he rose early, and managed to reach dacre at the breakfast hour of the family. he discharged his chaise at the park gate, and entered the house unseen. he took his way along a corridor lined with plants, which led to the small and favourite room in which the morning meetings of may and himself always took place when they were alone. as he lightly stepped along, he heard a voice that he could not mistake, as it were in animated converse. agitated by sounds which ever created in him emotion, for a moment he paused. he starts, his eye sparkles with strange delight, a flush comes over his panting features, half of modesty, half of triumph. he listens to his own speech from the lips of the woman he loves. she is reading to her father with melodious energy the passage in which he describes the high qualities of his catholic neighbours. the intonations of the voice indicate the deep sympathy of the reader. she ceases. he hears the admiring exclamation of his host. he rallies his strength, he advances, he stands before them. she utters almost a shriek of delightful surprise as she welcomes him.
how much there was to say! how much to ask! how much to answer! even mr. dacre poured forth questions like a boy. but may: she could not speak, but leant forward in her chair with an eager ear, and a look of congratulation, that rewarded him for all his exertion. everything was to be told. how he went; whether he slept in the mail; where he went; what he did; whom he saw; what they said; what they thought; all must be answered. then fresh exclamations of wonder, delight, and triumph. the duke forgot everything but his love, and for three hours felt the happiest of men.
at length mr. dacre rose and looked at his watch with a shaking head. ‘i have a most important appointment,’ said he, ‘and i must gallop to keep it. god bless you, my dear st. james! i could stay talking with you for ever; but you must be utterly wearied. now, my dear boy, go to bed.’
‘to bed!’ exclaimed the duke. ‘why, tom rawlins would laugh at you!’
‘and who is tom rawlins?’
‘ah! i cannot tell you everything; but assuredly i am not going to bed.’
‘well, may, i leave him to your care; but do not let him talk any more.’
‘oh! sir,’ said the duke, ‘i really had forgotten. i am the bearer to you, sir, of a letter from mr. arundel dacre.’ he gave it him.
as mr. dacre read the communication, his countenance changed, and the smile which before was on his face, vanished. but whether he were displeased, or only serious, it was impossible to ascertain, although the duke watched him narrowly. at length he said, ‘may! here is a letter from arundel, in which you are much interested.’
‘give it me, then, papa!’
‘no, my love; we must speak of this together. but i am pressed for time. when i come home. remember.’ he quitted the room.
they were alone: the duke began again talking, and miss dacre put her finger to her mouth, with a smile.
‘i assure you,’ said he, ‘i am not wearied. i slept at —— y, and the only thing i now want is a good walk. let me be your companion this morning!’
‘i was thinking of paying nurse a visit. what say you?’
‘oh! i am ready; anywhere.’
she ran for her bonnet, and he kissed her handkerchief, which she left behind, and, i believe, everything else in the room which bore the slightest relation to her. and then the recollection of arundel’s letter came over him, and his joy fled. when she returned, he was standing before the fire, gloomy and dull.
‘i fear you are tired,’ she said.
‘not in the least.’
‘i shall never forgive myself if all this exertion make you ill.’
‘why not?’
‘because, although i will not tell papa, i am sure my nonsense is the cause of your having gone to london.’
‘it is probable; for you are the cause of all that does not disgrace me.’ he advanced, and was about to seize her hand; but the accursed miniature occurred to him, and he repressed his feelings, almost with a groan. she, too, had turned away her head, and was busily engaged in tending a flower.
‘because she has explicitly declared her feelings to me, and, sincere in that declaration, honours me by a friendship of which alone i am unworthy, am i to persecute her with my dishonoured overtures — the twice rejected? no, no!’
they took their way through the park, and he soon succeeded in reassuming the tone that befitted their situation. traits of the debate, and the debaters, which newspapers cannot convey, and which he had not yet recounted; anecdotes of annesley and their friends, and other gossip, were offered for her amusement. but if she were amused, she was not lively, but singularly, unusually silent. there was only one point on which she seemed interested, and that was his speech. when he was cheered, and who particularly cheered; who gathered round him, and what they said after the debate: on all these points she was most inquisitive.
they rambled on: nurse was quite forgotten; and at length they found themselves in the beautiful valley, rendered more lovely by the ruins of the abbey. it was a place that the duke could never forget, and which he ever avoided. he had never renewed his visit since he first gave vent, among its reverend ruins, to his overcharged and most tumultuous heart.
they stood in silence before the holy pile with its vaulting arches and crumbling walls, mellowed by the mild lustre of the declining sun. not two years had fled since here he first staggered after the breaking glimpses of self-knowledge, and struggled to call order from out the chaos of his mind. not two years, and yet what a change had come over his existence! how diametrically opposite now were all his thoughts, and views, and feelings, to those which then controlled his fatal soul! how capable, as he firmly believed, was he now of discharging his duty to his creator and his fellow-men! and yet the boon that ought to have been the reward for all this self-contest, the sweet seal that ought to have ratified this new contract of existence, was wanting.
‘ah!’ he exclaimed aloud, and in a voice of anguish, ‘ah! if i ne’er had left the walls of dacre, how different might have been my lot!’
a gentle but involuntary pressure reminded him of the companion whom, for once in his life, he had for a moment forgotten.
‘i feel it is madness; i feel it is worse than madness; but must i yield without a struggle, and see my dark fate cover me without an effort? oh! yes, here, even here, where i have wept over your contempt, even here, although i subject myself to renewed rejection, let — let me tell you, before we part, how i adore you!’
she was silent; a strange courage came over his spirit; and, with a reckless boldness, and rapid voice, a misty sight, and total unconsciousness of all other existence, he resumed the words which had broken out, as if by inspiration.
‘i am not worthy of you. who is? i was worthless. i did not know it. have not i struggled to be pure? have not i sighed on my nightly pillow for your blessing? oh! could you read my heart (and sometimes, i think, you can read it, for indeed, with all its faults, it is without guile) i dare to hope that you would pity me. since we first met, your image has not quitted my conscience for a second. when you thought me least worthy; when you thought me vile, or mad, oh! by all that is sacred, i was the most miserable wretch that ever breathed, and flew to dissipation only for distraction!
‘not — not for a moment have i ceased to think you the best, the most beautiful, the most enchanting and endearing creature that ever graced our earth. even when i first dared to whisper my insolent affection, believe me, even then, your presence controlled my spirit as no other woman had. i bent to you then in pride and power. the station that i could then offer you was not utterly unworthy of your perfection. i am now a beggar, or, worse, an insolvent noble, and dare i— dare i to ask you to share the fortunes that are broken, and the existence that is obscure?’
she turned; her arm fell over his shoulder; she buried her head in his breast.
