Lucile






CANTO VI.

     I.
     "The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase,
     And eldrich, and eerie, and strange is the place!
     The castle betokens a date long gone by.
     He crosses the courtyard with curious eye:
     He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet
     From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set;
     And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and less
     Like aught seen before.  Each in obsolete dress,
     Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise,
     Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes;
     Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall:
     The spell of a wizard is over it all.
     In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping
     The sleep which for centuries she has been keeping.
     If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover
     Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now cover:
     If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore
     Some grief which the world cares to hear of no more.
     But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her cheek!
     And how sweet must that voice be, if once she would speak!
     He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he!)
     The clew to unravel this old mystery?
     And he stoops to those shut lips.  The shapes on the wall,
     The mute men in armor around him, and all
     The weird figures frown, as though striving to say,
     'Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of Today!
     And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breast
     To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'd
     By an Age not thine own!'
                                "But unconscious is he,
     And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see
     Aught but ONE form before him!
                                    "Rash, wild words are o'er,
     And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore!
     And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves
     O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves
     Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream.
     Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme
     Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart."
     And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart.
     It is told in all lands, in a different tongue;
     Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young.
     And the tale to each heart unto which it is known
     Has a different sense.  It has puzzled my own.
     II.
     Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part
     From strong physical health, and that vigor of heart
     Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance,
     From a generous vanity native to France,
     With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry,
     Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry
     Or turn, till he took it.  His trophies were trifles:
     But trifler he was not.  When rose-leaves it rifles,
     No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind
     Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind.
     Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been
     Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen
     Floating faint in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood,
     Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued
     With impetuous passion, seemed semi-Satanic.
     Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; in panic
     You watch them whirl'd down by the torrent.
                                                 In truth,
     To the sacred political creed of his youth
     The century which he was born to denied
     All realization.  Its generous pride
     To degenerate protest on all things was sunk;
     Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk.
     Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod,
     Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god,
     And his pastime his purpose.
                                  From boyhood possess'd
     Of inherited wealth, he had learned to invest
     Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cage
     Which penury locks, in each vice of an age
     All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered,
     Were to him illegitimate.
                                Thus, he appear'd
     To the world what the world chose to have him appear,—
     The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere
     Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages!  Still
     'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will,
     That found for the first time—perhaps for the last—
     In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past,
     Force, and faith, in the Future.
                                      And so, in his mind,
     To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd
     The terror of missing his life's destination,
     Which in her had its mystical representation.
     III.
     And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd
     O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast
     As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene
     In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen,
     Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares
     Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares,
     So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart
     For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart.
     Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose
     Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows
     Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air
     Dropp'd into the dark woods.  By fits here and there
     Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys.  Oh, how
     He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now
     He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent
     Of the mountain!  Behind him a murmur was sent
     From the torrent—before him a sound from the tracts
     Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts,
     And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down
     From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown.
     The red day had fallen beneath the black woods,
     And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes
     Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other.  The trees
     Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas
     In Elfland.  The road through the forest was hollow'd.
     On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd
     Fast, fast by the Erl King!
                                 The wild wizard-work
     Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork
     Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems
     Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems,
     Broke the broad moon above the voluminous
     Rock-chaos,—the Hecate of that Tartarus!
     With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door
     Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar
     Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim,
     Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb
     Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight,
     Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night.
     A balcony hung o'er the water.  Above
     In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move.
     At the door the old negress was nodding her head
     As he reach'd it.  "My mistress awaits you," she said.
     And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter
     He follow'd her silent.  A few moments after,
     His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel,
     For a door closed—Luvois was alone with Lucile.
     IV.
     In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined
     Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind
     From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire
     From a brass lamp before her—a faint hectic fire
     On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever:
     They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever,
     Those dark eyes—so dark and so deep!
                                           "You relent?
     And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?"
     There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.

     LUCILE.

     Your letter! yes, Duke.  For it threaten'd man's life—
     Woman's honor.

     Luvois.

                    The last, madam, NOT?

     LUCILE.

                                           Both.  I glance
     At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,
     As I read them!  You say, in this letter...
                                                   "I know
     Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?)
     For the man who has trifled before, wantonly,
     And now trifles again with the heart you deny
     To myself.  But he shall not!  By man's last wild law,
     I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!)
     To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give
     To the future its freedom.  That man shalt not live
     To make you as wretched as you have made me!"

     LUVOIS.

     Well, madam, in those words what words do you see
     That threatens the honor of woman?

