Gass__ Book^_ ^yi^ le the world without feeling its sting. III. One lodges but simply at Serchon ; yet, thanks To the season that changes forever the banks Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light cloud O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring down The dark evergreen slopes to the slum- bering town. And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar, And the bluebells that purple the dap- ple-gray scaur, One sees with each month of the many- faced year A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers Rested half up the base of a mountain of fil'S, In a garden of roses, revealed to the road, Yet withdrawn from its noise : 't was a peaceful abode. And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like hoods Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resinous woods. The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended The steep garden paths, every odor had blended Of the ardent carnations, and faint helio- tropes, With the balms floated down from the dark wooded slopes : A light breeze at the windows was playing about. And the white curtains floated, now in and now out. The house was all hushed when he rang at the door, Which was opened to him in a moment, or more, By an old nodding negress, whose sable head sliined In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, 'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was wound. Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. He remembered the nurse of Lucile. The old dame, Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when he came, LUCILE. 33 With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, To pass, unannounced, her young mis- tress's door. The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee When she left, as an infant, far over the sea. In India, the tomb of a mother, un- known, To pine, a pale floweret, in great Paris town. She had soothed the child's sobs on her breast, when she read The letter that told her her father was dead. An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses Of stateci-aft, with varying fortunes, was he. He had wandered the world through, by land and by sea. And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave Her displeasure. Thrice shipwrecked, and cast by the wave On his own quick resources, they rarely had failed His command : often baffled, he ever prevailed, In his combat with fate : to-day flattered and fed By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread. The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came Of a family ruined, yet noble in name. He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France ; And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Free-lance, Had wandered in search of it, over the world. Into India. But scarce had the nomad unfurled His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile Of a Kajah (whose court he controlled for a while, And whose council he prompted and governed by stealth); 3 Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, Who died giving birth to this daughter, before He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance, Had secured her a home with his sister in France, A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucile Neither felt, nor attected, the wish to conceal The half-Eastern blood, which appeared to bequeath (Revealed now and then, though but rarely, beneath That outward repose that concealed it in her) A something half wild to her strange character. The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted, At the door of a convent in Paris had parted. But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried. When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been married To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died. With no claim on her tears, — she had wept as a bride. Said Lord Alfred, "Your mistress ex- pects me." The crone Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him alone. O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace Rested silence and perfume. ISTo sound reached the place. In the white curtains wavered the delicate shade Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze played. O'er the smooth wooden floor, polished dark as a glass. Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to pass. In light olive baskets, by window and door. Some hung from the ceiling, some crowd- ing the floor, 34 LUCILE. Rich wild-flowers plucked by Lucile from the hill, Seemed the room with their passionate presence to iill : Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed ; The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed ; And the trail saponaire, and the tender bluebell, And the purple valerian, — each child of the fell And the solitude flourished, fed fair from the source Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his course, Where the chamois and izard, with deli- cate-hoof. Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof. Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed. That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. Half unclosed In the light slept the flowei's : all was pui-e and at rest ; All peaceful ; all modest ; all seemed self- possessed , And aware of the silence. No vestige nor trace Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the place. He stood by the window. A cloud pa.ssed the sun. A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one. Just then Lucile entered the room, un- discerned By Lord Alfred, whose face to the win- dow was turned. In a strange revery. The time was, when Lucile, In beholding that man, could not help but reveal The ra]iture, the fear, which wrenched out every nerve In the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve. And now — she gazed at him, calm, smiling, — perchance Indiff'erent. VII. Indiff'erently turning his glance, Alfred Vargrave encountered that gaze unaware. O'er a bodice snow-white streamed her soft dusky hair ; A rose-bud half blown in her hand ; in her eyes A half- pensive smile. A sharp cry of surprise Escaped from his lips: some unknown agitation. An invincible trouble, a strange palpita- tion, Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit; Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it. That wit so complacent and docile, that ever Lightly came at the call of the lightest endeavor, Ready coined, and availably current as gold. Which, secure of its value, so fluently rolled In free circulation from hand on to hand For the usage of all, at a moment's com- mand ; For once it rebelled, it was mute and unstirred, And he looked at Lucile without speak- ing a word. Perha])s what so troubled him was, that the face On whose features he gazed had no more than a trace Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years. Yes ! the iace he remembered was faded with tears : Grief had famished the figure, and dimmed the dark eyes. And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with sighs. And that tender, and gracious, and fond coqiicUcric Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress. In the careless toilet of Lucile, — then too sad To care aught to her changeable beauty to add, — Lord Alfred had never admired before ! Alas! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore. Had neglected herself, never heeding, nor thinking LUCILE. (While the blossom and bloom of her beauty were shrinking) That sorrow can beautify only the heart — Not the face — of a woman ; and can but impart. Its endearment to one that has suifered. In truth Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth loves gay youth. The woman that now met, unshrinking, his gaze, Seemed to bask in the silent but sumptu- ous haze Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the first, Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath burst 36 LUCILE. In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal To the homage which none but a churl would withhold — That caressing and exquisite gi'ace — never bold, Ever present — which just a few women possess. From a healthful repose, undisturbed by the stress Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhere The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her hair — Once shoin as an offering to passionate love — Now floated or rested redundant above Her airy pure forehead and throat ; gathered loose Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse Milk-white folds of a cool modest gar- ment reposed, Kippled faint by the breast they half hid, half disclosed, And her simple attire thus in all things revealed The fine art which so artfully all things concealed. Lord Alfred, who never conceived that Lucile Could have looked so enchanting, felt tempted to kneel At her feet, and her pardon with passion implore ; But the calm smile that met him sufiBced to restore The pride and the bitterness needed to meet The occasion with dignity due and dis- creet. XI. " Madam," — thus he began with a voice reassured, — " You see that your latest command has secured My immediate obedience, — presuming I may Consider my freedom restored from this day.'"' — "I had thought," said Lucile, with a smile gay yet sad, " That your freedom from me not a fetter has had. Indeed ! ... in my chains have you rested till now ? I had not so flattered myself, I avow ! " " For Heaven's sake, Madam," Lord Alfred replied, " Do not jest ! has the moment no sad- ness ? " he sighed. '"Tis an ancient tradition," she an- swered, "a tale Often told, — a position too sure to pre- vail In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote. When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet remote. Wherein of necessity each would recall From the other the poor foolish records of all Those emotions, whose pain, when re- corded, seemed bliss. Should we write as we wrote ? But one thinks not of this ! At Twenty (who does not at Twenty ?) we write Believing eternal the frail vows we plight ; And we smile with a confident pity, above The vulgar results of all poor human love : For we deem, with that vanity common to youth. Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth, Is novel to us — that 't is novel to earth. And will prove the exception, in durance and worth, To the great law to which all on earth must inclme. The error was noble, the vanity fine ! Shall we blame it because we survive it ? ah, no ; 'T was the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not so ? " XII. Lord Alfred was mute. He remembered her yet A child, — the weak sport of each mo- ment's regret. Blindly yielding herself to the errors of liife, LUCILE. 37 The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the strife And the tumult of passion ; the tremu- lous toy Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy- But to watch her pronounce the death- warrant of all The illusions of life, — lift, unflinching, the pall From the bier of the dead Past, — that woman so fair. And so young, yet her own self-survivor ; who there Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold ! 'T was a picture that pained his self-love to behold. He himself knew — • none better — the things to be said Upon subjects like this. Yet he bowed down his head : And as thus, with a trouble he could not command. He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his hand, " You know me enough," she continued, " or what I would say is, you yet recollect (do you not. Lord Alfred ?) enough of my nature, to know That these pledges of what was perhaps long ago A foolish affection, I do not recall From those motives of prudence which actuate all Or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need But remind you that ten years these letters have rested Unreclaimed in your hands." A re- proach seemed suggested By these words. To meet it. Lord Al- fred looked up. (His gaze had been fixed on a blue Sevres cup "With a look of profound connoisseurship, — a smile Of singular interest and care, all this while. ) He looked up, and looked long in the face of Lucile, To mark if that face by a sign would reveal At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain. He looked keenly and long, yet he looked there in vain. "You are generous, Madam," he mur- mured at last, And into his voice a light irony passed. He had looked for reproaches, and fully arranged His forces. But straightway the enemy changed The position. XIII. " Come ! " gayly Lucile interposed, With a smile whose divinely deep sweet- ness disclosed Some depth in her nature he never had known, While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, "Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain. From me not a single reproach can you hear. I have sinned to myself, — to the world, — nay, I fear To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed, Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed Not her selfish and often mistaken de- sires, But his interest whose fate her own in- terest inspires ; And, rather than seek to allure, for her sake. His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake Of impossible destinies, use all her art That his place in the world find its place in her heart. I, alas ! — I perceived not this truth till too late ; I tormented your youth, I have darkened your fate. Forgive me the ill 1 have done for the sake Of its long expiation ! " XIV. Lord Alfred, awake, Seemed to wander from dream on to dream. In that seat Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 38 LUCILE. His accuser, he found himself turned by some change, As surprising and all unexpected as strange, To the judge from whose mercy indul- gence was sought. All the world's foolish pride in that mo- ment was naught ; He felt all his plausible theories posed ; And, thrilled by the beauty of nature disclosed In the ])athos of all he had witnessed, his head He bowed, and faint words self-reproach- fully said, As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'T was a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, lan- guid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in j'outh, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, some- what graceless, in truth ; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm. Or as Sorrow has crossed the life-line in the palm ? The more that he looked, that he listened, the more He discovered perfections unnoticed be- fore. Less salient than once, less poetic, per- chance. This woman who thus had survived the romance That had made him its hei'o, and breathed him its sighs, Seemed more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. Together they talked of the years since wlien last They parted, contrasting the present, the past. Yet no memory marred their light con- verse. Lucile Questioned nnich, with the interest a sister might feel. Of Lord Alfred's new life, — of Miss Darey, — her face. Her temper, accomplishments, — pausing to trace Th e ad van ta^e deri ved from a hymen so fit. Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands She had seen, and the books alie had read, and the hands She had shaken. In all that she said there appeared An amiable irony. Laughing, she reared The temple of rea.son, with ever a touch Of light scorn at her work, revealed only so much As there gleams, in the thyr.sus that Bacchanals bear, Tlirough the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this. To that soul, whose experience had par- alyzed bliss, A benignant indulgence, to all things resigned, A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind. Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint And serene as the halo encircling a saint. Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. To each novel sensation spontaneously He abandoned himself with that ardor so strange Which belongs to a mind grown accus- tomed to change. He sought, with well-practised and deli- cate art. To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart ; But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever. More adroit than the man, baffled every endeavor. AVhen he deemed he had touched on some chord in her being. At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever fleeing As ever he near it advanced, M'hen he thought To have seized, and proceeded to ana- lyze aught Of the moral existence, the absolute soul. Light as vapor the phantom escaped his control. From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard. In the passage without a quick footstep there stirred. LUCILE. 39 At the door knocked the negress, and thrust in her head, " The Duke de Luvois had just entered," she said, " And insisted" — "The Duke!" cried Lucile (as she spoke The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo woke). " Say I do not receive till the evening. Explain," As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, " I have business of private importance." There came O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name, An invincible sense of vexation. He turned To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly dis- cerned On her face an indefinite look of confu- sion. On his mind instantaneously flashed the conclusioii. That his presence had caused it. He said, with a sneer Which he could not repress, ' ' Let not mc interfere With the claims on your time, lady ! when you are free From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see And to wait on you later." The words were not said Ere he wished to recall them. He bit- terly read The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. Inclining her head, as in haughty reply. More reproachful perchance than all uttered rebuke. She said merely, resuming her .seat, "Tell the Duke He may enter." And vexed with his own words and hei's, Alfred Vargrave bowed low to Lucil9 de Nevers, Passed the casement and entered the gar- den. Before His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. XVIII. When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to him- self. With dull tone Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation, Went the bee on his business from sta- tion to station. The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around ; Its incessant small voices like stings seemed to sound On his sore angry .sense. He stood grieving the hot Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirred from the spot. The last look of Lucile still bewildered, perplexed. And reproached him. The Duke's visit goaded and vexed. He had not yet given the letters. Again He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain Where he was till the Duke went. In short, he would stay. Were it only to know when the Duke went away. But just as he formed this resolve, he perceived Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved And luxuiiant laurels, Luaile and the Duke. Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek ibr some nook Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden retreat. They had not yet seen him. The sound of their feet And their voices had warned him in time. They were walking Towards him. The Duke (a true French- man) was talking With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance That they barred the sole path to the gateway. No chance Of escape save in instant concealment ! Deep-dipped In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipped. Saved from .sis;ht, as in front of that am- bush they passed. Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last They paused, and sat down on a bench in the shade, So close that he could not but hear what they said. 40 LUCILE. LUCILE. Duke, I scarcely conceive . . . Luvois. All, forgive ! . . . I desired So deeply to see you to-day. You retired So early last night from the ball . . . this whole week I have ffien you pale, silent, preoccupied . . . speak, Speak, Lucile, and forgive me ! . . . I know that I am A rash fool — but I love you ! I love you, Madame, More than language can say ! Do not deem, Lucile, That the love I no longer have strength to conceal Is a passing caprice ! It is strange to my nature, It has made me, unknown to myself, a new creature. 1 implore you to sanction and save the new life Which I lay at your 'feet with this prayer — Be my wife ; Stoop, and raise me ! Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain With wliich he had heard this. As though to some wind The leaves of the hushed windless lau- rels behind The two thus in converse were suddenly stirred. The sound half betrayed him. They started. He heaid The low voice of Lucile ; but so faint was its tone That her answer escaped him. Luvois hurried on. As though in remonsti-ance with what had been spoken. " Nay, I know it, Lucile ! but your heart was not broken By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be loved. You mistake your own feelings. I fear you mistake What so ill I interpret, those feelings ■which make Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heart May have suffered of yore, this can only impart A pity profound to the love which I feel. Hush ! hush ! 