Lucile [86]
love for Constance,--unaffected, sincere; And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear Limpid eyes; then the pleasure with which she awaited Her cousin's approval of all she had stated.
At length from that cousin an answer there came, Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame.
"Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day You receive this. Until my return she may stay At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever To behold me again, understand, she will never Wed that man. "You have broken faith with me. Farewell!" No appeal from that sentence. It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover: The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life where invisible hands seemed to trace O'er the threshold these words . . . "Hope no more!"
Unreturn'd Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd That weakness which suffers a woman to lie At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dare To forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone? Recording a love that drew sorrow upon The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, Beat him down, and destroy'd him? News reach'd him indeed, Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Constance (it was one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day, And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. It was then he sought death.
XVII.
Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told With such broken, passionate words, as unfold In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof, And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roof At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head, And fell into a feverish slumber. Long while Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face And made it like heaven, was fled from its place In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, As low to herself she sigh'd . . . "Hath it, Eugene, Been so long, then, the struggle? . . . and yet, all in vain! Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man, And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can? Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so! And then--soul of mine, whither? whither?"
XVIII.
Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. "HERE, at least, I have fail'd not" . . . she mused . . . "this is well!" She drew from her bosom two letters. In one, A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. "The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile! The hope of a home saved by thee--of a heart Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!) Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son! And if not" . . . the letter went brokenly on, "Heaven help us!" Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, So unlike his own; how in beauty and truth He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave! And how he had striven his son's youth to save From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own, And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son, In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'd To be bless'd by a pledge
At length from that cousin an answer there came, Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame.
"Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day You receive this. Until my return she may stay At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever To behold me again, understand, she will never Wed that man. "You have broken faith with me. Farewell!" No appeal from that sentence. It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover: The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life where invisible hands seemed to trace O'er the threshold these words . . . "Hope no more!"
Unreturn'd Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd That weakness which suffers a woman to lie At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dare To forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone? Recording a love that drew sorrow upon The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, Beat him down, and destroy'd him? News reach'd him indeed, Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Constance (it was one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day, And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. It was then he sought death.
XVII.
Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told With such broken, passionate words, as unfold In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof, And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roof At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head, And fell into a feverish slumber. Long while Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face And made it like heaven, was fled from its place In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, As low to herself she sigh'd . . . "Hath it, Eugene, Been so long, then, the struggle? . . . and yet, all in vain! Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man, And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can? Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so! And then--soul of mine, whither? whither?"
XVIII.
Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. "HERE, at least, I have fail'd not" . . . she mused . . . "this is well!" She drew from her bosom two letters. In one, A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. "The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile! The hope of a home saved by thee--of a heart Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!) Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son! And if not" . . . the letter went brokenly on, "Heaven help us!" Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, So unlike his own; how in beauty and truth He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave! And how he had striven his son's youth to save From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own, And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son, In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'd To be bless'd by a pledge