     LUCILE.

                                        See!... what,
     What word, do you ask?  Every word! would you not,
     Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name
     Was soil'd and dishonor'd by more than mere shame
     If the woman that bore it had first been the cause
     Of the crime which in these words is menaced?  You pause!
     Woman's honor, you ask?  Is there, sir, no dishonor
     In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her,
     Can shudder, and say, "In that smile is a grave"?
     No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have
     In the contest you menace.  That contest but draws
     Every right into ruin.  By all human laws
     Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities
     Of man's social honor!
                            The Duke droop'd his eyes.
     "I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware
     How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair,
     And the storm in man's heart.  Madam, yours was the right,
     When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite.
     But you should from the first have done this, for I feel
     That you knew from the first that I loved you."
                                                     Lucile
     This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.
                                             She raised
     A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed
     On them silent awhile.  His own looks were downcast.
     Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd,
     Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a tear,
     Falling softly, awoke it.
                               However severe,
     Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?
     Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,
     Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd,
     Too self-conscious to lose all in love?  Had she deem'd
     That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world,
     So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd
     In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide
     Might tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty pride?
     Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife
     Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?
     There are two kinds of strength.  One, the strength of the river
     Which through continents pushes its pathway forever
     To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose
     This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use,
     It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.
     The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies
     Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws
     The river's life into its own life, by laws
     Which it heeds not.  The difference in each case is this:
     The river is lost, if the ocean it miss;
     If the sea miss the river, what matter?  The sea
     Is the sea still, forever.  Its deep heart will be
     Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore;
     Its sources are infinite; still to the shore,
     With no diminution of pride, it will say,
     "I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!"
     Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she,
     Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?
     V.
     At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been
     Stern or haughty departed; and, humble in mien,
     She approach'd him and brokenly murmur'd, as though
     To herself more than him, "Was I wrong? is it so?
     Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem
     Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem
     I may claim on ONE ground—I at least am sincere.
     You say that to me from the first it was clear
     That you loved me.  But what if this knowledge were known
     At a moment in life when I felt most alone,
     And least able to be so? a moment, in fact,
     When I strove from one haunting regret to retract
     And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil
     Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still
     So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois,
     If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw
     For a moment the promise of this in the plighted
     Affection of one who, in nature, united
     So much that from others affection might claim,
     If only affection were free?  Do you blame
     The hope of that moment?  I deem'd my heart free
     From all, saving sorrow.  I deem'd that in me
     There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will,
     To uplift it once more to my hope.  Do you still
     Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain
     From hope? alas! I too then hoped!"

     LUVOIS.

                                         Oh, again,
     Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile,
     That you then deign'd to hope—

     LUCILE.

                                    Yes! to hope I could feel,
     And could give to you, that without which all else given
     Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:—
     A heart free from thoughts of another.  Say, then,
     Do you blame that one hope?

     LUVOIS.

