Part 35 (2/2)

VIII.

JOHN.

I do. But 'tis late.

If she sleeps, you'll not wake her?

ALFRED.

No, no! it will wait (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow.

He open'd the door, and pa.s.s'd out.

Cousin John Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone.

IX.

His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried.

X.

No brighter than is that dim circlet of light Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer That she knew not her husband stood watching her there.

With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure By the presence of something angelic and pure.

And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom.

She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, And over them rippled her soft golden hair; Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced Confined not one curve of her delicate waist.

As the light that, from water reflected, forever, Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him, Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim.

Reproducing itself in the broken and bright Lapse and pulse of a million emotions.

That sight Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, To her side through the chamber he silently slid, And knelt down beside her--and pray'd at her side.

XI.

Upstarting, she then for the first time descried That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush Where the tears sparkled yet.

As a young fawn uncouches, Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches, She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm.

Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go: Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed In its pressure on his, as the effort within it Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute.

”O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me,” she cried-- ”Forgive me!”

”Forgive you, my poor child!” he sigh'd; ”But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, And I have not one thought that reproaches you now.”

From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so He forced her down softly beside him. Below The canopy shading their couch, they sat down.

And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, ”When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown?

From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore, Although in his pride he might perish, before He could plead for the one, or the other avow 'Mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell me now, Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, The sole friend that CAN have the right or the power To be at his side, is the woman that shares His fate, if he falter; the woman that bears The name dear for HER sake, and hallows the life She has mingled her own with,--in short, that man's wife?”

”Yes,” murmur'd Matilda, ”O yes!”

”Then,” he cried, ”This chamber in which we two sit, side by side, (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her), Is now a confessional--you, my confessor!”

”I?” she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head.

”Yes! but first answer one other question,” he said: ”When a woman once feels that she is not alone: That the heart of another is warm'd by her own; That another feels with her whatever she feel And halves her existence in woe or in weal; That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives, Live to put forth the strength which the thought of her gives; Live to s.h.i.+eld her from want, and to share with her sorrow; Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow: Will that woman feel less than another, O say, The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away?

Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come, That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?”

She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim.

”That woman,” she murmur'd, ”indeed were thrice blest!”

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