CHAPTER XVII.
_A Second Refusal_
A VERY few days after his return the Duke of St. James dined with Mr.Dacre. It was the first time that he had dined with him during theseason. The Fitz-pompeys were there; and, among others, his Grace hadthe pleasure of again meeting a few of his Yorkshire friends.
Once more he found himself at the right hand of Miss Dacre. Allhis career, since his arrival in England, flitted across his mind.Doncaster, dear Don-caster, where he had first seen her, teemed onlywith delightful reminiscences to a man whose favourite had bolted. Suchis the magic of love! Then came Castle Dacre and the orange terrace, andtheir airy romps, and the delightful party to Hauteville; and then DacreAbbey. An involuntary shudder seemed to damp all the ardour of his soul;but when he turned and looked upon her beaming face, he could not feelmiserable.
He thought that he had never been at so agreeable a party in his life:yet it was chiefly composed of the very beings whom he daily execratedfor their powers of boredom. And he himself was not very entertaining.He was certainly more silent than loquacious, and found himself oftengazing with mute admiration on the little mouth, every word breathedforth from which seemed inspiration. Yet he was happy. Oh! whathappiness is his who dotes upon a woman! Few could observe from hisconduct what was passing in his mind; yet the quivering of his softenedtones and the mild lustre of his mellowed gaze; his subdued and quietmanner; his un-perceived yet infinite attentions; his memory of littleincidents that all but lovers would have forgotten; the total absenceof all compliment, and gallantry, and repartee; all these, to a fineobserver, might have been gentle indications of a strong passion; andto her to whom they were addressed sufficiently intimated that no changehad taken place in his feelings since the warm hour in which he firstwhispered his o'erpowering love.
The ladies retired, and the Duke of St. James fell into a reverie. Apolitical discourse of elaborate genius now arose. Lord Fitz-pompeygot parliamentary. Young Faulcon made his escape, having previouslywhispered to another youth, not unheard by the Duke of St. James, thathis mother was about to depart, and he was convoy. His Grace, too,had heard Lady Fitz-pompey say that she was going early to the opera.Shortly afterwards parties evidently retired. But the debate stillraged. Lord Fitz-pompey had caught a stout Yorkshire squire, and wasdelightedly astounding with official graces his stern opponent. A suddenthought occurred to the Duke; he stole out of the room, and gained thesaloon.
He found it almost empty. With sincere pleasure he bid Lady Balmont, whowas on the point of departure, farewell, and promised to look in at herbox. He seated himself by Lady Greville Nugent, and dexterously made herfollow Lady Balmont's example. She withdrew with the conviction thathis Grace would not be a moment behind her. There were only old Mrs.Hungerford and her rich daughter remaining. They were in such raptureswith Miss Dacre's singing that his Grace was quite in despair; butchance favoured him. Even old Mrs. Hungerford this night broke throughher rule of not going to more than one house, and she drove off to Ladyde Courcy's.
They were alone. It is sometimes an awful thing to be alone with thosewe love.
'Sing that again!' asked the Duke, imploringly. 'It is my favourite air;it always reminds me of Dacre.'
She sang, she ceased; she sang with beauty, and she ceased with grace;but all unnoticed by the tumultuous soul of her adoring guest. Histhoughts were intent upon a greater object. The opportunity was sweet;and yet those boisterous wassailers, they might spoil all.
'Do you know that this is the first time that I have seen your rooms litup?' said the Duke.
'Is it possible! I hope they gain the approbation of so distinguished ajudge.'
'I admire them exceedingly. By-the-bye, I see a new cabinet in thenext room. Swaby told me, the other day, that you were one of hislady-patronesses. I wish you would show it me. I am very curious incabinets.'
She rose, and they advanced to the end of another and a longer room.
'This is a beautiful saloon,' said the Duke. 'How long is it?'
'I really do not know; but I think between forty and fifty feet.'
'Oh! you must be mistaken. Forty or fifty feet! I am an excellentjudge of distances. I will try. Forty or fifty feet! Ah! the next roomincluded. Let us walk to the end of the next room. Each of my pacesshall be one foot and a half.'
They had now arrived at the end of the third room.
'Let me see,' resumed the Duke; 'you have a small room to the right. Oh!did I not hear that you had made a conservatory? I see, I see it;lit up, too! Let us go in. I want to gain some hints about Londonconservatories.'