                                 O Lucile!
                                           "Say again,"
     She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone,
     "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own
     To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er,
     And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'?
     I myself hoped no more!"
                              With but ill-suppressed wrath
     The Duke answer'd... "What, then! he recrosses your path,
     This man, and you have but to see him, despite
     Of his troth to another, to take back that light
     Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!"
     Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... "No! no!
     'Tis not that—but alas!—but I cannot conceal
     That I have not forgotten the past—but I feel
     That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,—
     In return for what... ah, Duke, what is it?... a heart
     Which is only a ruin!"
                             With words warm and wild,
     "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild
     And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be,
     Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!"
     He approach'd her.  She shrank back.  The grief in her eyes
     Answer'd, "No!"
                      An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise
     And to break into flame, as though fired by the light
     Of that look, in his heart.  He exclaim'd, "Am I right?
     You reject ME!  Accept HIM?"
                                   "I have not done so,"
     She said firmly.  He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet—no!
     But can you with accents as firm promise me
     That you will not accept him?"
                                    "Accept?  Is he free?
     Free to offer?" she said.
                                "You evade me, Lucile,"
     He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel!
     He might make himself free?  Oh, you blush—turn away!
     Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say!
     While you deign to reply to one question from me?
     I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he?
     What! silent?  I alter my question.  If quite
     Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?"
                                                          "He might,"
     She said softly.
     VI.
                      Those two whisper'd words, in his breast,
     As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast
     All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush
     And extinguish in man all that's good.  In the rush
     Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste
     And darken and devastate intellect, chased
     From its realm human reason.  The wild animal
     In the bosom of man was set free.  And of all
     Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce
     As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce
     And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'd
     By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd
     To involve all things else in the anguish within it,
     And on others inflict its own pangs!
                                           At that minute
     What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tell
     The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell
     Can illumine alone?
                          He stared wildly around
     That lone place, so lonely!  That silence! no sound
     Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear
     Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near!
     It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather;
     Deep midnight in him!  They two,—alone and together,
     Himself and that woman defenceless before him!
     The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him.
     The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope
     At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope
     Which Dante read over the city of doom.
     All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom,
     And uttering words he dared never recall,
     Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all
     The brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blind
     His own senses.  His spirit was driven on the wind
     Of a reckless emotion beyond his control;
     A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him.  His soul
     Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd
     And seeth'd in his heart.
     VII.
                               He had thrown, and had miss'd
     His last stake.
     VIII.
                     For, transfigured, she rose from the place
     Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face;
     Such a dread vade retro was written in light
     On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight,
     Have sunk back abash'd to perdition.  I know
     If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so,
     She had needed no dagger next morning.
                                            She rose
     And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows
     Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone,
     And Caucasus is with the moon all alone.
     There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable,
     Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd—
                                            "Farewell!
     We, alas! have mistaken each other.  Once more
     Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er.
     Duc de Luvois, adieu!"
                            From the heart-breaking gloom
     Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room,
     He felt she was gone—gone forever!
     IX.
                                          No word,
     The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword,
     Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusation
     As the silence, the sudden profound isolation,
     In which he remain'd.
                           "O return; I repent!"
     He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent,
     Save the roar of the water, in answer to him,
     And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn:
     An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air
     With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer.
     "Return," sung the wandering insect.  The roar
     Of the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!"
     He walked to the window.  The spray on his brow
     Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below;
     The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound
     Of the torrent.  The mountains gloom'd sullenly round.
     A candle one ray from a closed casement flung.
     O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung,
     Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink
     Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink
     Of that snake-like prone column of water; and listing
     Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting
     Sharp horn of the gray gnat.  Before he relinquish'd
     His unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd.
     Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him.  He ran
     Down the stairs; reached the door—just to see her depart.
     Down the mountain the carriage was speeding.
     X.
                                                  His heart
     Peal'd the knell of its last hope.  He rush'd on; but whither
     He knew not—on, into the dark cloudy weather—
     The midnight—the mountains—on, over the shelf
     Of the precipice—on, still—away from himself!
     Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss
     At the mouth of the forest.  A glimmering cross
     Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside.  He sank
     Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank
     Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them.  He knew
     That the night had divided his whole life in two.
     Behind him a past that was over forever:
     Before him a future devoid of endeavor
     And purpose.  He felt a remorse for the one,
     Of the other a fear.  What remain'd to be done?
     Whither now should he turn?  Turn again, as before,
     To his old easy, careless existence of yore
     He could not.  He felt that for better or worse
     A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorse
     Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd
     Such a refuge forever.  The future seem'd barr'd
     By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread
     To attain it.  Life's wilderness round him was spread,
     What clew there to cling by?
                                  He clung by a name
     To a dynasty fallen forever.  He came
     Of an old princely house, true through change to the race
     And the sword of Saint Louis—a faith 'twere disgrace
     To relinquish, and folly to live for!  Nor less
     Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless
     Or to ban; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'd
     To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard field
     With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, tradition;
     A mere faded badge of a social position;
     A thing to retain and say nothing about,
     Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt.
     Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of his youth
     Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in truth!
     And beyond them, what region of refuge? what field
     For employment, this civilized age, did it yield,
     In that civilized land? or to thought? or to action?
     Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distraction!
     Not even a desert, not even the cell
     Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell
     The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest,
     Ran riot through that ruin'd world in his breast.
     XI.
     So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight
     Of a heaven scaled and lost; in the wide arms of night
     O'er the howling abysses of nothingness!  There
     As he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching him prayer;
     But what had he to pray to?
                                  The winds in the woods,
     The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes,
     Were in commune all round with the invisible
     Power that walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour.
     But their language he had not yet learn'd—in despite
     Of the much he HAD learn'd—or forgotten it quite,
     With its once native accents.  Alas! what had he
     To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony
     Of thanksgiving?...  A fiery finger was still
     Scorching into his heart some dread sentence.  His will,
     Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild
     At its work of destruction within him.  The child
     Of an infidel age, he had been his own god,
     His own devil.
                    He sat on the damp mountain sod,
     and stared sullenly up at the dark sky.
                                             The clouds
     Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds
     Of misshapen, incongruous potents.  A green
     Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between
     The base of their black barricades, and the ridge
     Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some bridge,
     Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrown
     By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown
     And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands.
     While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands
     Dismantled and rent; and reveal'd, through a loop
     In the breach'd dark, the blemish'd and half-broken hoop
     Of the moon, which soon silently sank; and anon
     The whole supernatural pageant was gone.
     The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss,
     Darken'd round him.  One object alone—that gray cross—
     Glimmer'd faint on the dark.  Gazing up, he descried,
     Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd, wide,
     As though to embrace him.
                               He turn'd from the sight,
     Set his face to the darkness, and fled.
     XII.
                                             When the light
     Of the dawn grayly flicker'd and glared on the spent
     Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sent
     To the need of some grief when its need is the sorest,
     He was sullenly riding across the dark forest
     Toward Luchon.
                    Thus riding, with eyes of defiance
     Set against the young day, as disclaiming alliance
     With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived
     Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp-leaved
     Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on his way,
     The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray
     With the gray glare of morning.  Eugene de Luvois,
     With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw
     That phantom-like face, could at once recognize,
     By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes
     Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim,
     With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him,
     And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own;
     A lie born of that lying darkness now grown
     Over all in his nature!  He answer'd that gaze
     With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys
     More intensely than words what a man means convey'd
     Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which said,
     "I have triumph'd.  The question your eyes would imply
     Comes too late, Alfred Vargrave!"
                                        And so he rode by,
     And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight,
     Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite.
     XIII.
     And it bit, and it rankled.
     XIV.
                                 Lord Alfred, scarce knowing,
     Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going,
     By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued,
     And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude
     From his mind every human sensation, save one
     The torture of doubt—had stray'd moodily on,
     Down the highway deserted, that evening in which
     With the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through rich
     Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night,
     Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight,
     Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of all
     The wild scenery around him avail to recall
     To his senses their normal perceptions, until,
     As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill
     At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung
     Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among
     The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world.
     Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd,
     In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees,
     And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees.
     And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face
     Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place
     Where Lucile and Luvois must have met.  This same track
     The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back
     To Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned!
     He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd
     Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way.
     He knew that the night was approaching to day.
     He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour.  The morn,
     Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn,
     Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke.
     'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look.
     XV.
     And the Duke's rankled in him.
     XVI.
                                    He rush'd on.  He tore
     His path through the thicket.  He reach'd the inn door,
     Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise,
     And inquired for the Countess.  The man rubb'd his eyes,
     The Countess was gone.  And the Duke?
                                           The man stared
     A sleepy inquiry.
                        With accents that scared
     The man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried,
     "Who had been there that night!"
                                      The man grinn'd and replied,
     With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay!
     He went after the lady."
                               No further reply
     Could he give.  Alfred Vargrave demanded no more,
     Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door.
     "What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd?
     In that lone inn—with her!"  Was that look he had cast
     When they met in the forest, that look which remain'd
     On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd?
     XVII.
     The day was half turn'd to the evening, before
     He re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore.
     In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look,
     By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke,
     Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright,
     With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous.
                                              Right
     Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride,
     Glided on.  The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside,
     And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low,
     "O, how right have you been!  There can never be—no,
     Never—any more contest between us!  Milord,
     Let us henceforth be friends!"
                                    Having utter'd that word,
     He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again
     His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train
     Of his young imitators.
                             Lord Alfred stood still,
     Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot.  He felt weary and ill,
     Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul
     With a dull, stifling anguish he could not control.
     Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd,
     The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud
     Some comment upon his gay humor that day?
     He never was gayer: what makes him so gay?
     'Tis, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune,
     Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn
     Has at last found a Mars—who, of course, shall be nameless,
     That vestal that yields to Mars ONLY is blameless!
     Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs
     All his heart into tumult?... Lucile de Nevers
     With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light,
     Free allusion?  Not so as might give him the right
     To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet
     To a trite and irreverent compliment set!
     XVIII.
     Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul
     Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there roll
     Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course
     O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force,
     THE WORLD.
     XIX.
                "No!" he mutter'd, "she cannot have sinn'd!
     True! women there are (self-named women of mind!)
     Who love rather liberty—liberty, yes!
     To choose and to leave—than the legalized stress
     Of the lovingest marriage.  But she—is she so?
     I will not believe it.  Lucile! O no, no!
     Not Lucile!
                 "But the world? and, ah, what would it say?
     O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day!
     The gossip's light question! the slanderous jest!
     She is right! no, we could not be happy.  'Tis best
     As it is.  I will write to her—write, O my heart!
     And accept her farewell.  OUR farewell! must we part—
     Part thus, then—forever, Lucile?  Is it so?
     Yes! I feel it.  We could not be happy, I know.
     'Twas a dream! we must waken!"
     XX.
                                    With head bow'd, as though
     By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow
     Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn.
                                            Drawn apart
     From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start,
     Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast,
     A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd.
     He order'd his horse to be ready anon:
     Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on,
     And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room.
     It was twilight.  The chamber was dark in the gloom
     Of the evening.  He listlessly kindled a light
     On the mantel-piece; there a large card caught his sight—
     A large card, a stout card, well-printed and plain,
     Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain.
     It gave a respectable look to the slab
     That it lay on.  The name was—

