Lucile Part 17

Gasping already For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady, He pa.s.s'd from his chamber. He felt both oppress'd And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pa.s.s'd The long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at last Reach'd 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 ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat down On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle, And read over again that perplexing epistle.

XI.

In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mind The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind To the pathos breath'd through it. Tears rose in his eyes, And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seem'd to rise.

The truth which he saw not the first time he read That letter, he now saw--that each word betray'd 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 s.n.a.t.c.h Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match In which they had yielded, alone at the whim Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval 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,"

'Twere dishonor in him, 'twould be insult to her.

Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee He follow'd so fondly his own revery, That he felt not the angry regard of a man Fix'd upon him; he saw not a face stern and wan Turn'd towards him; he heard not a footstep that pa.s.s'd And repa.s.s'd the lone spot where he stood, till at last A hoa.r.s.e voice aroused him.

He look'd up and saw, On the bare heath before him, the Duc de Luvois.

XII.

With aggressive ironical tones, and a look Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion To "the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do better, He fancied, however, to fold up a letter The writing of which was too well known, in fact, His remark as he pa.s.s'd to have failed to attract."

XIII.

It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bent Upon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 'twas meant From HIM to provoke it by sneers such as these.

A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize The position. He felt that he could not expose His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the ban Of the world, if he now were to fight with this man.

And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard face, He was pain'd by the change there he could not but trace.

And he almost felt pity.

He therefore put by Each remark from the Duke with some careless reply, And coldly, but courteously, waving away The ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display, Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside.

XIV.

Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one stride In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his eyes, And said...

"Hold, Lord Alfred! Away with disguise!

I will own that I sought you, a moment ago, To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so Upon any excuse. I prefer to be frank.

I admit not a rival in fortune or rank To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers.

I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the right To believe, that she would have been mine. To her sight You return, and the woman is suddenly changed.

You step in between us: her heart is estranged.

You! who now are betrothed to another, I know: You! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years ago Was coupled by ties which you broke: you! the man I reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began.

You! that left her so lightly,--I cannot believe That you love, as I love, her; nor can I conceive You, indeed, have the right so to love her.

Milord, I will not thus tamely concede at your word, What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine!

I shall yet persevere: I shall yet be, in fine, A rival you dare not despise. It is plain That to settle this contest there can but remain One way--need I say what it is?"

XV.

Not unmoved With regretful respect for the earnestness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied In words which he trusted might yet turn aside 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.

XVI.

"Accepted! say first Are you free to have offer'd?"

Lord Alfred was mute.

XVII.

"Ah, you dare not reply!" cried the Duke. "Why dispute, Why palter with me? You are silent! and why?

Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall, That you stepp'd 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 CAN be no quarrel between us. Say on!"

Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repress.

"You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and conditions with me.

I refuse to reply."

XVIII.

As diviners may see Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imminent.

There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead, Those two 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 pa.s.s over, the other must fall.

XIX.

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 they stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman.

A guide he appear'd, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash With a 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 wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note.

XX.

The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd 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 watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile!

You are quite right, Lord Alfred! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be reversed.

You are not accepted,--nor free to propose!

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!"