  We did not speak. But her lips moved in prayer, And mine too, in the way of man's despair. I did not love him, yet a human pity Softened my eyes. Afar, from the great city, The sound came to us of the eternal hum, Unceasing, changeless, pregnant with all doom Of insolent life that rises from its streets, The pulse of sin which ever beats and beats, What doom is thine for every soul that tarries Too long with thee, a stranger in thy arms. Thy smiles are incantations, thy brave charms Death to thy lovers. Each gay mother's son, Smitten with love for thee, is straight undone. And lo the chariot wheels upon thy ways! And a new garland hung in PÈre la Chaise! Poor soul! I turned and looked into the night, Through the uncurtained windows, and there bright Saw the mute twinkle of a thousand stars. One night! the least in all time's calendars, Yet fraught with what a meaning for this one! One star, the least of all that million! One room in that one city! Yet for him The universe there was of space and time. What were his thoughts? In that chaotic soul, Home of sad jests, obscene, unbeautiful, Mired with the earthiest of brute desires, And lit to sentience only with lewd fires, Watered with love and favoured with God's grace To which the wounded consciousness had fled For its last refuge from a world of dread? Was his soul touched to tenderness, to awe, To softer recollection? All we saw Was the maimed body gasping forth its breath, A rigid setting of the silent teeth, And the hands trembling. Death was with us there. But where was he—O Heaven of pity! where? We watched till morning by the dying man, She weeping silently, I grieved and wan, And still he moved not. But with the first break Of day in the window panes we saw him make A sign as if of speaking. Pressing near— For his lips moved, Griselda deemed, in prayer— We heard him make profession of his faith, As a man of pleasure face to face with death, A kind of gambler's Athanasian Creed, "Five sovereigns," said he, steadying his will, As in defiance of death's power to kill, And with that smile of a superior mind, Which was his strength in dealing with mankind, The world of sporting jargon and gay livers. "Five sovereigns is a fiver, and five fivers A pony, and five ponies are a hundred— No, four," he added, seeing he had blundered. "Four to the hundred and five centuries Make up the monkey." From his dying eyes The smile of triumph faded. "There, I've done it," He said, "but there was no great odds upon it, You see with a broken back." He spoke no more, And in another hour had passed the door Which shuts the living from eternity. Where was he? God of pity, where was he? This was the end of Lady L.'s romance. When we had buried him, as they do in France, In a tomb inscribed "À perpÉtuitÉ" (Formally rented till the Judgment Day), She put off black, and shed no further tears; Her face for the first time showed all its years, But not a trace beyond. Without demur She gave adhesion to my plans for her, And we went home to London and Lord L., Silent together, by the next night's mail. She had been six weeks away. The interview Between them was dramatic. I, who knew Her whole mad secret, and had seen her soul Stripped of its covering, and without control, Bowed down by circumstance and galled with shame, Yielding to wounds and griefs without a name, Had feared for her a wild unhappy scene. I held Lord L. for the least stern of men, No explanation e'er he quite forgave. I was with them when they met, unwilling third, In their mute bandying of the unspoken word. Lord L. essayed to speak. I saw his face Made up for a high act of tragic grace As he came forward. It was grave and mild, A father's welcoming a truant child, Forgiving, yet intent to mark the pain With hope "the thing should not occur again." His lips began to move as to some speech Framed in this sense, as one might gently preach A word in season to too gadding wives Of duties owed, at least by those whose lives Moved in high places. But it died unsaid. There was that about Griselda that forbade Marital questionings. Her queenly eyes Met his with a mute answer of surprise, More strongly than with words, as who should say Noblesse oblige. She took his outstretched hand, And kissed his cheek, but would not understand A word of his reproaches. Even I, With my full knowledge and no more a boy, But versed by years in the world's wickedness, And open-eyed to her, alas! no less Than to all womanhood, even I felt shame, And half absolved her in my mind from blame. And he, how could he less? He was but human, The fortunate husband of how fair a woman! He stammered his excuses. THE END. Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. |
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