Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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 | Lucile |  |
IV.
In a grey travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the wind
From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire
From a brass lamp before her—a faint hectic fire
On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever:
They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever,
Those dark eyes—so dark and so deep!
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the wind
From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire
From a brass lamp before her—a faint hectic fire
On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever:
They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever,
Those dark eyes—so dark and so deep!
Some supreme
And concentrated effort within her to seem
Unassail'd by emotions which, nevertheless,
Were betray'd on her cheek, touch'd to strange stateliness
All her form. He sprang forward and cried,
And concentrated effort within her to seem
Unassail'd by emotions which, nevertheless,
Were betray'd on her cheek, touch'd to strange stateliness
All her form. He sprang forward and cried,
‘You relent?
‘And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?’
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
The Countess.
‘And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?’
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threatens man's life—
Woman's honour.
136
The last, madam, not!
The Countess.
Both. I glance
At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,
As I read them! You say in this letter...
At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,
As I read them! You say in this letter...
‘ I know
‘Why now you refuse me; 'tis (is it not so?)
‘For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,
‘And now trifles again with the heart you deny
‘To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law,
‘I will seize on the right’ (the right, Duc de Luvois!)
‘To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give
‘To the future its freedom. That man shall not live
‘To make you as wretched as you have made me!’
‘Why now you refuse me; 'tis (is it not so?)
‘For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,
‘And now trifles again with the heart you deny
‘To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law,
‘I will seize on the right’ (the right, Duc de Luvois!)
‘To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give
‘To the future its freedom. That man shall not live
‘To make you as wretched as you have made me!’
The Duke.
Well, madam, in those words what word do you see
That threatens the honour of woman?
The Countess.
See!...what,
What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not,
Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name
Was soil'd and dishonour'd by more than mere shame
If the woman that bore it had first been the cause
Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause!
Woman's honour, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonour
In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her,
Can shudder, and say, ‘In that smile is a grave’?
No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have
In the contest you menace. That contest but draws
Every right into ruin. By all human laws
Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities
Of man's social honour!
What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not,
Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name
Was soil'd and dishonour'd by more than mere shame
If the woman that bore it had first been the cause
Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause!
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In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her,
Can shudder, and say, ‘In that smile is a grave’?
No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have
In the contest you menace. That contest but draws
Every right into ruin. By all human laws
Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities
Of man's social honour!
The Duke droop'd his eyes.
‘I obey you,’ he said, ‘but let woman beware
‘How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair
‘And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right,
‘When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite,
‘But you should from the first have done this, for I feel
‘That you knew from the first that I loved you.’
‘I obey you,’ he said, ‘but let woman beware
‘How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair
‘And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right,
‘When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite,
‘But you should from the first have done this, for I feel
‘That you knew from the first that I loved you.’
Lucile
This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.
This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.
She raised
A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed
On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast.
Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd,
Pity crept, and perchance o'er her conscience a tear,
Falling softly, awoke it.
A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed
On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast.
Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd,
Pity crept, and perchance o'er her conscience a tear,
Falling softly, awoke it.
However severe,
Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?
Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,
Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd,
Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd
That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,
So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd
In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide
Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride?
Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife
Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?
There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river,
Which through continents pushes its pathway for ever
To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose
This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,
It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.
The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws
The river's life into its own life, by laws
Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this:
The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;
If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea
Is the sea still, for ever. Its deep heart will be
Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore;
Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,
With no diminution of pride, it will say,
‘I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!’
Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she,
Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?
Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?
Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,
138
Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd
That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,
So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd
In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide
Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride?
Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife
Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?
There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river,
Which through continents pushes its pathway for ever
To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose
This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,
It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.
The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws
The river's life into its own life, by laws
Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this:
The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;
If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea
Is the sea still, for ever. Its deep heart will be
Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore;
Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,
With no diminution of pride, it will say,
‘I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!’
Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she,
Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?
| Lucile | |