1 know all. Tell me nothing, Lucile." "You know all, Duke?" she said; " well then, know that, in truth, I have learned from tlie rude lesson taught to my youth From my own heart to shelter my life ; to mistrust The heart of another. We are what we must. And not what we would be. I know that one hour Assures not another. The will and the power Are diverse." "0 madam!" he answered, "you fence With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 'T is not my life, Lucile, that I plead for alone : If your nature I know, 't is no less for your own. That nature will prey on itself; it was made To influence others. Consider," he said, " Th at gen in s crav es power, — what scope for it here ? Gifts less noble to me give command of that sphere In which genius is power. Such gifts you despise ? But you do not disdain what such gifts realize ! I offer 5'ou, Lady, a name not unknown — A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown — All my life at your feet I lay down — at your feet A heart which for you, and you only, can beat." Lucile. That heart, Duke, that life — I respect both. The name And position you offer, and all that you claim In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you — LUCILE. 41 Luvois. Lucile ! LirciLE. I ask you to leave me — Luvois. You do not reject ? Lucile. I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. You ask me ? - Luvois. Lucile. — The time to reflect. Luvois. Say — One word ! May I hope ? The reply of Lucile was not heard By Lord Alfred ; for just then she rose, and moved on. The Duke bowed his lips o'er her hand, and was gone. Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And when Alfred Vargiave reeled forth to the sun- light again. He just saw the white robe of the woman recede As she entered the house. Scarcely conscious indeed Of his steps, he too followed, and en- tered. XXI. He entered Unnoticed ; Lucile never stirred : so concentred And wholly absorbed in her thoughts she appeared. Her back to the window was turned. As he neared The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. Her dark eyes were fixed on the gi'ound. Pale, dejected, And lost in profound meditation she seemed. Softly, silently, over her drooped shoul- ders streamed The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold And clammy as death, all too cruelly told How far he had been from her thoughts. XXII. All his cheek Was disturbed with the effort it cost him to speak. "It was not my fault. I have heard all," he said. " Now the letters — and farewell, Lucile ! When you wed May — " The sentence broke short, like a weapon that snaps When the weight of a man is upon it. " Perhaps," Said Lucile (her sole answer revealed in the flush Of quick color which up to her brows seemed to rush In reply to those few broken words), " this farewell Is our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can tell ? Let us part witliout bitterness. Here are your letters. Be assured I retain you no more in my fetters ! " — She laughed, as she said this, a little sad laugh, And stretched out her hand with the letters. And half Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trust His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he thrust The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh. Bowed his head, and departed without a reply. XXIII. And Lucile was alone. And the men of the world Were gone back to the world. And the world's self was furled Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand Drooped, and from it, unloosed froni their frail silken band, 42 LUCILE. Fell those early love-letters, strewn, Was approaching his life. In despite scattered, and slied his endeavor At her feet — life's lost blossoms ! De- To think of Matilda, her image forever jected, her head Was effaced from his fancy by that of On her bosom was bowed. Her gaze Lucile. vaguely strayed o'er From the ground which he stood on he Those strewn records of passionate mo- felt himself reel. ments no more. Scared, alarmed by those feelings to From each page to her sight leapt some which, on the day word that belied Just before, all his heart had so soon The composure with which she that day given way. had denied When he caught, with a strange sense Every claim on her heart to those poor of fear, for assistance. perished years. At what was, till then, the great fact in They avenged themselves now, and she existence. burst into tears. 'T was a phantom he grasped. III. Having sent for his guide. He ordered his horse, and determined to CANTO IV. ride Back forthwith to Bigorre. I. Then, the guide, who well knew Letter from Cousin John to Cousin Every haunt of those hills, said the wild Alfred. lake of Oo " BicoRRE, Thursday. Lay a league from Serchon ; and sug- " Time up, you rascal ! Come back, or gested a track be hanged. By the lake to Bigorre, which, transvers- Matilda grows peevish. Her mother ing the back harangued Of the mountain, avoided a circuit be- For a whole hour this morning about tween you. The deuce ! Two long valleys ; and thinking, " Per- What on earth can I say to you ? — chance change of scene Nothing 's of use. May create change of thought," Alfred And the blame of the whole of your Vargrave agreed. shocking behavior Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre Falls on me, sir ! Come back, — do you at full speed. hear ? — or 1 leave your Affairs, and abjure you fiarever. Come IV. hack His guide rode beside him. To your anxious betrothed ; and per- The king of the guides ! plexed The gallant Bernard ! ever boldly he "Cousin Jack." rules, II. Ever gavlv he sings ! For to him. from o'f old. The hills have confided their secrets, Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from John and told To increase his impatience to fly from Where the white partridge lies, and the Serchon. cock o' the woods ; All the place was now fraught with sen- Where the izard flits fine through the sations of pain cold solitudes ; Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the from in vain. lynx on his prey A wild instinct warned him to fly from At nightfall descends, when the moun- a place tains are gray ; Where \v felt that some fatal event. Where the sassafras blooms, and the swift of pace, bluebell is born, LUCILE. 43 And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn ; Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread ; How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread ; Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie asleep, Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts leap ; And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales Have whispered to him all their thou- sand love-tales ; He has laughed with the girls, he has leaped with the boys ; Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys An existence untroubled by envy or strife, While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. And so lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides. For Bernard le Sauteur is the king of all guides ! But Bernard found, that day, neither song nor love-tale, Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail To arouse from his deep and profound revery Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be. VI. Ascending the mountain they slackened their pace. And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face. The breezy and pure inspirations of morn Breathed about them. The scarped ravaged mountains, all worn By the torrents, whose course they watched faintly meander. Were alive with the diamonded shy sal- amander. They paused o'er the bosom of pur^jle abysses, And wound through a region of green wildernesses ; The waters went wirbling above and around. The forests hung heaped in their shad- ows profound. Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, Which the Demon of Tempest, descend- ing upon. Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux They marked ; and far down in the sun- shine below, Half dipped in a valley of airiest blue. The while happy homes of the village of Oo, Where the age is yet golden. And high overhead The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. Red granite and quartz, in the alchemic sun. Fused their splendors of crimson and cr3"stal in one ; And deep in the moss gleamed the deli- cate shells. And the dew lingered fresh in the heavy harebells ; The large violet burned ; the campanula blue ; And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peered through The red-berried brambles and thick sas- safras ; And fragrant with thyme was the deli- cate grass ; And high up, and higher, and highest of all. The secular phantom of snow ! O'er the wall Of a gray sunless glen gaping drowsy below, That aerial spectre, revealed in the glow Of the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the eye, And appears to grow in, and grow out of, the sky, And plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight. Only reached by the vast rosy ripple of light. And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing, Half unreal, like some mythological king That dominates all in a fable of old. Takes command of a valley as fair to behold As aught in old fables ; and, seen or unseen. Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene 44 LUCILE. Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spir- its are furled 'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infinite world Of man's last aspirations, unfathomed, untrod, Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. VII. Meanwhile, as they journeyed, that ser- pentine road, Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly showed A gay cavalcade some few feet in ad- vance. Alfred Vargrave's heart beat ; for he saw at a glance The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next look Showed him, joyously ambling beside her, the Duke. The rest of the troop which had thus caught his ken He knew not, nor noticed them (women and men). They were laughing and talking to- gether. Soon after His sudden appearance suspended their laughter. VIII. " You here ! . . . I imagined you far on your way To Bigorre ! " . . . said Lucile. " What has caused you to stay ? " " I am on my way to Bigorre," he re- plied, " But, since my way woiild seem to be yours, let me ride For one moment beside you." And then, with a stoop, At her ear, ..." and forgive me ! " By this time the troop Had regathered its numbers. Lucile was as pale As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its waj' to the vale. The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, For even one moment, the whole of the ride. Alfred smiled, as he thought, "he is jealoiTS of her ! " And the thought of this jealousy added a spur To his finn resolution and effort to please. He talked much ; was witty, and quite at his ease. After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east Half the day, gathered closer, and rose and increased. The air changed and chilled. As though out of the ground. There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound. And the wind rose. The guides sniffed, like chamois, the air, And looked at each other, and halted, and there Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white Aspens rustled, and turned up their frail leaves in fright. All announced the approach of the tem- pest. Erelong, Thick darkness descended the mountains among ; And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash. The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon Broke the thunder. The horses took fright, every one. The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. The guides whooped. The band was obliged to alight ; And, dispersed uj) the perilous pathway, walked blind To the darkness before from the darkness behind. And the Storm is abroad in the moun- tains ! He fills The crouched hollows and all the oracular hills With dread voices of power. A roused million or more Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake. LUCILE. 45 And the wind, that wild robber, for plun- der descends From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends ; He howls as he hounds down his prey ; and his lash Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash. That clings to the rocks, with her gar- ments all torn. Like a woman in fear ; then he blows his hoarse horn. And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror. Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intri- cate error Of mountain and mist. XII. There is war in the skies ! Lo ! the black-winged legions of tempest arise O'er those sharp splintered rocks that are gleaming below In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though Some seraph burned through them, the thunder-bolt searching "Which the black cloud unbosomed just now. Lo ! the lurching And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem To waver above, in the dark ; and yon stream, How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white And paralyzed lake there, appalled at the sight Of the things seen in heaven ! Through the darkness and awe That had gathered around him, Lord Alfred now saw. Revealed in the fierce and evanishing glare Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the air, A woman alone on a shelf of the hill. With her cheek coldly propped on her hand, — and as still As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above The black lake beneath her. All terror, all love. Added speed to the instinct with which he rushed on. For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone In its lurid embrace : like the sleek dazzling snake That encircles a sorceress, charmed for her sake And lulled by her loveliness ; fawning, it played And caressingly twined round the feet and the head Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calm As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm Of the plangent and laboring tempest roll slow From the caldron of midnight and vapor below. Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the sound Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal, And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile. She started. Once more, with its flick- ering wand. The lightning approached her. In terror, her hand Alfred Vargrave had seized within his ; and he felt The light fingers that coldly and linger- ingly dwelt In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. ' ' See ! see ! Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree ! " She exclaimed, . . . "like the passion that brings on its breath, To the being it embraces, destruction and death ! Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you ! " "Lucile ! I hear — I see — naught but yourself. I can feel Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vain With the truth that leaps from me. We two meet again 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watch- ing above 46 LUCILE. To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love, — And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, I humble my head and my heart. I en- treat Your pardon, Lucile, for the past, — I implore For the future your mercy, — implore it with more Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the powei- Which invisibly touches us both in this hour, By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand " — " The rights ! " . . . said Lucile, and drew from him her hand. "Yes, the rights ! for what greater to man may belong Than the right to repair in the future the wrong '^0 the past ? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, iath bequeathed to me all the sad right to restore, to retrieve, to amend ! I, who injured your life, Jrge the right to repair it, Lucile ! Be my wife, My guide, n>y good angel, my all upon earth, And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth To my life, its contrition ! " He paused, for there came O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead. With a voice faint and marred by emotion, she said, "And your pledge to another ? " XVI. "Hush, hush ! " he exclaimed, 'My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. T were poor honor indeed, to another to give That life of which you keep the heart. Could I live In the light of those young eyes, sup- pressing a lie ? Alas, no ! yoiti' hand holds my whole destiny. I can never recall what my lips have avowed ; In your love lies whatever can render me proud. For the great crime of all my existence hath been To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen, And most hallowed, — the duty most sacred and sweet. Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. speak I and restore me the blessing I lost When I lost you, — my pearl of all pearls beyond cost ! And restore to your own life its youth, and restore The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore ! Ere our brows had been dimmed in the dust of the world, When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurled ! For your eyes rest no more on the un- quiet man. The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran, Whom the formless indefinite future of youth. With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth 1 have wearily wandered the world, and I feel That the least of your lovely regards, Lucile, Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream Which, though followed forever, forever doth seem As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore Of life's untiaversed ocean ! I know the sole ])ath To repose, which my desolatedestiny hath. Is the path by whose course to your feet I return. And who else, Lucile, will so truly discern. And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, Neither he nor Lucile felt the rain. LUCILE. 47 The sublimity in you, as he whom at length These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal To his worship ? " She spoke not ; but Alfred could feel .The light hand and arm, that upon him f reposed, Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed ; But, under their languid mysterious fringe, A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge Of faint inward fire flushed transparently through The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue Of the cheek, half averted and drooped. The rich bosom Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose-blossom A bee is imjirisoned and struggles. XVIII. Meanwhile The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold ! O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, Eose and rested : while far up the dim airy crags, Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags. The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat Drew off slowlj^ receding in silence, to meet The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar, Had already sent forward one bright, signal star. The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair. From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear, Had escaped ; and Lord Alfred now covered with kisses The redolent warmth of those long fall- ing tresses. Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet Had ceased falling around them ; when, splashed, drenched, and wet, The Duo de Luvois down the rough mountain course Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse. Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow Of the storm-haunted mountain his mas- ter had thrown ; But the Duke, who was agile, had leaped to a stone. And the horse, being bred to the instinct which fills The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills. Had scrambled again to his feet ; and now master And horse bore about them the signs of disaster, As they heavily footed their way through the mist. The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his wrist, Bruised and bleeding. If ever your feet, like my own, reader, have traversed these mouii' tains alone. Have you felt your identity shrink an^» contract At the sound of the distant and din cataract. In the presence of nature's immensities ? Say, Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedewed with its spray, And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and rolled. Like a huge couchant T}qihon, fold heaped over fold, Tracked the summits, from which every step that you tread Rolls the loose stones, with thunder be- low, to the bed Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound ? And, laboring onwards, at last through a break In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake ? If you have, this description I might have withheld. You remember how strangely your bosom has swelled 48 LUCILE. At the vision revealed. On the over- worked soil Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpened by toil ; And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, To have conquered a claim to that won- derful sight. Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo ! Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow ; For o'er thee the angels have whitened their wings. And the thirst of the seraphs is quenched at thy springs. What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse ? When the breath of creation first fash- ioned fair France, Did the Spirit of HI, in his downthrow appalling, Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while falling I Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster unnamed The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed ? And later, when Power to Beauty was . wed, Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed With the fragile valerian and wild col- umbine ? But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine ; For once gazing on thee, it flashed on my soul, All that secret ! I saw in a vision the whole Vast design of the ages ; what was and shall be ! Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery For one moment. I saw, and I heard ; and my heart Bore witness within me to infinite art. In infinite power proving infinite love ; Caught the great choral chant, marked the dread pageant move- — The divine Whence and Whither of life ! But, daughter Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. What I then saw and heard, the world never shall know. The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed. The rain had ceased falling, the moun- tains reposed. The stars had enkindled in luminous courses Their slow-sliding lamps, when, re-' mounting their horses, The riders retraversed that mighty ser- ration Of rock-work. Thus left to its own desolation. The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last Transient pomp of the pageants of sun- set had passed. Drew into its bpsom the darkness, and only Admitted within it one image, — a lonely And tremulous phantom of flickering light That followed the mystical moon through the night. XXIII. It was late when o'er Serchon at last they descended. To her chalet, in silence. Lord Alfred attended LucUe. As they parted she whispered him low, "You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply Without time for reflection. Good night! — not good by." "Alas ! 'tis the very same answer you made To the Due de Luvois but a day since," • he said. "No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied. Her voice shook. ' ' If you love me, obey me. Abide my answer, to-morrow." XXIV. Alas, Cousin Jack ! LUCILE. 49 You Cassandra in breeches and boots ! turn your back To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory Amongst thine own people. I follow my story. CANTO V. Up ! — forth again, Pegasus ! — "Many's the slip," Hath the proverb well said, " 'twixt the cup and the lip ! " How blest should we be, have I often conceived, Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved ! We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be, And fall back on the lappf a false destiny. So it will be, so has been, since this world began ! And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man Is the part which he never hath fully played out : For the first and last word in life's vol- ume is — Doubt. The face the most fair to our vision al- lowed Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. The thought that most thrills our exist- ence is one Which, before we can frame it in lan- guage, is gone. Horace ! the rustic still rests by the river. But the river flows on, and flows past him forever ! Who can sit down, and say, ..." What I will be, I will " ? Who stand up, and affirm . . . "What I was, 1 am still " ? Who is it that must not, if questioned, say, ..." What 1 would have remained, or become, I am not" ? We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, 4 Do theDanaidsply, ever vainly, the sieve. Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. Yet there 's none so unhappy, but what he hath been Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween ; And none so begiiiled and defrauded by chance, But what once, in his life, some minute circumstance Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss Which, missing it then, he forever must miss ; And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave. Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have ; But, as though by some strange imper- fection in fate. The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. The Future's great veil our breath fit- fully flaps. And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. Yet ! there 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip ; But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip. Though the cup may next moment be shattered, the wine Spilt, one deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be thine, being of beauty and bhss ! seen and known In the deeps of my soul, and possessed there alone ! My days know thee not ; and my lip.* name thee never. Thy place in my poor life is vacant for- ever. We have met : we have parted. No more is recorded In my annals on earth. This alone was aff'orded To the man whom men knew me, or deem me, to be. But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls. 50 LUCILE. 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals ; At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies ; for whom The almondine glimmers, the soft sam- phires bloom) — Thou abidest and reignest forever, Queen Of that better world which thou swayest I unseen ! My one perfect mistress ! my all things in all ! Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call : For the seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, And its thoughts are the purest — be- loved, thou art there ! And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. The world gave thee not to me, no ! and the world Cannot take thee away from me now. I have furled The wings of my spirit about thy bright head ; At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art more. And in silence I worship, in darkness adore. If life be not that which without us we find — Chance, accident, merely — but rather the mind, And the soul which, within us, surviv- eth these things. If our real existence have truly its springs Less in that which we do than in that which we feel, Not in vain do 1 worship, not hopeless I kneel ! For then, though I name thee not mis- tress or wife. Thou art mine — and mine only, — life of my life ! And though many 's the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip. Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker Idip, While there's life on the lip, while there 's warmth in the wine. One deep health 1 '11 pledge, and that health shall be tliine ! This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throes Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry. And in fiery fusion commixed earth and sky. Time cooled it, and calmed it, and taught it to go The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. The wind changeth and whirleth con- tinually : All the rivers run down and run into the sea : The wind whirleth about, and is pres- ently stiUed : All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not filled: The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth anon. All returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. The great laws of life readjust their in- fraction. And to every emotion appoint a reaction. Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, To review the rash step he had taken, and feel What the world would have called "/its erroneous position." Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recognition : Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt. Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. Every spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. IV. He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel LUCILE. 51 Little doubt what the answer would be from Lucile. Her eyes, when they parted, — her voice, when they met. Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. And yet. Though, exulting, he deemed himself loved, where he loved, Jhrough Ills mind a vague self-accusation there moved. O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind. That his heart failed within him. In vain did he find A thousand just reasons for what he had done : The vision that troubled him would not be gone. In vain did he say to himself, and with truth, "Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth ; And her heart is too young to have deeply involved All its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved. 'T were a false sense of honor in me to suppress The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. And what reason have I to presume this poor life Of my own, with its languid and frivolous sti'ife. And without what alone might endear it to lier, Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer. Its withdrawal can wrong her ? " It is not as though I were bound to some poor village maiden, I know, Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth, Or to whose simple fortunes my own could give worth. Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss Aught that I could procure her. 'T is best as it is ! " In vain did he say to himself, "When I came To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame Or reproach myself for, in the thoughts of my heart. I could not foresee that its pulses would start Into such strange emotion on seeing once more A woman I left with indifference before. I believed, and with honest conviction believed, In my love for Matilda. I never con- ceived That another could shake it. I deemed I had done ' With the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully on To the soberer manhood, the worthier life, Which I sought in the love that I vowed to my wife. Poor child ! she shall learn the whole truth. She shall know What I knew not myself but a few days ago. The world will console her, — her pride will support, — Her youth will renew its emotions. In short, There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss When once we have parted. 'T is best as it is ! " VI. But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas ! He yet felt unconvinced that 't ivas best as it was. Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, That they harrowed his heart and dis- tracted his mind. And then, when he turned from these thoughts to Lucile, Though his heart rose enraptured, he could not but feel A vague sense of awe of her nature. Be- hind All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind. Which he saw and revered in her, some- thing unknown 52 LUCILE. And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised, In himself ; but he did not feel sure that he knew, Or completely possessed, what, half hid- den froiu view, Remained lofty and lonely in her. Then, her life. So untamed, and so free ! would she yield as a wife, Independence, long claimed as a woman ? Her name. So linked by the world with that spurious fame Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert. In some measure, alas ! to her own loss and hurt In the serious thoughts of a man ! . . . This rertection O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection, From which he forever escaped to the thought Doubt could reach not. ..." I love her, and all else is naught ! " His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal Of the letter which reached him at last from Lucile. At the sight of the very first word that he read, That letter dropped down from his hand like the dead Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and bare A desolate tree in a wide wintry air. He passed his hand hurriedly over his eyes. Bewildered, incredulous. Angry sur- prise And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. Anon He picked up the page, and read rapidly on. The CoMTESSE DE Nevers to Lord Alfred Vargrave. ••No, Alfred ! " If over the present, when last We two met, rose the glamour and mist of the past, It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are plain. And those two paths divide us. " That hand which again Mine one moment has clasped as the hand of a brother. That hand and your honor are pledged to another ! Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yet For that moment (now past !) I have made you forget What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, Mine the fault, and be mine the repent- ance ! Not less, In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, too, I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. "True, That meeting, which hath been so fatal, 1 sought, I alone ! But 0, deem not it was with the thought Or your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. No ! believe me, it was with the firm and unshaken Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be W^ithout peril to you, although haply to me The salvation of all my existence. " I own. When the rumor first reached me, which lightly made known To the world your engagement, my heart and my mind Suffered torture intense. It was cniel to find That so much of the life of my life, half unknown To myself, had been silently settled on one Upon whom but to think it would soon be a crime. Then I said to myself, ' From the thral- dom which time Hath not weakened there rests but one hope of escape. That image which Fancy seems ever to shape From the solitude left round the ruins of yore Is a phantom. The Being I loved is no more. LUCILE. 53 What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone Void of life, is the young hero born of my own Perished youth : and his image, serene and sublime. In my heart rests unconscious of change and of time. Could I see it but once more, as time and as change Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange. See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth, The hard pupil of life and the world : then, 0, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be again Eeconciled to the world ; and, released from regret. Take the lot fate accords to my choice.' " So we met. But the danger I did not foresee has oc- curred : The danger, alas, to yourself ! I have erred. But happy for both that this error hath been Discovered as soon as the danger was seen ! "We meet, Alfred Vargi'ave, no more. I, indeed. Shall be far from Serchon when this let- ter you read. My course is decided ; my path I discern : Doubt is over ; my future is fixed now. " Return, return to the young living love ! Whence, alas ! If, one moment, you wandered, think only it was More deeply to bury the past love. " And, oh ! Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that 1, where I go On my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoice To treasure in memory all that your voice Has avowed to me, all in which others have clothed To my fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed ! In the fair morning light, in the orient dew Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth. The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth ? Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss I foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this Proves me worthy your friendship. And so — let it prove That I cannot — 1 do not — respond to your love. Yes, indeed ! be convinced that I could not (no, no. Never, never !) have rendered you happy. And so. Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have plighted, You would have endured, when the first brief, excited Emotion was o'er, not alone the re- morse Of honor, but also (to render it worse) Disappointed affection. "Yes, Alfred ; you start? But think ! if the world was too much in your heart. And too little in mine, when we parted ten years Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears !) Have but deepened the old demarcations which then Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again. As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. In that self-independence which is to my life Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, Had our course through the world been henceforth side by side, I should have revolted forever, and shocked, Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mocked, Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those Social creeds which you live by. "Oh ! do not suppose That I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are right. Best, then, all as it is ! " Deem these words life's Good-night 54 L17CILE. To the hope of a moment : no more ! If there fell Any tear on this page, 't was a friend's. "So farewell To the past — and to you, Alfred Var- grave. " LuciLE." So ended that letter. The room seemed to reel Round and round in the mist that was scorching his eyes With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, Half choked him ; each word he had read, as it smote Down some hope, rose and grasped like a hand at his throat, To stifle and strangle him. Gasping already For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady. He passed from his chamber. He felt both oppressed And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast. And, in search of fresh air and of soli- tude, passed The long lime-trees of Serchon. His footsteps at last Reached a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a wood : It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown. Stood a small ruined abbey. He reached it, sat down On a fragment of stone, 'raid the \yi\6. weed and thistle. And read over again that perplexing epistle. In re-reading that letter, there rolled from his mind The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind To the pathos breathed through it. Tears rose in his eyes. And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seemed to rise. The truth which he saw not the first time he read That letter, he now saw, — that each word betrayed The love which the writer had sought to conceal. His love was received not, he could not but feel, For one reason alone, — that his love was not free. True ! free yet he was not ; but could he not be Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell. And to sanction his own hopes ? he had but to tell The truth to Matilda, and she were the first To release him : he had but to wait at the worst. Matilda's relations would probably snatch Any pretext, with pleasure, to break ofl" a match In which they had yielded, alone at the whim Of their spoiled child, a languid ap- proval to him. She herself, careless child ! was her love for him aught Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought She last gave to her doll ? was she able to feel Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile ? He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh ! then. He had but to fly to Lucile, and again Claim the love which his heart would be free to command. But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand. Or even to seek, or to see her, before He could say, "I am free ! free, Lucile, to implore That great blessing on life you alone can confer," ' 'T were dishonor in him, 't would be in- sult to her. Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee He followed so fondly his own revery. That he felt not the angry regard of a man Fixed upon him ; he saw not a face stern and wan Turned towards him ; he heard not a footstep that passed And repassed the lone spot where he stood, till at last " He saw, On the bare heath before him, the Dec de Luvois." LUCILE. 55 A hoarse voice aroused him. In advance, raised a hand, fixed upon He looked up and saw, him his eyes. On the bare heath before hinS, the Due And said . . . de Luvois. " Hold, Lord Alfred ! Away with disguise ! XII. I will own that I sought you a moment "With aggressive ironical tones, and a ago. look To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do Of concentrated insolent challenge, the so Duke Upon any excuse. I prefer to be frank. Addressed to Lord Alfred some sneering I admit not a rival in fortune or rank allusion To the hand of a woman, whatever be To "the doubtless sublime reveries his hers intrusion Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Had, he feared, interrupted. Milord Xevers. would do better, I believed, ere you crossed me, and still He fancied, however, to fold up a letter have the right The writing of which was too well known, To believe, that she would have been in fact, mine. To her sight His remark as he passed to have failed You return, and the woman is suddenly to attract." changed. You step in between us : her heart is XIII. • estranged. It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman You ! who now are betrothed to another. was bent I know : . Upon picking a quarrel ! and doubtless You ! whose name with Lucile's nearly 't was meant ten years ago From him to provoke it by sneers such Was coupled by ties which you broke : as these. you ! the man A moment sufficed his qviick instinct to I reproached on the day our acquaint- seize ance began : The position. He felt that he could not You ! that left her so lightly, — I can- expose not believe , His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, That you love, as I love, her ; nor can to those 1 conceive Idle tongues that would bring down You, indeed, have the right so to love upon him the ban her. Of the world, if he now were to fight "Milord with this man. I will not thus tamely concede, at your And indeed, when he looked in the word. Duke's haggard face. "What, a few days ago, I believed to be He was pained by the change there he mine ! could not but trace. I shall yet persevere : I shall yet be, in And he almost felt pity. fine. He therefore put by A rival you dare not despise. It is plain Each remark from the Duke with some That to settle this contest there can but careless reply. remain And coldly, but courteously, waving One way — need I say what it is ? " away The ill-humor the Duke seemed resolved XV. to display. Not unmoved Rose, and turned, with a stem saluta- With regretful respect for the earnest- tion, aside. ness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Var- XIV. grave replied Then the Duke put himself in the path, In words which he trusted might yet made one stride turn aside 56 LUCILE. The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst !) Had not been accepted. " Accepted ! say first Are you free to have ottered ? " Lord Alfred was mute. "Ah, you dare not reply !" cried the Duke. " Why dispute, Why palter with me 1 You are silent ! and why ? Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 'T was from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, And the wish an ascendency lost to re- call. That j'on stepped in between me and her. If, milord. You be really sincere, I ask only one word. Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart. And there cnn be no quarrel between us. Say on ! " Lord Alfred grew galled and impatient. This tone Koused a strong irritation he could not repi'ess. "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and condi- tions with me. I refuse to rejjly." XVIIT. As diviners may see Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imTuinent. There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long- perished race. With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead. Those tw? men had met, as it were on the ridge Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge Dividing the Past from the Future, so small That, if one should pass over, the other must fall. On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof. Urged with speed, sharply smote ; and from under the roof Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged On the heath where the}' stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman. A guide he ayipeared, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern Jash With the short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind The short jacket ; the loose canvas trouser, confined By the long boots ; the woollen capote ; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheeled his horse, white with the foam on his flank. Leaped the rivulet lightly, turned sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bowed low in the selle, and delivered a note. The two stood astonished. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turned, stretched his hand, and possessed Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore The page open, and read. Ere a moment was o'er His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes, And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise Lord Alfred yet watched him, he turned on his heel. And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile ! LUCILE. 57 You are quite right, Lord Alfred ! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be re- versed. You are not accepted — nor free to pro- pose ! I, perchance, am accepted already ; who knows ? I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. This letter — but stay ! you can read it — look here ! " It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could sanction resentment. He said Not a word, but turned round, took the letter, and read . . . The CoMTEssE DE Nevers to the Due DE Luvois. " Saint Saviour. "Your letter, which followed me here, makes me stay Till I see you again. With no moment's delay I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel Or profess, to come to me directly. "Lucile." XXII. "Your letter!" He then had been writing to her ! Coldly shrugging his shoulders. Lord Alfred said, " Sir, Do not let me detain you ! " The Duke smiled and bowed ; Placed the note in his bosom ; addressed, half aloud, A few words to the messenger : . . . " Say your despatch Will be answered ere nightfall " ; then glanced at his watch. And turned back to the Baths. Alfred Vargrave stood still. Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. He turned to Lucile' s farewell letter to him, And read over her words ; rising tears made them dim ; " Doxiht is over : my future is fixed now," they said, ' ' My course is decided. " Her course ? what ! to wed With this insolent rival ! With that thought there shot Through his heart an acute jealous an- guish. But not Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuse Those strange words to the Duke. She was free to refuse Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true : Even then, though, this eager and strange rendezvous How imprudent ! To some unfrequented lone inn. And so late (for the night was about to begin) — She, companionless there ! — had she bidden that man ? A fear, vague, and formless, and horri- ble, ran Through his heart. At that moment he looked up, and saw, Riding fast through the forest, the Due de Lirvois, Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight. The day was descending. He felt 'twould be night Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. XXV. He walked on, but not Back toward Serchon : he walked on, but knew not in what Direction, nor yet with what object, in- deed. He was walking ; but still he walked on without heed. XXVI. The day had been sullen ; but, towards his decline. The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine. Darkly denting the red light revealed at its back. The old ruined abbey rose roofless and black. 58 LUCILE. The spring that yet oozed through the njoss-paven floor Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore, The site of that refuge where, back to its God How many a heart, now at rest 'ueath the sod. Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest That now preyed on his own ! By tlie thoughts in his breast With varying impulse divided and torn. He traversed the scant heath, and reached the forlorn Autumn woodland, in which but a short while ago He had seen the Duke rapidly enter ; and so He too entered. The light waned around him, and passed Into darkness. The wrathful, red Oc- cident cast One glare of vindictive inquiry behind. As the last light of day from the high wood declined. And the great forest sighed its farewell to the beam. And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream Fell faintly. Nature, how fair is thy face. And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy grace ! Thou false mistress of man ! thou dost sport with him lightly In his hours of ease and enjoyment ; and brightly Dost thou smile to his smile ; to his joys thou inclinest. But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor divinest. While he woos, thou art wanton ; thou lettest him love thee ; But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot move thee ; And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost thou ? All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow, And thou laughest and toyest with any new comer, Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer ! Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart under That fair breast of thine, thou feminine wonder ! For all those — the young, and the fair, and the strong. Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and long. And who now on thy bosom lie dead ? and their deeds And their days are forgotten ! 0, hast thou no weeds And not one year of mourning, — one out of the many That deck thy new bridals forever, — nor any Regrets for thy lost loves, concealed from the new, thou widow of earth's generations ? Goto ! If the sea and the night wind know aught of these things, They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. CANTO VI. * ' 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 court-yard with curious eye: He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet From strangeness to strangeness his foot- steps ai'e 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, blazoned, burn out of the wall : The spell of a wizard is over it all. In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping LUCILE. 59 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 striv- ing to saj, ' Halt ! invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day ! And give 7iot, madman! the heart in thy breast To a pJuintom, the soul of ivhose sense is possessed 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 vanished from siglit evermore ! And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves O'er a land long deserted, a madman tliat roves Through a ruin, and seeks to I'ecapture 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. 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. Wlien 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, Seemed amiable foibles, by Luvois pur- sued With impetuous passion, seemed semi- Satanic. Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles ; in panic You watch them whirled down by the torrent. In truth. To the saci'cd political creed of his youth The century which he was born to de- nied 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 no- where he trod. Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god. And his pastime his purpose. From boyhood possessed 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 appeared 60 LUCILE. 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 'T was this vigor of nature, and tension of will, That found for the first time — perchance 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 joined The terror of missing his life's destina- tion. Which in her had its mystical repre- sentation. And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, passed 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 strayed in the waste un- awares, So that thought more than once darkened over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seemed to depart. Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the sliaggy hillside : and the quarrel- ling crows Clanged above him, and clustering down tlie dim air Dropped into the dark woods. By iits liere and there Shepherd fires faintly gleamed from the valleysl 0, how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy as- cent Of the mountain ! Behind him a mur- mur 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 rolled momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. The red day had fallen beneath the black Avoods, And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes Walked abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mut- tered like seas In Elfland. The road through the for- est was hollowed. On he sped through the darkness, as though he were followed Fast, fast by the Erl King ! The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last opened sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleamed like gems. Broke the broad moon above the volu- minous Rock-chaos, — the Hecate of that Tar- tarus ! With his horse reeking white, he at last reached 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 leajied o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into i)ools that were feeding the roots of the night. A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering casement a shade seemed to move. At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reached it. " My mistress awaits you," she said. And up the rude stairway of creaking pine rafter He followed her silent. A few moments after. His heart almost stunned him, his head seemed to reel, For a door closed — Luvois was alone with Lucile. LUCILE. 61 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 tire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever. They seemed 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 1 sent ? " There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife. LiTCILE. Your letter ! yes, Duke, ens man's life, — Woman's honor. For it threat- 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 let- ter . . . " I knoiv Why now you refuse me ; 't is (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, vxin- tonly. And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myse '/. But he shall not I By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right. Due de Luvois !) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shall not live To make you as wretched as you have made vie !" Luvois. Well, madam, in those words what word 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 soiled and dishonored by more than mere shame If the woman that bore it had lirst 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 con- test but draws Every right into ruin. By all human laws Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sancti- ties Of man's social honor ! The Duke drooped his eyes. " I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, And tlie storm in man's heart. Madam, yours wns the riglit, When you saw that I lio))ed, to extinguish hope quite. But you should from the first have done this, for 1 feel That you knew from the first that I loved you." Lucile This sudden reproach seemed 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 passed, Pit}'^ crept, and perchance o'er her con- science a tear, Falling softly, awoke it. However severe. Were tliey unjust, these sudden up- braidings, to her ? Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character. 62 LUCILE. Which had seemed, even when most im- passioned it seemed, Too self-conscious to lose all in love ? Had she deemed That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, So proud of the place the world gave him, held fui'led 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 ? At that thought, from her aspect what- ever had been Stern or haughty departed ; and, hum- bled in mien. She approached him, and brokenly mur- mured, as though To herself more than him, "Was 1 wrong ? is it so ? Hear me, Duke ! you must feel that, whatever you deem Your right to repi'oach 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 ta 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 deemed 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 deemed my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deemed 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 ine, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain From hope ? alas f I too then hoped ! " Ltrvois. 0, again. Yet again, say that thrice-blessed word ? say, Lucile, That you then deigned 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 LUCILE. 63 A lieart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope ? Luvois. 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 tliat the hope it had cher- ished 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 answered ..." 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 wron'jed years ago ! " Lucile faintly, brokenly murmured, . . . " No ! no ! 'T is not that — but alas ! — but I can- not 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 ! " Witli words warm and wild, "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried ; "though ruinefl it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me ! " He approached her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answered, " No ! " An emotion more fierce seemed to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaimed, "Am I right? You reject me .' accept Mm ? " " 1 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 Iree ? 0, you blush, — turn away ! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say ! While you deign to reply to one question from me ? I ma}' hope not, you tell me : but telJ me, may he ? What ! silent ? I alter my question. If (juite Freed in faith from tliis troth, might h^ hope then ?" "He might," She said softly. Those two whispered 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, cliased From its realm human reason. The wild animal In the bosom of man was set free. And of all Human passions the fiercest, fierce jeal- ousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rushed upon him ; fierce jealousy, swelled By all jiassions bred from it, and evei impelled To involve all things else in the anguist within it, And on others inflict its own pangs ! At tliat minuto What passed through his mind, who shall say ? who may tell The dark thouglits of man's heart, which the red glare of hell Can illumine alone ? 64 LUCILE. He stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely ! That silence ! no sound Reached that room, through the dark evening air, save the drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near ! It was midnight all round on the weird siknt weather ; Deep midnight in him ! They two, — lone and together. Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! The triumph and bliss of his rival flashed o'er him. The abyss of his own black despair seemed to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin passed into his soul in the gloom. And, uttering words he dared never re- call, Words of insult and menace, he thun- dered down all The brewed storm-cloud within him : its flashes scorched blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of a reckless emotion beyond his con- trol ; A torrent seemed loosened within him. His soul Surged up fi'om that caldron of passion that hissed And seethed in his heart. He had thrown, and had missed His last stake. 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 abashed 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 phan- tom 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 murmured — " Farewell ! We, alas ! have mistaken each other. Once more Illu.sion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. Due de Luvois, adieu ! " From the heart-breaking gloom Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room. He felt she was gone, — gone forever ! No word, The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword. Could have ])ierced to his heart with such keen accusation As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, In which he remained. " 0, return ; I repent ! " He exclaimed ; but no sound through the stillness was sent, Save the loar of the watei', in answer to hiui, Andthebeetlethat, .sleeping, yethummed her night-hymn : An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air With a .searching, and wistful, and ques- tioning 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 gloomed suUenl}' rouiul. A candle one ray Irom a closed casement flung. O'er the dim balustrade all bewildered he hung. Vaguely watching the broken and shim- mering blink " She rose, And swept to the ddor. LUCILE. 65 Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink Of that snake-like prone column of wa- ter ; and listing Aloof o'er the languors of air the persist- ing Sharp horn of tlie gray gnat. Before he relinquished His unconscious employment, that light was extinguished. 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 Pealed the knell of its last hope. He rushed 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 glim- mering 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 for- ever ; Before him a Future devoid of endeavor And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, Of the other a fear. What remained 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 passed o'er him ; an angry remorse Of his own frantic failure and error had marred Such a refuge forever. The future seemed barred 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 't were 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 kneeled To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard field. With the Crescent) become, ere it reached him, tradition ; A mere faded badge of a social posi- tion ; 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 failed the strong needs of his manhood, in truth ! And beyond them, what region of ref- uge ? what field For employment, this civilized age, did it yield. In that civilized land ? or to thought ? or to action ? Blind deliriums, bewildered 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, un- represt. Ran riot through that ruined world in his breast. So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight Of a heaven sealed 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 66 LUCILE. The voices abroad o'er those vast soli- tudes, Were in commune all round with the invisible Power That walked the dim world by Himself at that hour. But their language he had not yet learned — in despite Of the much he had learned — or for- gotten it quite, With its once native accents. Alas I what had he To add to that deep-toned sublime sym- phony Of thanksgiving ? . . . A fiery finger was still Scorching into his heart some dread sen- tence. 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 heaped themselves over the bare west in crowds Of misshapen, incongi-uous portents. A green Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between The base, of their black barricades, and the ridge Of the grim world, gleamed ghastly, as under some bridge. Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'er- thrown 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 revealed, through a loop In the breached dark, the blemished 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. Darkened round him. One object alone — that gray cross — Glimmered faint on the dark. Gazing up, he descried Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretched wide. As though to embrace him. He turned from the sight. Set his face to the darkness, and fled. When the light Of the dawn grayly flickered 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 Serchon. Thus riding, with eyes of defiance Set against the young day, as disclaim- ing alliance With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp-leaved ^ Autumn brandies that put forth gaunt arms on his way, The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray With the gray glare of morning. Eu- gene 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 fixed keenly on him. And, to meet it, a lie leaped at once to his own ; A lie born of that lying darkness now grown Over all in his nature ! He answered that gaze With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys More intensely than words what a man means, conveyed Beyond doubt in its smile an announce- ment which said, " I have trmmphed. The qiiestion your eyes would imply CoTnes too late, Alfred Fargrave ! " LUCILE. 