He brushed them away with a gesture of pride.
He glanced at the glass; when his own face he eyed, He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his head, He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said, "Sir Ridley may enter."
In three minutes more That benign apparition appeared at the door.
Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release, In company there with his sister and niece, Found himself now at Luchon--distributing tracts, Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts For Exeter Hall; he was starting that night For Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight, That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting out For the same destination: impatient, no doubt!
Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriage Through his speech trickled softly, like honey: his carriage Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the weather;
If his young friend agreed, why not travel together?
With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown Of perplexity, during this speech, up and down Alfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a pause And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd--"My dear Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here--
Half an hour at the most--to conclude an affair Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot), Before I accept your kind offer."
"Why not?"
Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfred Vargrave, before Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door.
A few moments later, with footsteps revealing Intense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling, He was rapidly pacing the garden below.
What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know.
But before one half-hour into darkness had fled, In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. His tread Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face Betrayed there the least agitation. "The place You so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept."
And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'd Smiling into the carriage.
And thus, out of sight, They drove down the dark road, and into the night.
XXII.
Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so far As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, "We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!"
Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small supply with us.
Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when Alfred suddenly thought--"Here's a man of ripe age, At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage, Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise;
Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes Some few of the reasons which make me believe That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieve And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and doubt."
For which purpose a feeler he softly put out.
It was snapp'd up at once.
"What is truth? "jesting Pilate Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futility. Had he address'd it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it Admitted discussion! and certainly no man Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical Roman Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk!
Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you the scheme Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his theme!
Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he!
He'll prove you the whole plan in plain A B C.
Here's your sun--call him A; B's the moon; it is clear How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place, (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face!)
Their science in plain A B C to accord To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a word Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. Alas!
Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pass.
'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emits The water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's wits;
Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability Of imparting to others a truth with facility Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight, Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate More freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms, And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms;
But if every street charity shook an investment, Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment, The length of the process would limit the act;
And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed.
As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking continued to go Onward somehow, together--on into the night--
The midnight--in which they escape from our sight.
XXIII.
And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night;
And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun.
And the world laugh'd.
It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre.
And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew, With her white morning robe flitting joyously through The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed.
Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, And radiant confidence, childlike delight, That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight.