                     SIR RIDLEY MACNAB.

     Full familiar to him was the name that he saw,
     For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law.
     Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known
     As wearing the longest philacteried gown
     Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of,
     A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of
     This world and the next; having largely invested
     Not only where treasure is never molested
     By thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ball
     Where interest was high, and security small.
     Of mankind there was never a theory yet
     Not by some individual instance upset:
     And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm
     Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm
     In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent,
     A cheering exception did Ridley present.
     Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety.
     The leader of every religious society,
     Christian knowledge he labor'd t though life to promote
     With personal profit, and knew how to quote
     Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantage
     To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age.
     XXI.
     Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded,
     A waiter his head through the doorway protruded;
     "Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak."
     Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek;
     He brushed them away with a gesture of pride.
     He glanced at the glass; when his own face he eyed,
     He was scared by its pallor.  Inclining his head,
     He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said,
     "Sir Ridley may enter."
                             In three minutes more
     That benign apparition appeared at the door.
     Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares
     Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs
     Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release,
     In company there with his sister and niece,
     Found himself now at Luchon—distributing tracts,
     Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts
     For Exeter Hall; he was starting that night
     For Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight,
     That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting out
     For the same destination: impatient, no doubt!
     Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriage
     Through his speech trickled softly, like honey: his carriage
     Was ready.  A storm seem'd to threaten the weather;
     If his young friend agreed, why not travel together?
     With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown
     Of perplexity, during this speech, up and down
     Alfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a pause
     And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause
     Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd—"My dear
     Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here—
     Half an hour at the most—to conclude an affair
     Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare
     My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot),
     Before I accept your kind offer."
                                        "Why not?"
     Said Sir Ridley, and smiled.  Alfred Vargrave, before
     Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door.
     A few moments later, with footsteps revealing
     Intense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling,
     He was rapidly pacing the garden below.
     What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know.
     But before one half-hour into darkness had fled,
     In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley.  His tread
     Was firm and composed.  Not a sign on his face
     Betrayed there the least agitation.  "The place
     You so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept."
     And he stretch'd out his hand.  The two travellers stepp'd
     Smiling into the carriage.
                                And thus, out of sight,
     They drove down the dark road, and into the night.
     XXII.
     Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so far
     As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar,
     "We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!"
     Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small supply with us.
     Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men
     Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when
     Alfred suddenly thought—"Here's a man of ripe age,
     At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage,
     Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise;
     Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes
     Some few of the reasons which make me believe
     That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieve
     And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and doubt."
     For which purpose a feeler he softly put out.
     It was snapp'd up at once.
                                "What is truth? "jesting Pilate
     Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile at
     Its utter futility.  Had he address'd it
     To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it
     Admitted discussion! and certainly no man
     Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical Roman
     Than Ridley.  Hear some street astronomer talk!
     Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk,
     And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you the scheme
     Of the heavens.  Then hear him enlarge on his theme!
     Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he!
     He'll prove you the whole plan in plain A B C.
     Here's your sun—call him A; B's the moon; it is clear
     How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear
     Of the planets.  Now ask Arago, ask La Place,
     (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face!)
     Their science in plain A B C to accord
     To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a word
     Will you get for your pains from their sad lips.  Alas!
     Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pass.
     'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emits
     The water that's in it.  'Tis thus with men's wits;
     Or at least with their knowledge.  A man's capability
     Of imparting to others a truth with facility
     Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness
     To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness,
     The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight,
     Of the truth he imparts.  So small coins circulate
     More freely than large ones.  A beggar asks alms,
     And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms;
     But if every street charity shook an investment,
     Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment,
     The length of the process would limit the act;
     And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tract
     Is most lightly dispensed.
                                As for Alfred, indeed,
     On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed
     By Sir Ridley, I know not.  This only I know,
     That the two men thus talking continued to go
     Onward somehow, together—on into the night—
     The midnight—in which they escape from our sight.
     XXIII.
     And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place,
     And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space
     Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight
     To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night;
     And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended,
     And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended,
     In the smile of the East.  And the lark soaring on,
     Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun.
     And the world laugh'd.
                            It wanted but two rosy hours
     From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers
     Of the little wild garden that dimpled before
     The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre.
     And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew,
     With her white morning robe flitting joyously through
     The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed,
     Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed.
     Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face
     Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace,
     And radiant confidence, childlike delight,
     That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight.
     And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'd
     From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade
     Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour,
     The thought of another?"
                               "Look up, my sweet flower!"
     He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto thee
     Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!"
     "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda.
                                                 "No more,"
     He repeated.  And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er!
     My course, too, is decided, Lucile!  Was I blind
     To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind
     Could satisfy simply a plain English heart,
     Or sympathize with it?"
     XXIV.
                              And here the first part
     Of the drama is over.  The curtain falls furl'd
     On the actors within it—the Heart, and the World.
     Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,—
     Have they solved it?
                          Appear! answer, Husband and Wife.
     XXV.
     Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,
     Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.

     THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA.

     "Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart,
     And the places of old... never, never to part!
     Once more to the palm, and the fountain!  Once more
     To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore
     From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret
     Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set;
     From the children that cry for the birth, and behold,
     There is no strength to bear them—old Time is SO old!
     From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth
     Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth:
     From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd,
     Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd;
     Back,—back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb
     Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom
     And the beauty of times that are faded forever!
     To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River!
     Where I too, the child of a day that is done,
     First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun,
     Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home
     I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come!
     Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night
     Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright?
     Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old,
     When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold?
     Do you yet recollect me, my friend?  Do you still
     Remember the free games we play'd on the hill,
     'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly trod
     O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god?
     How he frown'd while around him we carelessly play'd!
     That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd,
     Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast
     From some vague supernatural grief in the past.
     For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he frown'd,
     To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found,
     In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss
     Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss.
     Alas! you may haply remember me yet
     The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget.
     I come—a sad woman, defrauded of rest:
     I bear to you only a laboring breast:
     My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd
     O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world:
     The dove from my bosom hath flown far away:
     It is flown and returns not, though many a day
     Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming.
     Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming.
     I know not what Ararat rises for me
     Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea:
     I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills,
     Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills:
     But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast
     Wakes and whispers me on—to the East! to the East!
     Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find
     The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind?
     Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain?
     Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again?
     Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent?
     Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent?
     To a voice who shall render an image? or who
     From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew?
     I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life.
     Wherefore lingers the flame?  Rest is sweet after strife.
     I would sleep for a while.  I am weary.
                                             "My friend,
     I had meant in these lines to regather, and send
     To our old home, my life's scatter'd links.  But 'tis vain!
     Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again;
     Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er,
     Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore
     Whence too far I have wander'd.
                                     "How many long years
     Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears,
     While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's premature
     Moans of pain at what women in silence endure!
     To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes alone,
     That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown
     Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know,
     Many years since,—how many!
                                  "A few months ago
     I seem'd reading it backward, that page!  Why explain
     Whence or how?  The old dream of my life rose again.
     The old superstition! the idol of old!
     It is over.  The leaf trodden down in the mould
     Is not to the forest more lost than to me
     That emotion.  I bury it here by the sea
     Which will bear me anon far away from the shore
     Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more.
     And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave.
     Hark! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave,
     Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home!
     I come, O you whispering voices, I come!
     My friend, ask me nothing.
                                "Receive me alone
     As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone
     In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring:
     It may be an angel that, weary of wing,
     Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom,
     Or only a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom.
     This only I know: that in Europe at least
     Lives the craft or the power that must master our East.
     Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at last?
     Both they and their altars pass by with the Past.
     The gods of the household Time thrust from the shelf;
     And I seem as unreal and weird to myself
     As those idols of old.
                             "Other times, other men,
     Other men, other passions!
                                "So be it! yet again
     I turned to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn,
     And the light of those lands where the great sun is born!
     Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feel
     The repose which hath fled from my own.
                                             "Your LUCILE."

All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg