Lucile [18]
perhaps long ago A foolish affection, I do not recall From those motives of prudence which actuate all Or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need But remind you that ten years these letters have rested Unreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach seem'd suggested By these words. To meet it, Lord Alfred look'd up (His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup With a look of profound connoisseurship--a smile Of singular interest and care, all this while.) He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of Lucile, To mark if that face by a sign would reveal At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain. He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there in vain. "You are generous, Madam," he murmur'd at last, And into his voice a light irony pass'd. He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arranged His forces. But straightway the enemy changed The position.
XIII.
"Come!" gayly Lucile interposed, With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness disclosed Some depth in her nature he never had known, While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, "Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain. From me not a single reproach can you hear. I have sinn'd to myself--to the world--nay, I fear To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed, Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires; And rather than seek to allure, for her sake, His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake Of impossible destinies, use all her art That his place in the world find its place in her heart. I, alas!--I perceived not this truth till too late; I tormented your youth, I have darken'd your fate. Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake Of its long expiation!"
XIV.
Lord Alfred, awake, Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In that seat Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some change, As surprising and all unexpected as strange, To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was sought. All the world's foolish pride in that moment was naught; He felt all his plausible theories posed; And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said, As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless, in truth; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm?
XV.
The more that he look'd, that he listen'd, the more He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance, This woman who thus had survived the romance That had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs, Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. Together they talk'd of the years since when last They parted, contrasting the present, the past. Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lucile Question'd much, with the interest a sister might feel, Of Lord Alfred's new life,--of Miss Darcy--her face, Her temper, accomplishments--pausing to trace The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands She had seen, and the books she had read, and the hands She had shaken. In all that she said there appear'd An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd The temple of reason, with ever a touch Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much As their gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals bear, Through the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed bliss, A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind, Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint And
XIII.
"Come!" gayly Lucile interposed, With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness disclosed Some depth in her nature he never had known, While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, "Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain. From me not a single reproach can you hear. I have sinn'd to myself--to the world--nay, I fear To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed, Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires; And rather than seek to allure, for her sake, His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake Of impossible destinies, use all her art That his place in the world find its place in her heart. I, alas!--I perceived not this truth till too late; I tormented your youth, I have darken'd your fate. Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake Of its long expiation!"
XIV.
Lord Alfred, awake, Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In that seat Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some change, As surprising and all unexpected as strange, To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was sought. All the world's foolish pride in that moment was naught; He felt all his plausible theories posed; And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said, As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless, in truth; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm?
XV.
The more that he look'd, that he listen'd, the more He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance, This woman who thus had survived the romance That had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs, Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. Together they talk'd of the years since when last They parted, contrasting the present, the past. Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lucile Question'd much, with the interest a sister might feel, Of Lord Alfred's new life,--of Miss Darcy--her face, Her temper, accomplishments--pausing to trace The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands She had seen, and the books she had read, and the hands She had shaken. In all that she said there appear'd An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd The temple of reason, with ever a touch Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much As their gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals bear, Through the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed bliss, A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind, Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint And