II.

Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part From strong physical health, and that vigor of heart Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance, From a generous vanity native to France, With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry, Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles: But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles, No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind.

Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen Floating faint in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood, Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued With impetuous pa.s.sion, seemed semi-Satanic.

Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; in panic You watch them whirl'd down by the torrent.

In truth, To the sacred political creed of his youth The century which he was born to denied All realization. Its generous pride To degenerate protest on all things was sunk; Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk.

Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod, Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his G.o.d, And his pastime his purpose.

From boyhood possess'd Of inherited wealth, he had learned to invest Both his wealth and those pa.s.sions wealth frees from the cage Which penury locks, in each vice of an age All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered, Were to him illegitimate.

Thus, he appear'd To the world what the world chose to have him appear,-- The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still 'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will, That found for the first time--perhaps for the last-- In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past, Force, and faith, in the Future.

And so, in his mind, To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd The terror of missing his life's destination, Which in her had its mystical representation.

III.

And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pa.s.s'd O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares, So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart.

Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose Up the s.h.a.ggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows Clang'd above him, and cl.u.s.tering down the dim air Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, how He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent Of the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sent From the torrent--before him a sound from the tracts Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown.

The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas In Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd.

On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd Fast, fast by the Erl King!

The wild wizard-work Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, Broke the broad moon above the voluminous Rock-chaos,--the Hecate of that Tartarus!

With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a h.o.a.r Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night.

A balcony hung o'er the water. Above In a glimmering cas.e.m.e.nt a shade seem'd to move.

At the door the old negress was nodding her head As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said.

And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel, For a door closed--Luvois was alone with Lucile.

IV.

In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire From a bra.s.s lamp before her--a faint hectic fire On her cheek, to her eyes lent the l.u.s.tre of fever: They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, Those dark eyes--so dark and so deep!

"You relent?

And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?"

There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.

LUCILE.

Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life-- Woman's honor.

Luvois.

The last, madam, NOT?

LUCILE.

Both. I glance At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France, As I read them! You say, in this letter...

"I know Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?) For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, And now trifles again with the heart you deny To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!) To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give To the future its freedom. That man shalt not live To make you as wretched as you have made me!"

LUVOIS.

Well, madam, in those words what words do you see That threatens the honor of woman?

LUCILE.

See!... what, What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not, Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name Was soil'd and dishonor'd by more than mere shame If the woman that bore it had first been the cause Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause!

Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonor In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, Can shudder, and say, "In that smile is a grave"?

No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have In the contest you menace. That contest but draws Every right into ruin. By all human laws Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanct.i.ties Of man's social honor!

The Duke droop'd his eyes.

"I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite.

But you should from the first have done this, for I feel That you knew from the first that I loved you."

Lucile This sudden reproach seem'd to startle.

She raised A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast.

Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pa.s.s'd, Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a tear, Falling softly, awoke it.

However severe, Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?

Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character, Which had seem'd, even when most impa.s.sion'd it seem'd, Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd In his bosom no pa.s.sion which once shaken wide Might tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty pride?

Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life?

There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river Which through continents pushes its pathway forever To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use, It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies.

The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws The river's life into its own life, by laws Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this: The river is lost, if the ocean it miss; If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore; Its sources are infinite; still to the sh.o.r.e, With no diminution of pride, it will say, "I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!"

Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she, Had she taken that love for the love of the sea?

V.

At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been Stern or haughty departed; and, humble in mien, She approach'd him and brokenly murmur'd, as though To herself more than him, "Was I wrong? is it so?

Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem I may claim on ONE ground--I at least am sincere.

You say that to me from the first it was clear That you loved me. But what if this knowledge were known At a moment in life when I felt most alone, And least able to be so? a moment, in fact, When I strove from one haunting regret to retract And emanc.i.p.ate life, and once more to fulfil Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw For a moment the promise of this in the plighted Affection of one who, in nature, united So much that from others affection might claim, If only affection were free? Do you blame The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will, To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain From hope? alas! I too then hoped!"

LUVOIS.

Oh, again, Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile, That you then deign'd to hope--

LUCILE.

Yes! to hope I could feel, And could give to you, that without which all else given Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:-- A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope?

LUVOIS.

O Lucile!

"Say again,"

She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er, And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'?

I myself hoped no more!"

With but ill-suppressed wrath The Duke answer'd... "What, then! he recrosses your path, This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!"

Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... "No! no!

'Tis not that--but alas!--but I cannot conceal That I have not forgotten the past--but I feel That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,-- In return for what... ah, Duke, what is it?... a heart Which is only a ruin!"

With words warm and wild, "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!"

He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answer'd, "No!"

An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right?

You reject ME! Accept HIM?"