I.
LETTER FROM THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE.
"I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, So long since you may have forgotten it now (When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers to grow), Your last words recorded a pledge--what you will--
A promise--the time is now come to fulfil.
The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, I desire to receive from your hand. You discern My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain.
The distance to Luchon is short. I remain A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego one brief page from the summer romance Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your place At her feet, in the light of her fair English face.
I desire nothing more, and trust you will feel I desire nothing much.
"Your friend always, "LUCILE."
II.
Now in May Fair, of course,--in the fair month of May--
When life is abundant, and busy, and gay:
When the markets of London are noisy about Young ladies, and strawberries,--"only just out;"
Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves, And young ladies on sale for the strawberry-leaves:
When cards, invitations, and three-cornered notes Fly about like white butterflies--gay little motes In the sunbeam of Fashion; and even Blue Books Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks;
And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern, Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn, Those lots which so often decide if our day Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay)
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other Than Cadmus, himself, put together, to bother The heads of Hellenes;--I say, in the season Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason Why, when quietly munching your dry toast and butter, Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd, An odor of violets faint as the Spring, And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring.
But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection, When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection;
Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease, Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath, A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, Are all a man finds for his day's occupation, The whole case, believe me, is totally changed, And a letter may alter the plans we arranged Over-night, for the slaughter of time--a wild beast, Which, though classified yet by no naturalist, Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, And more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the Bear.
III.
I marvel less, therefore, that, having already Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady, Lord Alfred was startled.
The month is September;
Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray remember These facts, gentle reader, because I intend To fling all the unities by at the end.)
He walk'd to the window. The morning was chill:
The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the hill:
The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind:
And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his mind, Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing:
And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it, To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd . . . . . "Confound it!"
IV.
What the thoughts were which led to this bad interjection, Sir, or madam, I leave to your future detection;
For whatever they were, they were burst in upon, As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin John.
COUSIN JOHN.
A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool!
LORD ALFRED.
Who?
JOHN.
The man who has anything better to do;
And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, To travel about with a woman in love,--
Unless she's in love with himself.
ALFRED.
Indeed! why Are you here then, dear Jack?
JOHN.
Can't you guess it?
ALFRED.
Not I.
JOHN.
Because I HAVE nothing that's better to do.
I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, On the whole (I must own), than be bored by myself.
That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf--
Your Will-o'-the-wisp--that has led you and me Such a dance through these hills--
ALFRED.
Who, Matilda?
JOHN.
Yes! she, Of course! who but she could contrive so to keep One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling asleep For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four?
ALFRED.
What's the matter?
JOHN.
Why, she is--a matter, the more I consider about it, the more it demands An attention it does not deserve; and expands Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline, When possess'd by a fair face, and saucy Eighteen, Is entitled to take in this very small star, Already too crowded, as I think, by far.
You read Malthus and Sadler?
ALFRED.
Of course.
JOHN.
To what use, When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse Of one mere human creature's legitimate space In this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum! the case Wholly passes my patience.
ALFRED.
My own is worse tried.
JOHN.
Yours, Alfred?
ALFRED.
Read this, if you doubt, and decide, JOHN (reading the letter).
"I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old--"
What is this?
ALFRED.
Read it on to the end, and you'll know.
JOHN (continues reading).
"When we parted, your last words recorded a vow--
What you will" . . .
Hang it! this smells all over, I swear, Of adventurers and violets. Was it your hair You promised a lock of?
ALFRED.
Read on. You'll discern.
JOHN (continues).
"Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return." . . .
Humph! . . . Letters! . . . the matter is worse than I guess'd;
I have my misgivings--
ALFRED.
Well, read out the rest, And advise.
JOHN.
Eh? . . . Where was I?
(continues.)
"Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego one brief page from the summer romance Of her courtship." . . .
Egad! a romance, for my part, I'd forego every page of, and not break my heart!
ALFRED.
Continue.
