III.
And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'dO'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fastAs a shade from the wing of some great bird obsceneIn a wide silent land may be suddenly seen,Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scaresSome traveller stray'd in the waste unawares,So that thought more than once darken'd over his heartFor a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart.Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which roseUp the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crowsClang'd above him, and clustering down the dim airDropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and thereShepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, howHe envied the wings of each wild bird, as nowHe urged the steed over the dizzy ascentOf the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sentFrom the torrent—before him a sound from the tractsOf the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts,And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently downFrom the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown.The red day had fallen beneath the black woods,And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudesWalk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The treesWere in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seasIn Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd.On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'dFast, fast by the Erl King!The wild wizard-workOf the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the forkOf a savage ravine, and behind the black stemsOf the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems,Broke the broad moon above the voluminousRock-chaos,—the Hecate of that Tartarus!With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the doorOf a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoarCraggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim,Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limbOf the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight,Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night.A balcony hung o'er the water. AboveIn a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move.At the door the old negress was nodding her headAs he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said.And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafterHe follow'd her silent. A few moments after,His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel,For a door closed—Luvois was alone with Lucile.
IV.
In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfinedStreaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the windFrom the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spireFrom a brass lamp before her—a faint hectic fireOn her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever:They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever,Those dark eyes—so dark and so deep!"You relent?And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?"There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.LUCILE.Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life—Woman's honor.Luvois.The last, madam, NOT?LUCILE.Both. I glanceAt your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,As I read them! You say, in this letter..."I knowWhy now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?)For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,And now trifles again with the heart you denyTo myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law,I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!)To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to giveTo the future its freedom. That man shalt not liveTo make you as wretched as you have made me!"LUVOIS.Well, madam, in those words what words do you seeThat threatens the honor of woman?LUCILE.See!... what,What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not,Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your nameWas soil'd and dishonor'd by more than mere shameIf the woman that bore it had first been the causeOf the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause!Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonorIn the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her,Can shudder, and say, "In that smile is a grave"?No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you haveIn the contest you menace. That contest but drawsEvery right into ruin. By all human lawsOf man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctitiesOf man's social honor!The Duke droop'd his eyes."I obey you," he said, "but let woman bewareHow she plays fast and loose thus with human despair,And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right,When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite.But you should from the first have done this, for I feelThat you knew from the first that I loved you."LucileThis sudden reproach seem'd to startle.She raisedA slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazedOn them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast.Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd,Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a tear,Falling softly, awoke it.However severe,Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd,Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'dThat this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'dIn his bosom no passion which once shaken wideMight tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty pride?Were those elements in him, which once roused to strifeOverthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the riverWhich through continents pushes its pathway foreverTo fling its fond heart in the sea; if it loseThis, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.The other, the strength of the sea; which suppliesIts deep life from mysterious sources, and drawsThe river's life into its own life, by lawsWhich it heeds not. The difference in each case is this:The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;If the sea miss the river, what matter? The seaIs the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will beSelf-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore;Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,With no diminution of pride, it will say,"I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!"Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she,Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?
V.
At that thought, from her aspect whatever had beenStern or haughty departed; and, humble in mien,She approach'd him and brokenly murmur'd, as thoughTo herself more than him, "Was I wrong? is it so?Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deemYour right to reproach me in this, your esteemI may claim on ONE ground—I at least am sincere.You say that to me from the first it was clearThat you loved me. But what if this knowledge were knownAt a moment in life when I felt most alone,And least able to be so? a moment, in fact,When I strove from one haunting regret to retractAnd emancipate life, and once more to fulfilWoman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you stillSo bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois,If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I sawFor a moment the promise of this in the plightedAffection of one who, in nature, unitedSo much that from others affection might claim,If only affection were free? Do you blameThe hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart freeFrom all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in meThere was yet strength to mould it once more to my will,To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you stillBlame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrainFrom hope? alas! I too then hoped!"LUVOIS.Oh, again,Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile,That you then deign'd to hope—LUCILE.Yes! to hope I could feel,And could give to you, that without which all else givenWere but to deceive, and to injure you even:—A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then,Do you blame that one hope?LUVOIS.O Lucile!"Say again,"She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone,"Do you blame me that, when I at last had to ownTo my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er,And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'?I myself hoped no more!"With but ill-suppressed wrathThe Duke answer'd... "What, then! he recrosses your path,This man, and you have but to see him, despiteOf his troth to another, to take back that lightWorthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!"Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... "No! no!'Tis not that—but alas!—but I cannot concealThat I have not forgotten the past—but I feelThat I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,—In return for what... ah, Duke, what is it?... a heartWhich is only a ruin!"With words warm and wild,"Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuildAnd restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be,Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!"He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyesAnswer'd, "No!"An emotion more fierce seem'd to riseAnd to break into flame, as though fired by the lightOf that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right?You reject ME! Accept HIM?""I have not done so,"She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet—no!But can you with accents as firm promise meThat you will not accept him?""Accept? Is he free?Free to offer?" she said."You evade me, Lucile,"He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel!He might make himself free? Oh, you blush—turn away!Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say!While you deign to reply to one question from me?I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he?What! silent? I alter my question. If quiteFreed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?""He might,"She said softly.
