Lucile Part 36

"Then courage, true wife of my heart!" to his breast As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried.

"For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wide To your heart, can be never closed to it again, And this room is for both an asylum! For when I pa.s.s'd through that door, at the door I left there A calamity sudden and heavy to bear.

One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, We must face it henceforth; but it enters not here, For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone A heart which calamity leaves all your own!"

She started... "Calamity, Alfred, to you?"

"To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it too The courage, I trust, to subdue it."

"O speak!

Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and weak.

"O yet for a moment," he said, "hear me on!

Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer flies, That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies While the skies smile, and heed not each other: at last, When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast, Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings?

So indeed the morn found us,--poor frivolous things!

Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set, And the night brings its darkness around us. Oh yet Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours?

Yes; you, too, have wept!

"While the world was yet ours, While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us, And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us, We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be, Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate!

But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, Watching o'er us to warn, and to rescue!

"That smile Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyed With resentment, an angel's they were at your side And at mine; nor perchance is the day all so far, When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are, May murmur the name of that woman now gone From our sight evermore.

"Here, this evening, alone, I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart Unto yours,--from this clasp be it never to part!

Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, But a prize richer far than that fortune has won It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 'Tis the heart of my wife!" With suffused happy eyes She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart, And tenderly closing them round him, his heart Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom; and there Droop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd.

Not despair, Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was Of all save the sense of her own love! Anon, However, his words rush'd back to her. "All gone, The fortune you brought me!"

And eyes that were dim With soft tears she upraised; but those tears were for HIM.

"Gone! my husband?" she said," tell me all! see! I need, To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed, Fuller sense of affliction."

"Poor innocent child!"

He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled, As he told her the tale he had heard--something more, The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore.

"Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand, for you; And with these, my Matilda, what may I not do?

And know not, I knew not myself till this hour, Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power."

"And I too," she murmur'd, "I too am no more The mere infant at heart you have known me before.

I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life.

O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel!

For I--love you, my husband!"

As though to conceal Less from him, than herself, what that motion express'd, She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast.

"O lovely as woman, beloved as wife!

Evening star of my heart, light forever my life!

If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus far You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star, Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given To lead me to life's late achievement; my own, My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!"

XII.

How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight, That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night!

How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth, As she clung to his side, full of trust and of truth!

How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'd Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd The glittering tresses which now shaken loose Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them!

XIII.

O Muse, Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast.

XIV.

Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least!

No music, save such as the nightingales sung, Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung, Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven.

He open'd the cas.e.m.e.nt: he led her with him, Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim l.u.s.trous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere The mild, mult.i.tudinous lights lay asleep, Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight, Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light Which no longer they needed to read on the face Of each other life's last revelation.

The place Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms, And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not His forces, how lovely soever the spot Where their march lies--the wary, gray strategist, Time, With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd--Grief and Crime, Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing, For his great war with man, new surprises; securing All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe To his last narrow refuge--the grave.

XV.

Sweetly though Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely Confiding in that yet untrodden existence Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice.

CANTO V.

I.

When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track.

She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of pa.s.sionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.

II.

From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden.

The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night!

She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.

Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.

Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book?

Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew?

Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both?

What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth?

Hath the darkness a dwelling,--save there, in those eyes?

And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies?

Ay, question, and listen! What answer?

The sound Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night.

There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms,--stinging creatures, that crawl, Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,-- Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings.

When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pa.s.s'd Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last; When she traverses nature and s.p.a.ce, till she stands In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands, Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd, And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.

III.

The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar; The spirits of change and of awe, with faint breath, Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath.

The spirits of awe and of change were around And about, and upon her.

A dull m.u.f.fled sound, And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn, And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade Of a creature by fancy some solitude made, And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.