So Devereux glided on like a ghost, through the noiseless
thicket, and scarcely knowing or caring where he went,
emerged upon the broad open plateau, and skirting
the Fifteen Acres, came, at last, to a halt upon the
high ground overlooking the river—which
ran, partly in long trains of silver sparkles, and
partly in deep shadow beneath him. Here he stopped;
and looked towards the village where he had passed
many a pleasant hour—with a profound and
remorseful foreboding that there were no more such
pleasant hours for him; and his eye wandered among
the scattered lights that still twinkled from the
distant windows; and he fancied he knew, among them
all, that which gleamed pale and dim through the distant
elms—the star of his destiny; and he looked
at it across the water—a greater gulf severed
them—so near, and yet a star in distance—with
a strange mixture of sadness and defiance, tenderness
and fury.
CHAPTER LXII.
OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX REGISTERED
AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.
When Devereux entered his drawing-room, and lighted
his candles, he was in a black and bitter mood.
He stood at the window for a while, and drummed on
the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack,
where all the fun was going on, but thinking, in a
chaotic way, of things very different, and all toned
with that strange sense of self-reproach and foreboding
which, of late, had grown habitual with him—and
not without just cause.
’This shall be the last. ’Twas dreadful,
seeing that poor Nan; and I want it—I can
swear, I really and honestly want it—only
one glass to stay my heart. Everyone may drink
in moderation—especially if he’s
heart-sick, and has no other comfort—one
glass and no more—curse it.’
So one glass of brandy—I’m sorry
to say, unmixed with water—the handsome
misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop;
and then sat down before his fire, and struck, and
poked, and stabbed at it in a bitter, personal sort
of way, until here and there some blazes leaped up,
and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and
he sat back, with his hands in his pockets, and his
feet on the fender, gazing among the Plutonic peaks
and caverns between the bars.
’I’ve had my allowance for to-night; to-morrow
night, none at all. ’Tis an accursed habit:
and I’ll not allow it to creep upon me.
No, I’ve never fought it fairly, as I mean to
do now—’tis quite easy, if one has
but the will to do it.’
So he sat before his fire, chewing the cud of bitter
fancy only; and he recollected he had not quite filled
his glass, and up he got with a swagger, and says
he—
’We’ll drink fair, if you please—one
glass—one only—but that, hang
it—a bumper.’
So he made a rough calculation.
’We’ll say so much—here or
there, ’tis no great matter. A thimble full
won’t drown me. Pshaw! that’s too
much. What am I to do with it?—hang
it. Well, we can’t help it—’tis
the last.’
Copyrights
The House by the Church-Yard from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
