Lucile [29]
See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth, The hard pupil of life and the world: then, oh, then, I should wake from a dream, and my life be again Reconciled to the world; and, released from regret, Take the lot fate accords to my choice.' "So we met. But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd: The danger, alas, to yourself! I have err'd. But happy for both that this error hath been Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen! We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed, Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read. My course is decided; my path I discern: Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now. "Return, O return to the young living love! Whence, alas! If, one moment, you wander'd, think only it was More deeply to bury the past love. "And, oh! 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
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