Lucile Part 35

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 G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce 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, compa.s.sionate 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 s.h.i.+rk 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 friends.h.i.+p 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?"

JOHN.

No!

ALFRED.

Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.

VIII.

JOHN.

I do. But 'tis late.

If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?

ALFRED.

No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow.

He open'd the door, and pa.s.s'd out.

Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.

IX.

His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.

X.

No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there.

With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure.

And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom.

She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist.

As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him, Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim.

Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions.

That sight Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he silently slid, And knelt down beside her--and pray'd at her side.

XI.

Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet.

As a young fawn uncouches, Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches, She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm.

Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go: Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort within it Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute.

"O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried-- "Forgive me!"

"Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd; "But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, And I have not one thought that reproaches you now."

From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so He forced her down softly beside him. Below The canopy shading their couch, they sat down.

And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, "When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown?

From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore, Although in his pride he might perish, before He could plead for the one, or the other avow 'Mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell me now, Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, The sole friend that CAN have the right or the power To be at his side, is the woman that shares His fate, if he falter; the woman that bears The name dear for HER sake, and hallows the life She has mingled her own with,--in short, that man's wife?"

"Yes," murmur'd Matilda, "O yes!"

"Then," he cried, "This chamber in which we two sit, side by side, (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her), Is now a confessional--you, my confessor!"

"I?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head.

"Yes! but first answer one other question," he said: "When a woman once feels that she is not alone: That the heart of another is warm'd by her own; That another feels with her whatever she feel And halves her existence in woe or in weal; That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives, Live to put forth the strength which the thought of her gives; Live to s.h.i.+eld her from want, and to share with her sorrow; Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow: Will that woman feel less than another, O say, The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away?

Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come, That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?"

She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim.

"That woman," she murmur'd, "indeed were thrice blest!"