VII.
Indifferently turning his glance,Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze unaware.O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft dusky hair:A rose-bud half blown in her hand; in her eyesA half-pensive smile.A sharp cry of surpriseEscaped from his lips: some unknown agitation.An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation,Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit;Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it.That wit so complacent and docile, that everLightly came at the call of the lightest endeavor,Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold,Which, secure of its value, so fluently roll'dIn free circulation from hand on to handFor the usage of all, at a moment's command;For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd,And he looked at Lucile without speaking a word.
VIII.
Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the faceOn whose features he gazed had no more than a traceOf the face his remembrance had imaged for years.Yes! the face he remember'd was faded with tears:Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimmed the dark eyes,And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with sighs,And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterieOf a woman who knows her least ribbon to beSomething dear to the lips that so warmly caressEvery sacred detail of her exquisite dress,In the careless toilet of Lucile—then too sadTo 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, or thinking(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 impartIts endearment to one that has suffer'd. In truthGrief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth loves gay youth.
IX.
The woman that now met, unshrinking his gaze,Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous hazeOf that soft second summer, more ripe than the first,Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath burstIn despite of the stormiest April. LucileHad acquired that matchless unconscious appealTo the homage which none but a churl would withhold—That caressing and exquisite grace—never bold,Ever present—which just a few women possess.From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by the stressOf unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawnA freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn.Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhereThe luxurious proportions of youth; and her hair—Once shorn as an offering to passionate love—Now floated or rested redundant aboveHer airy pure forehead and throat; gather'd looseUnder which, by one violet knot, the profuseMilk-white folds of a cool modest garment reposed,Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half disclosed,And her simple attire thus in all things reveal'dThe fine art which so artfully all things conceal'd.
X.
Lord Alfred, who never conceived that LucileCould have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted to kneelAt her feet, and her pardon with passion implore;But the calm smile that met him sufficed to restoreThe pride and the bitterness needed to meetThe occasion with dignity due and discreet.
XI.
"Madam,"—thus he began with a voice reassured,—"You see that your latest command has securedMy immediate obedience—presuming I mayConsider 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 sadness?" he sigh'd."'Tis an ancient tradition," she answer'd, "a taleOften told—a position too sure to prevailIn the end of all legends of love. If we wrote,When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet remote,Wherein of necessity each would recallFrom the other the poor foolish records of allThose emotions, whose pain, when recorded, seem'd bliss,Should we write as we wrote? But one thinks not of this!At Twenty (who does not at Twenty?) we writeBelieving eternal the frail vows we plight;And we smile with a confident pity, aboveThe 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 'tis novel to earth,And will prove the exception, in durance and worth,To the great law to which all on earth must incline.The error was noble, the vanity fine!Shall we blame it because we survive it? ah, no;'Twas the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not so?"
XII.
Lord Alfred was mute. He remember'd her yetA child—the weak sport of each moment's regret,Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life,The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the strifeAnd the tumult of passion; the tremulous toyOf each transient emotion of grief or of joy.But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant of allThe illusions of life—lift, unflinching, the pallFrom the bier of the dead Past—that woman so fair,And so young, yet her own self-survivor; who thereTraced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold!'Twas a picture that pain'd his self-love to behold.He himself knew—none better—the things to be saidUpon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd 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 whatI would say is, you yet recollect (do you not,Lord Alfred?) enough of my nature, to knowThat these pledges of what was perhaps long agoA foolish affection, I do not recallFrom those motives of prudence which actuate allOr most women when their love ceases. Indeed,If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I needBut remind you that ten years these letters have restedUnreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach seem'd suggestedBy these words. To meet it, Lord Alfred look'd up(His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cupWith a look of profound connoisseurship—a smileOf singular interest and care, all this while.)He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of Lucile,To mark if that face by a sign would revealAt the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain.He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there in vain."You are generous, Madam," he murmur'd at last,And into his voice a light irony pass'd.He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arrangedHis forces. But straightway the enemy changedThe position.
XIII.
"Come!" gayly Lucile interposed,With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness disclosedSome 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 gainJustice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain.From me not a single reproach can you hear.I have sinn'd to myself—to the world—nay, I fearTo you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed,Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heedNot her selfish and often mistaken desires,But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires;And rather than seek to allure, for her sake,His life down the turbulent, fanciful wakeOf impossible destinies, use all her artThat 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 darken'd your fate.Forgive me the ill I have done for the sakeOf its long expiation!"
