Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I go On my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoice To treasure in memory all that your voice Has avow'd 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--I do not respond to your love.
Yes, indeed! be convinced that I could not (no, no, Never, never!) have render'd 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 remorse 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 deepen'd 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 shock'd Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, 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 To the hope of a moment: no more! If there fell Any tear on this page, 'twas a friend's.
"So farewell To the past--and to you, Alfred Vargrave.
"LUCILE."
X.
So ended that letter.
The room seem'd to reel Round and round in the mist that was scorching his eyes With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, Half chocked 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 pass'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, pass'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 snatch 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 pass'd And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at last A hoarse 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 pass'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.