VI.
Those two whisper'd words, in his breast,As he heard them, in one maddening moment releastAll that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crushAnd extinguish in man all that's good. In the rushOf wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that wasteAnd darken and devastate intellect, chasedFrom its realm human reason. The wild animalIn the bosom of man was set free. And of allHuman passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierceAs the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierceAnd to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'dBy all passions bred from it, and ever impell'dTo involve all things else in the anguish within it,And on others inflict its own pangs!At that minuteWhat pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tellThe dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hellCan illumine alone?He stared wildly aroundThat lone place, so lonely! That silence! no soundReach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drearDrip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near!It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather;Deep midnight in him! They two,—alone and together,Himself and that woman defenceless before him!The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him.The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to opeAt his feet, with that awful exclusion of hopeWhich Dante read over the city of doom.All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom,And uttering words he dared never recall,Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down allThe brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blindHis own senses. His spirit was driven on the windOf a reckless emotion beyond his control;A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soulSurged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'dAnd seeth'd in his heart.
VII.
He had thrown, and had miss'dHis last stake.
VIII.
For, transfigured, she rose from the placeWhere he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face;Such a dread vade retro was written in lightOn her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight,Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I knowIf Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so,She had needed no dagger next morning.She roseAnd swept to the door, like that phantom the snowsFeel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone,And Caucasus is with the moon all alone.There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable,Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd—"Farewell!We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once moreIllusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er.Duc de Luvois, adieu!"From the heart-breaking gloomOf that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room,He felt she was gone—gone forever!
IX.
No word,The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword,Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusationAs the silence, the sudden profound isolation,In which he remain'd."O return; I repent!"He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent,Save the roar of the water, in answer to him,And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn:An indistinct anthem, that troubled the airWith a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer."Return," sung the wandering insect. The roarOf the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!"He walked to the window. The spray on his browWas flung cold from the whirlpools of water below;The frail wooden balcony shook in the soundOf the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly round.A candle one ray from a closed casement flung.O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung,Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blinkOf the stars on the veering and vitreous brinkOf that snake-like prone column of water; and listingAloof o'er the languors of air the persistingSharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquish'dHis unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd.Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him. He ranDown the stairs; reached the door—just to see her depart.Down the mountain the carriage was speeding.
X.
His heartPeal'd the knell of its last hope. He rush'd on; but whitherHe knew not—on, into the dark cloudy weather—The midnight—the mountains—on, over the shelfOf the precipice—on, still—away from himself!Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and mossAt the mouth of the forest. A glimmering crossOf gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sankPrayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dankWeeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them. He knewThat the night had divided his whole life in two.Behind him a past that was over forever:Before him a future devoid of endeavorAnd purpose. He felt a remorse for the one,Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done?Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as before,To his old easy, careless existence of yoreHe could not. He felt that for better or worseA change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorseOf his own frantic failure and error had marr'dSuch a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'dBy the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must treadTo attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread,What clew there to cling by?He clung by a nameTo a dynasty fallen forever. He cameOf an old princely house, true through change to the raceAnd the sword of Saint Louis—a faith 'twere disgraceTo relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor lessWas his ancient religion (once potent to blessOr to ban; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'dTo adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard fieldWith the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, tradition;A mere faded badge of a social position;A thing to retain and say nothing about,Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt.Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of his youthWholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in truth!And beyond them, what region of refuge? what fieldFor employment, this civilized age, did it yield,In that civilized land? or to thought? or to action?Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distraction!Not even a desert, not even the cellOf a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quellThe wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest,Ran riot through that ruin'd world in his breast.
