He had fought With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow The survivor of much which that strife had laid low At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of fame And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely In all save the love he could give her. The lord Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself, But of her; as he murmur'd, "One moment, dear jack!
We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, There is none that can know me as you do; and none To whom I more wish to believe myself known.
Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know.
Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now.
In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU
From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about.
Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake Of those old recollections of boyhood that make In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago?
Or is it . . . (I would I could deem it were so!)
That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem; from my innermost nature Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature?
Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native fire Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd To my own self?"
JOHN.
No, Alfred! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long.
Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!
"Do you think," he resumed, . . . "what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?"
JOHN.
No!
ALFRED.
Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.
VIII.
JOHN.
I do. But 'tis late.
If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?
ALFRED.
No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow;
If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow.
He open'd the door, and pass'd out.
Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.
IX.
His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried:
The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.
X.
No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there.
With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure.
And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom.
She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise;
Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair;
Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist.
As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him, Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim.
Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions.
That sight Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he silently slid, And knelt down beside her--and pray'd at her side.
XI.
Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet.
As a young fawn uncouches, Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches, She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm.
Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go:
Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort within it Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute.
"O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried--
"Forgive me!"
"Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd;
"But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, And I have not one thought that reproaches you now."
From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so He forced her down softly beside him. Below The canopy shading their couch, they sat down.
And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, "When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown?
