Lucile [31]
shall yet persevere: I shall yet be, in fine, A rival you dare not despise. It is plain That to settle this contest there can but remain One way--need I say what it is?"
XV.
Not unmoved With regretful respect for the earnestness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied In words which he trusted might yet turn aside The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst!) Had not been accepted.
XVI.
"Accepted! say first Are you free to have offer'd?" Lord Alfred was mute.
XVII.
"Ah, you dare not reply!" cried the Duke. "Why dispute, Why palter with me? You are silent! and why? Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall, That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, You be really sincere, I ask only one word. Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, And there CAN be no quarrel between us. Say on!" Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and conditions with me. I refuse to reply."
XVIII.
As diviners may see Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imminent. There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead, Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge Dividing the Past from the Future, so small That if one should pass over, the other must fall.
XIX.
On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof, Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roof Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged On the heath where they stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman. A guide he appear'd, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash With a short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind The short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, confined By the long boots; the woollen capote; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note.
XX.
The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore The page open and read. Ere a moment was o'er His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes, And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile! You are quite right, Lord Alfred! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be reversed. You are not accepted,--nor free to propose! I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows? I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. This letter--but stay! you can read it--look here!"
XXI.
It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could sanction resentment. He said Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and read . . .
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUC DE LUVOIS.
"SAINT SAVIOUR.
"Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stay Till I see you again. With no moment's delay I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel Or profess, to come to me directly. "LUCILE."
XXII.
"Your letter!" He then
XV.
Not unmoved With regretful respect for the earnestness proved By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied In words which he trusted might yet turn aside The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst!) Had not been accepted.
XVI.
"Accepted! say first Are you free to have offer'd?" Lord Alfred was mute.
XVII.
"Ah, you dare not reply!" cried the Duke. "Why dispute, Why palter with me? You are silent! and why? Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall, That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, You be really sincere, I ask only one word. Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, And there CAN be no quarrel between us. Say on!" Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less The power, to make terms and conditions with me. I refuse to reply."
XVIII.
As diviners may see Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, He foresaw in a moment each evil result Of the quarrel now imminent. There, face to face, 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead, Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge Dividing the Past from the Future, so small That if one should pass over, the other must fall.
XIX.
On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof, Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roof Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged On the heath where they stood, at full gallop emerged A horseman. A guide he appear'd, by the sash Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash With a short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind The short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, confined By the long boots; the woollen capote; and the rein, A mere hempen cord on a curb. Up the plain He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank, And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note.
XX.
The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gest Of apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore The page open and read. Ere a moment was o'er His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes, And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile! You are quite right, Lord Alfred! fair rivals at worst, Our relative place may perchance be reversed. You are not accepted,--nor free to propose! I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows? I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. This letter--but stay! you can read it--look here!"
XXI.
It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged By aught that could sanction resentment. He said Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and read . . .
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUC DE LUVOIS.
"SAINT SAVIOUR.
"Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stay Till I see you again. With no moment's delay I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel Or profess, to come to me directly. "LUCILE."
XXII.
"Your letter!" He then