XI.
So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sightOf a heaven scaled and lost; in the wide arms of nightO'er the howling abysses of nothingness! ThereAs he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching him prayer;But what had he to pray to?The winds in the woods,The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes,Were in commune all round with the invisiblePower that walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour.But their language he had not yet learn'd—in despiteOf the much he HAD learn'd—or forgotten it quite,With its once native accents. Alas! what had heTo add to that deep-toned sublime symphonyOf thanksgiving?... A fiery finger was stillScorching into his heart some dread sentence. His will,Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wildAt its work of destruction within him. The childOf an infidel age, he had been his own god,His own devil.He sat on the damp mountain sod,and stared sullenly up at the dark sky.The cloudsHad heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowdsOf misshapen, incongruous potents. A greenStreak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, betweenThe base of their black barricades, and the ridgeOf the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some bridge,Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrownBy sieges forgotten, some river, unknownAnd unnamed, widens on into desolate lands.While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible handsDismantled and rent; and reveal'd, through a loopIn the breach'd dark, the blemish'd and half-broken hoopOf the moon, which soon silently sank; and anonThe whole supernatural pageant was gone.The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss,Darken'd round him. One object alone—that gray cross—Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he descried,Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd, wide,As though to embrace him.He turn'd from the sight,Set his face to the darkness, and fled.
XII.
When the lightOf the dawn grayly flicker'd and glared on the spentWearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sentTo the need of some grief when its need is the sorest,He was sullenly riding across the dark forestToward Luchon.Thus riding, with eyes of defianceSet against the young day, as disclaiming allianceWith aught that the day brings to man, he perceivedFaintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp-leavedAutumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on his way,The face of a man pale and wistful, and grayWith the gray glare of morning. Eugene de Luvois,With the sense of a strange second sight, when he sawThat phantom-like face, could at once recognize,By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyesOf his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim,With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him,And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own;A lie born of that lying darkness now grownOver all in his nature! He answer'd that gazeWith a look which, if ever a man's look conveysMore intensely than words what a man means convey'dBeyond doubt in its smile an announcement which said,"I have triumph'd. The question your eyes would implyComes too late, Alfred Vargrave!"And so he rode by,And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight,Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite.
XIII.
And it bit, and it rankled.
XIV.
Lord Alfred, scarce knowing,Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going,By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued,And led by one instinct, which seem'd to excludeFrom his mind every human sensation, save oneThe torture of doubt—had stray'd moodily on,Down the highway deserted, that evening in whichWith the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through richHaze of sunset, or into the gradual night,Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight,Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of allThe wild scenery around him avail to recallTo his senses their normal perceptions, until,As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hillAt the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hungTwo dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from amongThe rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world.Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd,In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees,And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees.And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the faceOf the bare rock, he was but two hours from the placeWhere Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same trackThe Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get backTo Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned!He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'dNot a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way.He knew that the night was approaching to day.He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn,Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn,Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke.'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look.
XV.
And the Duke's rankled in him.
XVI.
He rush'd on. He toreHis path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door,Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise,And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes,The Countess was gone. And the Duke?The man staredA sleepy inquiry.With accents that scaredThe man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried,"Who had been there that night!"The man grinn'd and replied,With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay!He went after the lady."No further replyCould he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no more,Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door."What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd?In that lone inn—with her!" Was that look he had castWhen they met in the forest, that look which remain'dOn his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd?
XVII.
The day was half turn'd to the evening, beforeHe re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore.In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look,By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke,Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright,With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous.RightThrough the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride,Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside,And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low,"O, how right have you been! There can never be—no,Never—any more contest between us! Milord,Let us henceforth be friends!"Having utter'd that word,He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and againHis gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that trainOf his young imitators.Lord Alfred stood still,Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill,Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soulWith a dull, stifling anguish he could not control.Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd,The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloudSome comment upon his gay humor that day?He never was gayer: what makes him so gay?'Tis, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune,Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugnHas at last found a Mars—who, of course, shall be nameless,That vestal that yields to Mars ONLY is blameless!Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirsAll his heart into tumult?... Lucile de NeversWith the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light,Free allusion? Not so as might give him the rightTo turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yetTo a trite and irreverent compliment set!
