I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track.
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night;
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.
II.
From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden.
The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave:
No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night!
She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill.
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her.
Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book?
Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew?
Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both?
What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth?
Hath the darkness a dwelling,--save there, in those eyes?
And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies?
Ay, question, and listen! What answer?
The sound Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night.
There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms,--stinging creatures, that crawl, Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,--
Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings.
When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last;
When she traverses nature and space, till she stands In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands, Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd, And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.
III.
The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar;
The spirits of change and of awe, with faint breath, Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath.
The spirits of awe and of change were around And about, and upon her.
A dull muffled sound, And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn, And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade Of a creature by fancy some solitude made, And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.
IV.
"At last, then,--at last, and alone,--I and thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met?
"Hush! I know Not for me was the tryst. Never mind--it is mine;
And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, They remove not, until we have spoken. My hour Is come; and it holds me and thee in its power, As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well!
The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight, When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!"
To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream.
She appear'd with a start to awaken.
The stream, When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again, Like the voices of spirits departing in pain.
"Continue," she answer'd, "I listen to hear."
For a moment he did not reply.
Through the drear And dim light between them, she saw that his face Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace, With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide.
Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast.
"Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face?
Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst thou trace One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul?"
In his face there was something so wrathful and wild, That the sight of it scared her.
He saw it, and smiled, And then turn'd him from her, renewing again That short restless stride; as though searching in vain For the point of some purpose within him.
"Lucile, You shudder to look in my face: do you feel No reproach when you look in your own heart?"
"No, Duke, In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke:
Not yours!" she replied.
"No," he mutter'd again, "Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then To Despair you say, 'Act not!'"
V.
He watch'd her awhile With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile.
They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'd Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed, "Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou--one and all!
Only able to injure each other and fall, Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are!
O heaven! and what has become of them? all Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall:
That glorious faith in inherited things:
That sense in the soul of the length of her wings;
Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human, Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman, Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again, Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . in vain!"
"Duke!" she falter'd.
"Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was not Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot."
VI.