67 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 impelled, by one wild fear pursued. And led by one instinct, which seemed to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one — The torture of doubt — had strayed moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that even- ing in which With the Duke he had parted ; strayed on, through the riclr Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, Which darkened, unnoticed, the land from liis sight. Toward Saint Saviour ; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery round 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 liours in a cloud, slipped 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 unfurled. 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 Serchon ; not yet then the Duke had returned ! He listened, he looked up the dark, but discerned 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. Revealed to him, riding toward Serchon, the Duke. 'T was then that the two men exchanged look for look. And the Duke's rankled in him. XVI. He rushed on. He tore His path through the thick et. He reached the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, And inquired for the Countess. The man rubbed 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 grinned and replied. With a vacant intelligence, " He, ay, ay ! He went after the lady." No further reply Could he give. Alfred Vargrave de- manded no more, Flung a coin to the man, and so turned from the door. " Wliat ! the Duke then the night in that lone inn had passed ? In that lone inn — with her ! " Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which remained On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explained ? The day was half turned to the evening, before 68 LUCILE. He re-entered Serchon, 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. Eight Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride. Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turned, stepjjed aside, And, cordially grasi>ing his hand, whis- pered low, " 0, how right have you been ! There can never be — no, Never — any more contest between us ! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends ! " Having uttered that word, He turned 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, Eooted, stunned to the spot. He felt weary and ill. Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul, "With a dull, stiHing 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 ? 'T is, no doubt, say the flatterers, flat- tering in tune, Some ve.stal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn Has at last found a Mars, — who, of course, shall be nameless, The 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 ! Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul Where the thought of Lucile was en- shrined, did there roll Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course O'er his nature, with gathered momentum and force. The world. " No ! " he muttered, " she cannot have sinned ! True ! women there are (self-named women of mind !) Who love rather liberty — liberty, yes ! To choose and to leave — than the legal- ized stress Of the lovingest marriage. But she — is she so ? I will not believe it. Lucile ? no, no ! Not Lucile ! " But the world ? and, ah, what would it say ? the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day ! The gossip's light question ! the slan- derous jest ! She is right ! no, we could not be happy. 'T is best As it is. I will write to her, — write, 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, 1 know. 'T was a dream ! we must waken ! " With head bowed, 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 court-yard, and ready to start. LUCILE. 69 Postboys mounted, poiimanteaus packed up and made fast, A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he passed. He ordered his horse to be ready anon : Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly passed on, And ascended the staircase, and entered 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, afi'ected, or vain. It gave a respectable look to the slab That it lay on. The name was — Full familiar to him was the name that he saw, For 't was that of his own future uncle- in -la w% Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known As wearing the longest-phylacteried 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 mo- lested 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 P.salm Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception did Eidley pre- sent. Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prospered his piety. The leader of every religious society. Christian knowledge he labored through 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. Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, A waiter his head through the doorway protruded ; ' ' Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wished 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 sil- very, 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 re- lease. In company there with his sister and niece, Found himself now at Serchon, — dis- tributing 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, him- self, setting out 70 LUCILE. 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 seemed 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 seemed to cause Some surpiise to Sir Ridley, he answered, — "My dear Sir Eidley, 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 passed through the door. A few moments later, with footsteps re- vealing Intense agitation of uncontrolled feel- He was rajiidly pacing the garden below. What passed through his mind then is more than 1 know. But before one half-hour into darkness had fled, In the courtyard he stood with Sir Rid- ley. His tread Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face Betrayed there the least agitation. ' ' The place You so kindly have offered," he said, " I accept. " And he stretched out his hand. The two travellers stepped 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 suddenl}' 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 ? 't would relieve And enlighten, perchance, my own dark- ness and doubt." For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. It was snapjted up at once. " What is truth ? " jesting Pilate Asked, and passed from the question at once with a smile at Its utter futility. Had he addressed it To Ridley MacNab, he at least had con- fessed it Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man Could more promptly have answered the sceptical Roman Than Eidley. Hear some street astrono- mer talk ! Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, And forthwith on the pavement he 'U sketch you the scheme Of the heavens. Then hear him en- large on his theme ! Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he ] He '11 prove you the whole plan in plain ABC. 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, ATILDA SPRANG TO HIM, AT ONCE. LUCILE. 71 (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. 'T is the half-empty vessel that freest emits The water that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability Of imparting to others a truth with facility Is proportioned forever with painful exactness To the portable nature, the vulgar com- pactness. 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 summed up in a tract Is most lightly dispensed. As for Alfred, indeed, On what spoonfuls of truth he was suf- fered to feed By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, That the two men thus talking contin- ued 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 sanc- tion 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 laughed. It wanted but two rosy hours From the noon, when they passed through the thick passion-flowers Of the little wild garden that dimpled before The sniall house where their carriage now stopped, 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 hilbide 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 murmured, or sighed, " 0, how could I have strayed From this sweet child, or suff"ered 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 whispered her softly, "my heart unto thee Is returned, 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 dreamed that these clever French- women of mind Could satisfy simply a plain English heart. Or sympathize with it ? " 72 LUCILE. XXIV. And here the first part Of this drama is over. The curtain falls fulled On the actors within it, — the Heart and the World. Wooed and wooer have played with the riddle of life, — Have they solved it ? Appear ! answer. Husband and Wife ! Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevei'S, Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers. The CoMTESSE DE Nevers to a Friend IN India. "Once more, my friend, to your arms and your heart, And the places of old . . . never, never to part ! Once moie 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 Sapped and mined by the fever they bear from their birth ; From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crow.d. Born too late, when the strength of the worhl hath been bowed ; Back, — back to the Orient, from whose sun bright womb Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom And the lieauty 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 leapt into life, and looked 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 watched 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 gathered the moonbeams for gold ? Do you yet recollect me, my friend ? Do you still Remember the free games we played on the hill, 'Mid those huge stones upheaped, where we recklessly trod O'er the old ruined fane of the old ruined god? How he frowned, while around him we carelessly i)layed ! That frown on my life ever after hath stayed. 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 frowned. To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found. In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss Which his science divine seemed divine- ly 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 hurled 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 watched 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 wander ing sea : LUCILE. 73 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 earth- quake 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 burned out within me the fuel of life Wlierefore 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 scattered links. But 't is vain ! Each attempt seems to shatter the chap- let 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 wandered. " How many long years Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears. While I wrote to you, splashed 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 seemed 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 shall visit no more. And a heart's 7'equiescat 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, 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 fro;n some city of doom. Or only a wayfarer strayed in the gloom. This only I know : that in Euro[ie 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 thrusts from the shelf ; And I seenr as unreal and weird to my- self As those idols of old. " Other times, other men, Other men, other passions ! " So be it ! yet again I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn. And the light of those lands where the great sun is born ! Spread your arms, my friend ! on your breast let me feel The repose which hath fled from my own. " Your LuciLE." 74 LUCILE. PAET II. CANTO I. For I sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems I. Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. Hail, Muse ! But each Muse by this Yes ! thy spirit descends upon mine, time has, I know, John Murray ! Been used up, and Apollo has beut his And I start — with thy book — for the own bow Baths in a hurry. All too long ; so I leave unassaulted the portal Of Olympus, and only invoke here a 11. mortal. "At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine ; Hail, Murray ! — not Lindley, — but And from thence the road, winding by Murray and Sou. Ehrenbreitsteiu, Hail, omniscient, beneficent, great Two- Passes over the frontier of Nassau. in-One ! ("N. B. Ill Albenia le Street may thy temple No custom-house here since the Zoll- long stand i verein." See Long enlightened and led by thine eru- Murray, paragraph 30.) dite hand, ' ' The route, at each turn. May each novice in science nomadic Here the lover of nature allows to dis- unravel cern. Statistical mazes of modernized travel ! In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale : May each inn-keepiug knave long thy The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail judgments revere. In the foliage observable here ; and, And the postboys of Europe regard thee moi'cover. with fear ; The soil is carbonic. The road, under While they feel, in the silence of baffled cover extortion, Of the grape-clad and mountainous up- That knowledge is power ! Long, long. land that hems like that portion Round this beautiful spot, brings the Of the national soil which the Greek traveller to — " EMS. exile took A schnell)>ost from Frankfort arrives In his baggage wherever he went, may every day. thy boik At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who you ]:ay trusts to thy wit Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaura- Not to pay through his nose just for teur following it ! Is attached to the place ; but most trav- Mayst thou long, instructor ! preside ellers prefer o'er his way, (Including, indeed, many persons of And teach him alike what to praise and note) to ]iay ! To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. Thee, pursuing this pathway of song. Through the town runs the Lahn, the once again steep green banks of which I invoke, lest, unskilled, I should wan- Two rows of white picturesque houses der in vain. enrich ; To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, And between the high road and the refuse river is laid Thy great accents to lend to the lips of Out a sort of a garden, called * Thk, my Muse ; Promenade.' LUCILE. 75 Female visitors here, who may make up their mind To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day long, Troops of donkeys — sure-footed — pro- verbially strong " ; And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes, Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. 'Mid tlie world's weary denizens bound for these springs In the month when the merle on the maple-bough sings. Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths By a similar sickness, there came to the ba*^hs Four sufferers, — each stricken deep through the lieart. Or the head, by the self-same invisible dart Of the arrow that flieth unheard in the noon. From the sickness that walketh unseen in the moon, Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each Infects with his own sores the next within reach. First of these were a young English hus- band and wife. Grown weary ere half through the jour- ney of life. Nature, say where, thou gray mother of earth. Is the strength of thy youth ? that thy womb brings to birth Only old men to-day ! On the winds, as of old. Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold; Thy forests are green as of yore ; and thine oceans Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions : But man — thy last birth and thy best — is no more Life's free lord, that looked up to the starlight of yore, With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the eyes, The firm foot on the earth, the high heart in the skies ; But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth. Born too late or too early. The lady, in truth, Was young, fair, and gentle ; and never was given To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold Tresses brighter than those which her soft liand unrolled From her noble and innocent brow, when she rose, An Aurora, at dawn, from her balmy repose, And into the mirror the bloom and the blush Of her beauty broke, glowing ; like light in a gush From the sunrise in summer. Love, roaming, shall meet But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet — Eyes brighter — brows whiter — a figure more fair — Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair — Than thine. Lady Alfred ! And here I aver (May those that have seen thee declare if I err) That not all the oysters in Britain contain A pearl pure as thou art. Let some one explain, — Who may know more than I of the inti- mate life Of the pearl with the oyster, — why yet in his wife. In despite of her beauty — and most when he felt His .soul to the sense of her loveliness melt — Lord Alfred missed something he sought for : indeed. The more that he missed it the greater the need ; Till it seemed to himself he could wilL ingly spare All the charms that he found for the one charm not there. For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly demands 76 LUCILE. The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. And the value of all things exists, not indeed In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's need. Alfred Vargrave. in wedding with beauty and youth. Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet in truth Unfulfilled the ambition, and sterile the wealth LUCILE. 77 ^In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), Had remained, while the beauty and youth, uniedeemed From a vague disappointment at all things, but seemed Day by day to reproach him in silence for all That lost youth in himself they had failed to recall. No career had he followed, no object ob- tained In the world by those worldly advantages gained From nuptials beyond which once seemed to appear. Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. All that glittered and gleamed through the moonlight of youth With a glory so fair, now that manhood in truth Orasped and gathered it, seemed like that false fairy gold Which leaves in the iia.nd only moss, leaves, and mould ! Fairy gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy Bride ? Lived there yet fairy-lands in the face at his side ? Say, friend, if at evening thou ever hast watched Some pale and impalpable vapor, de- tached From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all The chilled splendor reluctantly waned in the deep Of its own native heaven ? Even so seemed to creep O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day. While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil Of a sadness unconscious. The lady grew pale As silent her lord grew : and both, as they eyed Each the other askance, turned, and secretly sighed. Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give ? True, we know what life is — biit, alas ! do we live? The grammar of life we have gotten by heart. But life's self we have made a dead lan- guage, • — an art. Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 't was spoken When the silence of passion the first time was broken ! Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt : But the last man, at best, was but learned about What the first, without learning, enjoyed. What art thou To the man of to-day, Leviathan, now ? A science. What wert thou to him that from ocean First beheld thee appear ? A surprise, — an emotion ! When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in the heart. When it thrills as it fills every animate part. Where lurks it ? how works it ? . . . we scarcely detect it. But life goes : the heart dies : haste, leech, and dissect it ! This accursed issthetical, ethical age Hath so fingered life's hornbook, so blurred every page. That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story, With its fables of faery, its legends of glory. Is turned to a tedious instruction, not new To the children that read it insipidly through. We know too much of Love ere we love. We can trace Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face When we see it at last. 'T is the same little Cupid, With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost stupid. We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our shelves. And copied a hundred times over, our- selves. And wherever we turn, and whatever > we do, Still, that horrible sense of the dejA connu ! 78 LUCILE. Perchance 't was the fault of the life that they led ; Perchance 't was the fault of the novels they read ; Perchance 't was a fault in themselves ; I am hound not To say : this 1 know — that these two creatures found not In each other some sign they expected to find Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind ; And, missing it, each felt a right to com- plain Of a sadness which each found no word to explain. Whatever it was, the world noticed not it In the light-hearted beauty, the light- hearted wit. Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 't is the case, Each must speak to the crown with a mask on his face. Praise followed Matilda wherever she went. She was flattered. Can flattery pur- chase content ? Yes. While to its voice, for a moment, she listened, The young cheek still bloomed, and the soft eyes still glistened ; And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid things That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which proved Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot 'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that was not : And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bowed, (As they turned to each other, each flushed from the crowd,) And murmured those praises which yet seemed more dear Than the praises of others had grown to her ear, She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret : "Yes ! ... he loves me," she sighed ; " this is love, then, — and yet — .' " Ah, that yet ! fatal word ! 't is the moral of all Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since the Fall ! It stands at the end of each sentence we learn ; It flits in the vista of all we discern ; It leads us, for ever and ever, away To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 'T was this same little fatal and mysti- cal word That now, like a mirkge, led my lady and lord To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah ; Drooping pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara ! At the same time, pursued bj'' a spell much the same. To these waters two other worn pilgrims there came : One a man, one a woman : just now, at the latter, As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her And judge for himself, I will not even glance. IX. Of the self-crowned young kings of the Fashion in France Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots. were so bright. Who so hailed in the salon, so marked in the Bois, Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois ? Of all the smooth-browed premature debauchees In that town of all towns, where De- bauchery sees On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere graven, — In Paris I mean, — where the streets are all paven By those two flends whom Milton saw bridging the way From Hell to this planet, — who, haughty and gaj'. The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, LUCILE, 79 Walked that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois ? Yes ! he marched through the great masquerade, loud of tongue, Bold of brow : but the motley he masked in, it hung So loose, trailed so wide, and appeared to impede So strangely at times the vexed effort at speed, That a keen eye might guess it was made — not for him, But some brawler more stalwart of stat- ure and limb. That it irked him, in truth, you at times could divine. For when low was the music, and spilt was tlie wine. He would clutch at the garment, as though it oppressed And stifled some impulse that choked in his breast. What ! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous ease ! Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease ? My friend, hear a parable : ponder it well : For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. One evening I sat in the Palais Eoyal, And there, while 1 laughed at Grassot and Arnal, My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; Every time that he laughed I observed that he sighed. As though vexed to be pleased. I re- marked that he sat 111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat In his hand, with a look of unquiet ab- straction. I inquired the cause of his dissatisfac- tion. " Sir," he said, "if what vexes me here you would know, Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours ago, I walked into the Fran9ais, to look at Rachel. (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a mira- cle !) — Well, I asked for a box : they were occupied all: For a seat in the balcony : all taken ! a stall : Taken too : the whole house was as full as could be, — Not a hole for a rat ! I had just time to see The lady I love tetc-d-tetc witli a friend In a box out of reach at the opposite end : Then the crowd pushed me out. What was left me to do ? I tried for the tragedy . . . que voulez- vous ? Every place for the tragedy booked ! . . . mon ami, The farce was close by : ... at the farce me void! The piece is a new one : and Grassot plays well : There is droUerj'^, too, in that fellow Ravel : And Hyacinth's nose is superb ! . . . Yet 1 meant My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have s])ent. Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours ! Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers." I once met the Due de Luvois for a mo- ment ; And I marked, when his features I fixed in my comment. O'er those features the same vague dis- quietude stray I had seen on the face of ray friend at the play ; And I thought that he too, very proba- bly, spent His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. source of the holiest joys we inherit, Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit ! Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert sand. Grown impatient too soon for the long- promised land He turns from the worship of thee, as thou art. An expressless and imageless truth in the heart, And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf And the gold of the Godless, to make to himself 80 LUCILE. A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee, And then bows to the sound of the cym- bal the knee. The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods : Like the prophets of Baal, our bosoms with rods We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till they bleed, But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to our need. The land is athirst, and cries out ! . . . 't is in vain ; The great blessing of Heaven descends not in rain. It was night ; and the lamps were be- ginning to gleam Through the long linden-trees, folded each in his dream, From that building which looks like a temple . . . and is The Temple of — Health ? Nay, but enter ! I wis That never the rosy-hued deity knew One votary out of that sallow-cheeked crew Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prus- sians ; Jews — Hamburghers chiefly ; -^ pure patriots, — Suabians ; — " Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, And the dwellers in Pontus "... My muse will not weary More lines with the list of them . . . cur fremuerc ? What is it they nmrmur, and mutter, and hum ? Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come ? 0, what is the name of the god at whose fane Every nation is mixed in so motley a train ? What weird Kabala lies on those tables outspread ? To what oiacle turns with attention each head ? What holds these pale worshippers each so devoiit, And what aie those hierophants busied about ? Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro. And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and No : Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance. And the God worshipped here is the old God of Chance. Through the wide-open doors of the dis- tant saloon Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune ; And an indistinnt music forever is rolled. That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold. From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze. Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass, And the weird words pursue it — Rouge, Impair, et Passe ! Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat. The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet Was but young) in this self- same Pavil- ion of Chance. The idler from England, the idler from France Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial pleasure : An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure. And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray One discourteous remembrance of things passed away. 'T was a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, These friends exchange greetings ; — the men who had been Foes so nearly in days that were past. This, no doubt. Is why, on the night I am speaking about. LUCILE. 81 My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, Matilda, half vexed, at the room'sfarthest end. Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began With a few modest thalers — away they all ran — The reserve followed fast in the rear. As his purse Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it : 'T is an old law in physics — Nalura abhorrct Vacuum — and my lord, as he watched his last crown Tumble into the bank, turned away with a frown Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have decked On that day of all days when an empire was wrecked On thy plain, Waterloo, and he wit- nessed the last Of his favoiite Guard cut to pieces, aghast ! Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why, Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye Had long been intently regarding him there, — That some gaze was upon him too search- ing to bear. He rose and looked up. Was it fact ? Was it fable ? Was it dream ? Was it waking ? Across the green table. That face, with its features so fatally known, — Those eyes, whose deep gaze answered strangely his own, — What was it ? Some ghost from its grave come again ? Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain ? Or was it herself — with those deep eyes of hers, And that face unforgotten ? — Lucile de Nevers ! 6 Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem. Who appeared to herself but the dream of a dream ! 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hushed. That pale cheek forever by passion un- flushed, There yawned an insatiate void, and there heaved A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. The biief noon of beauty was passing away. And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. And now, as all round her the dim even- ing stole. With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved For the want of that tender assurance received From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye, Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou naught, — / am by ! " And thus, through that lonely and self- tixed existence. Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance : A strange sort of faint-footed fear, — like a mouse That comes out, when 't is dark, in some old ducal house Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare. And the forms on the arras are all that move there. In Rome, — in the Forum, — there opened one night A gulf. All the augurs turned pale at the sight. In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. Men consulted the gods : then the oracle said : — " Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff. But the gnlf yawned as wide. Rome seemed likely enough 82 LUCILE. To be ruined ere this rent in her heart she could choke. Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : " Quirites ! to this Heaven's question is come : What to Rome is most precious ? The manhood of Rome." He plunged, and the gulf closed. The tale is not new ; But the moral applies many ways, and is true. How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroyed ? 'T is a warm human life that must fill up the void. Thorough many a heart runs the rent in the fable ; But who to discover a Curtius is able ? Back she came from her long hiding- place, at the source Of the sunrise ; where, fair in their fab- ulous course, Run the rivers of Eden : an exile again. To the cities of Europe, — the scenes, and the men. And the life, and the ways, she had left : still oppressed With the same hungry heart, and un- peaceable breast. The same, to the same things ! The world, she had quitted With a sis,h, with a sigh she re-entered. Soon flitted Through the salons and clubs, to the great satisfaction Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. The enchanting Lucile, the gay Coun- tess, onc'e more To her old friend, the World, had re- oppned her door ; The World came, and shook hands, and was ]ileased and amused With what the World then went away and abused. From the woman's fair fame it in naught could detract : 'T was the woman's free genius it vexed and attacked With a sneer at her freedom of action and s])eech. But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach The lone heart they aimed at. Her tears fell beyond The world's limit, to feel that the world could respond To that heart's deepest, innermost yearn- ing, in naught. 'T was no longer this earth's idle inmates she sought : The wit of the woman sufficed to engage In the woman's gay court the first n?en of the age. Some had genius ; and all, wealth of mind to confer On the world : but that wealth was not lavished for her. For the genius of man, though so human indeed, When called out to man's help by some great human need. The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses To use what it hoards for mankind's no- bler uses. Genius touches the world at but one point alone Of that spacious circumference, never quite known To the world : all the infinite number of lines That radiate thither a mere point com- bines. But one only, — some central affection apart From the reach of the world, in which Genius is Heart, And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind. And therefore it was that Lucile sighed to find Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken. When they stooped themselves to it, as mere clever men ; Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurled Worlds new-fashioned for man, as mere men of the world. And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light, And watched her own shadow grow long at her feet. As though stretched out, the shade of some other to meet. The woman felt homeless and childless : in scorn She seemed mocked by the voices of children unborn ; LUCILE. 83 And when from these sombre reflections away She tiirned, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay For her presence within it, she knew herself friendless ; That her path led from peace, and that path appeared endless ! That even her beauty had been but a snare. And her wit sharpened only the edge of despair. XVIII. "With a face all transfigured and flushed by surprise, Alfred turned to Lucile. With those deep searching eyes She looked into his own. Not a word that she said, Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betrayed. She seemed to smile through him, at something beyond : When she answered his questions, she seemed to respond To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied. Not so he. At the sight of that face back again To his mind came the ghost of a long- stifled pain, A remembered resentment, half checked by a wild And relentful regret like a ipotherless child Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, To the heart which resisted its entrance. Lucile And himself thus, however, with free- dom allowed To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd By the crowd unobserved. Not unno- ticed, however. By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never Seen her husband's new friend. She had followed by chance, Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance Which the Duke, when he witnessed their meeting, had turned On Lucile and Lord Alfred ; and, scared, she discerned On his features the shade of a gloom so profound That she shuddered instinctively. Deaf to the sound Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers He replied not, but murmured, " Lucile de Nevers Once again then ? so be it ! " In the mind of that man, At that moment, tliere shaped itself vaguely the plan Of a pur])Ose malignant and dark, such alone (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. XIX. "So ! " he thought, " they meet thus : and reweave the old charm I And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me ! 0, what if I showed her that I, too, can be Loved by one — her own rival — more fair and more young ? " The serpent rose in him : a serpent which, stung. Sought to sting. Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye Fixed upon them, Lucile and my lord sauntered by. In converse which seemed to be earnest. A smile Now and then seemed to show where their thoughts touched. Meanvvhih- The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. XX. The Duke, with that sort of aggressive false praise Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er 84 LUCILE. The case for the prisoner, and deals ten- ilerly With the man he is minded to hang by and by), Had referred to Lucile, and then stopped to detect In the face of Matilda the growing effect Of the words he had dropped. There 's no weapon that slays Its victim so surely (if well aimed) as praise. Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen : and now Each was silent, preoccupied, thoughtful. You know There are moments when silence, ))ro- longed and unbroken. More exj)ressive may be than all words ever spoken. It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is passing. And that In the heart of Matilda, what was it ? Whence came To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame ? What weighed down her head ? All your eye could discover Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover That trouble the Duke's presence seemed to renew. She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom Which had fallen from the nosegay she ■wore in her bosom. '' This [loor flowei-," she said, "seems it not out of place In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace ?" She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile The Duke watched her caressing the leaves all the while. And continued on his side the silence. He knew This would force his companion their talk to renew At the point that he wished ; and Matilda divined The significant pause with new trouble of mind. She lifted one moment her head ; but her look Encountered the ardent regard of the Duke, And dropped back on her floweret abashed. Then, still seeking The assuiance she fancied she showed him by speaking. She conceived herself safe in adopting again The theme she should most have avoided just then. "Duke," she said, . . . and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burned, "You know, then, this . . . lady ?" "Too well !" he returned. Matilda. True ; you drew with emotion her por- trait just now. Luvois, With emotion ? Matilda. Yes, yes ! you described her, I know, As possessed of a charm all unrivalled. Luvois. Alas! You mistook me completely ! You, madam, surpass This lady as moonlight does lamplight ; as youth Surpasses its best imitations ; as truth The fairest of falsehoods surpasses ; as nature Surpasses art's masterpiece ; ay, as the creature Fresh and jjure in its native adornment sur})asses All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-glasses ! "Yet you said," — she continued with some trepidation, "That you quite comprehended" ... a slight hesitation Shook the sentence, ... "a passion so strong as " Luvois. True, true ! LUCILE. 85 But not in a man that had once looked at you. Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or . . . " Hush, hush ! " She broke in, all more fair for one inno- cent blush. "Between man and woman these things differ so ! It may be that the world pardons . . . (how should I know ?) In you what it visits on us ; or 't is true, It may be, that we women are better than you." Luvois. Who denies it ? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. The world, in its judgment, some differ- ence may make 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects Its social enactments ; but not as affects The one sentiment which, it were easy to prove. Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. Matilda. That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. Althougli so inexperienced in such things, 1 fear I have learned that the heart cannot always repress Or account for the feelings which sway it. "Yes ! yes ! That is too true, indeed ! " . . . the Duke sighed. And again For one moment in silence continued the twain. XXII. At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded : " And yet ! . . . what avails, then, to woman the gift Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair. One pang of wronged love, to which women less fair Are exposed, when they love ? " With a quick change of tone, As though by resentment impelled, he went on : — "The name that you bear, it is whis- pered, you took From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that look So excited, so keen, on the face you must know Throughout all its expressions, — that rapturous glow — Those eloquent features — significant eyes — Which that pale woman sees, yet be- trays no surprise," (He pointed his hand as he spoke to the door. Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred,) ..." before. Have you ever once seen what just now you may view In that face so familiar ? . . . no, lady, 't is new. Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as a you are, Are you loved ? " . . . XXIII. He looked at her — paused — felt if thus far The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken. Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, As though some indefinite danger were near. With composure, however, at once she replied : — " 'T is three years since the day when I first was a bride, And my husband I never had cause to suspect ; Nor ever have stooped, sir, such cause to detect. Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — See, or fancy — some moment's oblivion of me, I trust that 1 too should forget it, — for you Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." The hue On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke She had uttered this vague and half- friglitened rebuke. 