女子名的疯狂持续了四十天,四十eternities! Men went their ways, And suns arose and set, and women smiled, And tongues wagged lightly in impeachment wild Of Lady L.'s adventure. She was gone, None knew by whom escorted or alone, Or why or whither, only that one morning, Without pretext, or subterfuge, or warning, She had disappeared in silence from L. House, Leaving her lord in multitudinous And agonised conjecture of her fate: So the tale went. And truly less sedate Than his wont was in intricate affairs, Such as his Garter or his lack of heirs, Lord L. was seen in this new tribulation. Griselda long had been his life's equation, The pivot of his dealings with the world, The mainstay of his comfort, all now hurled To unforeseen confusion by her flight: There was need of action swift and definite. Where was she? Who could tell him? Divers visions Passed through his fancy--thieves, and street collisions, And all the hundred accidents of towns, From broken axle trees to broken crowns. In vain he questioned; no response was made More than the fact that, as already said, My lady, unattended and on foot, (A sad imprudence here Lord L. took note), Had gone out dressed in a black morning gown And dark tweed waterproof, 'twixt twelve and one, Leaving no orders to her maid, or plan About her carriage to or groom or man. Such was in sum the downstairs' evidence. The hall porter, a man of ponderous sense, Averred her ladyship had eastward turned From the front door, and some small credit earned For the suggestion that her steps were bent To Whitechapel on merciful intent, A visit of compassion to the poor, A clue which led to a commissioner Being sent for in hot haste from Scotland Yard. And so the news was bruited abroad. It reached my ears among the earliest, And from Lord L. himself, whose long suppressed Emotion found its vent one afternoon On me, the only listener left in town. His thoughts now ran on ``a religious craze Of his poor wife's,'' he said, ``in these last days Indulged beyond all reason.'' The police Would listen to no talk of casualties, Still less of crime, since they had nothing found In evidence above or under ground, But held the case to be of simpler kind, Home left in a disordered state of mind. Lord L. had noticed, now they talked of it, Temper less equable and flightier wit, ``A craving for religious services And sacred music.'' Something was amiss, Or why were they in London in September? Griselda latterly, he could remember, Had raved of a conventual retreat In terms no Protestant would deem discreet As the sole refuge in a world of sin For human frailty, grief's best anodyne. ``The Times was right. Rome threatened to absorb us: The convents must be searched by habeas corpus.'' And so I came to help him. I had guessed From his first word the vainness of his quest, And half was moved to serve him in a strait Where her fair fame I loved was in debate, Yet held my peace, nor hazarded a word Save of surprise at the strange case I heard, Till, fortune aiding, I should find the clue My heart desired to do what I would do. And not in vain. Night found me duly sped, Lord L.'s ambassador accredited, With fullest powers to find and fetch her home, If need should be, from the Pope's jaws in Rome. Gods! what a mission! First my round I went Through half the slums of Middlesex and Kent, Surrey and Essex--this to soothe Lord L., Though witless all, as my heart told too well; The hospitals no less and casual wards, Each house as idly as his House of Lords, And only at the week's end dared to stop At the one door I knew still housing hope, Young Manton's chambers. There, with reddened cheek I heard the answer given I came to seek. Manton was gone, his landlady half feared He too, in some mishap, and disappeared,-- Proof all too positive. His letters lay A fortnight deep untouched upon the tray. She could not forward them or risk a guess As to his last or likeliest address. He was in Scotland often at this season, ``But not without his guns''--a cogent reason. And leaving, too, his valet here in town, Perplexed of what to do or leave undone. Abroad? Perhaps. If so, his friends might try As a best chance the Paris Embassy. He had been there last Spring, and might be now. Paris! It was enough, I made my bow, And took my leave. I seemed to touch the thread Of the blind labyrinth 'twas mine to tread. Where should they be, in truth, these too fond lovers, But in the land of all such lawless rovers? The land of Gautier, Bourget, Maupassant, Where still ``you can'' makes answer to ``I can't.'' The fair domain where all romance begins In a light borderland of venial