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, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune, Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn Has at last found a Mars--who, of course, shall be nameless, That vestal that yields to Mars ONLY is blameless!
Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs All his heart into tumult? . . . Lucile de Nevers With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light, Free allusion? Not so as might give him the right To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet To a trite and irreverent compliment set!
XVIII.
Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there roll Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force, THE WORLD.
XIX.
"No!" he mutter'd, "she cannot have sinn'd!
True! women there are (self-named women of mind!)
Who love rather liberty--liberty, yes!
To choose and to leave--than the legalized stress Of the lovingest marriage. But she--is she so?
I will not believe it. Lucile! O no, no!
Not Lucile!
"But the world? and, ah, what would it say?
O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day!
The gossip's light question! the slanderous jest!
She is right! no, we could not be happy. 'Tis best As it is. I will write to her--write, O my heart!
And accept her farewell. OUR farewell! must we part--
Part thus, then--forever, Lucile? Is it so?
Yes! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know.
'Twas a dream! we must waken!"
XX.
With head bow'd, as though By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn.
Drawn apart From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start, Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast, A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd.
He order'd his horse to be ready anon:
Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on, And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room.
It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloom Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light On the mantel-piece; there a large card caught his sight--
A large card, a stout card, well-printed and plain, Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain.
It gave a respectable look to the slab That it lay on. The name was--
SIR RIDLEY MACNAB.
Full familiar to him was the name that he saw, For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law.
Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known As wearing the longest philacteried gown Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of, A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of This world and the next; having largely invested Not only where treasure is never molested By thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ball Where interest was high, and security small.
Of mankind there was never a theory yet Not by some individual instance upset:
And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception did Ridley present.
Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety.
The leader of every religious society, Christian knowledge he labor'd t though life to promote With personal profit, and knew how to quote Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantage To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age.
XXI.
Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, A waiter his head through the doorway protruded;
"Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak."
Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek;
