Lucile Part 42

"The Soeur Seraphine."

"Clear the tent. She may enter."

XXII.

The tent has been clear'd, The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his brow On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, now Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary, As a curtain let fall by a hand that's grown weary, Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unrepress'd, Steals th' impatient sigh which reveals in man's breast A conflict conceal'd, and experience at strife With itself,--the vex'd heart's pa.s.sing protest on life.

He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light tread Of a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his head, Said, "Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own.

I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks; In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks I record them. Sit! Now then, your mission?"

The nun Paused silent. The General eyed her anon More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd "Strange! strange!

Any face should so strongly remind me of HER!

Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir?

Does it move as of old? Psha!

"Sit, Sister! I wait Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State The cause why you seek me."

"The cause? ay, the cause!"

She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause,-- As one who, awaked unawares, would put back The sleep that forever returns in the track Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the less Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress, Like doves to a pent-house,--a movement she made, Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd her head And folded her hands on her bosom: long, spare, Fatigued, mournful hands! Not a stream of stray hair Escaped the pale bands; scarce more pale than the face Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case.

She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague awe O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast.

"Eugene de Luvois, The cause which recalls me again to your side, Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd," she replied.

"I come to fulfil it."

He sprang from the place Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face; And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the sound Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light Unawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand laid On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal Against doubt: stagger'd backward, and murmur'd... "Lucile?

Thus we meet then?... here!... thus?"

"Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, As I pledged you my word that we should meet again.

Dead,..." she murmur'd, "long dead! all that lived in our lives-- Thine and mine--saving that which ev'n life's self survives, The soul! 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. What may reach From my life to thy life (so wide each from each!) Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would speak.

May I do so?"

He said (work'd and white was his cheek As he raised it), "Speak to me!"

Deep, tender, serene, And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Seraphine Held on him. She spoke.

XXIII.

As some minstrel may fling, Preluding the music yet mute in each string, A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole, Seeking which note most fitly must first move the soul; And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, Move pathetic in numbers remote;--even so The voice which was moving the heart of that man Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, Far away in the pathos remote of the past; Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone Unaccomplish'd from life.

He was mute.

XXIV.

She went on And still further down the dim past did she lead Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land!

'Tis the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, pa.s.sionate prescience of joy!

The unproved desire--the unaim'd aspiration-- The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation With ever a flitting delight--one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse.

The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand The glorious creature! The ages lie shut (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air.

So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly--so, wrought Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy.

Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy!

Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene!

While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast.

Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed?

Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed?

Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can!

Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth.

He was dumb.

She went one step further.

XXV.

Lo! manhood is come.

And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree.

And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see: What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch?

Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch?

There, he saw himself--dark, as he stood on that night, The last when they met and they parted: a sight For heaven to mourn o'er, for h.e.l.l to rejoice!

An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through.

Then he said (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world, 'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!"

XXVI.

She went on.

"So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon!

From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, And to build up the future heaven shatters the past."

"Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scan The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man?

From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!"

XXVII.

Lucile!... the old name--the old self! silenced long: Heard once more! felt once more!

As some soul to the throng Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized By death to a new name and nature--surprised 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalms Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!) The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;-- So that one word... Lucile!... stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine, For a moment. Anon she resumed here serene And concentrated calm.

"Let the Nun, then, retrace The life of the soldier!"... she said, with a face That glow'd, gladdening her words.

"To the present I come: Leave the Past!"

There her voice rose, and seem'd as when some Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise Of her hero whose brows she is crowning with bays.

Step by step did she follow his path from the place Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace (Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence.

Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance; Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours: And the same sentinels that ascend the same towers And report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife, Waged alike to the limits of each human life.

She went on to speak of the lone moody lord, Shut up in his lone moody halls: every word Held the weight of a tear: she recorded the good He had patiently wrought through a whole neighborhood; And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door.

There she paused: and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hue Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, Yet working love's work; reading backwards life's pages For penance; and stubbornly, many a time, Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme.

Then she spoke of the soldier!... the man's work and fame, The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim!

Life's inward approval!

XXVIII.

Her voice reach'd his heart, And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apart And unseen,--far away,--she had watch'd, year by year, With how many a blessing, how many a tear, And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife: Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life: Bless'd the man in the man's work!

"THY work... oh, not mine!

Thine, Lucile!"... he exclaim'd... "all the worth of it thine, If worth there be in it!"

Her answer convey'd His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said Alone by the voice... eyes--face--spoke silently: All the woman, one grateful emotion!