XIV.
Lord Alfred, awake,Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In that seatWhere he sat as a criminal, ready to meetHis accuser, he found himself turn'd by some change,As surprising and all unexpected as strange,To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was sought.All the world's foolish pride in that moment was naught;He felt all his plausible theories posed;And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosedIn the pathos of all he had witness'd, his headHe bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said,As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a handWhite, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.The hand of a woman is often, in youth,Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless, in truth;Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm?
XV.
The more that he look'd, that he listen'd, the moreHe discover'd perfections unnoticed before.Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance,This woman who thus had survived the romanceThat had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs,Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes.Together they talk'd of the years since when lastThey parted, contrasting the present, the past.Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. LucileQuestion'd much, with the interest a sister might feel,Of Lord Alfred's new life,—of Miss Darcy—her face,Her temper, accomplishments—pausing to traceThe advantage derived from a hymen so fit.Of herself, she recounted with humor and witHer journeys, her daily employments, the landsShe had seen, and the books she had read, and the handsShe had shaken.In all that she said there appear'dAn amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'dThe temple of reason, with ever a touchOf light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so muchAs their gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals bear,Through 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 paralyzed bliss,A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd,A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind,Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faintAnd serene as the halo encircling a saint.
XVI.
Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by.To each novel sensation spontaneouslyHe abandon'd himself with that ardor so strangeWhich belongs to a mind grown accustom'd to change.He sought, with well-practised and delicate 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.When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord in her being,At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever fleeingAs ever he near it advanced, when he thoughtTo have seized, and proceeded to analyze aughtOf the moral existence, the absolute soul,Light as vapor the phantom escaped his control.
XVII.
From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard.In the passage without a quick footstep there stirr'd;At the door knock'd the negress, and thrust in her head,"The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd," 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 cameO'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name,An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'dTo Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'dOn her face an indefinite look of confusion.On his mind instantaneously flash'd the conclusionThat his presence had caused it.He said, with a sneerWhich he could not repress, "Let not ME interfereWith the claims on your time, lady! when you are freeFrom more pleasant engagements, allow me to seeAnd to wait on you later."The words were not saidEre he wish'd to recall them. He bitterly readThe mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye.Inclining her head as in haughty reply,More reproachful perchance than all utter'd rebuke,She said merely, resuming her seat, "Tell the DukeHe may enter."And vex'd with his own words and hers,Alfred Vargrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers,Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. BeforeHis shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door.
XVIII.
When left to his thoughts in the garden alone,Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. With dull toneOf importance, through cities of rose and carnation,Went the bee on his business from station to station.The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around;Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to soundOn his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the hotSolid sun with his shadow, nor stirr'd from the spot.The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, perplex'd,And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and vex'd.He had not yet given the letters. AgainHe must visit Lucile. He resolved to remainWhere 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 form'd this resolve, he perceivedApproaching towards him, between the thick-leavedAnd luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke.Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for some nookWhence he might, unobserved, from the garden retreat.They had not yet seen him. The sound of their feetAnd their voices had warn'd him in time. They were walkingTowards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was talkingWith the action of Talma. He saw at a glanceThat they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No chanceOf escape save in instant concealment! Deep-dipp'dIn thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipp'd,Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush they pass'd,Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at lastThey paused, and sat down on a bench in the shade,So close that he could not but hear what they said.
XIX.
