Together they talk'd of the years since when last They parted, contrasting the present, the past.
Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lucile Question'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 trace The advantage derived 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 she had read, and the hands She had shaken.
In all that she said there appear'd An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd The temple of reason, with ever a touch Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much As 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 faint And serene as the halo encircling a saint.
XVI.
Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by.
To each novel sensation spontaneously He abandon'd himself with that ardor so strange Which 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 fleeing As ever he near it advanced, when he thought To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught Of 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 came O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name, An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd On her face an indefinite look of confusion.
On his mind instantaneously flash'd the conclusion That his presence had caused it.
He said, with a sneer Which he could not repress, "Let not ME 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 wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read The 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 Duke He 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. 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 himself. With dull tone Of 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 sound On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the hot Solid 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. 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 form'd this resolve, he perceived Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke.
Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for 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 warn'd him in time. They were walking Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was talking With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No chance Of escape save in instant concealment! Deep-dipp'd In 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 last They 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 desired So deeply to see you to-day. You retired So early last night from the ball . . . this whole week I have seen 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.
