Lucile Part 29

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 pa.s.s'd o'er them, they each, heart from heart, Woke to feel themselves further and further apart.

More and more of his time Alfred pa.s.s'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 pa.s.sion 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 gra.s.s, Their blue hours would this gay little colony pa.s.s.

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s'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 Un.o.bserved 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 Pa.s.s'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 pa.s.s 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 enn.o.bled 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 pa.s.sion 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?"