X.
Home gain'd, he asks—they tell him—her retreat:
He winds the stairs, and midway halts to meet
His rival passing from that mystic room,
With a changed face, half sarcasm and half gloom.
Writhed Ruthven's lip—his hands he clench'd;—his breast
Heaved with man's natural wrath; the wrath the man supprest.
"Her name, at least, I will not make the gage
Of that foul strife whose cause a husband's rage."
So, with the calmness of his lion eye,
He glanced on Harcourt, and he pass'd him by.
XI.
And now he gains, and pauses at the door— }
Why beats so loud the heart so stern before? }
He nerved his pride—one effort, and 'tis o'er. }
Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters:—there
Kneels Constance yonder—can she kneel in prayer?
What object doth that meek devotion chain
In yon dark niche? Before his steps can gain
Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale,
And o'er the object draws the curtain veil.
But there the implements of art betray
What thus the conscience dare not give to day.
A portrait? whose but his, the loved and lost,
Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost?
So Ruthven guess'd—more dark his visage grown,
And thus he spoke:—"Once more we meet alone.
Once more—be tranquil—hear me! not to upbraid,
And not to threat, thy presence I invade;
But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept,
If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept,
If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine—
Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been THINE,
Hear me—O hear me, for thy father's sake!
For the full heart that thy disgrace would break!
By all thine early innocence—by all
The woman's Eden—wither'd with her fall—
I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide,
Implore the daughter, not command the bride;
Protect—nor only from the sin and shame,
Protect from slander—thine, my Mother's—name!
For hers thou bearest now! and in her grave
Her name thou honourest, if thine own thou save!
I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start?
From him, as me—the time hath come to part;
And ere for ever I relieve thy view—
The one thou lov'st must be an exile too.
Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice
Betray thy secret—Flight shall seem his choice;
A fair excuse—a mission to some clime,
Where—weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time!
This heart is not of iron, and the worm
That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form;
And then, perchance, thy years may run the course
Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse.
And now, farewell for ever!" As he spoke,
From her cold silence with a bound she broke,
And clasp'd his hand. "Oh, leave me not! or know,
Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so,
But wrongs no more."
"No more?—Oh, spurn the lie;
Harcourt but now hath left thee! Well—deny!"
"Yes, he hath left me!" "And he urged the suit
That—but thou madden'st me! false lips, be mute!"
—"He urged the suit—it is for ever o'er;
Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore,
One word, nay less, one gesture" (and she blush'd)
"Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumption crush'd."
—"What! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care?"
"There did I point and say 'My heart is there!'"
Amazed, bewilder'd—struggling half with fear
And half delight—his steps the curtain near.
He lifts the veil: that face—It is his own!
But not the face her later gaze had known;
Not stern, nor sad, nor cold,—but in those eyes,
The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies;
The fond smile beaming the glad lips above,
Bright as when radiant with the words "I love."
An instant mute—oh, canst thou guess the rest?
The next his Constance clinging to his breast;
All from the proud reserve, at once allied
To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride,
Melting in sobs and happy tears—and words
Swept into music from long-silent chords.
Then came the dear confession, full at last.
Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past;
And as a sudden footstep nears the door,
As a third shadow dims the threshold floor—
As Seaton, entering in his black despair,
Pauses the tears, the joy, the heaven to share—
The happy Ruthven raised his princely head,
"Give her again—this day in truth we wed!"
And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves
In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves,
A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air
Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir.
FOOTNOTES
[A] Imitated from Horace (Lib. ii., Od. 3).
Quà pinus ingens albaque populus
Umbram hospitalem consociare amant
Ramis, et obliquo laborat
Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.—Horat. Carm., ii. 3.