As surprising and all unexpected as strange,

To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was sought.
All the world's foolish pride in that moment was nought;
He felt all his plausible theories posed;

And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed
In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head
He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said,
As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a hand
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.
The hand of a woman is often, in youth,

Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth;
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,

Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm ?

XV.

The more that he look'd, that he listen'd, the more

He discover'd perfections unnoticed before.

Less salient than once, less poetic perchance,

This woman who thus had survived the romance

That had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs, Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. Together they talk'd of the years since when last

Lucile

They parted, contrasting the present, the past.
Yet no memory marr'd their light converse.
Question'd much, with the interest a sister might feel,
Of Lord Alfred's new life,-of Miss Darcy-her face,
Her temper, accomplishments—pausing to trace
The advantage derived from a hymen so fit.

Of herself, she recounted with humour and wit

Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands.

She had seen, and the books she had read, and the hands She had shaken.

In all that she said there appear'd

An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd

The temple of reason, with ever a touch

Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much

As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals bear,
Through the blooms of a garland the point of a spear.
But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this,
To that soul, whose experience had paralysed bliss,
A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd,
A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind,
Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint
And serene as the halo encircling a saint.

XVI.

Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by.
To each novel sensation spontaneously

He abandon'd himself with that ardour so strange
Which belongs to a mind grown accustom'd to change.
He sought, with well-practised and delicate art,

To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart;
But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever,
More adroit than the man, baffled every endeavour.

When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord in her being,
At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever fleeing

As ever he near it advanced, when he thought

To have seized, and proceeded to analyse aught

Of the moral existence, the absolute soul,

Light as vapour the phantom escaped his control.

XVII.

From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard.
In the passage without, a quick footstep there stirr'd.
At the door knock'd the negress, and thrust in her head,
'The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd,' she said,
'And insisted'—

'The Duke!' cried Lucile (as she spoke
The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo woke).
'Say I do not receive till the evening. Explain,'
As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again,
'I have business of private importance.'

There came

O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name,
An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd

To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd

On her face an indefinite look of confusion.

On his mind instantaneously flash'd the conclusion
That his presence had caused it.

He said, with a sneer

Which he could not repress, 'Let not me interfere 'With the claims on your time, lady! when you are free 'From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see

'And to wait on you later.'

The words were not said

Ere he wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read
The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye.
Inclining her head, as in haughty reply,

More reproachful perchance than all utter'd rebuke,
She said merely, resuming her seat, 'Tell the Duke
'He may enter.'

And vex'd with his own words and hers, Alfred Vargrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers, Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. Before His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door.

XVIII.

When left to his thoughts in the garden alone,

Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. With dull tone
Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation,
Went the bee on his business from station to station.
The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around;
Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to sound
On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the hot
Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirr'd from the spot.
The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, perplex'd,
And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and vex'd.
He had not yet given the letters. Again

He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain

Where he was till the Duke went. In short, he would stay,
Were it only to know when the Duke went away.
But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived
Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved
And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke.

Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for some nook
Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden retreat.
They had not yet seen him. The sound of their feet
And their voices had warn'd him in time. They were walking
Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was talking
With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance

That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No chance
Of escape save in instant concealment! Deep-dipp'd
In thick foliage, an arbour stood near.
In he slipp'd,
Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush they pass'd,
Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last

They paused, and sat down on a bench in the shade,

So close that he could not but hear what they said.

XIX.

LUCILE.

Duke, I scarcely conceive. . .

LUVOIS.

Ah, forgive! . . . I desired

So deeply to see you to-day. You retired

So early last night from the ball . . . this whole week
I have seen you pale, silent, pre-occupied . . . speak,
Speak, Lucile, and forgive me!. I know that I am
A rash fool-but I love you! I love you, Madame,
More than language can say! Do not deem, O Lucile,
That the love I no longer have strength to conceal
Is a passing caprice! It is strange to my nature,
It has made me, unknown to myself, a new creature.
I implore you to sanction and save the new life

Which I lay at your feet with this prayer-Be my wife;
Stoop, and raise me!

Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain

The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain

With which he had heard this. As though to some wind
The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind

The two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd.

The sound half betray'd him. They started. He heard
The low voice of Lucile; but so faint was its tone
That her answer escaped him.

Luvois hurried on,

As though in remonstrance with what had been spoken. 'Nay, I know it, Lucile! but your heart was not broken 'By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. 'Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be loved. 'You mistake your own feelings. I fear you mistake 'What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make 'Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heart May have suffer'd of yore, this can only impart

'A pity profound to the love which I feel.

'Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, Lucile.'

'You know all, Duke?' she said; 'well then, know that, in truth, 'I have learn'd from the rude lesson taught to my youth 'From my own heart to shelter my life; to mistrust

'The heart of another. We are what we must,

'And not what we would be. I know that one hour 'Assures not another. The will and the power

'Are diverse.'

'O madam!' he answer'd, 'you fence 'With a feeling you know to be true and intense. "Tis not my life, Lucile, that I plead for alone: 'If your nature I know, 'tis no less for your own. 'That nature will prey on itself; it was made 'To influence others. Consider,' he said,

I