CHAPTER I.

Produced by David Widger

THE YOUNG DUKE

By Benjamin Disraeli

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BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

_Fortune’s Favourite_

GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK, DUKE OF ST. JAMES, completed his twenty-first

year, an event which created almost as great a sensation among the

aristocracy of England as the Norman Conquest. A minority of twenty

years had converted a family always amongst the wealthiest of Great

Britain into one of the richest in Europe. The Duke of St. James

possessed estates in the north and in the west of England, besides a

whole province in Ireland. In London there were a very handsome square

and several streets, all made of bricks, which brought him in yearly

more cash than all the palaces of Vicenza are worth in fee-simple, with

those of the Grand Canal of Venice to boot. As if this were not enough,

he was an hereditary patron of internal navigation; and although perhaps

in his two palaces, three castles, four halls, and lodges _ad libitum_,

there were more fires burnt than in any other establishment in the

empire, this was of no consequence, because the coals were his own. His

rent-roll exhibited a sum total, very neatly written, of two hundred

thousand pounds; but this was independent of half a million in the

funds, which we had nearly forgotten, and which remained from the

accumulations occasioned by the unhappy death of his father.

The late Duke of St. James had one sister, who was married to the Earl

of Fitz-pompey. To the great surprise of the world, to the perfect

astonishment of the brother-in-law, his Lordship was not appointed

guardian to the infant minor. The Earl of Fitz-pompey had always been on

the best possible terms with his Grace: the Countess had, only the year

before his death, accepted from his fraternal hand a diamond bracelet;

the Lord Viscount St. Maurice, future chief of the house of Fitz-pompey,

had the honour not only of being his nephew, but his godson. Who could

account, then, for an action so perfectly unaccountable? It was quite

evident that his Grace had no intention of dying.

The guardian, however, that he did appoint was a Mr. Dacre, a Catholic

gentleman of ancient family and large fortune, who had been the

companion of his travels, and was his neighbour in his county. Mr. Dacre

had not been honoured with the acquaintance of Lord Fitz-pompey previous

to the decease of his noble friend; and after that event such an

acquaintance would probably not have been productive of agreeable

reminiscences; for from the moment of the opening of the fatal will

the name of Dacre was wormwood to the house of St. Maurice. Lord

Fitz-pompey, who, though the brother-in-law of a Whig magnate, was a

Tory, voted against the Catholics with renewed fervour.

Shortly after the death of his friend, Mr. Dacre married a beautiful and

noble lady of the house of Howard, who, after having presented him with

a daughter, fell ill, and became that common character, a confirmed

invalid. In the present day, and especially among women, one would

almost suppose that health was a state of unnatural existence. The

illness of his wife and the non-possession of parliamentary duties

rendered Mr. Dacre’s visits to his town mansion rare, and the mansion in

time was let.

The young Duke, with the exception of an occasional visit to his uncle,

Lord Fitz-pompey, passed the early years of his life at Castle Dacre.

At seven years of age he was sent to a preparatory school at Richmond,

which was entirely devoted to the early culture of the nobility, and

where the principal, the Reverend Doctor Coronet, was so extremely

exclusive in his system that it was reported that he had once refused

the son of an Irish peer. Miss Coronet fed her imagination with the hope

of meeting her father’s noble pupils in after-life, and in the meantime

read fashionable novels.

The moment that the young Duke was settled at Richmond, all the

intrigues of the Fitz-pompey family were directed to that quarter; and

as Mr. Dacre was by nature unsuspicious, and was even desirous that

his ward should cultivate the friendship of his only relatives, the St.

Maurice family had the gratification, as they thought, of completely

deceiving him. Lady Fitz-pompey called twice a week at Crest House with

a supply of pine-apples or bonbons, and the Rev. Dr. Coronet bowed in

adoration. Lady Isabella St. Maurice gave a china cup to Mrs. Coronet,

and Lady Augusta a paper-cutter to Miss. The family was secured. All

discipline was immediately set at defiance, and the young Duke passed

the greater part of the half-year with his affectionate relations.

His Grace, charmed with the bonbons of his aunt and the kisses of his

cousins, which were even sweeter than the sugar-plums; delighted

with the pony of St. Maurice, which immediately became his own; and

inebriated by the attentions of his uncle,--who, at eight years of age,

treated him, as his Lordship styled it, ‘like a man’--contrasted this

life of early excitement with what now appeared the gloom and the

restraint of Castle Dacre, and he soon entered into the conspiracy,

which had long been hatching, with genuine enthusiasm. He wrote to his

guardian, and obtained permission to spend his vacation with his uncle.

Thus, through the united indulgence of Dr. Coronet and Mr. Dacre, the

Duke of St. James became a member of the family of St. Maurice.

No sooner had Lord Fitz-pompey secured the affections of the ward than

he entirely changed his system towards the guardian. He wrote to

Mr. Dacre, and in a manner equally kind and dignified courted his

acquaintance. He dilated upon the extraordinary, though extremely

natural, affection which Lady Fitz-pompey entertained for the only

offspring of her beloved brother, upon the happiness which the young

Duke enjoyed with his cousins, upon the great and evident advantages

which his Grace would derive from companions of his own age, of the

singular friendship which he had already formed with St. Maurice; and

then, after paying Mr. Dacre many compliments upon the admirable manner

in which he had already fulfilled the duties of his important office,

and urging the lively satisfaction that a visit from their brother’s

friend would confer both upon Lady Fitz-pompey and himself, he requested

permission for his nephew to renew the visit in which he had been ‘so

happy!’ The Duke seconded the Earl’s diplomatic scrawl in the most

graceful round-text. The masterly intrigues of Lord Fitz-pompey,

assisted by Mrs. Dacre’s illness, which daily increased, and which

rendered perfect quiet indispensable, were successful, and the young

Duke arrived at his twelfth year without revisiting Dacre. Every year,

however, when Mr. Dacre made a short visit to London, his ward spent

a few days in his company, at the house of an old-fashioned Catholic

nobleman; a visit which only afforded a dull contrast to the gay society

and constant animation of his uncle’s establishment.

It would seem that fate had determined to counteract the intentions

of the late Duke of St. James, and to achieve those of the Earl of

Fitz-pompey. At the moment that the noble minor was about to leave Dr.

Coronet for Eton, Mrs. Dacre’s state was declared hopeless, except from

the assistance of an Italian sky, and Mr. Dacre, whose attachment to his

lady was romantic, determined to leave England immediately.

It was with deep regret that he parted from his ward, whom he tenderly

loved; but all considerations merged in the paramount one; and he was

consoled by the reflection that he was, at least, left to the care of

his nearest connections. Mr. Dacre was not unaware of the dangers

to which his youthful pledge might be exposed by the indiscriminate

indulgence of his uncle, but he trusted to the impartial and inviolable

system of a public school to do much; and he anticipated returning to

England before his ward was old enough to form those habits which are

generally so injurious to young nobles. In this hope Mr. Dacre was

disappointed. Mrs. Dacre lingered, and revived, and lingered, for nearly

eight years; now filling the mind of her husband and her daughter with

unreasonable hope, now delivering them to that renewed anguish, that

heart-rending grief, which the attendant upon a declining relative can

alone experience, additionally agonizing because it cannot be indulged.

Mrs. Dacre died, and the widower and his daughter returned to England.

In the meantime, the Duke of St. James had not been idle.

CHAPTER II.

_Tender Relatives_

THE departure and, at length, the total absence of Mr. Dacre from

England yielded to Lord Fitz-pompey all the opportunity he had long

desired. Hitherto he had contented himself with quietly sapping the

influence of the guardian: now that influence was openly assailed. All

occasions were seized of depreciating the character of Mr. Dacre,

and open lamentations were poured forth on the strange and unhappy

indiscretion of the father who had confided the guardianship of his son,

not to his natural and devoted friends, but to a harsh and repulsive

stranger. Long before the young Duke had completed his sixteenth year

all memory of the early kindness of his guardian, if it had ever

been imprinted on his mind, was carefully obliterated from it. It was

constantly impressed upon him that nothing but the exertions of his aunt

and uncle had saved him from a life of stern privation and irrational

restraint: and the man who had been the chosen and cherished confidant

of the father was looked upon by the son as a grim tyrant, from whose

clutches he had escaped, and in which he determined never again to find

himself. ‘Old Dacre,’ as Lord Fitz-pompey described him, was a phantom

enough at any time to frighten his youthful ward. The great object

of the uncle was to teaze and mortify the guardian into resigning his

trust, and infinite were the contrivances to bring about this desirable

result; but Mr. Dacre was obstinate, and, although absent, contrived to

carry on and complete the system for the management of the Hauteville

property which he had so beneficially established and so long pursued.

