CHAPTER XII.

_Kindly Words_

THE Duke had passed a stormy morning with his solicitor, who wished him
to sell the Pen Bronnock property, which, being parliamentary, would
command a price infinitely greater than might be expected from its
relative income. The very idea of stripping his coronet of this
brightest jewel, and thus sacrificing for wealth the ends of riches,
greatly disordered him, and he more and more felt the want of a
counsellor who could sympathise with his feelings as well as arrange his
fortunes. In this mood he suddenly seized a pen, and wrote the following
letter:--

'----House, Feb. 5, 182--.

'My dear Mr. Dacre,

'I keenly feel that you are the last person to whom I should apply for
the counsels or the consolation of friendship. I have long ago forfeited
all claims to your regard, and your esteem I never possessed. Yet,
if only because my career ought to end by my being an unsuccessful
suppliant to the individual whom both virtue and nature pointed out to
me as my best friend, and whose proffered and parental support I have so
wantonly, however thoughtlessly, rejected, I do not regret that this is
written. No feeling of false delicacy can prevent me from applying to
one to whom I have long ago incurred incalculable obligations, and no
feeling of false delicacy will, I hope, for a moment, prevent you from
refusing the application of one who has acknowledged those obligations
only by incalculable ingratitude.

'In a word, my affairs, are, I fear, inextricably involved. I will not
dwell upon the madness of my life; suffice that its consequences appall
me. I have really endeavoured to examine into all details, and am
prepared to meet the evil as becomes me; but, indeed, my head turns with
the complicated interests which solicit my consideration, and I tremble
lest, in the distraction of my mind, I may adopt measures which may
baffle the very results I would attain. For myself, I am ready to pay
the penalty of my silly profligacy; and if exile, or any other personal
infliction, can redeem the fortunes of the House that I have betrayed, I
shall cheerfully submit to my destiny. My career has been productive of
too little happiness to make me regret its termination.

'But I want advice: I want the counsel of one who can sympathise with
my distracted feelings, who will look as much, or rather more, to the
honour of my family than to the convenience of myself. I cannot obtain
this from what