86 LUCILK Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word Seemed to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. There was silence again. A great step had been made By the Duke in the words he that even- ing had said. There, half drowned by the music, Ma- tilda, that night, Had listened, — long listened, — no doubt, in despite Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirred. And so, having sufi'ered in silence his eye To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh: XXIV. I " Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade By disclosing my own? The position," he said, " In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse The frankness and force of the words which I use. You say that your heart is your hus- band's. You say That you love him. You think so, of course, lady . . . nay, Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. But, trust me, no true love there can be without Its dread penalty — jealousy. " Well, do not start ! Until now, — either thanks to a singu- lar art Of supreme self-control, you have held them all down Unrevealed in your heart, — or you never have known Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs Which deep passion engenders ; that an- guish which hangs On the heart like a nightmare, by jeal- ousy bred. But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed Of a blissful security thus hath reposed Undisturbed with mild eyelids on hap- piness closed. Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, For how long I know not, continue to see A woman whose place rivals yours in the life And the heart which not only your title of wife. But also (forgive me !) your beauty alone. Should have made wholly yours ? — You, who gave all your own ! Reflect ! — 't is the peace of existence you stake On the turn of a die. And for whose — for his sake ? While j'ou witness this woman, the false point of view From which she must now be regarded by you Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, The charms I admit she possesses. To me They are trivial indeed ; yet to your eyes, I fear And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess How more lovely by far is the grace you possess, You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of art, You will take for the natural charm of the heart ; Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, Will too soon in that fatal comparison be To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best eloquence. then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart ! While you see her, yourself you no longer will see, — You will hear her, and hear not yourself, — you will be Unhappy ; unhappy, because , you will deem Your own power less great than her power will seem. And I shall not be by your side, day by day. LUCILE. 87 In despite of your noble displeasure, to say ' You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can wear ! ' " This appeal, both by looks and by lan- guage, increased The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. Still she spoke with what calmness she could : — "Sir, the while I thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, " For your fervor in painting my fancied distress : Allow me the right some surprise to ex- press At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me The possible depth of my own misery." "That zeal would not startle you, madam," he said, "Could you read in my heart, as myself I have read. The peculiar interest which causes that zeal — " Matilda her terror no more could con- ceal. " Duke," she answered in accents short, cold, and severe. As she rose from her seat, " I continue to hear ; But permit me to say, I no more under- stand. " "Forgive!" with a nervous appeal of the hand. And a well- feigned confusion of voice and of look, " Forgive, 0, forgive me ! " at once cried the Duke, " I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve) For one moment to speak of myself, — for I think / That you wrong me — " ] His voice as in pain seemed to sinks; And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, i glistened. ) Matilda, despite of herself, sat and lis- tened. XXVII. " Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, Worldl}', frivolous, careless, my he^rt hides in me," He continued, " a sorrow which draws me to side With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he cried, " At so strange an avowal. ' ' I seek at a ball. For instance, — the beauty admired by all? No ! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits Scorned of course by the beauties, and shunned by the wits. All the world is accustomed to wound, or neglect. Or oppress, claims my heart and com- mands my respect. No Quixote, I do not affect to be- long, I admit, to those chartered redressers of wrong ; But I seek to console, where I can. 'T is a ]iart Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart." These trite words, from the tone which he gave them, received An appearance of tnith, which might well be believed By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. And so He continued ... "0 lady ! alas, could you know What injustice and wrong in this world I have seen ! How many a woman, believed to have been Without a regret, I have known turn aside To burst into heart-broken tears unde- scried ! On how many a lip have I witnessed the smile Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart the while ! " Said Matilda, "Your life, it would seem, then, must be One long act of devotion." 88 LUCILE. " Perhaps so," said he ; " But at least that devotion small merit can boast, For one day may yet come, — if one day at the most, — When, perceiving at last all the differ- ence — how great ! — 'Twixt the heart that neglects and the heart that can wait, 'Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain, Some woman, that else might have passed in disdain Or indifference by me, — in passing that day Might pause with a word or a smile to repay This devotion, — and then "... To Matilda's relief At that moment her husband approaclied. With some grief I must own that her welcome, perchance, was expressed The moie eagerly just for one twinge in her breast Of a conscience disturbed, and her smile not less warm. Though slie saw the Comtesse de Nevers on his arm. The Duke turned and adjusted his collar. Thought he, "Good ! the gods fight my battle to- niglit. I foresee That the family doctor's the part I must play. Very well ! but the patients my visits .shall pay." Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife ; And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife Of emotions which made her voice shake, murnuired low Some faint, troubled gi-eeting. The Duke, with a bow Which betokened a distant defiance, re- pl ied To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried Her foimer gay wooer. Anon, with the grace Of that kindness which seeks to win kinduess, her place She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance. Or resolved not to notice, the half- frightened glance That followed that movement. The Duke to his feet Arose ; and, in silence, relinquished his seat. One must own that the moment was awkward for all ; But nevertheless, befoie long, the strange thrall Of Lucile's gracious tact was bj' every one felt. And from each the reserve seemed, re- luctant, to melt ; Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four Through the crowd sauntered, smiling. Approaching the door, Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen be- hind. By Lucile, after some hesitation, was joined With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal Which appeared to imply, withoutwords, " Let us feel That the friendship between us in years that are fled. Has survived one mad momeiit forgot- ten," she .said, " You remain, Duke, at Ems?" He turned on her a look Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; And then, with a more than significant g'ance At Matilda, maliciously answered, "Per- chance I have here an attraction. And you ? " he returned. Lucile's eyes had followed his own, and discerned The boast they implied. He repeated, " And you ? " And, still watching Matilda, she an- swered, " I too." And he thought, as with that word she left him, she sighed. The next moment her place she resumed by the side Of Matilda ; and soon they shook hands at the gate Of the selfsame hotel. 'Lord Alfred presented Lucile to hts wife." LUCILE. 89 XXX. One depressed, one elate, The Duke and Lord Alfred again, through the glooms Of the thick linden alley, returned to the Rooms. His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, At the inn, as they turned, arm-in-arm, from the door. Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, cxperto {Me miscrum quoties /) crede Roberto. In silence, awhile, they walked onward. At last The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously passed. Luvois. Once more ! yet once more ! Alfred. What ? Luvois. We meet her, once more. The woman for whom we two mad men of yore (Laugh, 7non chcr Alfred, laugh !) were about to destroy Each the other ! Alfred. It is not with laughter that I Raise the gliost of that once troubled time. Say ! can you Recall it with coolness and quietude now ? Luvois. Now ? yes ! I, Vion cher, am a true Parisien : Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then The dance and the play. I am now at the pla}''. Alfred. At the play, are you now ? Then per- chance I now may Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until Such a moment, I waited . . . Luvois, Oh ! ask what you will. Franc jeu ! on the table my cards I spread out. Ask! Alfred. Duke, you were called to a meeting (no doubt You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night When you went ; and before you returned it was light. We met : you accosted me then with a brow Bright with triumph : your words (you remember them now ?) Were " Let us be friends ! " Luvois. Well? Alfred. How then, after that, Can you and she meet as acquaintances ? Luvois. What! Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, Solve your liddle to-night with those soft lips of hers ? Alfred. In our converse to-night we avoided the past. But the question I ask should be an- swered at last : By yon, if you will ; if you will not, by her. Luvois. Indeed ? but that question, milord, can it stir Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er ? Alfred. Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more. Lucile asked me, this night, to my wife (understand To my wife !) to present her. I did so. Her hand Has clasped that of Matilda. We gen- tlemen owe Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so. 90 LUCILE. To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. Answer, Due de Luvois ! Did Lucile then reject The proffer you made of your hand and your name ? Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim Urged before ? I ask bluntly this ques- tion, because My title to do so is clear by the laws That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign That you know of Lucile de Ne vers aught, in fine, For which, if your own virgin sister were by, From Lucile you would shield her ac- quaintance, and 1 And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. XXXI. The Duke Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said, And there flashed in a moment these thoughts through his head : •'Leave Ems ! would that suit me ? no ! that were again To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain. She herself will . . . et puis, il a raison ; on est Gentilhomme avant tout!" He replied therefore, "Nay ! Madame de Nevershad rejected me. I, In those days, I was mad ; and in some mad rejjly I threatened the life of the rival to whom That rejection was due, I was led to presume. She feared for his life ; and the letter which then She wrote me, 1 showed you ; we met : and again My hand was refused, and my love was denied. And the glance you mistook was the vizard which Pride Lends to Humiliation. " And so," half in jest, He went on, "in this best world, 'tis all for the best ; You are wedded, (blessed Englishman J) wedded to one Whose past can be called into question by none : And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to feel I am lord of myself, and the Mode : and Lucile Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there ! A Dian in marble that scorns any troth With the little love-gods, whom I thank for us both, While she smiles from her lonely Olym- pus apart. That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave ! " XXXII. The Duke, with a smile, Turned and entered the Reoms which, thus talking, meanwhile, They had reached. XXXIII. Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown Heart and mind !) in the darkness be- wildered, alone : "And so," to himself did he mutter, " and so 'T was to rescue my life, gentle spirit ! and, oh. For this did I doubt her ? ... a light word — a look — The mistake of a moment ! ... for this I forsook — For this ? Pardon, pardon, Lucile ! O Lucile ! " Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal. Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his brain, As he strayed down the darkness. XXXIV. Ee-entering again The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to roulette. And sat down, and played fast, and lost largely, and j'et He still smiled : night deepened : he played his last number : Went home : and soon slept : and still smiled in his slumber. LUCILE. 91 TXXV. In his ''desolate Maxims, La Kochefou- cauld wrote, " In the grief or mischance of a friend you may note, There is something which always gives pleasure." Alas ! That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down, — "No misfortune, but what some one turns to his own Advantage its mischief : no sorrow, but of it There ever is somebody ready to profit : No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all Gamble, speculate, plav on the rise and the fall Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." Burn thy book, La Rochefoucauld ! Fool ! one man's wit All men's selfishness how should it fathom ? sage, Dost thou satirize Nature ? She laughs at thy page. CANTO II. I. Cousin John to Cousin Alfred. " London, 18—. " My dkar Alfred : Your last letters put me in pain. This contempt of existence, this listless disdain Of your own life, — its joys and its du- ties, — tlie deuce Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse ! I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg. And compel you to stump through the world on a peg. I wish that you had, like myself, (more 's the pity ! ) To sit seven hours on this cursed com- mittee. I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread Of another — (what is it that Dante has said ?) And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, I wish fate had some real affliction con- ferred On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws ! This pressure against all the purpose of life. This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife. Betokened, I grant that it may be in truth. The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. But if, when the wine should have mel- lowed with time. Being bottled and binned, to a flavor sublime It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, "Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste The better, I take it. And this vice of snarling. Self-love's little lapdog, the overfed dar- ling Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears. To my thinking, at least, in a man of your years. At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do, And every incentive for doing it too, — With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing For prayer, and of joys more than most men for blessing ; With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse, — Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse ! I wish I could get you at least to ag7-ee To take life as it is, and consider with me, If it be not ail smiles, that it is not all sneers ; It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. Do you think none have known but yourself all the pain Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain ? And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, 'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that 's without ? 92 LUCILE. What one of us finds the world just as he likes ? Or gets what he wants when he wants it ? Or strikes Without missing the thing that he ■ strikes at the first ? Or walks without stumbling ? Or quenches his thirst At one draught ? Bah ! I tell you ! 1, bachelor John, Have had giiefs of my own. But what then ? I push on All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. God means every man to be happy, be sure. He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. Our duty down here is to do, not to know. Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so. Let each moment, like Time's last am- bassador, come : It will wait to deliver its message ; and some Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed A man does, but the way that he does it, should plead For the man's compensation in doing it. "Here, My next neighbor 's a man with twelve thousand a year, Who deems that life has not a pastime more pleasant Than to follow a fox or to slaughter a pheasant. Yet this fellow goes through a contested election, Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection. All the day through upon a committee, and late To the last, every night, through the dreary debate. As though he were getting each speaker by heart, Though amongst them he never pre- sumes to take part. One asks himself why, without murmur or question. He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion. For a labor of which the result seems so small. 'The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. He has just sense enough to be fully aware That he never can hope to be Premier, or share The renown of a TuUy ; — or even to hold A subordinate office. He is not so bold As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear With patience his modest opinions to hear. ' But he wants something ! ' " What ! with twelve thousand a year? What could Government give him would be half so dear To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run ? ' No ; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain ; The man would be more than his neigh- bors, 't is plain ; And the drudgery drearily gone through in town Is more than repaid by provincial re- nown. Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose. Shall have eyed him with passing com- ])laisance ; the goose, If the Fashion to him open one of its doors. As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors. ' Wrong again ! if you think so. " For, primo ; my friend Is the head of a family known from one end Of his shire to the other, as the oldest ; and therefore He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care for A peerage ? no, truly ! Sccondo ; he rarely Or never goes out : dines at Bellamy's sparely. And abhors what you call the gay world. "Then, I ask. What inspires, and consoles, such a self- imposed task As the life of this man, — but the sense of its duty ? And I swear that the eyes of the haugh- tiest beauty LUCILE. 93 Have never inspired in my soul that in- tense, Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense Of heartfelt admiration I feel for this man, As I see him beside me ; — there, wear- ing the wan London daylight away, on his humdrum committee ; ■So unconscious of all that awakens my pity, And wonder — and worship, I might say. "To me There seems something nobler than gen- ius to be In that dull patient labor no genius re- lieves, That absence of all joy which yet never grieves ; The humility of it ! the grandeur withal ! The sublimity of it ! And yet, should you call The man's own very slow apprehension to this. He would ask, with a stare, what sub- limity is ! His work is the duty to which he was born ; He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn : And this man is no uncommon type (I thank Heaven !) Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 't is the reason That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason And tyranny elsewhere. "I wander away Too far, though, from what I was wish- ing to say. You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the soul Is immortal ; and put this in rhyme, on the whole, Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art : — The Greek Psyche, — that 's beauty, — the perfect ideal. But then comes the imperfect, perfecti- ble real. With its pained aspiration and strife. In those pale Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too. Is not t mere house to be lived in, for you. Geology opens the mind. So you know Something also of strata and fossils • ■ these show The bases of cosmical structure : some mention Of the nebulous theory demands your attention ; And so on. "In short, it is clear the interior Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior Infibre,and fulness,and function, and fire, To that of my poor parliamentary squire ; But your life leaves upon me (foi'give me this heat Due to friendship) the .sense of a thing incomplete. You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at ? My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. An old illustration 's as good as a new. Provided the old illustration be true. We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly, Though we marvel to see them ascend- ing so high ; Things slight in themselves, — long- tailed toys, and no more. What is it that makes the kite steadil}' soar Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth ? I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, And the hornbook I learned on my poor mother's knee. In truth, 1 suspect little else do we learn From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, What we learned in the hornbook of childhood. "Your case Is exactly in point. " Fly your kite, if you please, Out of sight : let it go where it will, ou the breeze ; 94 LUCILE. But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. No man is the absolute lord of his life. You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife. If I often have sighed by my own silent fire, With th<- sense of a sometimes recurring desire For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair. Some dull winter evening to solace and share With the love which the world its good children allows To shake hands with, — in short, a le- gitimate spouse, This thought has consoled me : " At least I have given For my own good behavior no hostage to heaven." You have, though. Forget it not ! faith, if you do, I would rather break stones on a road than be you. If any man wilfully injured, or led That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head. Even though you yourself were the sinner ! "And this Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss !) To the matter I meant to have men- tioned at once. But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce. Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs, The wolf best received by the flock he devours Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. At least, this has long been my settled conviction, And I almost would venture at once the prediction That before very long — but no matter ! I trust For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on The score of such men as, with both God and Mammon, Seem so shrewdly familiar. " Neglect not this warning. There were rumors afloat in the City this morning Which I scarce like the .'■ound of. Who knows ? would he fleece At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece ? For the sake of Matilda 1 cannot impor- tune Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune Is yet in the hands of that sjjecious old' sinner. Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner, I say, lose no time ! get it out of the grab Of her trustee and uncle. Sir Kidley MacNab. I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet jus- tifies My mistrust ; but I have in my own mind a notion That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion, Have long been the only ostensible cap. ital On which he does business. If so, time must sap it all. Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait. Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect ; I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell Worth your hearing. We think that the Government here Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a peer, You will see by the Times. There are symptoms which show That the ministers now are preparing to. go. LUCILE. 95 And finish their feast of the loaves and He grew feverish, querulous, absent, the fishes. perverse, — It is evident that they are clearing the And here I must mention, what made dishes, matters worse. And cramming their pockets with bon- That Lucile and the Duke at the self- bons. Your news same hotel Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the With the Vargraves resided. It needs Blues, not to telk Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, That they all saw too much of each other. You have met with that hot-headed The weather Frenchman ? I know Was so fine that it brought them each That the man is a sad viauvais stijet. day all together Take care In the garden, to listen, of course, to the Of Matilda. I wish I could join you band. both there ; The house was a sort of phalanstery ; But, before I am free, yoti are sure to and be gon(>. Lucile and Matilda were pleased to dis- Good by, my dear fellow. Yours, anx- cover iously. A mutual passion for music. Moreover, "John." The Duke was an excellent tenor : could sing II. " Ange si pure " in a way to bring down This is just the advice I myself would on the wing have given All the angels St. Cicely played to. My To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin. lord which, Heaven Would also at times, when he was not Be praised, I am not. But it reached too bored. him indeed Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new mu- In an unlucky hour, and received little sic, not ill ; heed. With some little things of his own, show- A half-languid glance was the most that ing skill. he lent at For which reason, as well as for some That time to these homilies. Primum others too. dementnt Their rooms were a pleasant enough Quern Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact rendezvous. Was behaving just then in a way to dis- Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heart- tract less coquette !) Job's self had Job known him. The All the mischief she could not but mark ? more you 'd have thought Patience yet ! The Duk(>'s court to Matilda his eye would have caught, III. The more did his aspect grow listless to In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn hers. from the sun. And the more did it beam to Lucile de By laburnum and lilac with blooms over- Nevers. run, And Matilda, the less she found love in Formed a vault of cool verdure, which the look made, when the heat Of her husband, the less did she shrink Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious from the Duke. retreat. With each day that passed o'er them. And here, with some friends of their own they each, heart from heart, little world. Woke to feel themselves further and In the warm afternoons, till the shadows further apart. imcurled More and more of his time Alfred passed From the feet of the lindens, and crept at the table ; through the grass. Played high ; and lost more than to lose Their blue hours would this gay little he was able. ' colony pass. 96 LUCILE. The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, Undeterred by tobacco, their work there, and sing Or converse, till the dew fell, and home- ward the bee Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there Avas t^a (A luxury due to Matilda), and ice. Fruit, and coffee. "O "Eo-Trejoe, wdura (pepeis ! Sucfi an evening it was, while Matilda presided O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided. With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a thick head. And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked, And two Austrian Colonels, — that Al- fred, who yet Was lounging alone with his last cigar- ette. Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, And joining her, cried, " Thank the good stars, we meet ! I have so much to say to you ! " " Yes ? . . . " with her sweet Serene voice, she replied to hirn . . . " Yes ? and I too Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you." She was paler just then than her wont was. The sound Of her voice had within it a sadness pro- found. " You are ill ? " he exclaimed. " No ! " she hurriedly said, "No, no !" "You alarm me !" She drooped down her head. " If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to divine The purpose of what has been passing in mine. My farewell can scarcely alarm you." Alfred. Your farewell ! you go ! Lucile ! Lucile. Yes, Lord Alfred. Alfred. Reveal The cause of this sudden unkindness. Unkind? Lucile. Alfred. Yes ! what else is this parting ? Lucile. No, no ! are you blind ? Look into your own heart and home. Can you see No reason for this, save unkindness in me? . Look into the eyes of your wife, — those true eyes Too pure and too honest in aught to dis- guise The sweet soul shining through them. Alfred. Lucile ! (first and last Be the word, if you will !) let me speak of the past. I know now, alas ! though I know it too late. What passed at that meeting which settled my fate. Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet ! let it be! I but say what is due to yourself, — due to me. And must say it. He rushed incoherently on, Describing how, lately, the truth he had known, To explain how, and whence, he had wronged her before, All the complicate coil wound about him of yore. All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled, "And then, O Lucile, what was left me," he said, "When my life was defrauded of you, but to take That life, as 't was left, and endeavor to make Unobserved by another, the void which remained Unconcealed to myself? If I have not attained, I have striven. One word of unkindness has never ly ^iMi-ng^ WTH M AS^ ~- ~ >M a She drooped down her head. LUCILE. 97 Passed my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever Received uiy submission. And if, of a truth, I have failed to renew what I felt in my youth, I at least have been loyal to what I do feel. Respect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, 1 speak not of love now, nor love's long regret : • I would not offend you, nor dare I for- get The ties that are round me. But may there not be A friendsliip yet hallowed between you and me ? May we not be yet friends, — friends the dearest ? " "Alas!" She replied, "for one moment, perchance, did it pass Through my own heart, that dream which forever hath brought To those who indulge it in innocent thought So fatal and evil a waking ! But no. For in lives such as ours are, the Dream- tree would grow On the borders of Hades : beyond it, what lies ? The wheel of Ixion, alas ! and the cries Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us. Are the days when with innocence we could discuss Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of imj life ! trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. And I, — • in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. "Hush ! hush ! 1 would say what I wished to have said when you came. Do not thinic that years leave us and find us the same ! The woman you knew long ago, long ago. Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know, 7 The germ of a joy in the years yet to be, Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me, I go my own way, — onward, upward ! " yet, Let me thank you for that which en- nobled regret, When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled, — The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead, But it is not coiTupted. I too have at last Lived to learn that love is not — (such love as is past, Such love as youth dreams of at least) — the sofe part Of life, which is able to fill up the heart ; Even that of a woman. ' ' Between you and me Heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see That our guardian angels can bear us no more. We each of us stand on an opposite shore. Trust a woman's opinion for once. Wom- en learn. By an instinct men never attain, to dis- cern Each other's true natures. Matilda ii fair, Matilda is young — see her now, sitting there ! — How tenderly fashioned — (0, is she not ? say,) To love and be loved ! " He turned 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 answered him: — "Yesterday, all that you say Might be true ; it is false, wholly false, though, to-day." " How ? — what mean you ? " "I mean that to-day," she replied, "The statue with life has become vivi- fied : I mean that the child to a woman has grown : And that woman is jealous." " What ! she ? " witli a tone 98 LUCILE. Of ironical wonder, he answered — ' ' 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 re- plied. " Can you doubt That a woman, young, fair, and neg- lected — - " ' ' Speak out ! " He gasped with emotion. " Lucile ! you mean — • what ? Do you doubt her fidelity ? " " Certainly not. Listen to me, my friend. What 1 wish to explain Is so hard to shape forth. I could al- most refrain From touching a subject so fragile. However, Bear with me awhile, if I frankly en- deavor To invade for one moment your inner- most 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 turned pale, as she spoke. She had aimed at his heart, And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, Tl^at her aim had not missed. " Stay, Lucile ! " lie exclaimed, " 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 atfect. Till at last, by degrees, that serene at- mosphere Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear. 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 healed 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." " Such thoughts could have never," Iv faltered, " I know, Reached the heart of Matilda." "Matilda? 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 en- chanting To conjure them to her." " 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 hj'pothetical case." With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. "Woe to him, . . ." he exclaimed . . . " woe to him that shall feel Such a hope ! for I swear, if he did but reveal One glimpse, — it should be the last hope of his life ! " LUCILE. 99 The clenched hand and bent eyebrow betokened the strife She had roused in his heart. " You forget," she began, " That you menace yourself. You your- self are the man That is guilty. Alas ! must it ever be so ? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever ? think ! The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink, You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endure ; You bid her be true to the laws you abjure ; To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder. With the force that has failed you ; and that too, when under The assumption of rights which to her you refuse, The innnunity claimed for yourselves you abuse ! Where the contract exists, it involves obligation To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. Y'ou unloose, in asserting your owti lib- erty, A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. Then, Alfred ! be juster at heart : and thank Heaven That Heaven to youi wife such a nature has given That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it ! " In the silence that followed the last word she said. In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, Poor Lucile marked her words had suf- ficed to impart A new germ of motion and life to that heart Of which he himself had so recently spoken As dead to emotion, — exhausted, or broken ! New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. In the husband indifferent no more to the wife She already, as she had foreseen, could discover That Matilda had gained, at her hands, a new lover. So after some moments of silence, whose spell They both felt, she extended her hand to him. . . . "Well?" ' ' Lucile, " he replied, as that soft quiet hand In his own he clasped warmly, " I both understand And obey you." "Thank Heaven ! " she murmured. "Oyet, One word, I beseech you ! I cannot forget," He exclaimed, " we are parting for life. You have shown My pathway to me : but say, what is your own ? " The calmness with which until then she had spoken In a moment seemed strangely and sud- denly broken. She turned from him nervously, hur- riedly. "Nay, I know not," she murmured, " I follow the way Heaven leads me ; I cannot foresee to what end. I know only that far, far away it must tend From all places in which we have met, or might meet. Far away ! — onward — upward ! " A smile strange and sweet As the incense that rises from some sacred cup And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up Her whole face, with those words. "Wheresoever it be. May all gentlest angels attend you ! " sighed he, "And bear my heart's blessing wher- ever you are ! " And her hand, with emotion, he kissed. 100 LUCILE. From afar That kiss was, alas ! by Matilda beheld With far other emotions : her young bosom swelled, And her young cheek with anger was crimsoned. The Duke Adroitly attracted towards it her look By a faint but significant smile. X. Much ill-construed. Renowned Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, strewed With ai'guments page upon page to teach folks That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them, That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them ! CANTO III. When first the red savage called Man strode, a king. Through the wilds of creation, — the very first thing That his naked intelligence taught him to feel Was the shame of himself; and the wish to conceal Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave. To the furbelowed flounce and the broad crinoline Of my lady . . . you all know of course whom I mean . . . This art of concealment has greatly in- creased. A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast ; And that drama of passions as old as the hills. Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, Is only revealed now and then to our eyes In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize. In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, 'Mid those walks over which the labur- num-bough trembled, And the deep-bosomed lilac, empara- dising The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing, The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only, A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom ; Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom, Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories. Cheated death and killed time with Boccaccian storiil of sorrow, perchance" . . . shi; replied. "Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaimed . . . " confide To my heart your affliction. In all you made known I should lindsonie instruction, no doubt, for my own ! " " And I some consolation, no doubt ; for the tears Of another have not flowed for me many years." It was tlien that Matilda herself seized the hand Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her ; and Thus together they entered the house. 'T was the room Of Matilda. The languid and delicate gloom Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. The casement ope^l into the garden. The pale Cool moonlight streamed through it. One lone nightingale Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by .side. Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, Save by guardian angels. As, when, sparkling yet From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines As one flower with two faces, in hushed, tearful speech. Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each Linked, and leaning together, so loving^ so fair. So united, yet diverse, the two women there Looked, indeed, like two flowers upon one droojung stem. In the soft light that tenderly rested on, them. All that soul said to soul in that cham- ber, who knows ? All that heart gained from heart ? Leave the lily, the rose. Undisturbed with their secret within them. For who To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew ? ' A night full of stars ! O'er the silence, unseen, The footsteps of sentinel angels, between The dark land and deep sky were mov- ing. You heard Passed from earth up to heaven the happy watchword Which brightened the stars as amongst them it fell From earth's heart, which it eased . . . "All is well ! all is well !" CANTO IV. The Poets pour wine ; and, when 't is new, all decry it. But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. And Polonius, who praises no wine that 's not Massic, Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not ba/i / nations shout not above The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love Which life has rejected ! Will you stand apart ? You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart ! You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won, By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, Such as lies at your door now : who have but, in truth, To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word. And by that word you rescue a life ! " He was stirred. Still he sought to put from him the cup ; bowed his face On his hand ; and anon, as though wish- ing to chase With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, He sprang up, brushed past her, and bitterly cried, " No ! — Constance wed a Vargrave ! — I cannot consent ! " Then uprose the Sceur Seraphine. The low tent. In her sudden uprising, seemed dwarfed by the height From which those imperial eyes poured the light Of their deep silent sadness upon him. No wonder He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under The compulsion of that grave regard ! For between The Due de Luvois and the Soeur Sera- phine At that moment there rose all the height of one soul O'er another ; she looked down on him from the whole Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days. There were long months and years in that heart-searching gaze ; And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrilled through And transfixed him. " Eugene de Luvois, but for you, I might have been now, — not this wandering nun. But a mother, a wife, — pleading, not for the son Of another, but blessing some child of my own. His, — the man's that I once loved ! . . . Hush ! that which is done I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That 's best Which God sends. 'T was His will : it is mine. And the rest Of that riddle 1 will not look back to. He reads In your heart, — He that judges of all thoughts f