In quitting England, although he had appointed a fixed allowance for

his noble ward, Mr. Dacre had thought proper to delegate a discretionary

authority to Lord Fitz-pompey to furnish him with what might be called

extraordinary necessaries. His Lordship availed himself with such

dexterity of this power that his nephew appeared to be indebted for

every indulgence to his uncle, who invariably accompanied every act of

this description with an insinuation that he might thank Mrs. Dacre’s

illness for the boon.

‘Well, George,’ he would say to the young Etonian, ‘you shall have

the boat, though I hardly know how I shall pass the account at

head-quarters; and make yourself easy about Flash’s bill, though I

really cannot approve of such proceedings. Thank your stars you have not

got to present that account to old Dacre. Well, I am one of those who

are always indulgent to young blood. Mr. Dacre and I differ. He is your

guardian, though. Everything is in his power; but you shall never want

while your uncle can help you; and so run off to Caroline, for I see you

want to be with her.’

The Lady Isabella and the Lady Augusta, who had so charmed Mrs. and Miss

Coronet, were no longer in existence. Each had knocked down her earl.

Brought up by a mother exquisitely adroit in female education, the

Ladies St. Maurice had run but a brief, though a brilliant, career.

Beautiful, and possessing every accomplishment which renders beauty

valuable, under the unrivalled chaperonage of the Countess they had

played their popular parts without a single blunder. Always in the best

set, never flirting with the wrong man, and never speaking to the wrong

woman, all agreed that the Ladies St. Maurice had fairly won their

coronets. Their sister Caroline was much younger; and although she did

not promise to develop so unblemished a character as themselves, she

was, in default of another sister, to be the Duchess of St. James.

Lady Caroline St. Maurice was nearly of the same age as her cousin, the

young Duke. They had been play-fellows since his emancipation from

the dungeons of Castle Dacre, and every means had been adopted by her

judicious parents to foster and to confirm the kind feelings which had

been first engendered by being partners in the same toys and sharing

the same sports. At eight years old the little Duke was taught to call

Caroline his ‘wife;’ and as his Grace grew in years, and could better

appreciate the qualities of his sweet and gentle cousin, he was not

disposed to retract the title. When George rejoined the courtly Coronet,

Caroline invariably mingled her tears with those of her sorrowing

spouse; and when the time at length arrived for his departure for Eton,

Caroline knitted him a purse and presented him with a watch-ribbon. At

the last moment she besought her brother, who was two years older, to

watch over him, and soothed the moment of final agony by a promise to

correspond. Had the innocent and soft-hearted girl been acquainted with,

or been able to comprehend, the purposes of her crafty parents, she

could not have adopted means more calculated to accomplish them. The

young Duke kissed her a thousand times, and loved her better than all

the world.

In spite of his private house and his private tutor, his Grace did not

make all the progress in his classical studies which means so calculated

to promote abstraction and to assist acquirement would seem to promise.

The fact is, that as his mind began to unfold itself he found a

perpetual and a more pleasing source of study in the contemplation of

himself. His early initiation in the school of Fitz-pompey had not been

thrown away. He had heard much of nobility, and beauty, and riches,

and fashion, and power; he had seen many individuals highly, though

differently, considered for the relative quantities which they possessed

of these qualities; it appeared to the Duke of St. James that among the

human race he possessed the largest quantity of them all: he cut his

private tutor. His private tutor, who had been appointed by Mr. Dacre,

remonstrated to Lord Fitz-pompey, and with such success that he thought

proper shortly after to resign his situation. Dr. Coronet begged to

recommend his son, the Rev. Augustus Granville Coronet. The Duke of St.

James now got on rapidly, and also found sufficient time for his boat,

his tandem, and his toilette.

The Duke of St. James appeared at Christ Church. His conceit kept him

alive for a few terms. It is delightful to receive the homage of two

thousand young men of the best families in the country, to breakfast

with twenty of them, and to cut the rest. In spite, however, of the

glories of the golden tuft and a delightful private establishment which

he and his followers maintained in the chaste suburbs of Alma Mater, the

Duke of St. James felt ennuied. Consequently, one clear night, they set

fire to a pyramid of caps and gowns in Peckwater. It was a silly thing

for any one: it was a sad indiscretion for a Duke; but it was done. Some

were expelled; his Grace had timely notice, and having before cut the

Oxonians, now cut Oxford.

Like all young men who get into scrapes, the Duke of St. James

determined to travel. The Dacres returned to England before he did. He

dexterously avoided coming into contact with them in Italy. Mr. Dacre

had written to him several times during the first years of his absence;

and although the Duke’s answers were short, seldom, and not very

satisfactory, Mr. Dacre persisted in occasionally addressing him. When,

however, the Duke had arrived at an age when he was at least morally

responsible for his own conduct, and entirely neglected answering his

guardian’s letters, Mr. Dacre became altogether silent.

The travelling career of the young Duke may be conceived by those who

have wasted their time, and are compensated for that silliness by being

called men of the world. He gamed a little at Paris; he ate a good deal

at Vienna; and he studied the fine arts in Italy. In all places his

homage to the fair sex was renowned. The Parisian duchess, the Austrian

princess, and the Italian countess spoke in the most enthusiastic terms

of the English nobility. At the end of three years the Duke of St. James

was of opinion that he had obtained a great knowledge of mankind. He was

mistaken; travel is not, as is imagined, the best school for that sort

of science. Knowledge of mankind is a knowledge of their passions. The

traveller is looked upon as a bird of passage, whose visit is short, and

which the vanity of the visited wishes to make agreeable. All is

show, all false, and all made up. Coterie succeeds coterie, equally

smiling--the explosions take place in his absence. Even a grand passion,

which teaches a man more, perhaps, than anything else, is not very

easily excited by the traveller. The women know that, sooner or later,

he must disappear; and though this is the case with all lovers, they do

not like to miss the possibility of delusion. Thus the heroines keep in

the background, and the visitor, who is always in a hurry, falls into

the net of the first flirtation that offers.

The Duke of St. James had, however, acquired a great knowledge; if

not of mankind, at any rate of manners. He had visited all Courts, and

sparkled in the most brilliant circles of the Continent. He returned to

his own country with a taste extremely refined, a manner most polished,

and a person highly accomplished.

CHAPTER III.

_The Duke Returns_

A SORT of scrambling correspondence had been kept up between the young

Duke and his cousin, Lord St. Maurice, who had for a few months been his

fellow-traveller. By virtue of these epistles, notice of the movements

of their interesting relative occasionally reached the circle at

Fitz-pompey House, although St. Maurice was scanty in the much-desired

communications; because, like most young Englishmen, he derived

singular pleasure from depriving his fellow-creatures of all that small

information which every one is so desirous to obtain. The announcement,

however, of the approaching arrival of the young Duke was duly made.

Lord Fitz-pompey wrote and offered apartments at Fitz-pompey House. They

were refused. Lord Fitz-pompey wrote again to require instructions for

the preparation of Hauteville House. His letter was unanswered. Lord

Fitz-pompey was quite puzzled.

‘When does your cousin mean to come, Charles?’ ‘Where does your cousin

mean to go, Charles?’ ‘What does your cousin mean to do, Charles?’ These

were the hourly queries of the noble uncle.

At length, in the middle of January, when no one expected him, the Duke

of St. James arrived at Mivart’s.

He was attended by a French cook, an Italian valet, a German jäger, and

a Greek page. At this dreary season of the year this party was, perhaps,

the most distinguished in the metropolis.

Three years’ absence and a little knowledge of life had somewhat changed

the Duke of St. James’s feelings with regard to his noble relatives.

