the world talked of nothing but the duel between the duke of st. james and sir lucius grafton.
it was a thunderbolt; and the phenomenon was accounted for by every cause but the right one. yet even those who most confidently solved the riddle were the most eagerly employed in investigating its true meaning. the seconds were of course applied to. arundel dacre was proverbially unpumpable; but peacock piggott, whose communicative temper was an adage, how came he on a sudden so diplomatic? not a syllable oozed from a mouth which was ever open; not a hint from a countenance which never could conceal its mind. he was not even mysterious, but really looked just as astonished and was just as curious as themselves. fine times these for ‘the universe’ and ‘the new world!’ all came out about lady afy; and they made up for their long and previous ignorance, or, as they now boldly blustered, their long and considerate forbearance. sheets given away gratis, edition on saturday night for the country, and woodcuts of the pavilion fête: the when, the how, and the wherefore. a. the summer-house, and lady aphrodite meeting the young duke. b. the hedge behind which sir lucius grafton was concealed. c. kensington gardens, and a cloudy morning; and so on. cruikshank did wonders.
but let us endeavour to ascertain the feelings of the principal agents in this odd affair. sir lucius now was cool, and, the mischief being done, took a calm review of the late mad hours. as was his custom, he began to enquire whether any good could be elicited from all this evil. he owed his late adversary sundry moneys, which he had never contemplated the possibility of repaying to the person who had eloped with his wife. had he shot his creditor the account would equally have been cleared; and this consideration, although it did not prompt, had not dissuaded, the late desperate deed. as it was, he now appeared still to enjoy the possession both of his wife and his debts, and had lost his friend. bad generalship, sir lucy! reconciliation was out of the question. the duke’s position was a good one. strongly entrenched with a flesh wound, he had all the sympathy of society on his side; and, after having been confined for a few weeks, he could go to paris for a few months, and then return, as if the graftons had never crossed his eye, rid of a troublesome mistress and a troublesome friend. his position was certainly a good one; but sir lucius was astute, and he determined to turn this shumla of his grace. the quarrel must have been about her ladyship. who could assign any other cause for it? and the duke must now be weak with loss of blood and anxiety, and totally unable to resist any appeal, particularly a personal one, to his feelings. he determined, therefore, to drive lady afy into his grace’s arms. if he could only get her into the house for an hour, the business would be settled.
these cunning plans were, however, nearly being crossed by a very simple incident. annoyed at finding that her feelings could be consulted only by sacrificing those of another woman, miss dacre, quite confident that, as lady aphrodite was innocent in the present instance, she must be immaculate, told everything to her father, and, stifling her tears, begged him to make all public; but mr. dacre, after due consideration, enjoined silence.
in the meantime the young duke was not in so calm a mood as sir lucius. rapidly the late extraordinary events dashed through his mind, and already those feelings which had prompted his soliloquy in the garden were no longer his. all forms, all images, all ideas, all memory, melted into miss dacre. he felt that he loved her with a perfect love: that she was to him what no other woman had been, even in the factitious delirium of early passion. a thought of her seemed to bring an entirely novel train of feelings, impressions, wishes, hopes. the world with her must be a totally different system, and his existence in her society a new and another life. her very purity refined the passion which raged even in his exhausted mind. gleams of virtue, morning streaks of duty, broke upon the horizon of his hitherto clouded soul; an obscure suspicion of the utter worthlessness of his life whispered in his hollow ear; he darkly felt that happiness was too philosophical a system to be the result or the reward of impulse, however unbounded, and that principle alone could create and could support that bliss which is our being’s end and aim.
but when he turned to himself, he viewed his situation with horror, and yielded almost to despair. what, what could she think of the impure libertine who dared to adore her? if ever time could bleach his own soul and conciliate hers, what, what was to become of aphrodite? was his new career to commence by a new crime? was he to desert this creature of his affections, and break a heart which beat only for him? it seemed that the only compensation he could offer for a life which had achieved no good would be to establish the felicity of the only being whose happiness seemed in his power. yet what a prospect! if before he had trembled, now ——
but his harrowed mind and exhausted body no longer allowed him even anxiety. weak, yet excited, his senses fled; and when arundel dacre returned in the evening he found his friend delirious. he sat by his bed for hours. suddenly the duke speaks. arundel dacre rises: he leans over the sufferer’s couch.
ah! why turns the face of the listener so pale, and why gleam those eyes with terrible fire? the perspiration courses down his clear but sallow cheek: he throws his dark and clustering curls aside, and passes his hand over his damp brow, as if to ask whether he, too, had lost his senses from this fray.
the duke is agitated. he waves his arm in the air, and calls out in a tone of defiance and of hate. his voice sinks: it seems that he breathes a milder language, and speaks to some softer being. there is no sound, save the long-drawn breath of one on whose countenance is stamped infinite amazement. arundel dacre walks the room disturbed; often he pauses, plunged in deep thought. ’tis an hour past midnight, and he quits the bedside of the young duke.
he pauses at the threshold, and seems to respire even the noisome air of the metropolis as if it were eden. as he proceeds down hill street he stops, and gazes for a moment on the opposite house. what passes in his mind we know not. perhaps he is reminded that in that mansion dwell beauty, wealth, and influence, and that all might be his. perhaps love prompts that gaze, perhaps ambition. is it passion, or is it power? or does one struggle with the other?
as he gazes the door opens, but without servants; and a man, deeply shrouded in his cloak, comes out. it was night, and the individual was disguised; but there are eyes which can pierce at all seasons and through all concealments, and arundel dacre marked with astonishment sir lucius grafton.
