Lucile Part 9

Gay sounds from below Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes and by twos, The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will, As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill, Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er His late travelling companion, now pa.s.sing before The inn, at the window of which he still sat, In full toilet,--boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, Gayly smoothing and b.u.t.toning a yellow kid glove, As he turned down the avenue.

Watching above, From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd, To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd, By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd, That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the hall, Was a person of rank or of fas.h.i.+on; for all Whom he bow'd to in pa.s.sing, or stopped with and chatter'd, Walk'd on with a look which implied... "I feel flatter'd!"

XXIV.

His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom.

XXV.

Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room.

He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin; He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile: He had thought about many things; thought a great deal Of himself, of his past life, his future, his present: He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor crescent; Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour!

He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and power: Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, and A poet's asylum in some distant land: Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt, In particular; also he had thought much about His digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and last, He thought that the night would be stupidly pa.s.s'd If he thought any more of such matters at all: So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball.

XXVI.

I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet, That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the nonce Twenty times in the gla.s.s, if he look'd in it once.

I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one.

And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd fast, He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, The church clock strike Twelve.

XXVII.

The last waltz was just o'er.

The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter.

A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a mutter Went about in the room as a young man, whose face Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and warm Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, Left the ballroom.

XXVIII.

The hubbub of comment and praise Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd.

"Ma foi!"

Said a Frenchman beside him,... "That lucky Luvois Has obtained all the gifts of the G.o.ds... rank and wealth, And good looks, and then such inexhaustible health!

He that hath shall have more; and this truth, I surmise, Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes Of la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than all, He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball."

"Is it true," asked a lady aggressively fat, Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat By another that look'd like a needle, all steel And tenuity--"Luvois will marry Lucile?"

The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, As though it were bent upon driving a st.i.tch Through somebody's character.

"Madam," replied, Interposing, a young man who sat by their side, And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, "I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that, If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has refused."

The fat and thin ladies were highly amused.

"Refused!... what! a young Duke, not thirty, my dear, With at least half a million (what is it?) a year!"

"That may be," said a third; "yet I know some time since Castelmar was refused, though as rich, and a Prince.

But Luvois, who was never before in his life In love with a woman who was not a wife, Is now certainly serious."

XXIX.

The music once more Recommenced.

x.x.x.

Said Lord Alfred, "This ball is a bore!"

And return'd to the inn, somewhat worse than before.

x.x.xI.

There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley above, Through the warm land were wand'ring the spirits of love.

A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd; In the blossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd; The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night, And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in light.

Repose, and yet rapture! that pensive wild nature Impregnate with pa.s.sion in each breathing feature!

A stone's throw from thence, through the large lime-trees peep'd In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'd In the moonbeams. The windows oped down to the lawn; The cas.e.m.e.nts were open; the curtains were drawn; Lights stream'd from the inside; and with them the sound Of music and song. In the garden, around A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set, Half a dozen young men and young women were met.

Light, laughter, and voices, and music all stream'd Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the window there seem'd For one moment the outline, familiar and fair, Of a white dress, white neck, and soft dusky hair, Which Lord Alfred remember'd... a moment or so It hover'd, then pa.s.s'd into shadow; and slow The soft notes, from a tender piano upflung, Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung:--

"Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth!

The anchors are lifted, the fair s.h.i.+p is free, And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea.

"And this s.h.i.+p is a world. She is freighted with souls, She is freighted with merchandise: proudly she sails With the Labor that stores, and the Will that controls The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales.

"From the gardens of Pleasure where reddens the rose, And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear!

"Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard, Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight, O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there pa.s.ses a bird; 'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight.

"And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire, Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth.

There she soars like a seraph, she s.h.i.+nes like a fire, And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth.

"And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip, For that bird of good omen, and joy in each eye.

And the s.h.i.+p and the bird, and the bird and the s.h.i.+p, Together go forth over ocean and sky.

"Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee, And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown The s.h.i.+p is alone on a desert of sea, And the bird in a desert of sky is alone.

"In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air, Down that desert of waters--tremendous in wrath-- The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, And cleaves, thro' the waves of the ocean, his path.

"And the bird in the cloud, and the s.h.i.+p on the wave, Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales; And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales.

"Lo! a wonder, which never before hath been heard, For it never before hath been given to sight; On the s.h.i.+p bath descended the Paradise Bird, The Paradise Bird, never known to alight!

"The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip Had a song for the omen that gladden'd each eye; The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the s.h.i.+p From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky.

"But the mariners heed not the bird any more.