He was quite disembarrassed of that Panglossian philosophy which had

hitherto induced him to believe that the Earl of Fitz-pompey was the

best of all possible uncles. On the contrary, his Grace rather doubted

whether the course which his relations had pursued towards him was

quite the most proper and the most prudent; and he took great credit

to himself for having, with such unbounded indulgence, on the whole

deported himself with so remarkable a temperance. His Grace, too, could

no longer innocently delude himself with the idea that all the attention

which had been lavished upon him was solely occasioned by the impulse

of consanguinity. Finally, the young Duke’s conscience often misgave him

when he thought of Mr. Dacre. He determined, therefore, on returning to

England, not to commit himself too decidedly with the Fitz-pompeys, and

he had cautiously guarded himself from being entrapped into becoming

their guest. At the same time, the recollection of old intimacy, the

general regard which he really felt for them all, and the sincere

affection which he entertained for his cousin Caroline, would have

deterred him from giving any outward signs of his altered feelings, even

if other considerations had not intervened.

And other considerations did intervene. A Duke, and a young Duke, is

an important personage; but he must still be introduced. Even our

hero might make a bad tack on his first cruise. Almost as important

personages have committed the same blunder. Talk of Catholic

emancipation! O! thou Imperial Parliament, emancipate the forlorn

wretches who have got into a bad set! Even thy omnipotence must fail

there!

Now, the Countess of Fitz-pompey was a brilliant of the first water.

Under no better auspices could the Duke of St. James bound upon the

stage. No man in town could arrange his club affairs for him with

greater celerity and greater tact than the Earl; and the married

daughters were as much like their mother as a pair of diamond ear-rings

are like a diamond necklace.

The Duke, therefore, though he did not choose to get caged in

Fitz-pompey House, sent his page, Spiridion, to the Countess, on a

special embassy of announcement on the evening of his arrival, and on

the following morning his Grace himself made his appearance at an early

hour.

Lord Fitz-pompey, who was as consummate a judge of men and manners as he

was an indifferent speculator on affairs, and who was almost as finished

a man of the world as he was an imperfect philosopher, soon perceived

that considerable changes had taken place in the ideas as well as in the

exterior of his nephew. The Duke, however, was extremely cordial, and

greeted the family in terms almost of fondness. He shook his uncle by

the hand with a fervour with which few noblemen had communicated for

a considerable period, and he saluted his aunt on the cheek with a

delicacy which did not disturb the rouge. He turned to his cousin.

Lady Caroline St. Maurice was indeed a right beautiful being. She, whom

the young Duke had left merely a graceful and kind-hearted girl, three

years had changed into a somewhat dignified but most lovely woman. A

little perhaps of her native ease had been lost; a little perhaps of a

manner rather too artificial had supplanted that exquisite address

which Nature alone had prompted; but at this moment her manner was as

unstudied and as genuine as when they had gambolled together in the

bowers of Malthorpe. Her white and delicate arm was extended with

cordial grace, her full blue eye beamed with fondness, and the soft

blush that rose on her fair cheek exquisitely contrasted with the

clusters of her dark brown hair.

The Duke was struck, almost staggered. He remembered their infant

loves; he recovered with ready address. He bent his head with graceful

affection and pressed her lips. He almost repented that he had not

accepted his uncle’s offer of hospitality.

CHAPTER IV.

_A Social Triumph_

LORD FITZ-POMPEY was a little consoled for the change which he had

observed in the character of the Duke by the remembrance of the embrace

with which his Grace had greeted Lady Caroline. Never indeed did a

process which has, through the lapse of so many ages, occasioned so much

delight, produce more lively satisfaction than the kiss in question.

Lord Fitz-pompey had given up his plan of managing the Duke after the

family dinner which his nephew had the pleasure to join the first day

of his first visit. The Duke and he were alone, and his Lordship availed

himself of the rare opportunity with that adroitness for which he was

celebrated. Nothing could be more polite, more affable, more kind,

than his Grace’s manner! but the uncle cared little for politeness, or

affability, or kindness. The crafty courtier wanted candour, and that

was absent. That ingenuous openness of disposition, that frank and

affectionate demeanour, for which the Duke of St. James had been

so remarkable in his early youth, and with the aid of which Lord

Fitz-pompey had built so many Spanish castles, had quite disappeared.

Nothing could be more artificial, more conventional, more studied, than

his whole deportment. In vain Lord Fitz-pompey pumped; the empty bucket

invariably reminded him of his lost labour. In vain his Lordship laid

his little diplomatic traps to catch a hint of the purposes or an

intimation of the inclinations of his nephew; the bait was never seized.

In vain the Earl affected unusual conviviality and boundless affection;

the Duke sipped his claret and admired his pictures. Nothing would

do. An air of habitual calm, a look of kind condescension, and an

inclination to a smile, which never burst into a beam, announced that

the Duke of St. James was perfectly satisfied with existence, and

conscious that he was himself, of that existence, the most distinguished

ornament. In fact, he was a sublime coxcomb; one of those rare

characters whose finished manner and shrewd sense combined prevent

their conceit from being contemptible. After many consultations it was

determined between the aunt and uncle that it would be most prudent to

affect a total non-interference with their nephew’s affairs, and in

the meantime to trust to the goodness of Providence and the charms of

Caroline.

Lady Fitz-pompey determined that the young Duke should make his debut at

once, and at her house. Although it was yet January, she did not despair

of collecting a select band of guests, Brahmins of the highest caste.

Some choice spirits were in office, like her lord, and therefore in

town; others were only passing through; but no one caught a flying-fish

with more dexterity than the Countess. The notice was short, the whole

was unstudied. It was a felicitous impromptu, and twenty guests were

assembled, who were the Corinthian capitals of the temple of fashion.

There was the Premier, who was invited, not because he was a minister,

but because he was a hero. There was another Duke not less celebrated,

whose palace was a breathing shrine which sent forth the oracles of

mode. True, he had ceased to be a young Duke; but he might be consoled

for the vanished lustre of youth by the recollection that he had enjoyed

it, and by the present inspiration of an accomplished manhood. There

were the Prince and the Princess Protocoli: his Highness a first-rate

diplomatist, unrivalled for his management of an opera; and his consort,

with a countenance like Cleopatra and a tiara like a constellation,

famed alike for her shawls and her snuff. There were Lord and Lady

Bloomerly, who were the best friends on earth: my Lord a sportsman, but

soft withal, his talk the Jockey Club, filtered through White’s; my Lady

a little blue, and very beautiful. Their daughter, Lady Charlotte, rose

by her mother’s side like a tall bud by a full-blown flower. There were

the Viscountess Blaze, a peeress in her own right, and her daughter,

Miss Blaze Dash-away, who, besides the glory of the future coronet,

moved in all the confidence of independent thousands. There was the

Marquess of Macaroni, who was at the same time a general, an ambassador,

and a dandy; and who, if he had liked, could have worn twelve orders;

but this day, being modest, only wore six. There, too, was the

Marchioness, with a stomacher stiff with brilliants extracted from the

snuff-boxes presented to her husband at a Congress.

There were Lord Sunium, who was not only a peer but a poet; and his

lady, a Greek, who looked just finished by Phidias. There, too, was

Pococurante, the epicurean and triple millionaire, who in a political

country dared to despise politics, in the most aristocratic of kingdoms

had refused nobility, and in a land which showers all its honours upon

its cultivators invested his whole fortune in the funds. He lived in a

retreat like the villa of Hadrian, and maintained himself in an elevated

position chiefly by his wit and a little by his wealth. There, too, were

his noble wife, thoroughbred to her fingers’ tips, and beaming like the

evening star; and his son, who was an M.P., and thought his father a

fool. In short, our party was no common party, but a band who formed the

very core of civilisation; a high court of last appeal, whose word was

a fiat, whose sign was a hint, whose stare was death, and

sneer----damnation!

The Graces befriend us! We have forgotten the most important personage.

It is the first time in his life that Charles Annesley has been

neglected. It will do him good.

Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. It may be doubted

whether the revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it

had its faults at first, the muse of Byron has made it not only English,

but classical. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a

beau. There was nothing in his dress--though some mysterious arrangement

in his costume, some rare simplicity, some curious happiness, always

made it distinguished--there was nothing, however, in his dress, which

could account for the influence which he exercised over the manners of

his contemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited

from his father, a younger brother, a small estate; and, though heir

to a wealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called ‘his

prospects.’ Yet his establishment, his little house in Mayfair, his

horses, his moderate stud at Melton, were all unique, and everything

connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and

its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued

nonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy;

his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious

courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle

much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their

passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed

those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even

while it refrained from wounding. All feared, marry admired, and none

hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to

admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner

was his exquisite superciliousness, a quality which, of all, is the most

difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential,

and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie

which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the leading

men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our

old brilliant comedy, the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels.

