Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, Are you loved?" . . .
XXIII.
He look'd at her--paused--felt if thus far The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, As though some indefinite danger were near.
With composure, however, at once she replied:--
"'Tis three years since the day when I first was a bride, And my husband I never had cause to suspect;
Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect.
Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see--
See, or fancy--some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that I too should forget it,--for you Must have seen that my heart is my husband's."
The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half-frightened rebuke, Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard.
There was silence again.
A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that evening had said.
There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that night, Had listen'd--long listen'd--no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirr'd.
And so having suffer'd in silence his eye To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh:
XXIV.
"Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade By disclosing my own? The position," he said, "In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse The frankness and force of the words which I use.
You say that your heart is your husband's: You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady . . . nay, Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt.
But, trust me, no true love there can be without Its dread penalty--jealousy.
"Well, do not start!
Until now,--either thanks to a singular art Of supreme self-control, you have held them all down Unreveal'd in your heart,--or you never have known Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs Which deep passion engenders; that anguish which hangs On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred.
But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed Of a blissful security thus hath reposed Undisturb'd, with mild eyelids on happiness closed, Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust, To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, For how long I know not, continue to see A woman whose place rivals yours in the life And the heart which not only your title of wife, But also (forgive me!) your beauty alone, Should have made wholly yours?--You, who gave all your own!
Reflect!--'tis the peace of existence you stake On the turn of a die. And for whose--for his sake?
While you witness this woman, the false point of view From which she must now be regarded by you Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, The charms I admit she possesses. To me They are trivial indeed; yet to your eyes, I fear And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear.
Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess How more lovely by far is the grace you possess, You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of art, You will take for the natural charm of the heart;
Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, Will too soon in that fatal comparison be To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best eloquence.
O then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart!
While you see her, yourself you no longer will see,--
You will hear her, and hear not yourself,--you will be Unhappy; unhappy, because you will deem Your own power less great than her power will seem.
And I shall not be by your side, day by day, In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 'You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can wear'"
XXV.
This appeal, both by looks and by language, increased The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast.
Still she spoke with what calmness she could--
"Sir, the while I thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, "For your fervor in painting my fancied distress:
Allow me the right some surprise to express At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me The possible depth of my own misery."
"That zeal would not startle you, madam," he said, "Could you read in my heart, as myself I have read, The peculiar interest which causes that zeal--"
Matilda her terror no more could conceal.
"Duke," she answer'd in accents short, cold and severe, As she rose from her seat, "I continue to hear;
But permit me to say, I no more understand."
"Forgive!" with a nervous appeal of the hand, And a well-feign'd confusion of voice and of look, "Forgive, oh, forgive me!" at once cried the Duke "I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve)
For one moment to speak of myself,--for I think That you wrong me--"
His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd.
XXVI.
Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd.
XXVII.
"Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me,"
He continued, "a sorrow which draws me to side With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he cried, "At so strange an avowal.
"I seek at a ball, For instance,--the beauty admired by all?
No! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by the wits.
All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect, Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my respect.
No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong;
But I seek to console, where I can. 'Tis a part Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart."
These trite words, from the tone which he gave them, received An appearance of truth which might well be believed By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's.
And so He continued . . . "O lady! alas, could you know What injustice and wrong in this world I have seen!
