One uncle their place in her life had supplied, And their place in her heart: she had grown at his side, And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, From childhood to girlhood.
This fair orphan ward Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heart Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart One ray of response to the eyes which, above Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere.
Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bare In that ancient mansion; when first the stern tread Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead:
Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said--right or wrong--
That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'd The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd through Those desolate chambers; and calm and severe Was the life of their inmate.
Men now saw appear Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, His severity seem'd to be trebly severe In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least, Was benignant to others. The poor parish priest, Who lived on his largess, his piety praised.
The peasant was fed, and the chapel was raised, And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand.
Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to stand A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man.
There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan Of his life, that love fail'd to pass 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 pass'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 pass'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 noble, 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 noble 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 titles 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.
