"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?"
"The Soeur Seraphine."
"Clear the tent. She may enter."
XXII.
The tent has been clear'd, The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his brow On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, now Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary, As a curtain let fall by a hand that's grown weary, Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unrepress'd, Steals th' impatient sigh which reveals in man's breast A conflict conceal'd, and experience at strife With itself,--the vex'd heart's passing protest on life.
He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light tread Of a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his head, Said, "Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own.
I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks;
In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks I record them. Sit! Now then, your mission?"
The nun Paused silent. The General eyed her anon More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd "Strange! strange!
Any face should so strongly remind me of HER!
Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir?
Does it move as of old? Psha!
"Sit, Sister! I wait Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State The cause why you seek me."
"The cause? ay, the cause!"
She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause,--
As one who, awaked unawares, would put back The sleep that forever returns in the track Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the less Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress, Like doves to a pent-house,--a movement she made, Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd her head And folded her hands on her bosom: long, spare, Fatigued, mournful hands! Not a stream of stray hair Escaped the pale bands; scarce more pale than the face Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case.
She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague awe O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast.
"Eugene de Luvois, The cause which recalls me again to your side, Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd," she replied.
"I come to fulfil it."
He sprang from the place Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face;
And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the sound Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light Unawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand laid On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal Against doubt: stagger'd backward, and murmur'd . . . "Lucile?
Thus we meet then? . . . here! . . . thus?"
"Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, As I pledged you my word that we should meet again.
Dead, . . ." she murmur'd, "long dead! all that lived in our lives--
Thine and mine--saving that which ev'n life's self survives, The soul! 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. What may reach From my life to thy life (so wide each from each!)
Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would speak.
May I do so?"
He said (work'd and white was his cheek As he raised it), "Speak to me!"
Deep, tender, serene, And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Seraphine Held on him. She spoke.
XXIII.
As some minstrel may fling, Preluding the music yet mute in each string, A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole, Seeking which note most fitly must first move the soul;
And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, Move pathetic in numbers remote;--even so The voice which was moving the heart of that man Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, Far away in the pathos remote of the past;
Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone Unaccomplish'd from life.
He was mute.
XXIV.
She went on And still further down the dim past did she lead Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope Of life's dawning land!
'Tis the heart of a boy, With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy!
The unproved desire--the unaim'd aspiration--
The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation With ever a flitting delight--one arm's length In advance of the august inward impulse.
The strength Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand The glorious creature! The ages lie shut (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air.
So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly--so, wrought Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy.
Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy!
Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene!
While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast.