Charles Annesley was a member of the distinguished party who were this

day to decide the fate of the young Duke. Let him come forward!

His Grace moved towards them, tall and elegant in figure, and with that

air of affable dignity which becomes a noble, and which adorns a court;

none of that affected indifference which seems to imply that nothing can

compensate for the exertion of moving, and ‘which makes the dandy, while

it mars the man.’ His large and somewhat sleepy grey eye, his clear

complexion, his small mouth, his aquiline nose, his transparent

forehead, his rich brown hair, and the delicacy of his extremities,

presented, when combined, a very excellent specimen of that style of

beauty for which the nobility of England are remarkable. Gentle, for

he felt the importance of the tribunal, never loud, ready, yet a little

reserved, he neither courted nor shunned examination. His finished

manner, his experience of society, his pretensions to taste, the

gaiety of his temper, and the liveliness of his imagination, gradually

developed themselves with the developing hours.

The banquet was over: the Duke of St. James passed his examination with

unqualified approval; and having been stamped at the mint of fashion as

a sovereign of the brightest die, he was flung forth, like the rest

of his golden brethren, to corrupt the society of which he was the

brightest ornament.

CHAPTER V.

_Sweeping Changes_

THE morning after the initiatory dinner the young Duke drove to

Hauteville House, his family mansion, situated in his family square. His

Grace particularly prided himself on his knowledge of the arts; a taste

for which, among other things, he intended to introduce into England.

Nothing could exceed the horror with which he witnessed the exterior of

his mansion, except the agony with which he paced through the interior.

‘Is this a palace?’ thought the young Duke; ‘this hospital a palace!’

He entered. The marble hall, the broad and lofty double staircase

painted in fresco, were not unpromising, in spite of the dingy gilding;

but with what a mixed feeling of wonder and disgust did the Duke roam

through clusters of those queer chambers which in England are called

drawing-rooms!

‘Where are the galleries, where the symmetrical saloons, where the

lengthened suite, where the collateral cabinets, sacred to the statue of

a nymph or the mistress of a painter, in which I have been customed to

reside? What page would condescend to lounge in this ante-chamber? And

is this gloomy vault, that you call a dining-room, to be my hall of

Apollo? Order my carriage.’

The Duke sent immediately for Sir Carte Blanche, the successor, in

England, of Sir Christopher Wren. His Grace communicated at the same

time his misery and his grand views. Sir Carte was astonished with his

Grace’s knowledge, and sympathised with his Grace’s feelings. He offered

consolation and promised estimates. They came in due time. Hauteville

House, in the drawing of the worthy Knight, might have been mistaken for

the Louvre. Some adjoining mansions were, by some magical process for

which Sir Carte was famous, to be cleared of their present occupiers,

and the whole side of the square was in future to be the site of

Hauteville House. The difficulty was great, but the object was greater.

The expense, though the estimate made a bold assault on the half

million, was a mere trifle, ‘considering.’ The Duke was delighted. He

condescended to make a slight alteration in Sir Carte’s drawing, which

Sir Carte affirmed to be a great improvement. Now it was Sir Carte’s

turn to be delighted. The Duke was excited by his architect’s

admiration, and gave him a dissertation on Schönbrunn.

Although Mr. Dacre had been disappointed in his hope of exercising a

personal influence over the education of his ward, he had been more

fortunate in his plans for the management of his ward’s property.

Perhaps there never was an instance of the opportunities afforded by

a long minority having been used to greater advantage. The estates had

been increased and greatly improved, all and very heavy mortgages had

been paid off, and the rents been fairly apportioned. Mr. Dacre, by his

constant exertions and able dispositions since his return to England,

also made up for the neglect with which an important point had been a

little treated; and at no period had the parliamentary influence of the

house of Hauteville been so extensive, so decided, and so well bottomed

as when our hero became its chief.

In spite of his proverbial pride, it seemed that Mr. Dacre was

determined not to be offended by the conduct of his ward. The Duke had

not yet announced his arrival in England to his guardian; but about a

month after that event he received a letter of congratulation from Mr.

Dacre, who at the same time expressed a desire to resign a trust into

his Grace’s hand which, he believed, had not been abused. The Duke,

who rather dreaded an interview, wrote in return that he intended very

shortly to visit Yorkshire, when he should have the pleasure of availing

himself of the kind invitation to Castle Dacre; and having thus, as he

thought, dexterously got rid of the old gentleman for the present, he

took a ride with Lady Caroline St. Maurice.

CHAPTER VI.

_The Duke Visits Hauteville_

PARLIAMENT assembled, the town filled, and every moment in the day of

the Duke of St. James was occupied. Sir Carte and his tribe filled

up the morning. Then there were endless visits to endless visitors;

dressing; riding, chiefly with Lady Caroline; luncheons, and the bow

window at White’s. Then came the evening with all its crash and glare;

the banquet, the opera, and the ball.

The Duke of St. James took the oaths and his seat. He was introduced

by Lord Fitz-pompey. He heard a debate. We laugh at such a thing,

especially in the Upper House; but, on the whole, the affair is

imposing, particularly if we take part in it. Lord Ex-Chamberlain

thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency

and constitution. Baron Deprivyseal seconded him with great effect,

brief but bitter, satirical and sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered

these, full of confidence in the nation and in himself. When the debate

was getting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light. The

Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness.

But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort

of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his

character, when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives,

because his auditors could not understand his acts. Then there was a

maiden speech, so inaudible that it was doubted whether, after all, the

young orator really did lose his virginity. In the end, up started the

Premier, who, having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and liberal;

gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and then the

motion was withdrawn.

While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some

consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept; yet, on the

whole, there was an air about the assembly which can be witnessed in no

other in Europe. Even the most indifferent looked as if he would come

forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most imbecile as if

he could serve his country if it required him. When a man raises his

eyes from his bench and sees his ancestor in the tapestry, he begins to

understand the pride of blood.

The young Duke had not experienced many weeks of his career before he

began to sicken of living in an hotel. Hitherto he had not reaped any of

the fruits of the termination of his minority. He was a _cavalier seul_,

highly considered, truly, but yet a mere member of society. He had been

this for years. This was not the existence to enjoy which he had hurried

to England. He aspired to be society itself. In a word, his tastes were

of the most magnificent description, and he sighed to be surrounded by

a court. As Hauteville House, even with Sir Carte’s extraordinary

exertions, could not be ready for his reception for three years,

which to him appeared eternity, he determined to look about for an

establishment. He was fortunate. A nobleman who possessed an hereditary

mansion of the first class, and much too magnificent for his resources,

suddenly became diplomatic, and accepted an embassy. The Duke of St.

James took everything off his hands: house, furniture, wines, cooks,

servants, horses. Sir Carte was sent in to touch up the gilding and make

a few temporary improvements; and Lady Fitz-pompey pledged herself to

organise the whole establishment ere the full season commenced and the

early Easter had elapsed, which had now arrived.

It had arrived, and the young Duke had departed to his chief family

seat, Hauteville Castle, in Yorkshire. He intended at the same time

to fulfil his long-pledged engagement at Castle Dacre. He arrived at

Hauteville amid the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and the

crackling of bonfires. The Castle, unlike most Yorkshire castles, was a

Gothic edifice, ancient, vast, and strong; but it had received numerous

additions in various styles of architecture, which were at the same time

great sources of convenience and great violations of taste. The young

Duke was seized with a violent desire to live in a genuine Gothic

castle: each day his refined taste was outraged by discovering Roman

windows and Grecian doors. He determined to emulate Windsor, and he sent

for Sir Carte.

Sir Carte came as quick as thunder after lightning. He was immediately

struck with Hauteville, particularly with its capabilities. It was a

superb place, certainly, and might be rendered unrivalled. The situation

seemed made for the pure Gothic. The left wing should decidedly be

pulled down, and its site occupied by a Knight’s hall; the old terrace

should be restored; the donjon keep should be raised, and a gallery,

three hundred feet long, thrown through the body of the castle.

