V.
Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused by the root
Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its fruit,
To the heart of Matilda the trees seem'd to hiss
Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, which is
The right of reprisals.
An image uncertain,
And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the curtain
Of the darkness around her. It came, and it went;
Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent:
It pass'd and repass'd her; it went and it came,
Forever returning; forever the same;
And forever more clearly defined; till her eyes
In that outline obscure could at last recognize
The man to whose image, the more and the more
That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of yore,
From her husband detach'd itself slowly, with pain.
Her thoughts had return'd, and return'd to, again,
As though by some secret indefinite law,—
The vigilant Frenchman—Eugene de Luvois!
VI.
A light sound behind her. She trembled. By some
Night-witchcraft her vision a fact had become.
On a sudden she felt, without turning to view,
That a man was approaching behind her. She knew
By the fluttering pulse which she could not restrain,
And the quick-beating heart, that this man was Eugene.
Her first instinct was flight; but she felt her slight foot
As heavy as though to the soil it had root.
And the Duke's voice retain'd her, like fear in a dream.
VII.
"Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which seem
Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too?
Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you?
Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn,
By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn
To revisit the memories left in the place
Where so lately this evening I look'd in your face.
And I find,—you, yourself,—my own dream!
"Can there be
In this world one thought common to you and to me?
If so,... I, who deem'd but a moment ago
My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe,
Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to believe—
—Ah, but ONE word, but one from your lips to receive"...
Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, "I sought,
Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought,
Which I needed."...
"Lives solitude only for one?
Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone?
Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for this?—
The same thought in both hearts,—be it sorrow or bliss;
If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady—you,
Are you not yet alone,—even though we be two?"
"For that,"... said Matilda,... "needs were, you should read
What I have in my heart"...
"Think you, lady, indeed,
You are yet of that age when a woman conceals
In her heart so completely whatever she feels
From the heart of the man whom it interests to know
And find out what that feeling may be? Ah, not so,
Lady Alfred? Forgive me that in it I look,
But I read in your heart as I read in a book."
"Well, Duke! and what read you within it? unless
It be, of a truth, a profound weariness,
And some sadness?"
"No doubt. To all facts there are laws.
The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause."
VIII.
Matilda shrank back; for she suddenly found
That a finger was press'd on the yet bleeding wound
She, herself, had but that day perceived in her breast.
"You are sad,"... said the Duke (and that finger yet press'd
With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)—
"You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need
Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be
Beloved, and to love. You are sad: for you see
That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you were:
You are sad: for that knowledge hath left you aware
That you have not yet loved, though you thought that you had.
"Yes, yes!... you are sad—because knowledge is sad!"
He could not have read more profoundly her heart.
"What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start,
"Such strange power?"
"To read in your thoughts?" he exclaim'd
"O lady,—a love, deep, profound—be it blamed
Or rejected,—a love, true, intense—such, at least,
As you, and you only, could wake in my breast!"
"Hush, hush!... I beseech you... for pity!' she gasp'd,
Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasp'd,
In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot.
"For pity?"... he echoed, "for pity! and what
Is the pity you owe him? his pity for you!
He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew!
The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair,
And matchless! (whose happiness did he not swear
To cherish through life?) he neglects her—for whom?
For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloom
Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail
To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale,
Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of flowers
Her symbol is not, and this pure world of ours
Has no second Matilda! For whom? Let that pass!
'Tis not I, 'tis not you, that can name her, alas!
And I dare not question or judge her. But why,
Why cherish the cause of your own misery?
Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you?
Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks through?
And why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand,
The love which you need and deserve to command,
Why shrink? Why repel it?"
"O hush, sir! O hush!"
Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one blush.
"Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life!
Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his wife?"
IX.
"And have I not, lady," he answer'd,... "respected
HIS rights as a friend, till himself he neglected
YOUR rights as a wife? Do you think 'tis alone
For three days I have loved you? My love may have grown,
I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes,
In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs.
But, O lady! I loved you before I believed
That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved.
Then I deem'd you were happy—I deem'd you possess'd
All the love you deserved,—and I hid in my breast
My own love, till this hour—when I could not but feel
Your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal!
I knew, years ago, of the singular power
Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till the hour
In which he revea'd it himself, did I,—say!—
By a word, or a look, such a secret betray?
No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken
Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had broken
Which bound YOUR heart to him. And now—now, that his love
For another hath left your own heart free to rove,
What is it,—even now,—that I kneel to implore you?
Only this, Lady Alfred!... to let me adore you
Unblamed: to have confidence in me: to spend
On me not one thought, save to think me your friend.
Let me speak to you,—ah, let me speak to you still!
Hush to silence my words in your heart if you will.
I ask no response: I ask only your leave
To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you grieve!"