Lucile Part 4

And she?

ALFRED.

Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing!

We each keep our letters... a portrait... a ring...

With a pledge to return them whenever the one Or the other shall call for them back.

JOHN.

Pray go on.

ALFRED.

My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin To supply the grim deficit found in our days, When love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She obeys.

She goes out in the world; takes to dancing once more-- A pleasure she rarely indulged in before.

I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John) Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now, Jack, You know all.

JOHN (after a pause).

You are really resolved to go back?

ALFRED.

Eh, where?

JOHN.

To that worst of all places--the past.

You remember Lot's wife?

ALFRED.

'Twas a promise when last We parted. My honor is pledged to it.

JOHN.

Well, What is it you wish me to do?

ALFRED.

You must tell Matilda, I meant to have call'd--to leave word-- To explain--but the time was so pressing--

JOHN.

My lord, Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do...

ALFRED.

You wish then to break off my marriage?

JOHN.

No, no!

But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take These letters.

ALFRED.

Not see? would you have me, then, break A promise my honor is pledged to?

JOHN (humming).

"Off, off And away! said the stranger"...

ALFRED.

Oh, good! oh, you scoff!

JOHN.

At what, my dear Alfred?

ALFRED.

At all things!

JOHN.

Indeed?

ALFRED.

Yes; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed: That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you: I see You have no feeling left in you, even for me!

At honor you jest; you are cold as a stone To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none; You have lost faith in all things. You carry a blight About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight Of such callous indifference, who could be calm?

I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall.

Heartless, cold, unconcern'd...

JOHN.

Have you done? Is that all?

Well, then, listen to me! I presume when you made up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains, Ere you finally settled the point. What remains But to stick to your choice? You want money: 'tis here.

A settled position: 'tis yours. A career: You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich, Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch To be running away, on the eve of all this, To a woman whom never for once did you miss All these years since you left her? Who knows what may hap?

This letter--to ME--is a palpable trap.

The woman has changed since you knew her. Perchance She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken romance.

When women begin to feel youth and their beauty Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty To let nothing else slip away unsecured Which these, while they lasted, might once have procured.

Lucile's a coquette to the end of her fingers, I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish lingers To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover To the feet he has left; let intrigue now recover What truth could not keep. 'Twere a vengeance, no doubt-- A triumph;--but why must YOU bring it about?

You are risking the substance of all that you schemed To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you have dream'd.

ALFRED.

But there's nothing to risk. You exaggerate, Jack, You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back.