mood which fits us
for desperate deeds. What he intended to do, indeed, was doubtful,
but something very vigorous, very decided, perhaps very terrible. An
indefinite great effort danced, in misty magnificence, before the vision
of his mind. His whole being was to be changed, his life was to be
revolutionised. Such an alteration was to take place that even she could
not doubt the immense yet incredible result. Then despair whispered its
cold-blooded taunts, and her last hopeless words echoed in his ear. But
he was too agitated to be calmly miserable, and, in the poignancy of his
feelings, he even meditated death. One thing, however, he could obtain;
one instant relief was yet in his power, solitude. He panted for the
loneliness of his own chamber, broken only by his agitated musings.

The carriage stopped; the lights and noise called him to life. This,
surely, could not be home? Whirled open the door, down dashed the steps,
with all that prompt precision which denotes the practised hand of an
aristocratic retainer. (284)

'What is all this, Symmons? Why did you not drive home?'

'Your Grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and some gentlemen sup with your
Grace to-night at the Alhambra.'

'Impossible! Drive home.'

'Your Grace perhaps forgets that your Grace is expected?' said the
experienced servant, who knew when to urge a master, who, to-morrow,
might blame him for permitting his caprice.

'What am I to do? Stay here. I will run upstairs, and put them off.'

He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was just over, and some parties
who were not staying the ballet, had already assembled there. As he
passed along he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, who would not let such
a capital opportunity escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young Duke
together.

'Mr. Bulkley,' said her Ladyship, 'there must be something wrong about
the carriage.' An experienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in
society by being always ready and knowing his cue, resigned the arm of
Lady Caroline St. Maurice and disappeared.

'George,' said Lady Fitz-pompey, 'give your arm to Carry just for one
moment.'

If it had been anybody but his cousin, the Duke would easily have
escaped; but Caroline he invariably treated with marked regard; perhaps
because his conscience occasionally reproached him that he had not
treated her with a stronger feeling. At this moment, too, she was
the only being in the world, save one, whom he could remember with
sa