CHAPTER IV.
_Bitter is Jealousy_
THERE certainly is a dark delight in being miserable, a sort of strangesatisfaction in being savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One ofthe greatest pests of philosophy is, that one can no longer be sullen,and most sincerely do I regret it. To brood over misery, to flatteryourself that there is not a single being who cares for your existence,and not a single circumstance to make that existence desirable: thereis wild witchery in it, which we doubt whether opium can reach, and aresure that wine cannot.
And the Duke! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserablespeculations 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 fiercereverie; asked why he had been born; why he did not die; why he shouldlive, and so on. His wounded pride, which had borne so much, fairlygot the mastery, and revenged itself for all insults on Love, whom itejected most scurvily. He blushed to think how he had humiliatedhimself before her. She was the cause of that humiliation, and of everydisagreeable sensation that he was experiencing. He began, therefore, toimprecate vengeance, walked himself into a fair, cold-hearted, maliciouspassion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated her. As for him, mostardently he hoped that, some day or other, they might again meet atsix o'clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but in a differentrelation to each other.
It was dark when he entered the Castle. He was about ascending to hisown room, when he determined not to be cowed, and resolved to showhimself the regardless witness of their mutual loves: so he repaired tothe drawing-room. At one end of this very spacious apartment, Mr. Dacreand Arundel were walking in deep converse; at the other sat Miss Dacreat a table reading. The Duke seized a chair without looking at her,dragged it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, with hisarms folded, his feet on the fender, and his chair tilting, he appearedto be lost in the abstracting contemplation of the consuming fuel.
Some minutes had passed, 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 Ishall take care that they are not again observed.'
'I have offended you?'
'Then you have shown your discretion, for you should always offend theforlorn.'
'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 mycare, 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 youare 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 mostmiserable.'
'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 gayas a village feast, filled the room with its delight. He listened, andeach instant the chilly weight loosened from his heart. Her balmy voicenow came upon his ear, breathing joy and cheerfulness, content and love.Could love be the savage passion which lately subjugated his soul? Herose from his seat; he walked about the room; each minute his heartwas lighter, his brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful andquivering like the twilight, glanced o'er his mind in indistinct butexquisite tumult, and hope, like the voice of an angel in a storm, washeard above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, and, stealingto the enchantress, seated himself at her side. So softly he reachedher, that for a moment he was unperceived. She turned her head, and hereyes met his. Even the ineffable incident was forgotten, as he markedthe strange gush of lovely light, that seemed to say---- what to thinkof was, after all, madness.