Estimates, estimates, estimates! But the time? This was a greater point

than the expense. Wonders should be done. There were now five hundred

men working for Hauteville House; there should be a thousand for

Hauteville Castle. Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche!

On his arrival in Yorkshire the Duke had learnt that the Dacres were

in Norfolk on a visit. As the Castle was some miles off, he saw no

necessity to make a useless exertion, and so he sent his jäger with his

card. He had now been ten days in his native county. It was dull, and he

was restless. He missed the excitement of perpetual admiration, and his

eye drooped for constant glitter. He suddenly returned to town, just

when the county had flattered itself that he was about to appoint his

public days.

CHAPTER VII.

_The First Fancy_

EASTER was over, the sun shone, the world was mad, and the young Duke

made his début at Almack’s. He determined to prove that he had profited

by a winter at Vienna. His dancing was declared consummate. He galloped

with grace and waltzed with vigour. It was difficult to decide which

was more admirable, the elegance of his prance or the precision of his

whirl. A fat Russian Prince, a lean Austrian Count, a little German

Baron, who, somehow or other, always contrived to be the most marked

characters of the evening, disappeared in despair.

There was a lady in the room who attracted the notice of our hero. She

was a remarkable personage. There are some sorts of beauty which defy

description, and almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult

of life like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a

picture. Our first impression is anything but fleshly. We are struck

dumb, we gasp, our limbs quiver, a faintness glides over our frame,

we are awed; instead of gazing upon the apparition, we avert the eyes,

which yet will feed upon its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain

mixes with the intense pleasure. And not till, with a struggle, we call

back to our memory the commonplaces of existence, can we recover our

commonplace demeanour. These, indeed, are rare visions, early feelings,

when our young existence leaps with its mountain torrents; but as the

river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow dimmer or our blood more cold.

Some effect of this kind was produced on the Duke of St. James by the

unknown dame. He turned away his head to collect his senses. His eyes

again rally; and this time, being prepared, he was more successful in

his observations.

The lady was standing against the wall; a young man was addressing some

remarks to her which apparently were not very interesting. She was tall

and young, and, as her tiara betokened, married; dazzling fair, but

without colour; with locks like night and features delicate, but

precisely defined. Yet all this did not at first challenge the

observation of the young Duke. It was the general and peculiar

expression of her countenance which had caused in him such emotion.

There was an expression of resignation, or repose, or sorrow, or

serenity, which in these excited chambers was strange, and singular, and

lone. She gazed like some genius invisible to the crowd, and mourning

over its degradation.

He stopped St. Maurice, as his cousin passed by, to inquire her name,

and learnt that she was Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the wife of Sir Lucius

Grafton.

‘What, Lucy Grafton!’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘I remember; I was his fag

at Eton. He was a handsome dog; but I doubt whether he deserves such a

wife. Introduce me.’

Lady Aphrodite received our hero with a gentle bow, and did not seem

quite as impressed with his importance as most of those to whom he had

been presented in the course of the evening. The Duke had considerable

tact with women, and soon perceived that the common topics of a hack

flirtation would not do in the present case. He was therefore mild and

modest, rather piquant, somewhat rational, and apparently perfectly

unaffected. Her Ladyship’s reserve wore away. She refused to dance,

but conversed with more animation. The Duke did not leave her side. The

women began to stare, the men to bet: Lady Aphrodite against the

field. In vain his Grace laid a thousand plans to arrange a tea-room

tête-à-tête. He was unsuccessful. As he was about to return to the

charge her Ladyship desired a passer-by to summon her carriage. No time

was to be lost. The Duke began to talk hard about his old friend and

schoolfellow, Sir Lucius. A greenhorn would have thought it madness to

take an interest in such a person of all others; but women like you to

enter their house as their husband’s friend. Lady Aphrodite could not

refrain from expressing her conviction that Sir Lucius would be most

happy to renew his acquaintance with the Duke of St. James, and the

Duke of St. James immediately said that he would take the earliest

opportunity of giving him that pleasure.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A Noble Reprobate_

SIR LUCIUS GRAFTON was five or six years older than the Duke of St.

James, although he had been his contemporary at Eton. He, too, had been

a minor, and had inherited an estate capable of supporting the becoming

dignity of an ancient family. In appearance he was an Antinous. There

was, however, an expression of firmness, almost of ferocity, about his

mouth, which quite prevented his countenance from being effeminate, and

broke the dreamy voluptuousness of the rest of his features. In mind he

was a roué. Devoted to pleasure, he had racked the goblet at an early

age; and before he was five-and-twenty procured for himself a reputation

which made all women dread and some men shun him. In the very wildest

moment of his career, when he was almost marked like Cain, he had met

Lady Aphrodite Maltravers. She was the daughter of a nobleman who justly

prided himself, in a degenerate age, on the virtue of his house. Nature,

as if in recompense for his goodness, had showered all her blessings on

his only daughter. Never was daughter more devoted to a widowed sire;

never was woman influenced by principles of purer morality.

This was the woman who inspired Sir Lucius Grafton with an ungovernable

passion. Despairing of success by any other method, conscious that,

sooner or later, he must, for family considerations, propagate future

baronets of the name of Grafton, he determined to solicit her hand. But

for him to obtain it, he was well aware, was difficult. Confident in

his person, his consummate knowledge of the female character, and

his unrivalled powers of dissimulation, Sir Lucius arranged his

dispositions. The daughter feared, the father hated him. There was

indeed much to be done; but the remembrance of a thousand triumphs

supported the adventurer. Lady Aphrodite was at length persuaded that

she alone could confirm the reformation which she alone had originated.

She yielded to a passion which her love of virtue had alone kept in

subjection. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite knelt at the feet of the old

Earl. The tears of his daughter, ay! and of his future son-in-law--for

Sir Lucius knew when to weep--were too much for his kind and generous

heart. He gave them his blessing, which faltered on his tongue.

A year had not elapsed ere Lady Aphrodite woke to all the wildness of a

deluded woman. The idol on whom she had lavished all the incense of

her innocent affections became every day less like a true divinity.

At length even the ingenuity of a passion could no longer disguise the

hideous and bitter truth. She was no longer loved. She thought of her

father. Ah, what was the madness of her memory!

The agony of her mind disappointed her husband’s hope of an heir, and

the promise was never renewed.

In vain she remonstrated with the being to whom she was devoted: in vain

she sought by meek endurance again to melt his heart. It was cold; it

was callous. Most women would have endeavoured to recover their lost

influence by different tactics; some, perhaps, would have forgotten

their mortification in their revenge. But Lady Aphrodite had been the

victim of passion, and now was its slave. She could not dissemble.

Not so her spouse. Sir Lucius knew too well the value of a good

character to part very easily with that which he had so unexpectedly

regained. Whatever were his excesses, they were prudent ones. He felt

that boyhood could alone excuse the folly of glorying in vice; and he

knew that, to respect virtue, it was not absolutely necessary to be

virtuous. No one was, apparently, more choice in his companions than Sir

Lucius Grafton; no husband was seen oftener with his wife; no one paid

more respect to age, or knew better when to wear a grave countenance.

The world praised the magical influence of Lady Aphrodite; and Lady

Aphrodite, in private, wept over her misery. In public she made an

effort to conceal all she felt; and, as it is a great inducement to

every woman to conceal that she is neglected by the man whom she adores,

her effort was not unsuccessful. Yet her countenance might indicate that

she was little interested in the scene in which she mixed. She was too

proud to weep, but too sad to smile. Elegant and lone, she stood among

her crushed and lovely hopes like a column amid the ruins of a beautiful

temple.

The world declared that Lady Aphrodite was desperately virtuous, and the

world was right. A thousand fireflies had sparkled round this myrtle,

and its fresh and verdant hue was still unsullied and un-scorched. Not

a very accurate image, but pretty; and those who have watched a glancing

shower of these glittering insects will confess that, poetically, the

bush might burn. The truth is, that Lady Aphrodite still trembled when

she recalled the early anguish of her broken sleep of love, and had not

courage enough to hope that she might dream again. Like the old Hebrews,

she had been so chastened for her wild idolatry that she dared not again

raise an image to animate the wilderness of her existence. Man she at

the same time feared and despised. Compared with her husband, all who

surrounded her were, she felt, in appearance inferior, and were, she

believed, in mind the same.

We know not how it is, but love at first sight is a subject of constant

ridicule; but, somehow, we suspect that it has more to do with the

affairs of this world than the world is willing to own. Eyes meet which

have never met before, and glances thrill with expression which is

strange. We contrast these pleasant sights and new emotions with

hackneyed objects and worn sensations. Another glance and another

thrill, and we spring into each other’s arms. What can be more natural?

Ah, that we should awake so often to truth so bitter! Ah, that charm

by charm should evaporate from the talisman which had enchanted our

existence!

And so it was with this sweet woman, whose feelings grow under the pen.

She had repaired to a splendid assembly to play her splendid part

with the consciousness of misery, without the expectation of hope.

She awaited without interest the routine which had been so often

uninteresting; she viewed without emotion the characters which had never

moved. A stranger suddenly appeared upon the stage, fresh as the morning

dew, and glittering like the morning star. All eyes await, all tongues

applaud him. His step is grace, his countenance hope, his voice music!

And was such a being born only to deceive and be deceived? Was he to run

the same false, palling, ruinous career which had filled so many hearts

with bitterness and dimmed the radiancy of so many eyes? Never! The

nobility of his soul spoke from his glancing eye, and treated the foul

suspicion with scorn. Ah, would that she had such a brother to warn, to

guide, to love!

So felt the Lady Aphrodite! So felt; we will not say so reasoned. When

once a woman allows an idea to touch her heart, it is miraculous with

what rapidity the idea is fathered by her brain. All her experience, all

her anguish, all her despair, vanished like a long frost, in an instant,

and in a night. She felt a delicious conviction that a knight had at

length come to her rescue, a hero worthy of an adventure so admirable.

The image of the young Duke filled her whole mind; she had no ear for

others’ voices; she mused on his idea with the rapture of a votary on

the mysteries of a new faith.

Yet strange, when he at length approached her, when he addressed her,

when she replied to that mouth which had fascinated even before it had

spoken, she was cold, reserved, constrained. Some talk of the burning

cheek and the flashing eye of passion; but a wise man would not,

perhaps, despair of the heroine who, when he approaches her, treats him

almost with scorn, and trembles while she affects to disregard him.

Lady Aphrodite has returned home: she hurries to her apartment, she

falls in a sweet reverie, her head leans upon her hand. Her soubrette, a

pretty and chattering Swiss, whose republican virtue had been corrupted

by Paris, as Rome by Corinth, endeavours to divert Mer lady’s ennui: she

excruciates her beautiful mistress with tattle about the admiration of

Lord B------and the sighs of Sir Harry. Her Ladyship reprimands her for

her levity, and the soubrette, grown sullen, revenges herself for her

mistress’s reproof by converting the sleepy process of brushing into

lively torture.

The Duke of St. James called upon Lady Aphrodite Grafton the next

day, and at an hour when he trusted to find her alone. He was not

disappointed. More than once the silver-tongued pendule sounded during

that somewhat protracted but most agreeable visit. He was, indeed,

greatly interested by her, but he was an habitual gallant, and always

began by feigning more than he felt. She, on the contrary, who was

really in love, feigned much less. Yet she was no longer constrained,

though calm. Fluent, and even gay, she talked as well as listened, and

her repartees more than once called forth the resources of her guest.

She displayed a delicate and even luxurious taste, not only in her

conversation, but (the Duke observed it with delight) in her costume.

She had a passion for music and for flowers; she sang a romance, and she

gave him a rose. He retired perfectly fascinated.

CHAPTER IX.

_Old Friends Meet_

SIR LUCIUS GRAFTON called on the Duke of St. James. They did not

immediately swear an eternal friendship, but they greeted each other

with considerable warmth, talked of old times and old companions, and

compared their former sensations with their present. No one could be a

more agreeable companion than Sir Lucius, and this day he left a very

favourable impression with his young friend. From this day, too, the

Duke’s visits at the Baronet’s were frequent; and as the Graftons were

intimate with the Fitz-pompeys, scarcely a day elapsed without his

having the pleasure of passing a portion of it in the company of Lady

Aphrodite: his attentions to her were marked, and sometimes mentioned.

Lord Fitz-pompey was rather in a flutter. George did not ride so often

with Caroline, and never alone with her. This was disagreeable; but the

Earl was a man of the world, and a sanguine man withal. These things

will happen. It is of no use to quarrel with the wind; and, for

his part, he was not sorry that he had the honour of the Grafton

acquaintance; it secured Caroline her cousin’s company; and as for

the _liaison_, if there were one, why it must end, and probably the

difficulty of terminating it might even hasten the catastrophe which he

had so much at heart. ‘So, Laura, dearest! let the Graftons be asked to

dinner.’

In one of those rides to which Caroline was not admitted, for Lady

Aphrodite was present, the Duke of St. James took his way to the

Regent’s Park, a wild sequestered spot, whither he invariably repaired

when he did not wish to be noticed; for the inhabitants of this pretty

suburb are a distinct race, and although their eyes are not unobserving,

from their inability to speak the language of London they are unable to

communicate their observations.

The spring sun was setting, and flung a crimson flush over the blue

waters and the white houses. The scene was rather imposing, and reminded

our hero of days of travel. A sudden thought struck him. Would it not be

delightful to build a beautiful retreat in this sweet and retired land,

and be able in an instant to fly from the formal magnificence of a

London mansion? Lady Aphrodite was charmed with the idea; for the

enamoured are always delighted with what is fanciful. The Duke

determined immediately to convert the idea into an object. To lose no

time was his grand motto. As he thought that Sir Carte had enough upon

his hands, he determined to apply to an artist whose achievements had

been greatly vaunted to him by a distinguished and noble judge.

M. Bijou de Millecolonnes, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour and member

of the Academy of St. Luke’s, except in his title, was the antipodes

of Sir Carte Blanche. Sir Carte was all solidity, solemnity, and

correctness; Bijou de Millecolonnes all lightness, gaiety, and

originality. Sir Carte was ever armed with the Parthenon, Palladio,

and St. Peter’s; Bijou de Millecolonnes laughed at the ancients, called

Palladio and Michel barbarians of the middle ages, and had himself

invented an order. Bijou was not so plausible as Sir Carte; but he was

infinitely more entertaining. Far from being servile, he allowed no one

to talk but himself, and made his fortune by his elegant insolence. How

singular it is that those who love servility are always the victims of

impertinence!

Gaily did Bijou de Millecolonnes drive his pea-green cabriolet to the

spot in question. He formed his plan in an instant. ‘The occasional

retreat of a noble should be something picturesque and poetical. The

mind should be led to voluptuousness by exquisite associations, as well

as by the creations of art. It is thus their luxury is rendered more

intense by the reminiscences that add past experience to present

enjoyment! For instance, if you sail down a river, imitate the progress

of Cleopatra. And here, here, where the opportunity is so ample, what

think you of reviving the Alhambra?’

Splendid conception! The Duke already fancied himself a Caliph. ‘Lose no

time, Chevalier! Dig, plant, build!’

Nine acres were obtained from the Woods and Forests; mounds were thrown

up, shrubs thrown in; the paths emulated the serpent; the nine acres

seemed interminable. All was surrounded by a paling eight feet high,

that no one might pierce the mystery of the preparations.

A rumour was soon current that the Zoological Society intended to keep

a Bengal tiger _au naturel_, and that they were contriving a residence

which would amply compensate him for his native jungle. The Regent’s

Park was in despair, the landlords lowered their rents, and the

tenants petitioned the King. In a short time some hooded domes and some

Saracenic spires rose to sight, and the truth was then made known that

the young Duke of St. James was building a villa. The Regent’s Park was

in rapture, the landlords raised their rents, and the tenants withdrew

their petition.

CHAPTER X. His Grace Entertains.

MR. DACRE again wrote to the Duke of St. James. He regretted that he had

been absent from home when his Grace had done him the honour of calling

at Castle Dacre. Had he been aware of that intended gratification, he

could with ease, and would with pleasure, have postponed his visit to

Norfolk. He also regretted that it would not be in his power to visit

London this season; and as he thought that no further time should be

lost in resigning the trust with which he had been so honoured, he

begged leave to forward his accounts to the Duke, and with them some

notes which he believed would convey some not unimportant information

to his Grace for the future management of his property. The young Duke

took a rapid glance at the sum total of his rental, crammed all the

papers into a cabinet with a determination to examine them the first

opportunity, and then rolled off to a morning concert of which he was

the patron.

The intended opportunity for the examination of the important papers

was never caught, nor was it surprising that it escaped capture. It is

difficult to conceive a career of more various, more constant, or more

distracting excitement than that in which the Duke of St. James was now

engaged. His life was an ocean of enjoyment, and each hour, like each

wave, threw up its pearl. How dull was the ball in which he did not

bound! How dim the banquet in which he did not glitter! His presence in

the Gardens compensated for the want of flowers; his vision in the Park

for the want of sun. In public breakfasts he was more indispensable

than pine-apples; in private concerts more noticed than an absent

prima donna. How fair was the dame on whom he smiled! How dark was the

tradesman on whom he frowned! Think only of prime ministers and princes,

to say nothing of princesses; nay! think only of managers of operas

and French actors, to say nothing of French actresses; think only of

jewellers, milliners, artists, horse-dealers, all the shoals who hurried

for his sanction; think only of the two or three thousand civilised

beings for whom all this population breathed, and who each of them had

claims upon our hero’s notice! Think of the statesmen, who had so much

to ask and so much to give; the dandies to feed with and to be fed; the

dangerous dowagers and the desperate mothers; the widows, wild as early

partridges; the budding virgins, mild as a summer cloud and soft as an

opera hat! Think of the drony bores, with their dull hum; think of

the chivalric guardsmen, with their horses to sell and their bills to

discount; think of Willis, think of Crockford, think of White’s, think

of Brooks’, and you may form a faint idea how the young Duke had to

talk, and eat, and flirt, and cut, and pet, and patronise!

You think it impossible for one man to do all this. There is yet much

behind. You may add to the catalogue Melton and Newmarket; and if to

hunt without an appetite and to bet without an object will not sicken

you, why, build a yacht!

The Duke of St. James gave his first grand entertainment for the season.

It was like the assembly of the immortals at the first levee of Jove.

All hurried to pay their devoirs to the young king of fashion; and each

who succeeded in becoming a member of the Court felt as proud as a

peer with a new title, or a baronet with an old one. An air of

regal splendour, an almost imperial assumption, was observed in the

arrangements of the fête. A troop of servants in rich liveries filled

the hall; grooms lined the staircase; Spiridion, the Greek page, lounged

on an ottoman in an ante-chamber, and, with the assistance of six young

gentlemen in crimson-and-silver uniforms, announced the coming of

the cherished guests. Cartloads of pine-apples were sent up from the

Yorkshire Castle, and waggons of orange-trees from the Twickenham Villa.

A brilliant coterie, of which his Grace was a member, had amused

themselves a few nights before by representing in costume the Court of

Charles the First. They agreed this night to reappear in their splendid

dresses; and the Duke, who was Villiers, supported his character, even

to the gay shedding of a shower of diamonds. In his cap was observed an

hereditary sapphire, which blazed like a volcano, and which was rumoured

to be worth his rent-roll.

There was a short concert, at which the most celebrated Signora made

her début; there was a single vaudeville, which a white satin play-bill,

presented to each guest as they entered the temporary theatre, indicated

to have been written for the occasion; there was a ball, in which

was introduced a new dance. Nothing for a moment was allowed to lag.

_Longueurs_ were skilfully avoided, and the excitement was so rapid that

every one had an appetite for supper.

A long gallery lined with bronzes and _bijouterie_, with cabinets and

sculpture, with china and with paintings, all purchased for the future

ornament of Hauteville House, and here stowed away in unpretending, but

most artificial, confusion, offered accommodation to all the guests.

To a table covered with gold, and placed in a magnificent tent upon the

stage, his Grace loyally led two princes of the blood and a child of

France. Madame de Protocoli, Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the Duchess of

Shropshire, and Lady Fitz-pompey, shared the honours of the pavilion,

and some might be excused for envying a party so brilliant and a

situation so distinguished. Yet Lady Aphrodite was an unwilling member

of it; and nothing but the personal solicitation of Sir Lucius would

have induced her to consent to the wish of their host.

A pink _carte_ succeeded to the satin play-bill. Vi-tellius might have

been pleased with the banquet. Ah, how shall we describe those soups,

which surely must have been the magical elixir! How paint those ortolans

dressed by the inimitable artist, à la St. James, for the occasion, and

which look so beautiful in death that they must surely have preferred

such an euthanasia even to flying in the perfumed air of an Auso-nian

heaven!

Sweet bird! though thou hast lost thy plumage, thou shalt fly to my

mistress! Is it not better to be nibbled by her than mumbled by a

cardinal? I, too, will feed on thy delicate beauty. Sweet bird! thy

companion has fled to my mistress; and now thou shalt thrill the nerves

of her master! Oh! doff, then, thy waistcoat of wine-leaves, pretty

rover! and show me that bosom more delicious even than woman’s. What

gushes of rapture! What a flavour! How peculiar! Even how sacred I

Heaven at once sends both manna and quails. Another little wanderer!

Pray follow my example! Allow me. All Paradise opens! Let me die eating

ortolans to the sound of soft music!

Even the supper was brief, though brilliant; and again the cotillon and

the quadrille, the waltz and the galoppe! At no moment of his life had

the young Duke felt existence so intense. Wherever he turned his eye he

found a responding glance of beauty and admiration; wherever he turned

his ear the whispered tones were soft and sweet as summer winds. Each

look was an offering, each word adoration! His soul dilated; the glory

of the scene touched all his passions. He almost determined not again

to mingle in society; but, like a monarch, merely to receive the

world which worshipped him. The idea was sublime: was it even to him

impracticable? In the midst of his splendour he fell into a reverie, and

mused on his magnificence. He could no longer resist the conviction

that he was a superior essence, even to all around him. The world seemed

created solely for his enjoyment. Nor man nor woman could withstand him.

From this hour he delivered himself up to a sublime selfishness. With

all his passions and all his profusion, a callousness crept over his

heart. His sympathy for those he believed his inferiors and his vassals

was slight. Where we do not respect we soon cease to love; when we

cease to love, virtue weeps and flies. His soul wandered in dreams of

omnipotence.

This picture perhaps excites your dislike; perchance your contempt.

Pause! Pity him! Pity his fatal youth!

CHAPTER XI.

_Love at a Bazaar_

THE Lady Aphrodite at first refused to sit in the Duke’s pavilion. Was

she, then, in the _habit_ of refusing? Let us not forget our Venus of

the Waters. Shall we whisper where the young Duke first dared to hope?

No, you shall guess. _Je vous le donne en trois_. The Gardens? The

opera? The tea-room? No! no! no! You are conceiving a locality much more

romantic. Already you have created the bower of a Parisina, where the

waterfall is even more musical than the birds, more lulling than the

evening winds; where all is pale, except the stars; all hushed, except

their beating pulses! Will this do? No! What think you, then, of a

_Bazaar_?

O thou wonderful nineteenth century! thou that believest in no miracles

and doest so many, hast thou brought this, too, about, that ladies’

hearts should be won, and gentlemen’s also, not in courts of tourney or

halls of revel, but over a counter and behind a stall? We are, indeed, a

nation of shopkeepers!

The king of Otaheite, though a despot, was a reformer. He discovered

that the eating of bread-fruit was a barbarous custom, which would

infallibly prevent his people from being a great nation. He determined

to introduce French rolls. A party rebelled; the despot was energetic;

some were executed; the rest ejected. The vagabonds arrived in England.

As they had been banished in opposition to French rolls, they were

declared to be a British interest. They professed their admiration of

civil and religious liberty, and also of a subscription. When they had

drunk a great deal of punch, and spent all their money, they discovered

that they had nothing to eat, and would infallibly have been starved,

had not an Hibernian Marchioness, who had never been in Ireland, been

exceedingly shocked that men should die of hunger; and so, being one of

the bustlers, she got up a fancy sale and a _Sandwich Isle Bazaar_.

