'That genius craves power-what scope for it here?
'Gifts less noble to me give command of that sphere
'In which genius is power. Such gifts you despise ?
'But you do not disdain what such gifts realize!
'I offer you, Lady, a name not unknown—
A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown-
All my life at your feet I lay down-at your feet
'A heart which for you, and you only, can beat.'
That heart, Duke, that life-I respect both. The name
And position you offer, and all that you claim
In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel
To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you-
I ask you to leave me the time to reflect.
The reply of Lucile was not heard
By Lord Alfred; for just then she rose, and moved on. The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was gone,
Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And when
Alfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again,
He just saw the white robe of the woman recede
As she enter'd the house.
Scarcely conscious indeed
Of his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd.
Unnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd: so concentred
And wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd.
Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'd
The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected.
Her dark eyes were fix'd on the ground. Pale, dejected,
And lost in profound meditation she seem'd.
Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders stream'd
The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm
And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm
Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold
And clammy as death, all too cruelly told
How far he had been from her thoughts.
Was disturb'd with the effort it cost him to speak.
'It was not my fault. I have heard all,' he said.
'Now the letters-and farewell, Lucile! When you wed
'May-'
The sentence broke short, like a weapon that snaps
When the weight of a man is upon it.
Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the flush
Of quick colour which up to her brows seem'd to rush
In reply to those few broken words), 'this farewell
'Is our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can tell?
'Let us part without bitterness. Here are your letters.
'Be assured I retain you no more in my fetters !'—
She laugh'd, as she said this, a little sad laugh,
And stretch'd out her hand with the letters. And half
Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trust
His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he thrust
The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh,
Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply.
And Lucile was alone. And the men of the world
Were gone back to the world. And the world's self was furl'd
Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand
Droop'd, and from it, unloosed from their frail silken band,
Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, and shed
At her feet-life's lost blossoms! Dejected, her head
On her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely stray'd o'er
Those strewn records of passionate moments no more.
From each page to her sight leapt some word that belied
The composure with which she that day had denied.
Every claim on her heart to those poor perish'd years.
They avenged themselves now, and she burst into tears.
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