Lucile [59]
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 passing 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 pass'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 Unobserved 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 Pass'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 pass 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 ennobled regret When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,-- The love I once felt for
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 pass'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 Unobserved 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 Pass'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 pass 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 ennobled regret When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,-- The love I once felt for