We must not be seen here together. The night Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright!
It is time to return to my lord."
"To your lord?"
He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word.
"To your lord? do you think he awaits you in truth?
Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth?
Return to your lord! . . . his restraint to renew?
And hinder the glances which are not for you?
No, no! . . . at this moment his looks seek the face Of another! another is there in your place!
Another consoles him! another receives The soft speech which from silence your absence relieves!"
XI.
"You mistake, sir!" . . . responded a voice, calm, severe, And sad, . . . "You mistake, sir! that other is here."
Eugene and Matilda both started.
"Lucile!"
With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel From the place where she stood, cried Matilda.
"Ho, oh!
What! eaves-dropping, madam?" . . . the Duke cried. . . "And so You were listening?"
"Say, rather," she said, "that I heard, Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word,--
Heard--and therefore reply."
"Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke, Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled . . . "you know That your place is not HERE."
"Duke," she answer'd him slow, "My place is wherever my duty is clear;
And therefore my place, at this moment, is here.
O lady, this morning my place was beside Your husband, because (as she said this she sigh'd)
I felt that from folly fast growing to crime--
The crime of self-blindness--Heaven yet spared me time To save for the love of an innocent wife All that such love deserved in the heart and the life Of the man to whose heart and whose life you alone Can with safety confide the pure trust of your own."
She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her Her soft quiet hand . . .
"'Tis, O lady, the honor Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night--
Save for both of you, lady! for yours I revere;
Duc de Luvois, what say you?--my place is not here?"
XII.
And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, Wound one arm round her waist unresisted and sought Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot.
The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not, But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lucile Her tender and delicate burden could feel Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt down, Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her own The poor bosom beating against her.
The moon, Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of June, Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale, And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one pale, Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car, Thus to each of those women revealing the face Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame.
With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile Trembled visibly yet; for she could not but feel That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light.
"In the name of your husband, dear lady," she said, "In the name of your mother, take heart! Lift your head, For those blushes are noble. Alas! do not trust To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's.
Take heart! and take refuge and strength in your life's Pure silence,--there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, and wait!"
"Saved, Lucile!" sobb'd Matilda, "but saved to what fate?
Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes."
"Hush!" the sweet voice replied.
"Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And return For the love you can give, with the love that you yearn To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now?
Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how Love is nourish'd by love. Well! henceforth you will prove Your heart worthy of love,--since it knows how to love."
XIII.
"What gives you such power over me, that I feel Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?"
Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face Of Lucile.
There pass'd suddenly through it the trace Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown.
"The pupil of sorrow, perchance," . . . she replied.
"Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaim'd . . . "O confide To my heart your affliction. In all you made known I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!"
"And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears Of another have not flow'd for me many years."
It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and Thus together they enter'd the house.
XIV.
'Twas the room Of Matilda.
The languid and delicate gloom Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft.
The casement oped into the garden. The pale Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone nightingale Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side, Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, Save by guardian angels.
As when, sparkling yet From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech, Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, So united, yet diverse, the two women there Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, In the soft light that tenderly rested on them.
All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows?
All that heart gain'd from heart?
Leave the lily, the rose, Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew?
A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen, The footsteps of sentinel angels between The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell From earth's heart, which it eased . . . "All is well! all is well!"
