Part 35 (1/2)

And now, in a flash, I see all things!”

As though 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 G.o.d 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 re-cross'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.

And so for a s.p.a.ce There was silence between them.

VII.

At last, with sad face He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile A pain'd sort of wistful, compa.s.sionate smile, Approach'd him,--stood o'er him,--and suddenly laid One hand on his shoulder-- ”Where is she?” he said.

Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, Unable to answer.

”Where is she?” repeated His cousin.

He motioned his hand to the door; ”There, I think,” he replied. Cousin John said no more, And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications.

So again there was silence.

A timepiece at last Struck the twelve strokes of midnight.

Roused by them, he cast A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew The hands down from his face.

”It is time she should know What has happen'd,” he said,... ”let us go to her now.”

Alfred started at once to his feet.

Drawn and wan Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was--a man.

Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through With a manly resolve.

If that axiom be true Of the ”Sum quia cogito,” I must opine That ”id sum quod cogito;”--that which, in fine A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought And feeling, the man is himself.

He had fought With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow The survivor of much which that strife had laid low At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of fame And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely In all save the love he could give her. The lord Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself, But of her; as he murmur'd, ”One moment, dear jack!

We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, There is none that can know me as you do; and none To whom I more wish to believe myself known.

Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know.

Nor I, shall I s.h.i.+rk it, or shrink from it now.

In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about.

Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake Of those old recollections of boyhood that make In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel Might have sentenced our friends.h.i.+p to death long ago?

Or is it... (I would I could deem it were so!) That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, Your heart has divined in me something superior To that which I seem; from my innermost nature Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature?

Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native fire Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd To my own self?”

JOHN.

No, Alfred! you will, I believe, Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve For having belied your true nature so long.

Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong!

”Do you think,” he resumed,... ”what I feel while I speak Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?”

JOHN.

No!

ALFRED.

Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go Alone, Jack. Trust to me.