Lucile [94]
momently put out the world.
XXXIV.
To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . "Ah!" . . . he sigh'd, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, All the mother's! The old things again! "Do not rise. You suffer, young man?"
THE BOY.
Sir, I die.
THE DUKE.
Not so young!
THE BOY.
So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, young--so young! And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable! . . . late, too late to repair. If I knew any means . . . but I know none! . . . I swear, If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!) To include it! Not too late, however, for me To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?
THE DUKE.
You wrong--my forgiveness--explain.
THE BOY.
Could I live! Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter . . . Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence. Ah! you could not surmise That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not!) While the battle was flowing between us: nor what Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent, Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain! Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . "Off! he is there!" I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave. But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. Duke, I swear, As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!) That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois, I loved your niece--loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw, And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend . . . Oh why, whilst there was room In life left for warning, had no one the heart To warn me? Had any one whisper'd . . . "Depart!" To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse! Had any one hinted . . . "Beware of the curse Which is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell, Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, And then . . . then the blow fell on BOTH! This is why I implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knows How unwittingly!
THE DUKE.
Ah! . . . and, young soldier, suppose That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?--
THE BOY.
Of whom?
THE DUKE.
Of yourself.
THE BOY.
Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought That honors you not. In all this there is naught 'Tis for me to forgive. Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these, Were they so many lying and false witnesses, Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue? I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you! In this great world around us, wherever we turn, Some grief irremediable we discern; And yet--there sits God, calm in Heaven above! Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love? I judge not.
THE DUKE.
XXXIV.
To his side Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . "Ah!" . . . he sigh'd, "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, All the mother's! The old things again! "Do not rise. You suffer, young man?"
THE BOY.
Sir, I die.
THE DUKE.
Not so young!
THE BOY.
So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine The vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, young--so young! And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong Irreparable! . . . late, too late to repair. If I knew any means . . . but I know none! . . . I swear, If this broken fraction of time could extend Into infinite lives of atonement, no end Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!) To include it! Not too late, however, for me To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?
THE DUKE.
You wrong--my forgiveness--explain.
THE BOY.
Could I live! Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, I falter . . . Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think Should free my soul hence. Ah! you could not surmise That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes Were following you evermore (heeded not!) While the battle was flowing between us: nor what Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent, Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain! Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . "Off! he is there!" I know not what merciful mystery now Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave. But death is at hand, and the few words I have Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. Duke, I swear, As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!) That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois, I loved your niece--loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw, And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now Ever fearfully present before me, I vow That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb Into which I descend . . . Oh why, whilst there was room In life left for warning, had no one the heart To warn me? Had any one whisper'd . . . "Depart!" To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse! Had any one hinted . . . "Beware of the curse Which is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell, Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, And then . . . then the blow fell on BOTH! This is why I implore you to pardon that great injury Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knows How unwittingly!
THE DUKE.
Ah! . . . and, young soldier, suppose That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?--
THE BOY.
Of whom?
THE DUKE.
Of yourself.
THE BOY.
Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought That honors you not. In all this there is naught 'Tis for me to forgive. Every glorious act Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these, Were they so many lying and false witnesses, Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue? I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you! In this great world around us, wherever we turn, Some grief irremediable we discern; And yet--there sits God, calm in Heaven above! Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love? I judge not.
THE DUKE.