LUCILE.Duke, I scarcely conceive...LUVOIS.Ah! forgive!... I desiredSo deeply to see you to-day. You retiredSo early last night from the ball... this whole weekI have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied... speak,Speak, Lucile, and forgive me!... I know that I amA rash fool—but I love you! I love you, Madame.More than language can say! Do not deem, O Lucile,That the love I no longer have strength to concealIs a passing caprice! It is strange to my nature,It has made me, unknown to myself, a new creature.I implore you to sanction and save the new lifeWhich I lay at your feet with this prayer—Be my wifeStoop, and raise me!Lord Alfred could scarcely restrainThe sudden, acute pang of anger and painWith which he had heard this. As though to some windThe leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behindThe two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd.The sound half betrayed him. They started. He heardThe low voice of Lucile; but so faint was its toneThat her answer escaped him.Luvois hurried on,As though in remonstrance with what had been spoken."Nay, I know it, Lucile! but your heart was not brokenBy 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 mistakeWhat so ill I interpret, those feelings which makeWords like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heartMay have suffer'd of yore, this can only impartA pity profound to the love which I feel.Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, Lucile.""You know all, Duke?" she said; "well then, know that, in truth,I have learn'd from the rude lesson taught to my youthFrom my own heart to shelter my life; to mistrustThe heart of another. We are what we must,And not what we would be. I know that one hourAssures not another. The will and the powerAre diverse.""O madam!" he answer'd, "you fenceWith a feeling you know to be true and intense.'Tis not MY life, Lucile, that I plead for alone:If your nature I know, 'tis no less for your own.That nature will prey on itself; it was madeTo influence others. Consider," he said,"That genius craves power—what scope for it here?Gifts less noble to ME give command of that sphereIn which genius IS power. Such gifts you despise?But you do not disdain what such gifts realize!I offer you, Lady, a name not unknown—A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown—All my life at your feet I lay down—at your feetA heart which for you, and you only, can beat."LUCILE.That heart, Duke, that life—I respect both. The nameAnd position you offer, and all that you claimIn behalf of their nobler employment, I feelTo deserve what, in turn, I now ask you—LUVOIS.Lucile!LUCILE.I ask you to leave me—LUVOIS.You do not reject?LUCILE.I ask you to leave me the time to reflect.LUVOIS.You ask me?LUCILE.—The time to reflect.LUVOIS.Say—One word!May I hope?The reply of Lucile was not heardBy Lord Alfred; for just then she rose, and moved on.The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was gone.
XX.
Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And whenAlfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again,He just saw the white robe of the woman recedeAs she entered the house.Scarcely conscious indeedOf his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd.
XXI.
He enter'dUnnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd: so concentredAnd wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd.Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'dThe sofa, her face from the glass was reflected.Her dark eyes were fix'd on the ground. Pale, dejected,And lost in profound meditation she seem'd.Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders stream'dThe afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarmAnd surprise which escaped her, as now on her armAlfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily coldAnd clammy as death, all too cruelly toldHow far he had been from her thoughts.
XXII.
All his cheekWas disturb'd 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 wedMay—"The sentence broke short, like a weapon that snapsWhen the weight of a man is upon it."Perhaps,"Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the flushOf quick color which up to her brow seem'd to rushIn reply to those few broken words), "this farewellIs our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can tell?Let us part without 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 halfWroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trustHis own powers of restraint, in his bosom he thrustThe packet she gave, with a short angry sigh,Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply.
XXIII.
And Lucile was alone. And the men of the worldWere gone back to the world. And the world's self was furl'dFar away from the heart of the woman. Her handDroop'd, and from it, unloosed from their frail silken band,Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, and shedAt her feet—life's lost blossoms! Dejected, her headOn her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely stray'd o'erThose strewn records of passionate moments no more.From each page to her sight leapt some words that beliedThe composure with which she that day had deniedEvery claim on her heart to those poor perish'd years.They avenged themselves now, and she burst into tears.
I.
LETTER FROM COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED."BIGORRE, THURSDAY."Time up, you rascal! Come back, or be hang'd.Matilda grows peevish. Her mother haranguedFor a whole hour this morning about you. The deuce!What on earth can I say to you?—nothing's of use.And the blame of the whole of your shocking behaviorFalls on ME, sir! Come back,—do you hear?—or I leave yourAffairs, and, abjure you forever. Come backTo your anxious betroth'd; and perplexed"COUSIN JACK."
II.
Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from JohnTo increase his impatience to fly from Luchon.All the place was now fraught with sensations of painWhich, whilst in it, he strove to escape from in vain.A wild instinct warn'd him to fly from a placeWhere he felt that some fatal event, swift of pace,Was approaching his life. In despite his endeavorTo think of Matilda, her image foreverWas effaced from his fancy by that of Lucile.From the ground which he stood on he felt himself reel.Scared, alarm'd by those feelings to which, on the dayJust before, all his heart had so soon given way,When he caught, with a strange sense of fear, for assistance,And what was, till then, the great fact in existence,'Twas a phantom he grasp'd.
