He turn'd sharply away--

"Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair;

Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware;

But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child;

Matilda loves not--"

Lucile quietly smiled As she answer'd him--"Yesterday, all that you say Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, today."

"How?--what mean you?"

"I mean that to-day," she replied, "The statue with life has become vivified:

I mean that the child to a woman has grown:

And that woman is jealous."

"What, she!" with a tone Of ironical wonder, he answer'd--what, she!

She jealous!--Matilda!--of whom, pray?--not me!"

"My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too, That so lately this passion within her hath grown.

For who shall declare, if for months she had known What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?"

"Explain! explain, madam!" he cried, in surprise;

And terror and anger enkindled his eyes.

"How blind are you men!" she replied. "Can you doubt That a woman, young, fair, and neglected--"

"Speak out!"

He gasp'd with emotion. "Lucile! you mean--what!

Do you doubt her fidelity?"

"Certainly not.

Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain From touching a subject so fragile. However, Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor To invade for one moment your innermost life.

Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife, Are dear to me,--most dear! And I am convinced That you rashly are risking that honor."

He winced, And turn'd pale, as she spoke.

She had aim'd at his heart, And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, That her aim had not miss'd.

"Stay, Lucile!" he exclaim'd, "What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed To alarm me? Matilda?--my wife?--do you know?"--

"I know that your wife is as spotless as snow.

But I know not how far your continued neglect Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect.

Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet dear, Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece From the glances of men, would disperse and depart At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart,--

For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure;

And the heart left too long to its ravage in time May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime."

V.

"Such thoughts could have never," he falter'd, "I know, Reach'd the heart of Matilda."

"Matilda? oh no!

But reflect! when such thoughts do not come of themselves To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves That seek lonely places,--there rarely is wanting Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting To conjure them to her."

"O lady, beware!

At this moment, around me I search everywhere For a clew to your words"--

"You mistake them," she said, Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made.

"I was putting a mere hypothetical case."

With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face.