Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife Wherein England and France in their best blood, at last, Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the past.
And shall nations be nobler than men? Are not great Men the models of nations? For what is a state But the many's confused imitation of one?
Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance An innocent life,--here, when England and France Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore, And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent gore?
She went on to tell how the boy had clung still To life, for the sake of life's uses, until From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, stricken down By the news that the heart of Constance, like his own, Was breaking beneath . . .
But there "Hold!" he exclaim'd, Interrupting, "Forbear!" . . . his whole face was inflamed With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke, Had been gathering silent--at last the storm broke In grief or in wrath . . .
"'Tis to him, then," he cried, . . .
Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, "That I owe these late greetings--for him you are here--
For his sake you seek me--for him, it is clear, You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again Of this long-forgotten existence!"
"Eugene!"
"Ha! fool that I was!" . . . he went on, . . . "and just now, While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow Almost boyish again, almost sure of ONE friend!
Yet this was the meaning of all--this the end!
Be it so! There's a sort of slow justice (admit!)
In this--that the word that man's finger hath writ In fire on my heart, I return him at last.
Let him learn that word--Never!"
"Ah, still to the past Must the present be vassal?" she said. "In the hour We last parted I urged you to put forth the power Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life.
Yours, the promise to strive: mine--to watch o'er the strife.
I foresaw you would conquer; you HAVE conquer'd much, Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such, And am here to record and applaud it. I saw Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, One peril--one point where I feared you would fail To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail,--
Himself: and I promised that, if I should see My champion once falter, or bend the brave knee, That moment would bring me again to his side.
That moment is come! for that peril was pride, And you falter. I plead for yourself, and another, For that gentle child without father or mother, To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, For your own nobler nature--and plead for Constance!"
At the sound of that name he averted his head.
"Constance! . . . Ay, she enter'd MY lone life" (he said)
"When its sun was long set; and hung over its night Her own starry childhood. I have but that light, In the midst of much darkness! Who names me but she With titles of love? And what rests there for me In the silence of age save the voice of that child?
The child of my own better life, undefiled!
My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts!"
"Say,"
Said the Soeur Seraphine--"are you able to lay Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man And swear that, whatever may happen, you can Feel assured for the life you thus cherish?"
"How so?"
He look'd up. "if the boy should die thus?"
"Yes, I know What your look would imply . . . this sleek stranger forsooth!
Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth The heart of my niece must break for it!"
She cried, "Nay, but hear me yet further!"
With slow heavy stride, Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, He was muttering low to himself as he went.
Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart just so long As their wings are in growing; and when these are strong They break it, and farewell! the bird flies!" . . .
The nun Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, "The sun Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus! oh, yet Let this day upon one final victory set, And complete a life's conquest!"
He said, "Understand!
If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose hand My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life!
Can her home be my home? Can I claim in the wife Of that man's son the child of my age? At her side Shall he stand on my hearth? Shall I sue to the bride Of . . . enough!
"Ah, and you immemorial halls Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet falls On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past, Present,--all, in one silence! old trees to the blast Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days, Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the wind Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far years Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with tears!
Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone Rouse your echoes?"
"O think not," she said, "of the son Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only think Of this young human creature, that cries from the brink Of a grave to your mercy!
"Recall your own words (Words my memory mournfully ever records!)
How with love may be wreck'd a whole life! then, Eugene, Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once again At this young soldier sinking from life here--dragg'd down By the weight of the love in his heart: no renown, No fame comforts HIM! nations shout not above The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love Which life has rejected! Will YOU stand apart?
You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart!
You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won, By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, Such as lies at your door now: who have but, in truth, To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word, And by that word you rescue a life!"
He was stirr'd.
Still he sought to put from him the cup, bow'd his face on his hand; and anon, as though wishing to chase With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, He sprang up, brush'd past her, and bitterly cried, "No!--Constance wed a Vargrave!"--I cannot consent!"
Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine.
