XXXIV.
To his side
Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved...‘Ah!’...he sigh'd,
‘The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes,
‘All the mother's! The old things again!
‘Do not rise.
‘You suffer, young man?’
The Boy.
Sir, I die.
The Duke.
Not so young!
The Boy.
So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among
The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine
Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine
That vext skein...but it will not. Yes, Duke, young—so young!
And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong
Irreparable!...late, too late to repair.
If I knew any means...but I know none!...I swear,
If this broken fraction of time could extend
Into infinite lives of atonement, no end
Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!)
To include it! Not too late, however, for me
To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive?
The Duke.
Your wrong—my forgiveness—explain.
The Boy.
Could I live!
Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink,
I falter!...Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think
Should free my soul hence.
Ah! you could not surmise
That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes
Were following you evermore (heeded not!)
While the battle was flowing between us: nor what
Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went
With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent,
Persistant and wild as the wind and the rain,
Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain!
Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air
Grew stern at the gleam which said . . ‘Off! he is there!’
I know not what merciful mystery now
Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low
Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave.
But death is at hand, and the few words I have
Yet to speak, I must speak them at once.
Duke, I swear,
As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!)
That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois,
I loved your niece—loved? why, I love her! I saw,
And, seeing, how could I but love, her? I seem'd
Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd
Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now
Ever fearfully present before me, I vow
That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb
Into which I descend...Oh why, whilst there was room
In life left for warning, had no one the heart
To warn me? Had any one whisper'd...‘Depart!’
To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse!
Had any one hinted...‘Beware of the curse
‘Which is coming!’ There was not a voice raised to tell,
Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell,
And then...then the blow fell on both! This is why
I implore you to pardon that great injury
Wrought on her, and, thro' her, wrought on you, heaven knows
How unwittingly!
The Duke.
Ah! ..and, young soldier, suppose
That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?—
The Boy.
Of whom?
The Duke.
Of yourself.
The Boy.
Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb
No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought
That honours you not. In all this there is nought
'Tis for me to forgive.
Every glorious act
Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact,
To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own.
And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon,
A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these,
Were they so many lying and false witnesses,
Does there rest not one voice which was never untrue?
I believe in Constànce, Duke, as she does in you!
In this great world around us, wherever we turn,
Some grief irremediable we discern:
And yet—there sits God, calm in Heaven above!
Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love?
I judge not.
The Duke.
Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth.
Your father and I—foes we were in our youth.
It matters not why. Yet thus much understand:
The hope of my youth was signed out by his hand.
I was not of those whom the buffets of fate
Tame and teach: and my heart buried slain love in hate.
If your own frank young heart, yet inconscious of all
Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall,
And unable to guess even aught that the furrow
Across these grey brows hides of sin or of sorrow,
Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life,
'Twill at least comprehend how intense was the strife
Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby
I seek in the son of my youth's enemy
The friend of my age. Let the present release
Here acquitted the past! In the name of my niece,
Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give,
Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me,—and live?
Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy
Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy:
As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined,
Struggles outward thro' shadows, the varying wind
Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison,
So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen
To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb;
A strange happy feebleness trembled thro' him.
With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank
On the breast of the nun, who stood near.
‘Yes, boy! thank
‘This guardian angel,’ the Duke said. ‘I—you,
‘We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live! be true
‘To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake!’
‘Yes, Duke: I will live. I must live—live to make
‘My whole life the answer you claim,’ the boy said,
‘For joy does not kill!’
Back again the faint head
Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw
His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw
And leave them a moment together.
He eyed
Them both with a wistful regard; turn'd, and sigh'd,
And lifted the tent door, and pass'd from the tent.
