Lucile Part 41

There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan Of his life, that love fail'd to pa.s.s over.

That child Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him; smiled To his frown, and dispell'd it.

The sweet sportive elf Seem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, in himself.

Ever welcome he suffer'd her glad face to glide In on hours when to others his door was denied: And many a time with a mute moody look He would watch her at prattle and play, like a brook Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot, But soothes us because we need answer it not.

But few years had pa.s.s'd o'er that childhood before A change came among them. A letter, which bore Sudden consequence with it, one morning was placed In the hands of the lord of the chateau. He paced To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone.

Weeks pa.s.s'd. When he came back again he return'd With a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the child learn'd That they were of the same race and name. With a face Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race He confided the orphan, and left them alone In the old lonely house.

In a few days 'twas known, To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on To the banner that bears the white lilies of France, Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance Of restoring their own, had renounced the watchword And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword, For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate!) By legitimate parents.

And meanwhile, elate And in no wise disturbed by what Paris might say, The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away:-- "To the life of inaction farewell! After all, Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall, But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure, In whatever makes death n.o.ble, life strong and pure.

Freedom! action!... the desert to breathe in--the lance Of the Arab to follow! I go! vive la France!"

Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as years fled, 'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women led Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child grew Into girlhood; and, like a sunbeam, sliding through Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl, And as perfect: a n.o.ble and innocent girl, With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the light Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright!

Then her guardian wrote to the dame,... "Let Constance Go with you to Paris. I trust that in France I may be ere the close of the year. I confide My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side, The world which we live in."

To Paris then came Constance to abide with that old stately dame In that old stately Faubourg.

The young Englishman Thus met her. 'Twas there their acquaintance began, There it closed. That old miracle, Love-at-first-sight, Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden Nor check'd, the young soldier was graciously bidden An habitual guest to that house by the dame.

His own candid graces, the world-honor'd name Of his father (in him not dishonor'd) were both Fair t.i.tles to favor. His love, nothing loath, The old lady observed, was return'd by Constance.

And as the child's uncle his absence from France Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratulation) Wrote to him a lengthen'd and moving narration Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer: His father's fair fame; the boy's deference to her; His love for Constance,--unaffected, sincere; And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear Limpid eyes; then the pleasure with which she awaited Her cousin's approval of all she had stated.

At length from that cousin an answer there came, Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame.

"Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day You receive this. Until my return she may stay At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever To behold me again, understand, she will never Wed that man.

"You have broken faith with me. Farewell!"

No appeal from that sentence.

It needs not to tell The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover: The dream they had laid out their lives in was over.

Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face Of a life where invisible hands seemed to trace O'er the threshold these words... "Hope no more!"

Unreturn'd Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd That weakness which suffers a woman to lie At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dare To forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone?

Recording a love that drew sorrow upon The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, Beat him down, and destroy'd him?

News reach'd him indeed, Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read From the dame who had care of Constance (it was one To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day, And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away.

It was then he sought death.

XVII.

Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told With such broken, pa.s.sionate words, as unfold In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pause Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof, And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roof At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head, And fell into a feverish slumber.

Long while Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face And made it like heaven, was fled from its place In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, As low to herself she sigh'd...

"Hath it, Eugene, Been so long, then, the struggle?... and yet, all in vain!

Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man, And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can?

Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so!

And then--soul of mine, whither? whither?"

XVIII.

Large, slow, Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell.

"HERE, at least, I have fail'd not"... she mused... "this is well!"

She drew from her bosom two letters.

In one, A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal.

"The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile!

The hope of a home saved by thee--of a heart Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!) Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son!

And if not"... the letter went brokenly on, "Heaven help us!"

Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, So unlike his own; how in beauty and truth He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave!

And how he had striven his son's youth to save From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own, And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son, In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'd To be bless'd by a pledge that the past was redeem'd, And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak Of the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to break Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back again The hopes of the future. To sue for consent Pride forbade: and the hope his old foe might relent Experience rejected... "My life for the boy's!"

(He exclaim'd); "for I die with my son, if he dies!

Lucile! Heaven bless you for all you have done!

Save him, save him, Lucile! save my son! save my son!"

XIX.

"Ay!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine... "heart to heart!

THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part?

Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole.

Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then!... Soul to soul!"

She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on, Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone.

XX.

Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent There sits a French General--bronzed by the sun And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee Had strangely and rapidly risen to be The idol, the darling, the dream and the star Of the younger French chivalry: daring in war, And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) The Army of France: and had risen, in part From a singular apt.i.tude proved for the art Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise, And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; Partly, too, from a name and position which France Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact, From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, In frequent emergencies startlingly shown, To the rank which he now held,--intrepidly won With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar.

XXI.

All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bear Smiling token of provident order and care.

All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands In groups round the music of mirth-breathing bands.

In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, The messengers come and the messengers go, Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil: To report how the sapper contends with the soil In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring In the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing, Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, Moving all.

He is bending his brow o'er some plan For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane.

The officer standing behind him is fain To refer to the angel solicitous cares Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace; He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place Where suffering is seen, silent, active--the Soeur...

Soeur... how do they call her?

"Ay, truly, of her I have heard much," the General, musing, replies; "And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean Ah, how do they call her?... the Soeur--Seraphine (Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once heard."

"Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant."

"On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind, Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, And if possible, let her come to me. We shall, I think, aid each other."

"Oui, mon General: I believe she has lately obtained the permission To tend some sick man in the Second Division Of our Ally; they say a relation."

"Ay, so?

A relation?"

"'Tis said so."

"The name do you know?"

Non, mon General."

While they spoke yet, there went A murmur and stir round the door of the tent.

"A Sister of Charity craves, in a case Of urgent and serious importance, the grace Of brief private speech with the General there.

Will the General speak with her?"

"Bid her declare Her mission."

"She will not. She craves to be seen And be heard."

"Well, her name, then?"