III.
Having sent for his guide,He order'd his horse, and determin'd to rideBack forthwith to Bigorre.Then, the guide, who well knewEvery haunt of those hills, said the wild lake of OoLay a league from Luchon; and suggested a trackBy the lake to Bigorre, which, transversing the backOf the mountain, avoided a circuit betweenTwo long valleys; and thinking, "Perchance change of sceneMay create change of thought," Alfred Vargrave agreed,Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full speed.
IV.
His guide rode beside him.The king of the guides!The gallant Bernard! ever boldly he rides,Ever gayly he sings! For to him, from of old,The hills have confided their secrets, and toldWhere the white partridge lies, and the cock o' the woods;Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes;Where the bear lurks perdu; and the lynx on his preyAt nightfall descends, when the mountains are gray;Where the sassafras blooms, and the bluebell is born,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 valesHave whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales;He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leap'd with the boys;Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoysAn 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!
V.
But Bernard found, that day, neither song not love-tale,Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend availTo arouse from his deep and profound reveryHim that silent beside him rode fast as could be.
VI.
Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their pace,And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face.The breezy and pure inspirations of mornBreathed about them. The scarp'd ravaged mountains, all wornBy the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly meander,Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander.They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses,And wound through a region of green wildernesses;The waters went whirling above and around,The forests hung heap'd in their shadows profound.Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon,Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon,Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful CazeauxThey mark'd; and far down in the sunshine below,Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue,The white happy homes of the valley of Oo,Where the age is yet golden.And high overheadThe wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread.Red granite, and quartz; in the alchemic sun,Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal in one;And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells,And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells;The large violet burn'd; the campanula blue;And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd throughThe red-berried brambles and thick sassafras;And fragrant with thyme was the delicate grass;And high up, and higher, and highest of all,The secular phantom of snow!O'er the wallOf a gray sunless glen gaping drowsy below,That aerial spectre, reveal'd in the glowOf the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the eyeAnd appears to grow in, and grow out of, the skyAnd plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight.Only reach'd by the vast rosy ripple of light,And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing,Half unreal, like some mythological kingThat dominates all in a fable of old,Takes command of a valley as fair to beholdAs aught in old fables; and, seen or unseen,Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and sereneSacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infinite worldOf man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod,Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God.
VII.
Meanwhile, as they journey'd, that serpentine road,Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly show'dA gay cavalcade some few feet in advance.Alfred Vargrave's heart beat; for he saw at a glanceThe slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next lookShow'd him, joyously ambling beside her, the DukeThe rest of the troop which had thus caught his kenHe knew not, nor noticed them (women and men).They were laughing and talking together. Soon afterHis sudden appearance suspended their laughter.
VIII.
"You here!... I imagined you far on your wayTo Bigorre!"... said Lucile. "What has caused you to stay?""I AM on my way to Bigorre," he replied,"But since MY way would seem to be YOURS, let me rideFor one moment beside you." And then, with a stoopAt her ear,... "and forgive me!"
IX.
By this time the troopHad regather'd its numbers.Lucile was as paleAs the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way 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 jealous of her!"And the thought of this jealousy added a spurTo his firm resolution and effort to please.He talk'd much; was witty, and quite at his ease.
X.
After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the eastHalf the day, gather'd closer, and rose and increased.The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the ground,There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound,And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like chamois, the air,And look'd at each other, and halted, and thereUnbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The whiteAspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in fright.All announced the approach of the tempest.Erelong,Thick darkness descended the mountains among,And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flashGored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash.The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anonBroke the thunder.The horses took fright, every one.The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight.The guides whoop'd. The band was obliged to alight;And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walk'd blindTo the darkness before from the darkness behind.
XI.
And the Storm is abroad in the mountains!He fillsThe crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hillsWith dread voices of power. A roused million or moreOf wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoarImmemorial ambush, and roll in the wakeOf the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake.And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder descendsFrom invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends;He howls as he hounds down his prey; and his lashTears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash,That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn,Like a woman in fear; then he blows his hoarse hornAnd is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror,Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate errorOf mountain and mist.
XII.
