The Young Duke Part 38

'Come, May, I must have a kiss! I have been kissing as pretty girls as you. There now! You all said I never should be a popular candidate. I get regularly huzzaed every day, so they have been obliged to hire a band of butchers' boys to pelt me. Whereupon I compare myself to Caesar set upon in the Senate House, and get immense cheering in "The County Chronicle," which I have bribed. If you knew the b.u.t.ts of wine, the Heidelberg tuns of ale, that I have drank during the last fortnight, you would stare indeed. As much as the lake: but then I have to talk so much, that the ardour of my eloquence, like the hot flannels of the Humane Society, save me from the injurious effects of all this liquid.'

'But will you get in; but will you get in?' exclaimed his cousin.

''Tis not in mortals to command success; but---'

'Pooh! pooh! you must command it!' 'Well, then, I have an excellent chance; and the only thing against me is, that my committee are quite sure. But really I think that if the Protestant overseers, whom, by-the-bye, May, I cannot persuade that I am a heretic (it is very hard that a man is not believed when he says he shall be d.a.m.ned), if they do not empty the workhouse, we shall do. But let us go in, for I have travelled all night, and must be off to-morrow morning.'

They entered the house, and the Duke quitted the family group. About an hour afterwards, he sauntered to the music-room. As he opened the door, his eyes lighted upon May Dacre and her cousin. They were standing before the fire, with their backs to the door. His arm was wound carelessly round her waist, and with his other hand he supported, with her, a miniature, at which she was looking.

The Duke could not catch her countenance, which was completely hid; but her companion was not gazing on the picture: his head, a little turned, indicated that there was a living countenance more interesting to him than all the skill of the most cunning artist. Part of his cheek was alone perceptible, and that was burning red.

All this was the work of a moment. The Duke stared, turned pale, closed the door without a sound, and retired unperceived. When he was sure that he could no longer be observed, he gasped for breath, a cold dew covered his frame, his joints loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that sickening sensation when life appears utterly worthless, and ourselves utterly contemptible. Yet what had he witnessed? A confirmation of what he had never doubted. What was this woman to him? Alas! how supreme was the power with which she ruled his spirit! And this Dacre, this Arundel Dacre, how he hated him! Oh! that they were hand to hand, and sword to sword, in some fair field, and there decide it! He must conquer; he felt that. Already his weapon pierced that craven heart, and ripped open that breast which was to be the pillow of---. h.e.l.l! h.e.l.l! He rushed to his room, and began a letter to Caroline St. Maurice; but he could not write; and after scribbling over a quire of paper, he threw the sheets to the flames, and determined to ride up to town to-morrow.

The dinner bell sounded. Could he meet them? Ay! meet them! Defy them!

Insult them! He descended to the dining-room. He heard her musical and liquid voice; the scowl upon his brow melted away; but, gloomy and silent, he took his seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little he spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. But Arundel had enough to say. He was the hero of the party. Well he might be. Story after story of old maids and young widows, st.u.r.dy butchers and corrupt coal merchants, sparkled away; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the Duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid.

'You are not well!' said Miss Dacre to him, in a low voice.

'I believe I am,' answered he shortly.

'You do not seem quite so,' she replied, with an air of surprise.

'I believe I have got a headache,' he retorted with little more cordiality. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed.

CHAPTER IV.

_Bitter is Jealousy_

THERE certainly is a dark delight in being miserable, a sort of strange satisfaction in being savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One of the greatest pests of philosophy is, that one can no longer be sullen, and most sincerely do I regret it. To brood over misery, to flatter yourself that there is not a single being who cares for your existence, and not a single circ.u.mstance to make that existence desirable: there is wild witchery in it, which we doubt whether opium can reach, and are sure that wine cannot.

And the Duke! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserable speculations about the state of the poll, and took his sullen way, with the air of Ajax, to the terrace. Here he stalked along in a fierce reverie; asked why he had been born; why he did not die; why he should live, and so on. His wounded pride, which had borne so much, fairly got the mastery, and revenged itself for all insults on Love, whom it ejected most scurvily. He blushed to think how he had humiliated himself before her. She was the cause of that humiliation, and of every disagreeable sensation that he was experiencing. He began, therefore, to imprecate vengeance, walked himself into a fair, cold-hearted, malicious pa.s.sion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated her. As for him, most ardently he hoped that, some day or other, they might again meet at six o'clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but in a different relation to each other.

It was dark when he entered the Castle. He was about ascending to his own room, when he determined not to be cowed, and resolved to show himself the regardless witness of their mutual loves: so he repaired to the drawing-room. At one end of this very s.p.a.cious apartment, Mr. Dacre and Arundel were walking in deep converse; at the other sat Miss Dacre at a table reading. The Duke seized a chair without looking at her, dragged it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, with his arms folded, his feet on the fender, and his chair tilting, he appeared to be lost in the abstracting contemplation of the consuming fuel.

Some minutes had pa.s.sed, when a slight sound, like a fluttering bird, made him look up: Miss Dacre was standing at his side.

'Is your head better?' she asked him, in a soft voice.

'Thank you, it is quite well,' he replied, in a sullen one.

There was a moment's pause, and then she again spoke.

'I am sure you are not well.'

'Perfectly, thank you.'

'Something has happened, then,' she said, rather imploringly.

'What should have happened?' he rejoined, pettishly.

'You are very strange; very unlike what you always are.'

'What I always am is of no consequence to myself, or to anyone else; and as for what I am now, I cannot always command my feelings, though I shall take care that they are not again observed.'

'I have offended you?'

'Then you have shown your discretion, for you should always offend the forlorn.'

'I did not think before that you were bitter.'

'That has made me bitter which has made all others so.'

'What?'

'Disappointment.'

Another pause, yet she did not go.

'I will not quarrel, and so you need not try. You are consigned to my care, and I am to amuse you. What shall we do?'

'Do what you like, Miss Dacre; but spare, oh! spare me your pity!'

'You do indeed surprise me. Pity! I was not thinking of pity! But you are indeed serious, and I leave you.'

He turned; he seized her hand.

'Nay! do not go. Forgive me,' he said, 'forgive me, for I am most miserable.'

'Why, why are you?'

'Oh! do not ask; you agonise me.'

'Shall I sing? Shall I charm the evil spirit?'

'Anything?'

She tripped to the piano, and an air, bursting like the spring, and gay as a village feast, filled the room with its delight. He listened, and each instant the chilly weight loosened from his heart. Her balmy voice now came upon his ear, breathing joy and cheerfulness, content and love.

Could love be the savage pa.s.sion which lately subjugated his soul? He rose from his seat; he walked about the room; each minute his heart was lighter, his brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful and quivering like the twilight, glanced o'er his mind in indistinct but exquisite tumult, and hope, like the voice of an angel in a storm, was heard above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, and, stealing to the enchantress, seated himself at her side. So softly he reached her, that for a moment he was unperceived. She turned her head, and her eyes met his. Even the ineffable incident was forgotten, as he marked the strange gush of lovely light, that seemed to say---- what to think of was, after all, madness.

CHAPTER V.

_Arundel's Disappointment_