the next morning was passed by the duke of st. james in giving mr. dacre his report of the state of his affairs. his banker’s accounts, his architect’s estimates, his solicitor’s statements, were all brought forward and discussed. a ride, generally with miss dacre and one of her young friends, dinner, and a short evening, and eleven o’clock, sent them all to repose. thus glided on a fortnight. the mornings continued to be passed in business. affairs were more complicated than his grace had imagined, who had no idea of detail. he gave all the information that he could, and made his friend master of his particular feelings. for the rest, mr. dacre was soon involved in much correspondence; and although the young duke could no longer assist him, he recommended and earnestly begged that he would remain at dacre; for he could perceive, better than his grace, that our hero was labouring under a great deal of excitement, and that his health was impaired. a regular course of life was therefore as necessary for his constitution as it was desirable for all other reasons.

behold, then, our hero domesticated at dacre; rising at nine, joining a family breakfast, taking a quiet ride, or moderate stroll, sometimes looking into a book, but he was no great reader; sometimes fortunate enough in achieving a stray game at billiards, usually with a miss montingford, and retiring to rest about the time that in london his most active existence generally began. was he dull? was he wearied? he was never lighter-hearted or more contented in his life. happy he could not allow himself to be styled, because the very cause which breathed this calm over his existence seemed to portend a storm which could not be avoided. it was the thought, the presence, the smile, the voice of may dacre that imparted this new interest to existence: that being who never could be his. he shuddered to think that all this must end; but although he never indulged again in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed him to thrust away the future, and to participate in all the joys of the flowing hour.

at the end of february the montingfords departed, and now the duke was the only guest at dacre; nor did he hear that any others were expected. he was alone with her again; often was he alone with her, and never without a strange feeling coming over his frame, which made him tremble. mr. dacre, a man of active habits, always found occupation in his public duties and in the various interests of a large estate, and usually requested, or rather required, the duke of st. james to be his companion. he was desirous that the duke should not be alone, and ponder too much over the past; nor did he conceal his wishes from his daughter, who on all occasions, as the duke observed with gratification, seconded the benevolent intentions of her parent. nor did our hero indeed wish to be alone, or to ponder over the past. he was quite contented with the present; but he did not want to ride with papa, and took every opportunity to shirk; all of which mr. dacre set down to the indolence of exhaustion, and the inertness of a mind without an object.

‘i am going to ride over to doncaster, george,’ said mr. dacre one morning at breakfast. ‘i think that you had better order your horse too. a good ride will rouse you, and you should show yourself there.’

‘oh! very well, sir; but, but i think that ——’

‘but what?’ asked mr. dacre, smiling.

the duke looked to miss dacre, who seemed to take pity on his idleness.

‘you make him ride too much, papa. leave him at home with me. i have a long round today, and want an escort. i will take him instead of my friend tom carter. you must carry a basket though,’ said she, turning to the duke, ‘and run for the doctor if he be wanted, and, in short, do any odd message that turns up.’

so mr. dacre departed alone, and shortly after his daughter and the duke of st. james set out on their morning ramble. many were the cottages at which they called; many the old dames after whose rheumatisms, and many the young damsels after whose fortunes they enquired. old dame rawdon was worse or better; worse last night, but better this morning. she was always better when miss called. miss’s face always did her good. and fanny was very comfortable at squire wentworth’s, and the housekeeper was very kind to her, thanks to miss saying a word to the great lady. and old john selby was quite about again. miss’s stuff had done him a world of good, to say nothing of mr. dacre’s generous old wine.

‘and is this your second son, dame rishworth?’ ‘no; that bees our fourth,’ said the old woman, maternally arranging the urchin’s thin, white, flat, straight, unmanageable hair. ‘we are thinking what to do with him, miss. he wants to go out to service. since jem eustace got on so, i don’t know what the matter is with the lads; but i think we shall have none of them in the fields soon. he can clean knives and shoes very well, miss. mr. bradford, at the castle, was saying t’other day that perhaps he might want a young hand. you haven’t heard anything, i suppose, miss?’

‘and what is your name, sir?’ asked miss dacre. ‘bobby rishworth, miss!’ ‘well, bobby, i must consult mr. bradford.’ ‘we be in great trouble, miss,’ said the next cottager. ‘we be in great trouble. tom, poor tom, was out last night, and the keepers will give him up. the good man has done all he can, we have all done all we can, miss, and you see how it ends. he is the first of the family that ever went out. i hope that will be considered, miss. seventy years, our fathers before us, have we been on the ‘state, and nothing ever sworn agin us. i hope that will be considered, miss. i am sure if tom had been an underkeeper, as mr. roberts once talked of, this would never have happened. i hope that will be considered, miss. we are in great trouble surely. tom, you see, was our first, miss.’

‘i never interfere about poaching, you know, mrs. jones. mr. dacre is the best judge of such matters. but you can go to him, and say that i sent you. i am afraid, however, that he has heard of tom before.’

