Lucile [69]
been mine.
JOHN.
Be it yours to repair it: If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t.
ALFRED.
I might have averted.
JOHN.
Perhaps so. But now There is clearly no use in considering how, Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here. Broken shins are not mended by crying--that's clear! One has but to rub them, and get up again, And push on--and not think too much of the pain. And at least it is much that you see that to her You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows? Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.
"O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd! I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! And now, in a flash, I see all things!" As though To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on And fell momently, heavily, one after one. John felt no desire to find instant relief For the trouble he witness'd. He guess'd, in the grief Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition: Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own Cordial heart for Matilda. Thus, silently lost In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there, That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown Unconscious of Alfred. And so for a space There was silence between them.
VII.
At last, with sad face He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, Approach'd him,--stood o'er him,--and suddenly laid One hand on his shoulder-- "Where is she?" he said. Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, Unable to answer. "Where is she?" repeated His cousin. He motioned his hand to the door; "There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no more, And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications. So again there was silence. A timepiece at last Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. Roused by them, he cast A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew The hands down from his face. "It is time she should know What has happen'd," he said, . . . "let us go to her now." Alfred started at once to his feet. Drawn and wan Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was--a man. Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through With a manly resolve. If that axiom be true Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine That "id sum quod cogito;"--that which, in fine A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought And feeling, the man is himself. He had fought With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow The survivor of much which that strife had laid low At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream
JOHN.
Be it yours to repair it: If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t.
ALFRED.
I might have averted.
JOHN.
Perhaps so. But now There is clearly no use in considering how, Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here. Broken shins are not mended by crying--that's clear! One has but to rub them, and get up again, And push on--and not think too much of the pain. And at least it is much that you see that to her You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows? Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.
"O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd! I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! And now, in a flash, I see all things!" As though To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on And fell momently, heavily, one after one. John felt no desire to find instant relief For the trouble he witness'd. He guess'd, in the grief Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition: Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own Cordial heart for Matilda. Thus, silently lost In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there, That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown Unconscious of Alfred. And so for a space There was silence between them.
VII.
At last, with sad face He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, Approach'd him,--stood o'er him,--and suddenly laid One hand on his shoulder-- "Where is she?" he said. Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, Unable to answer. "Where is she?" repeated His cousin. He motioned his hand to the door; "There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no more, And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications. So again there was silence. A timepiece at last Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. Roused by them, he cast A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew The hands down from his face. "It is time she should know What has happen'd," he said, . . . "let us go to her now." Alfred started at once to his feet. Drawn and wan Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was--a man. Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through With a manly resolve. If that axiom be true Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine That "id sum quod cogito;"--that which, in fine A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought And feeling, the man is himself. He had fought With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow The survivor of much which that strife had laid low At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream