d,
indicated that there was a living countenance more interesting to him
than all the skill of the most cunning artist. Part of his cheek was
alone perceptible, and that was burning red.

All this was the work of a moment. The Duke stared, turned pale, closed
the door without a sound, and retired unperceived. When he was sure that
he could no longer be observed, he gasped for breath, a cold dew covered
his frame, his joints loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that
sickening sensation when life appears utterly worthless, and ourselves
utterly contemptible. Yet what had he witnessed? A confirmation of what
he had never doubted. What was this woman to him? Alas! how supreme was
the power with which she ruled his spirit! And this Dacre, this Arundel
Dacre, how he hated him! Oh! that they were hand to hand, and sword to
sword, in some fair field, and there decide it! He must conquer; he felt
that. Already his weapon pierced that craven heart, and ripped open that
breast which was to be the pillow of---. Hell! hell! He rushed to his
room, and began a letter to Caroline St. Maurice; but he could not
write; and after scribbling over a quire of paper, he threw the sheets
to the flames, and determined to ride up to town to-morrow.

The dinner bell sounded. Could he meet them? Ay! meet them! Defy them!
Insult them! He descended to the dining-room. He heard her musical
and liquid voice; the scowl upon his brow melted away; but, gloomy and
silent, he took his seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little he
spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. But Arundel had enough to
say. He was the hero of the party. Well he might be. Story after
story of old maids and young widows, sturdy butchers and corrupt coal
merchants, sparkled away; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the
Duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid.

'You are not well!' said Miss Dacre to him, in a low voice.

'I believe I am,' answered he shortly.

'You do not seem quite so,' she replied, with an air of surprise.

'I believe I have got a headache,' he retorted with little more
cordiality. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed.

CHAPTER IV.

_Bitter is Jealousy_

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