XVIII.
Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soulWhere the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there rollBack again, back again, on its smooth downward courseO'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force,THE WORLD.
XIX.
"No!" he mutter'd, "she cannot have sinn'd!True! women there are (self-named women of mind!)Who love rather liberty—liberty, yes!To choose and to leave—than the legalized stressOf the lovingest marriage. But she—is she so?I will not believe it. Lucile! O no, no!Not Lucile!"But the world? and, ah, what would it say?O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day!The gossip's light question! the slanderous jest!She is right! no, we could not be happy. 'Tis bestAs it is. I will write to her—write, O my heart!And accept her farewell. OUR farewell! must we part—Part thus, then—forever, Lucile? Is it so?Yes! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know.'Twas a dream! we must waken!"
XX.
With head bow'd, as thoughBy the weight of the heart's resignation, and slowMoody footsteps, he turned to his inn.Drawn apartFrom the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start,Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast,A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd.He order'd his horse to be ready anon:Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on,And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room.It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloomOf the evening. He listlessly kindled a lightOn the mantel-piece; there a large card caught his sight—A large card, a stout card, well-printed and plain,Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain.It gave a respectable look to the slabThat it lay on. The name was—SIR RIDLEY MACNAB.Full familiar to him was the name that he saw,For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law.Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well knownAs wearing the longest philacteried gownOf all the rich Pharisees England can boast of,A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most ofThis world and the next; having largely investedNot only where treasure is never molestedBy thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ballWhere interest was high, and security small.Of mankind there was never a theory yetNot by some individual instance upset:And so to that sorrowful verse of the PsalmWhich declares that the wicked expand like the palmIn a world where the righteous are stunted and pent,A cheering exception did Ridley present.Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety.The leader of every religious society,Christian knowledge he labor'd t though life to promoteWith personal profit, and knew how to quoteBoth the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantageTo himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age.
XXI.
Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded,A waiter his head through the doorway protruded;"Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak."Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek;He brushed them away with a gesture of pride.He glanced at the glass; when his own face he eyed,He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his head,He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said,"Sir Ridley may enter."In three minutes moreThat benign apparition appeared at the door.Sir Ridley, released for a while from the caresOf business, and minded to breathe the pure airsOf the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release,In company there with his sister and niece,Found himself now at Luchon—distributing tracts,Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new factsFor Exeter Hall; he was starting that nightFor Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight,That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting outFor the same destination: impatient, no doubt!Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriageThrough his speech trickled softly, like honey: his carriageWas ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the weather;If his young friend agreed, why not travel together?With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frownOf perplexity, during this speech, up and downAlfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a pauseAnd a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to causeSome surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd—"My dearSir Ridley, allow me a few moments here—Half an hour at the most—to conclude an affairOf a nature so urgent as hardly to spareMy presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot),Before I accept your kind offer.""Why not?"Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfred Vargrave, beforeSir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door.A few moments later, with footsteps revealingIntense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling,He was rapidly pacing the garden below.What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know.But before one half-hour into darkness had fled,In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. His treadWas firm and composed. Not a sign on his faceBetrayed there the least agitation. "The placeYou so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept."And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'dSmiling into the carriage.And thus, out of sight,They drove down the dark road, and into the night.
XXII.
Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so farAs their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar,"We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!"Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small supply with us.Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two menBegan to converse somewhat drowsily, whenAlfred suddenly thought—"Here's a man of ripe age,At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage,Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise;Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyesSome few of the reasons which make me believeThat I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieveAnd enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and doubt."For which purpose a feeler he softly put out.It was snapp'd up at once."What is truth? "jesting PilateAsk'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile atIts utter futility. Had he address'd itTo Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd itAdmitted discussion! and certainly no manCould more promptly have answer'd the sceptical RomanThan Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk!Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk,And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you the schemeOf the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his theme!Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he!He'll prove you the whole plan in plain A B C.Here's your sun—call him A; B's the moon; it is clearHow the rest of the alphabet brings up the rearOf the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place,(Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face!)Their science in plain A B C to accordTo your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a wordWill you get for your pains from their sad lips. Alas!Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pass.'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emitsThe water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's wits;Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capabilityOf imparting to others a truth with facilityIs proportion'd forever with painful exactnessTo the portable nature, the vulgar compactness,The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight,Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulateMore freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms,And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms;But if every street charity shook an investment,Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment,The length of the process would limit the act;And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tractIs most lightly dispensed.As for Alfred, indeed,On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feedBy Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know,That the two men thus talking continued to goOnward somehow, together—on into the night—The midnight—in which they escape from our sight.
XXIII.
And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place,And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy spaceHang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sightTo solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night;And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended,And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended,In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on,Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun.And the world laugh'd.It wanted but two rosy hoursFrom the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowersOf the little wild garden that dimpled beforeThe small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre.And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew,With her white morning robe flitting joyously throughThe dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed,Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed.Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a faceOf such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace,And radiant confidence, childlike delight,That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight.And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'dFrom this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invadeHer young claim on my life, though it were for an hour,The thought of another?""Look up, my sweet flower!"He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto theeIs return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!""And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda."No more,"He repeated. And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er!My course, too, is decided, Lucile! Was I blindTo have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mindCould satisfy simply a plain English heart,Or sympathize with it?"
XXIV.
And here the first partOf the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'dOn the actors within it—the Heart, and the World.Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,—Have they solved it?Appear! answer, Husband and Wife.
XXV.
Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA."Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart,And the places of old... never, never to part!Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once moreTo the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yoreFrom the cities of Europe, pursued by the fretOf their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set;From the children that cry for the birth, and behold,There is no strength to bear them—old Time is SO old!From the world's weary masters, that come upon earthSapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth:From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd,Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd;Back,—back to the Orient, from whose sunbright wombSprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloomAnd the beauty of times that are faded forever!To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River!Where I too, the child of a day that is done,First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun,Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of homeI come, O my friend, my consoler, I come!Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by nightBurning broad on the band of Orion, as bright?Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old,When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold?Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you stillRemember the free games we play'd on the hill,'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly trodO'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god?How he frown'd while around him we carelessly play'd!That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd,Like the shade of a solemn experience upcastFrom some vague supernatural grief in the past.For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he frown'd,To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found,In its transient and ignorant gladness, the blissWhich his science divine seem'd divinely to miss.Alas! you may haply remember me yetThe free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget.I come—a sad woman, defrauded of rest:I bear to you only a laboring breast:My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'dO'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world:The dove from my bosom hath flown far away:It is flown and returns not, though many a dayHave I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming.Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming.I know not what Ararat rises for meFar away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea:I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills,Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills:But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breastWakes and whispers me on—to the East! to the East!Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or findThe lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind?Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain?Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again?Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent?Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent?To a voice who shall render an image? or whoFrom the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew?I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life.Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife.I would sleep for a while. I am weary."My friend,I had meant in these lines to regather, and sendTo our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 'tis vain!Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again;Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er,Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yoreWhence too far I have wander'd."How many long yearsDoes it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears,While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's prematureMoans of pain at what women in silence endure!To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes alone,That now long-faded page of my life hath been shownWhich recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know,Many years since,—how many!"A few months agoI seem'd reading it backward, that page! Why explainWhence or how? The old dream of my life rose again.The old superstition! the idol of old!It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mouldIs not to the forest more lost than to meThat emotion. I bury it here by the seaWhich will bear me anon far away from the shoreOf a land which my footsteps will visit no more.And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave.Hark! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave,Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home!I come, O you whispering voices, I come!My friend, ask me nothing."Receive me aloneAs a Santon receives to his dwelling of stoneIn silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring:It may be an angel that, weary of wing,Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom,Or only a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom.This only I know: that in Europe at leastLives the craft or the power that must master our East.Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at last?Both they and their altars pass by with the Past.The gods of the household Time thrust from the shelf;And I seem as unreal and weird to myselfAs those idols of old."Other times, other men,Other men, other passions!"So be it! yet againI turned to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn,And the light of those lands where the great sun is born!Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feelThe repose which hath fled from my own."Your LUCILE."