He had wander'd the world through, by land and by sea, And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by the wave On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd His command: often baffled, he ever prevail'd, In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and fed By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name.
He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France, And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Freelance, Had wander'd in search of it, over the world Into India.
But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile Of a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while, And whose council he prompted and govern'd by stealth);
Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, Who died giving birth to this daughter, before He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore.
His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance Had secured her a home with his sister in France, A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucile Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal The half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to bequeath (Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, beneath That outward repose that concealed it in her)
A something half wild to her strange character.
The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted, At the door of a convent in Paris had parted.
But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried, When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been married To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died, With no claim on her tears--she had wept as a bride.
Said Lord Alfred, "Your mistress expects me."
The crone Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him alone.
V.
O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace Rested silence and perfume. No sound reach'd the place.
In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze play'd.
O'er the smooth wooden floor, polished dark as a glass, Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to pass.
In light olive baskets, by window and door, Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the floor, Rich wild flowers pluck'd by Lucile from the hill, Seem'd the room with their passionate presence to fill:
Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed;
The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed;
And the frail saponaire, and the tender blue-bell, And the purple valerian,--each child of the fell And the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the source Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his course Where the chamois and izard, with delicate hoof, Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof.
VI.
Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed, That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. Half unclosed In the light slept the flowers; all was pure and at rest;
All peaceful; all modest; all seem'd self-possess'd, And aware of the silence. No vestige nor trace Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the place.
He stood by the window. A cloud pass'd the sun.
A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one.
Just then Lucile enter'd the room, undiscern'd By Lord Alfred, whose face to the window was turned, In a strange revery.
The time was, when Lucile, In beholding that man, could not help but reveal The rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out every nerve In the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve.
And now--she gazed at him, calm, smiling,--perchance Indifferent.
VII.
Indifferently turning his glance, Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze unaware.
O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft dusky hair:
A rose-bud half blown in her hand; in her eyes A half-pensive smile.
A sharp cry of surprise Escaped from his lips: some unknown agitation.
An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation, Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit;
Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it.
That wit so complacent and docile, that ever Lightly came at the call of the lightest endeavor, Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold, Which, secure of its value, so fluently roll'd In free circulation from hand on to hand For the usage of all, at a moment's command;
For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd, And he looked at Lucile without speaking a word.
VIII.
Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the face On whose features he gazed had no more than a trace Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years.
Yes! the face he remember'd was faded with tears:
Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimmed the dark eyes, And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with sighs, And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterie Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress, In the careless toilet of Lucile--then too sad To care aught to her changeable beauty to add--
Lord Alfred had never admired before!
Alas! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, Had neglected herself, never heeding, or thinking (While the blossom and bloom of her beauty were shrinking)
That sorrow can beautify only the heart--
Not the face--of a woman; and can but impart Its endearment to one that has suffer'd. In truth Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth loves gay youth.
IX.
The woman that now met, unshrinking his gaze, Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous haze Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the first, Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath burst In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal To the homage which none but a churl would withhold--
That caressing and exquisite grace--never bold, Ever present--which just a few women possess.
From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by the stress Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn.
Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhere The luxurious proportions of youth; and her hair--
