Lucile [39]
And so he rode by, And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight, Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite.
XIII.
And it bit, and it rankled.
XIV.
Lord Alfred, scarce knowing, Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one The torture of doubt--had stray'd moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that evening in which With the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through rich Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight, Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery around him avail to recall To his senses their normal perceptions, until, As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world. Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd, In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees, And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same track The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back To Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned! He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. He knew that the night was approaching to day. He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn, Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn, Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. 'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look.
XV.
And the Duke's rankled in him.
XVI.
He rush'd on. He tore His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes, The Countess was gone. And the Duke? The man stared A sleepy inquiry. With accents that scared The man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried, "Who had been there that night!" The man grinn'd and replied, With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay! He went after the lady." No further reply Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no more, Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door. "What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd? In that lone inn--with her!" Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which remain'd On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd?
XVII.
The day was half turn'd to the evening, before He re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look, By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke, Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. Right Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride, Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside, And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, "O, how right have you been! There can never be--no, Never--any more contest between us! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends!" Having utter'd that word, He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train Of his young imitators. Lord Alfred stood still, Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill, Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul With a dull, stifling anguish he could not control. Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd, The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud Some comment upon his gay humor that day? He never was gayer: what makes him so gay? 'Tis,
XIII.
And it bit, and it rankled.
XIV.
Lord Alfred, scarce knowing, Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude From his mind every human sensation, save one The torture of doubt--had stray'd moodily on, Down the highway deserted, that evening in which With the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through rich Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight, Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of all The wild scenery around him avail to recall To his senses their normal perceptions, until, As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world. Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd, In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees, And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same track The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back To Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned! He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. He knew that the night was approaching to day. He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn, Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn, Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. 'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look.
XV.
And the Duke's rankled in him.
XVI.
He rush'd on. He tore His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door, Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes, The Countess was gone. And the Duke? The man stared A sleepy inquiry. With accents that scared The man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried, "Who had been there that night!" The man grinn'd and replied, With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay! He went after the lady." No further reply Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no more, Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door. "What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd? In that lone inn--with her!" Was that look he had cast When they met in the forest, that look which remain'd On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd?
XVII.
The day was half turn'd to the evening, before He re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look, By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke, Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. Right Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride, Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside, And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, "O, how right have you been! There can never be--no, Never--any more contest between us! Milord, Let us henceforth be friends!" Having utter'd that word, He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train Of his young imitators. Lord Alfred stood still, Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill, Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul With a dull, stifling anguish he could not control. Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd, The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud Some comment upon his gay humor that day? He never was gayer: what makes him so gay? 'Tis,