Lucile Part 12

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 flas.h.i.+ng 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, Pa.s.s'd the cas.e.m.e.nt 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, un.o.bserved, 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 pa.s.s'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.

More than language can say! Do not deem, O Lucile, That the love I no longer have strength to conceal Is a pa.s.sing 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 life Which I lay at your feet with this prayer--Be my wife Stoop, and raise me!

Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain With which he had heard this. As though to some wind The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind The two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd.

The sound half betrayed him. They started. He heard The low voice of Lucile; but so faint was its tone That 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 broken By 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 mistake What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heart May have suffer'd of yore, this can only impart A pity profound to the love which I feel.

Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+ 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 youth From my own heart to shelter my life; to mistrust The heart of another. We are what we must, And not what we would be. I know that one hour a.s.sures not another. The will and the power Are diverse."

"O madam!" he answer'd, "you fence With 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 made To influence others. Consider," he said, "That genius craves power--what scope for it here?

Gifts less n.o.ble to ME give command of that sphere In 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 feet A heart which for you, and you only, can beat."

LUCILE.

That heart, Duke, that life--I respect both. The name And position you offer, and all that you claim In behalf of their n.o.bler employment, I feel To 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 heard By 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 when Alfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again, He just saw the white robe of the woman recede As she entered the house.

Scarcely conscious indeed Of his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd.

XXI.

He enter'd Unnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd: so concentred And wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd.

Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'd The sofa, her face from the gla.s.s 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'd The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold And clammy as death, all too cruelly told How far he had been from her thoughts.