Lucile [51]
"Yet you said,"--she continued with some trepidation, "That you quite comprehended" . . . a slight hesitation Shook the sentence, . . . "a passion so strong as" . . .
LUVOIS.
"True, true! But not in a man that had once look'd at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or" . . . Hush, hush!" She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. "Between man and woman these things differ so! It may be that the world pardons . . . (how should I know?) In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, It may be that we women are better than you."
LUVOIS.
Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some difference may make 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects Its social enchantments; but not as affects The one sentiment which it were easy to prove, Is the sole law we look to the moment we love.
MATILDA.
That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it. "Yes! yes! That is too true, indeed!" . . . the Duke sigh'd. And again For one moment in silence continued the twain.
XXII.
At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded: "And yet! . . . what avails, then, to woman the gift Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair, One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less fair Are exposed, when they love?" With a quick change of tone, As though by resentment impell'd he went on:-- "The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that look So excited, so keen, on the face you must know Throughout all its expressions--that rapturous glow, Those eloquent features--significant eyes-- Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no surprise," (He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door, Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) . . . "before, Have you ever once seen what just now you may view In that face so familiar? . . . no, lady, 'tis new. Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, Are you loved?" . . .
XXIII.
He look'd at her--paused--felt if thus far The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, As though some indefinite danger were near. With composure, however, at once she replied:-- "'Tis three years since the day when I first was a bride, And my husband I never had cause to suspect; Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see-- See, or fancy--some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that I too should forget it,--for you Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half-frightened rebuke, Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. There was silence again. A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that night, Had listen'd--long listen'd--no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirr'd. And so having suffer'd in silence his eye To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh:
XXIV.
"Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade By disclosing my own? The position," he said, "In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse The frankness and force of the words which I use. You say that your heart is your husband's: You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady . . . nay, Such a love, I admit, were a
LUVOIS.
"True, true! But not in a man that had once look'd at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or" . . . Hush, hush!" She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. "Between man and woman these things differ so! It may be that the world pardons . . . (how should I know?) In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, It may be that we women are better than you."
LUVOIS.
Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some difference may make 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects Its social enchantments; but not as affects The one sentiment which it were easy to prove, Is the sole law we look to the moment we love.
MATILDA.
That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it. "Yes! yes! That is too true, indeed!" . . . the Duke sigh'd. And again For one moment in silence continued the twain.
XXII.
At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded: "And yet! . . . what avails, then, to woman the gift Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair, One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less fair Are exposed, when they love?" With a quick change of tone, As though by resentment impell'd he went on:-- "The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that look So excited, so keen, on the face you must know Throughout all its expressions--that rapturous glow, Those eloquent features--significant eyes-- Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no surprise," (He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door, Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) . . . "before, Have you ever once seen what just now you may view In that face so familiar? . . . no, lady, 'tis new. Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, Are you loved?" . . .
XXIII.
He look'd at her--paused--felt if thus far The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, As though some indefinite danger were near. With composure, however, at once she replied:-- "'Tis three years since the day when I first was a bride, And my husband I never had cause to suspect; Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see-- See, or fancy--some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that I too should forget it,--for you Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half-frightened rebuke, Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. There was silence again. A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that night, Had listen'd--long listen'd--no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirr'd. And so having suffer'd in silence his eye To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh:
XXIV.
"Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade By disclosing my own? The position," he said, "In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse The frankness and force of the words which I use. You say that your heart is your husband's: You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady . . . nay, Such a love, I admit, were a