Lucile Part 22

But before one half-hour into darkness had fled, In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. His tread Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face Betrayed there the least agitation. "The place You so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept."

And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'd Smiling 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 far As 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 men Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when Alfred 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 eyes Some few of the reasons which make me believe That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieve And 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 Pilate Ask'd, and pa.s.s'd from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futility. Had he address'd it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it Admitted discussion! and certainly no man Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical Roman Than 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 scheme Of 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 clear How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear Of 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 accord To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a word Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. Alas!

Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pa.s.s.

'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emits The water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's wits; Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability Of imparting to others a truth with facility Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight, Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate More 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 tract Is most lightly dispensed.

As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking continued to go Onward 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 s.p.a.ce Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight To 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 hours From the noon, when they pa.s.s'd through the thick pa.s.sion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The 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 through The 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 face Of 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'd From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade Her 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 thee Is 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 blind To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, Or sympathize with it?"

XXIV.

And here the first part Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd On 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 more To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret Of 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 earth Sapp'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 womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And 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 home I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come!

Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night Burning 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 still Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly trod O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd G.o.d?

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 upcast From some vague supernatural grief in the past.

For the poor G.o.d, 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 bliss Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss.

Alas! you may haply remember me yet The 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'd O'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 day Have 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 me Far 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 breast Wakes and whispers me on--to the East! to the East!

Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find The 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 who From 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 send To 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 yore Whence too far I have wander'd.

"How many long years Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears, While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's premature Moans 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 shown Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know, Many years since,--how many!

"A few months ago I seem'd reading it backward, that page! Why explain Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again.

The old superst.i.tion! the idol of old!

It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould Is not to the forest more lost than to me That emotion. I bury it here by the sea Which will bear me anon far away from the sh.o.r.e Of 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 alone As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone In 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 least Lives the craft or the power that must master our East.

Wherefore strive where the G.o.ds must themselves yield at last?

Both they and their altars pa.s.s by with the Past.

The G.o.ds of the household Time thrust from the shelf; And I seem as unreal and weird to myself As those idols of old.

"Other times, other men, Other men, other pa.s.sions!

"So be it! yet again I 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 feel The repose which hath fled from my own.

"Your LUCILE."