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 circumstance 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 passion, 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 spacious 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 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 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 passion 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.