There is war in the skies!Lo! the black-winged legions of tempest ariseO'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming belowIn the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as thoughSome seraph burn'd through them, the thunderbolt searchingWhich the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo! the lurchingAnd shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seemTo waver above, in the dark; and yon stream,How it hurries and roars, on its way to the whiteAnd paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sightof the things seen in heaven!
XIII.
Through the darkness and aweThat had gather'd around him, Lord Alfred now saw,Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glareOf the lightning that momently pulsed through the airA woman alone on a shelf of the hill,With her cheek coldly propp'd on her hand,—and as stillAs the rock that she sat on, which beetled aboveThe black lake beneath her.All terror, all loveAdded speed to the instinct with which he rush'd on.For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stoneIn its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snakeThat encircles a sorceress, charm'd for her sakeAnd lull'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'dAnd caressingly twined round the feet and the headOf the woman who sat there, undaunted and calmAs the soul of that solitude, listing the psalmOf the plangent and laboring tempests roll slowFrom the caldron of midnight and vapor below.Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round,Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the soundOf the battering thunder's indefinite peal,And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile.
XIV.
She started. Once more, with its flickering wand,The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her handAlfred Vargrave had seized within his; and he feltThe light fingers, that coldly and lingeringly dweltIn the grasp of his own, tremble faintly."See! see!Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree!"She exclaim'd,... "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 feelNothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vainWith the truth that leaps from me. We two meet again'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching aboveTo 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 entreatYour pardon, Lucile, for the past—I imploreFor the future your mercy—implore it with moreOf passion than prayer ever breathed. By the powerWhich 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 belongThan the right to repair in the future the wrongTo the past? and the wrong I have done you, of yore,Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to restore,To retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your life,Urge the right to repair it, Lucile! Be my wife,My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth,And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worthTo my life, its contrition!"
XV.
He paused, for there cameO'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flameThat illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead.With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said,"And your pledge to another?"
XVI.
"Hush, hush!" he exclaim'd,"My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed.'Twere poor honor indeed, to another to giveThat life of which YOU keep the heart. Could I liveIn the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie?Alas, no! YOUR hand holds my whole destiny.I can never recall what my lips have avow'd;In your love lies whatever can render me proud.For the great crime of all my existence hath beenTo have known you in vain. And the duty best seen,And most hallow'd—the duty most sacred and sweet,Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet.O speak! and restore me the blessing I lostWhen I lost you—my pearl of all pearls beyond cost!And restore to your own life its youth, and restoreThe vision, the rapture, the passion of yore!Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the world,When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurl'd!For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man,The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran,Whom the formless indefinite future of youth,With its lying allurements, distracted. In truthI have wearily wander'd the world, and I feelThat the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile,Is worth all the world can afford, and the dreamWhich, though follow'd forever, forever doth seemAs fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yoreWhen it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shoreOf life's untraversed ocean! I know the sole pathTo repose, which my desolate destiny hath,Is the path by whose course to your feet I return.And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern,And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength,The sublimity in you, as he whom at lengthThese have saved from himself, for the truth they revealTo his worship?"
XVII.
She spoke not; but Alfred could feelThe light hand and arm, that upon him reposed,Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed.But, under their languid mysterious fringe,A passionate softness was beaming. One tingeOf faint inward fire flush'd transparently throughThe delicate, pallid, and pure olive hueOf the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosomHeaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose-blossomA bee is imprison'd and struggles.
XVIII.
MeanwhileThe sun, in his setting, sent up the last smileOf his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold!O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold,Rose and rested: while far up the dim airy crags,Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags,The rear of the tempest its sullen retreatDrew off slowly, receding in silence, to meetThe powers of the night, which, now gathering afar,Had already sent forward one bright, signal starThe curls of her soft and luxuriant hair,From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear,Had escaped; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with kissesThe redolent warmth of those long falling tresses.Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yetHad ceased falling around them; when, splash'd, drench'd, and wet,The Duc de Luvois down the rough mountain courseApproached them as fast as the road, and his horse,Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just nowLost his footing, and over the perilous browOf the storm-haunted mountain his master had thrown;But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone,And the horse, being bred to the instinct which fillsThe breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills,Had scrambled again to his feet; and now masterAnd 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.