It was not exactly a conservatory; but a balcony of large dimensionshad been fitted up on each side with coloured glass, and was open to thegardens. It was a rich night of fragrant June. The moon and starswere as bright as if they had shone over the terrace of Dacre, and theperfume of the flowers reminded him of his favourite orange-trees. Themild, cool scene was such a contrast to the hot and noisy chamber theyhad recently quitted, that for a moment they were silent.
'You are not afraid of this delicious air?' asked his Grace.
'Midsummer air,' said Miss Dacre, 'must surely be harmless.'
Again there was silence; and Miss Dacre, after having plucked a flowerand tended a plant, seemed to express an intention of withdrawing.Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heartfelt words:
'Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to be offended, if I dareto ask whether anything could induce you to view with more indulgenceone who sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you.'
'You are the last person whose feelings I should wish to hurt. Let usnot revive a conversation to which, I can assure you, neither of uslooks back with satisfaction.'
'Is there, then, no hope? Must I ever live with the consciousness ofbeing the object of your scorn?'
'Oh, no, no! As you will speak, let us understand each other. However Imay approve of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to repent themanner in which it was conveyed. I cannot, without the most unfeignedregret, I cannot for a moment remember that I have addressed abitter word to one to whom I am under the greatest obligations. If myapologies----'
'Pray, pray be silent!'
'I must speak. If my apologies, my complete, my most humble apologies,can be any compensation for treating with such lightness feelings whichI now respect, and offers by which I now consider myself honoured,accept them!'
'O, Miss Dacre! that fatal word, respect!'
'We have warmer words in this house for you. You are now our friend.'
'I dare not urge a suit which may offend you; yet, if you could read myheart, I sometimes think that we might be happy. Let me hope!'
'My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will not ever offend me,because I am sure you will not ever wish to do it. There are few peoplein this world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard than yourself.I am convinced, I am conscious, that when we met I did sufficientjustice neither to your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible forme to express with what satisfaction I now feel that you have resumedthat place in the affections of this family to which you have anhereditary right. I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful, for allthat you feel with regard to me individually; and believe me, in againexpressing my regret that it is not in my power to view you in any otherlight than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing that conductwhich will conduce as much to your happiness as my own.'
'My happiness, Miss Dacre!'
'Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again endeavour to depreciatethe feelings which you entertain for me, and by which, ever remember,I feel honoured; but these very feelings prevent you from viewing theirobject so dispassionately as I do.'
'I am at a loss for your meaning; at least, favour me by speakingexplicitly: you see I respect your sentiments, and do not presume tourge that on which my very happiness depends.'
'To be brief, then, I will not affect to conceal that marriage is astate which has often been the object of my meditations. I
think it theduty of all women that so important a change in their destiny shouldbe well considered. If I know anything of myself, I am convinced that Ishould never survive an unhappy marriage.'
'But why dream of anything so utterly impossible?'
'So very probable, so very certain, you mean. Ay! I repeat my words, forthey are truth. If I ever marry, it is to devote every feeling and everythought, each hour, each instant of existence, to a single being forwhom I alone live. Such devotion I expect in return; without it I shoulddie, or wish to die; but such devotion can never be returned by you.'
'You amaze me! I! who live only on your image.'
'Your education, the habits in which you are brought up, the maximswhich have been instilled into you from your infancy, the system whicheach year of your life has more matured, the worldly levity with whicheverything connected with woman is viewed by you and your companions;whatever may be your natural dispositions, all this would prevent you,all this would render it a perfect impossibility, all this will evermake you utterly unconscious of the importance of the subject on whichwe are now conversing. Pardon me for saying it, you know not of what youspeak. Yes! however sincere may be the expression of your feelings to methis moment, I shudder to think on whom your memory dwelt even this hourbut yesterday. I never will peril my happiness on such a chance; butthere are others who do not think as I do.'
'Miss Dacre! save me! If you knew all, you would not doubt. This momentis my destiny.'
'My dear Duke of St. James, save yourself. There is yet time. You havemy prayers.'
'Let me then hope----'
'Indeed, indeed, it cannot be. Here our conversation on this subjectends for ever.'
'Yet we part friends!' He spoke in a broken voice.
'The best and truest!' She extended her arm; he pressed her hand to hisimpassioned lips, and quitted the house, mad with love and misery.