"Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which seem Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too?
Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you?
Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn, By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn To revisit the memories left in the place Where so lately this evening I look'd in your face.
And I find,--you, yourself,--my own dream!
"Can there be In this world one thought common to you and to me?
If so, . . . I, who deem'd but a moment ago My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe, Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to believe--
--Ah, but ONE word, but one from your lips to receive" . . .
Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, "I sought, Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought, Which I needed." . . .
"Lives solitude only for one?
Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone?
Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for this?--
The same thought in both hearts,--be it sorrow or bliss;
If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady--you, Are you not yet alone,--even though we be two?"
"For that," . . . said Matilda, . . . "needs were, you should read What I have in my heart" . . .
"Think you, lady, indeed, You are yet of that age when a woman conceals In her heart so completely whatever she feels From the heart of the man whom it interests to know And find out what that feeling may be? Ah, not so, Lady Alfred? Forgive me that in it I look, But I read in your heart as I read in a book."
"Well, Duke! and what read you within it? unless It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, And some sadness?"
"No doubt. To all facts there are laws.
The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause."
VIII.
Matilda shrank back; for she suddenly found That a finger was press'd on the yet bleeding wound She, herself, had but that day perceived in her breast.
"You are sad," . . . said the Duke (and that finger yet press'd With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)--
"You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be Beloved, and to love. You are sad: for you see That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you were:
You are sad: for that knowledge hath left you aware That you have not yet loved, though you thought that you had.
"Yes, yes! . . . you are sad--because knowledge is sad!"
He could not have read more profoundly her heart.
"What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start, "Such strange power?"
"To read in your thoughts?" he exclaim'd "O lady,--a love, deep, profound--be it blamed Or rejected,--a love, true, intense--such, at least, As you, and you only, could wake in my breast!"
"Hush, hush! . . . I beseech you . . . for pity!' she gasp'd, Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasp'd, In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot.
"For pity?" . . . he echoed, "for pity! and what Is the pity you owe him? his pity for you!
He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew!
The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair, And matchless! (whose happiness did he not swear To cherish through life?) he neglects her--for whom?
For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloom Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale, Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of flowers Her symbol is not, and this pure world of ours Has no second Matilda! For whom? Let that pass!
'Tis not I, 'tis not you, that can name her, alas!
And I dare not question or judge her. But why, Why cherish the cause of your own misery?
Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you?
Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks through?
And why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand, The love which you need and deserve to command, Why shrink? Why repel it?"
"O hush, sir! O hush!"
Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one blush.
"Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life!
Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his wife?"
IX.
"And have I not, lady," he answer'd, . . . "respected HIS rights as a friend, till himself he neglected YOUR rights as a wife? Do you think 'tis alone For three days I have loved you? My love may have grown, I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs.
But, O lady! I loved you before I believed That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved.
Then I deem'd you were happy--I deem'd you possess'd All the love you deserved,--and I hid in my breast My own love, till this hour--when I could not but feel Your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal!
I knew, years ago, of the singular power Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till the hour In which he revea'd it himself, did I,--say!--
By a word, or a look, such a secret betray?
No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had broken Which bound YOUR heart to him. And now--now, that his love For another hath left your own heart free to rove, What is it,--even now,--that I kneel to implore you?
Only this, Lady Alfred! . . . to let me adore you Unblamed: to have confidence in me: to spend On me not one thought, save to think me your friend.
Let me speak to you,--ah, let me speak to you still!
Hush to silence my words in your heart if you will.
I ask no response: I ask only your leave To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you grieve!"
X.
"Leave me, leave me!" . . . she gasp'd, with a voice thick and low From emotion. "For pity's sake, Duke, let me go!
I feel that to blame we should both of us be, Did I linger."
"To blame? yes, no doubt!" . . . answer'd he, "If the love of your husband, in bringing you peace, Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your release By the hand of another. One moment! but one!
Who knows when, alas! I may see you alone As to-night I have seen you? or when we may meet As to-night we have met? when, entranced at your feet, As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow The thoughts which are pining for utterance now?"
"Duke! Duke!" . . . she exclaim'd, . . . "for Heaven's sake let me go!
It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know.