‘only that night at milwood, miss; and then you see he had been drinking with squire ridge’s people. i hope that will be considered, miss.’

‘well, well, go up to the castle.’

‘pray be seated, miss,’ said a neat-looking mistress of a neat little farmhouse. ‘pray be seated, sir. let me dust it first. dust will get everywhere, do what we can. and how’s pa, miss? he has not given me a look-in for many a day, not since he was a-hunting: bless me, if it ayn’t a fortnight. this day fortnight he tasted our ale, sure enough. will you take a glass, sir?’

‘you are very good. no, i thank you; not today.’

‘yes, give him a glass, nurse. he is unwell, and it will do him good.’

she brought the sparkling amber fluid, and the duke did justice by his draught.

‘i shall have fine honey for you, miss, this year,’ said the old nurse. ‘are you fond of honey, sir? our honey is well known about. i don’t know how it is, but we do always contrive to manage the bees. how fond some people are of honey, good lord! now, when you were a little girl (i knew this young lady, sir, before you did), you always used to be fond of honey. i remember one day: let me see, it must be, ay! truly, that it is, eighteen years ago next martinmas: i was a-going down the nursery stairs, just to my poor mistress’s room, and i had you in my arms (for i knew this young lady, sir, before you did). well! i was a-going down the stairs, as i just said, to my poor dear mistress’s room with you, who was then a little-un indeed (bless your smiling face! you cost me many a weary hour when you were weaned, miss. that you did! some thought you would never get through it; but i always said, while there is life there is hope; and so, you see i were right); but, as i was saying, i was a-going down the stairs to my poor dear mistress, and i had a gallipot in my hand, a covered gallipot, with some leeches. and just as i had got to the bottom of the stairs, and was a-going into my poor dear mistress’s room, said you (i never shall forget it), said you, “honey, honey, nurse.” she thought it were honey, sir. so you see she were always very fond of honey (for i knew this young lady long before you did, sir).’

‘are you quite sure of that, nurse?’ said miss dacre; ‘i think this is an older friend than you imagine. you remember the little duke; do not you? this is the little duke. do you think he has grown?’

‘now! bless my life! is it so indeed? well, be sure, he has grown. i always thought he would turn out well, miss, though dr. pretyman were always a-preaching, and talking his prophecycations. i always thought he would turn out well at last. bless me! how he has grown, indeed! perhaps he grows too fast, and that makes him weak. nothing better than a glass of ale for weak people. i remember when dr. pretyman ordered it for my poor dear mistress. “give her ale,” said the doctor, “as strong as it can be brewed;” and sure enough, my poor dear master had it brewed! have you done growing, sir? you was ever a troublesome child. often and often have i called george, george, georgy, georgy porgy, and he never would come near me, though he heard all the time as plainly as he does now. bless me! he has grown indeed!’

‘but i have turned out well at last, nurse, eh?’ asked the duke.

‘ay! sure enough; i always said so. often and often have i said, he will turn out well at last. you be going, miss? i thank you for looking in. my duty to my master. i was thinking of bringing up one of those cheeses he likes so.’

‘ay! do, nurse. he can eat no cheese but yours.’

as they wandered home, they talked of lady caroline, to whom the duke mentioned that he must write. he had once intended distinctly to have explained his feelings to her in a letter from dacre; but each day he postponed the close of his destiny, although without hope. he lingered and he lingered round may dacre, as a bird flutters round the fruit which is already grasped by a boy. circumstances, which we shall relate, had already occurred, which confirmed the suspicion he had long entertained that arundel dacre was his favoured rival. impressed with the folly of again encouraging hope, yet unable to harden his heart against her continual fascination, the softness of his manner indicated his passion, and his calm and somewhat languid carriage also told her it was hopeless. perhaps, after all, there is no demeanour more calculated to melt obdurate woman. the gratification he received from her society was evident, yet he never indulged in that gallantry of which he was once so proud. when she approached him, a mild smile lit up his pensive countenance; he adopted her suggestions, but made none; he listened to her remarks with interest, but no longer bandied repartee. delicately he impressed her with the absolute power which she might exercise over his mind.

‘i write myself to caroline tomorrow,’ said miss dacre.

‘ah! then i need not write. i talked of going up sooner. have the kindness to explain why i do not: peremptory orders from mr. dacre; fresh air, and ——’

‘arithmetic. i understand you get on admirably.’

‘my follies,’ said the duke with a serious air, ‘have at least been productive of one good end, they have amused you.’

‘nay! i have done too many foolish things myself any more to laugh at my neighbours. as for yourself, you have only committed those which were inseparable from your situation; and few, like the duke of st. james, would so soon have opened their eyes to the truth of their conduct.’

‘a compliment from you repays me for all.’

‘self-approbation does, which is much better than compliments from anyone. see! there is papa, and arundel too: let us run up!’