 | Lucile |  |
VI.
He stopp'd here, aghast
At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face
Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space.
‘Courage, courage!’ ... said John,... ‘bear the blow like a man!’
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. There ran
Through that hand a quick tremor. ‘I bear it,’ he said,
‘But Matilda? the blow is to her!’ And his head
Seem'd forced down, as he said it.
Cousin John.
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Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space.
‘Courage, courage!’ ... said John,... ‘bear the blow like a man!’
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. There ran
Through that hand a quick tremor. ‘I bear it,’ he said,
‘But Matilda? the blow is to her!’ And his head
Seem'd forced down, as he said it.
Matilda? Pooh, pooh!
I half think I know the girl better than you.
She has courage enough—and to spare. She cares less
Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress.
Lord Alfred.
The fault has been mine.
Cousin John.
Be it yours to repair it:
If you did not avert, you may help her to bear it.
Lord Alfred.
I might have averted.
Cousin John.
Perhaps so. But now
There is clearly no use in considering how,
Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here.
Broken shins are not mended by crying—that's clear!
One has but to rub them, and get up again,
And push on—and not think too much of the pain.
And at least it is much that you see that to her
You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir
And arouse yourself, Alfred, for her sake. Who knows?
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose
We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.
There is clearly no use in considering how,
Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here.
Broken shins are not mended by crying—that's clear!
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And push on—and not think too much of the pain.
And at least it is much that you see that to her
You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir
And arouse yourself, Alfred, for her sake. Who knows?
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose
We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.
‘O, Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast!
‘A fool! I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd!
‘I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind!
‘And now, in a flash, I see all things!’
‘A fool! I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd!
‘I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind!
‘And now, in a flash, I see all things!’
As tho'
To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low
On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on,
And fell momently, heavily, one after one.
John felt no desire to find instant relief
For the trouble he witness'd.
To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low
On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on,
And fell momently, heavily, one after one.
John felt no desire to find instant relief
For the trouble he witness'd.
He guess'd, in the grief
Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission
Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition:
Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse
To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use
Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely
The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly.
So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down
The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own
Cordial heart for Matilda.
Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission
Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition:
Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse
To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use
Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely
The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly.
So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down
The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own
Cordial heart for Matilda.
Thus, silently lost
In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and recross'd
The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung
O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among
The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there,
That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear,
The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own
Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown
Unconscious of Alfred.
In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and recross'd
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O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among
The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there,
That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear,
The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own
Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown
Unconscious of Alfred.
And so, for a space
There was silence between them.
There was silence between them.
| Lucile | |