in light Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set bright!" But she in response, "Mark yon ship far away, Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day, With all its hush'd thunders shut up! Would you know A thought which came to me a few days ago, Whilst watching those ships?... When the great Ship of Life Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strife Of earth's angry element,—masts broken short, Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten—drives safe into port; When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand; When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar, The mariner turns to his rest evermore; What will then be the answer the helmsman must give? Will it be... 'Lo our log-book! Thus once did we live In the zones of the South; thus we traversed the seas Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides; Thence follow'd the west wind; here, eastward we turn'd; The stars fail'd us there; just here land we discern'd On our lee; there the storm overtook us at last; That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast; There the mermen came round us, and there we saw bask A siren?' The Captain of Port will he ask Any one of such questions? I cannot think so! But... 'What is the last Bill of Health you can show?' Not—How fared the soul through the trials she pass'd? But—What is the state of that soul at the last?"

"May it be so!" he sigh'd. "There the sun drops, behold!" And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip Of a long reef of cloud; and o'er sullen ravines And ridges the raw damps were hanging white screens Of melancholy mist. "Nunc dimittis?" she said. "O God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days Returning, admit space for prayer and for praise, In both these confirm us! "The helmsman, Eugene, Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. Again We two part: each to work out Heaven's will: you, I trust, In the world's ample witness; and I, as I must, In secret and silence: you, love, fame, await; Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one gate When all's over. The ways they are many and wide, And seldom are two ways the same. Side by side May we stand at the same little door when all's done! The ways they are many, the end it is one. He that knocketh shall enter: who asks shall obtain: And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eugene!" She turn'd to depart. "Whither? whither?"... he said. She stretch'd forth her hand where, already outspread On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw The French camp-fires kindling. "See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart Made as one man's by one hope! The hope 'tis your part To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse. I go to my work: you to yours."

XXXVIII.

Whilst she spoke, On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun. "Our chasseurs are at it!" he mutter'd. She turn'd, Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. He faintly discern'd Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists: by and by The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more.

XXXIX.

Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is o'er. The mission of genius on earth! To uplift, Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift, The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. The mission of woman on earth! to give birth To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. The mission of woman: permitted to bruise The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse, Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse, The blessing which mitigates all: born to nurse, And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile.

XL.

A power hid in pathos: a fire veil'd in cloud: Yet still burning outward: a branch which, though bow'd By the bird in its passage, springs upward again: Through all symbols I search for her sweetness—in vain! Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love In act. Pure was hers: and the dear God above, Who knows what His creatures have need of for life, And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shore Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No life Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the face that makes glorious their own, Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary? Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit.

XLI.

The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog; The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog. The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt; All within, light, warmth, calm! In the twilight, longwhile Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent. At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went.

THE END