All the world was there and of course our hero. Never was the arrival of

a comet watched by astronomers who had calculated its advent with more

anxiety than was the appearance of the young Duke. Never did man pass

through such dangers. It was the fiery ordeal. St. Anthony himself was

not assailed by more temptations. Now he was saved from the lustre of

a blonde face by the superior richness of a blonde lace. He would

infallibly have been ravished by that ringlet had he not been nearly

reduced by that ring which sparkled on a hand like the white cat’s. He

was only preserved from his unprecedented dangers by their number. No,

no! He had a better talisman: his conceit.

‘Ah, Lady Balmont!’ said his Grace to a smiling artist, who offered him

one of her own drawings of a Swiss cottage, ‘for me to be a tenant, it

must be love and a cottage!’

‘What! am I to buy this ring, Mrs. Abercroft? _Point de jour_. Oh!

dreadful phrase! Allow me to present it to you, for you are the only one

whom such words cannot make tremble.’

‘This chain, Lady Jemima, for my glass! It will teach me where to direct

it.’

‘Ah! Mrs. Fitzroy!’ and he covered his face with affected fear. ‘Can you

forgive me? Your beautiful note has been half an hour unanswered. The

box is yours for Tuesday.’

He tried to pass the next stall with a smiling bow, but he could not

escape. It was Lady de Courcy, a dowager, but not old. Once beautiful,

her charms had not yet disappeared. She had a pair of glittering eyes,

a skilfully-carmined cheek, and locks yet raven. Her eloquence made

her now as conspicuous as once did her beauty. The young Duke was her

constant object and her occasional victim. He hated above all things a

talking woman; he dreaded above all others Lady de Courcy.

He could not shirk. She summoned him by name so loud that crowds of

barbarians stared, and a man called to a woman, and said, ‘My dear! make

haste; here’s a Duke!’

Lady de Courcy was prime confidant of the Irish Marchioness. She

affected enthusiasm about the poor sufferers. She had learnt Otaheitan,

she lectured about the bread-fruit, and she played upon a barbarous

thrum-thrum, the only musical instrument in those savage wastes,

ironically called the Society Islands, because there is no society. She

was dreadful. The Duke in despair took out his purse, poured forth from

the pink and silver delicacy, worked by the slender fingers of Lady

Aphrodite, a shower of sovereigns, and fairly scampered off. At length

he reached the lady of his heart.

‘I fear,’ said the young Duke with a smile, and in a soft sweet voice,

‘that you will never speak to me again, for I am a ruined man.’

A beam of gentle affection reprimanded him even for badinage on such a

subject.

‘I really came here to buy up all your stock, but that gorgon, Lady de

Courcy, captured me, and my ransom has sent me here free, but a beggar.

I do not know a more ill-fated fellow than myself. Now, if you had only

condescended to take me prisoner, I might have saved my money; for I

should have kissed my chain.’

‘My chains, I fear, are neither very alluring nor very strong.’ She

spoke with a thoughtful air, and he answered her only with his eye.

‘I must bear off something from your stall,’ he resumed in a more rapid

and gayer tone, ‘and, as I cannot purchase you must present. Now for a

gift!’

‘Choose!’

‘Yourself.’

‘Your Grace is really spoiling my sale. See! poor Lord Bagshot. What a

valuable purchaser.’

‘Ah! Bag, my boy!’ said the Duke to a slang young nobleman whom he

abhorred, but of whom he sometimes made a butt, ‘am I in your way? Here!

take this, and this, and this, and give me your purse. I’ll pay Lady

Aphrodite.’ And so the Duke again showered some sovereigns, and returned

the shrunken silk to its defrauded owner, who stared, and would have

remonstrated, but the Duke turned his back upon him.

‘There now,’ he continued to Lady Aphrodite; ‘there is two hundred per

cent, profit for you. You are not half a _marchande_. I will stand here

and be your shopman. Well, Annesley,’ said he, as that dignitary passed,

‘what will you buy? I advise you to get a place. ‘Pon my soul, ‘tis

pleasant! Try Lady de Courcy. You know you are a favourite.’

‘I assure your Grace,’ said Mr. Annesley, speaking slowly, ‘that that

story about Lady de Courcy is quite untrue and very rude. I never turn

my back on any woman; only my heel. We are on the best possible terms.

She is never to speak to me, and I am always to bow to her. But I really

must purchase. Where did you get that glass-chain, St. James? Lady Afy,

can you accommodate me?’

‘Here is one prettier! But are you near-sighted, too, Mr. Annesley?’

‘Very. I look upon a long-sighted man as a brute who, not being able to

see with his mind, is obliged to see with his body. The price of this?’

‘A sovereign,’ said the Duke; ‘cheap; but we consider you as a friend.’

‘A sovereign! You consider me a young Duke rather. Two shillings, and

that a severe price; a charitable price. Here is half-a-crown; give me

sixpence. I was not a minor. Farewell! I go to the little Pomfret. She

is a sweet flower, and I intend to wear her in my button-hole. Good-bye,

Lady Afy!’

The gay morning had worn away, and St. James never left his fascinating

position. Many a sweet and many a soft thing he uttered. Sometimes he

was baffled, but never beaten, and always returned to the charge with

spirit. He was confident, because he was reckless: the lady had less

trust in herself, because she was anxious. Yet she combated well, and

repressed the feelings which she could hardly conceal.

Many of her colleagues had already departed. She requested the Duke to

look after her carriage. A bold plan suddenly occurred to him, and he

executed it with rare courage and rarer felicity.

‘Lady Aphrodite Grafton’s carriage!’

‘Here, your Grace!’

‘Oh! go home. Your lady will return with Madame de Protocoli.’

He rejoined her.

‘I am sorry, that, by some blunder, your carriage has gone. What could

you have told them?’

‘Impossible! How provoking! How stupid!’

‘Perhaps you told them that you would return with the Fitz-pompeys, but

they are gone; or Mrs. Aberleigh, and she is not here; or perhaps--but

they have gone too. Everyone has gone.’

‘What shall I do? How distressing! I had better send. Pray send; or I

will ask Lady de Courcy.’

‘Oh! no, no! I really did not like to see you with her. As a favour--as

a favour to me, I pray you not.’

‘What can I do? I must send. Let me beg your Grace to send.’

‘Certainly, certainly; but, ten to one, there will be some mistake.

There always is some mistake when you send these strangers. And,

besides, I forgot all this time my carriage is here. Let it take you

home.’

‘No, no!’

‘Dearest Lady Aphrodite, do not distress yourself. I can wait here till

the carriage returns, or I can walk; to be sure, I can walk. Pray, pray

take the carriage! As a favour--as a favour to me!’

‘But I cannot bear you to walk. I know you dislike walking.’

‘Well, then, I will wait.’

‘Well, if it must be so; but I am ashamed to inconvenience you. How

provoking of these men! Pray, then, tell the coachman to drive fast,

that you may not have to wait. I declare there is scarcely a human being

in the room; and those odd people are staring so!’

He pressed her arm as he led her to his carriage. She is in; and yet,

before the door shuts, he lingers.

‘I shall certainly walk,’ said he. ‘I do not think the easterly wind

will make me very ill. Good-bye! Oh, what a _coup-de-vent_!’

‘Let me get out, then; and pray, pray take the carriage. I would much

sooner do anything than go in it. I would much rather walk. I am sure

you will be ill!’

‘Not if I be with you.’

CHAPTER XII.

_Royal Favour_

THERE was a brilliant levee, all stars and garters; and a splendid

drawing-room, all plumes and _séduisantes_. Many a bright eye, as its

owner fought his way down St. James’s Street, shot a wistful glance at

the enchanted bow-window where the Duke and his usual companions, Sir

Lucius, Charles Annesley, and Lord Squib, lounged and laughed, stretched

themselves and sneered: many a bright eye, that for a moment pierced the

futurity that painted her going in state as Duchess of St. James.

His Majesty summoned a dinner party, a rare but magnificent event, and

the chief of the house of Hauteville appeared among the chosen

vassals. This visit did the young Duke good; and a few more might have

permanently cured the conceit which the present one momentarily calmed.

His Grace saw the plate, and was filled with envy; his Grace listened to

his Majesty, and was filled with admiration. O, father of thy people! if

thou wouldst but look a little oftener on thy younger sons, their morals

and their manners might be alike improved.

His Majesty, in the course of the evening, with his usual good-nature,

signalled out for his notice the youngest, and not the least

distinguished, of his guests. He complimented the young Duke on the

accession to the ornaments of his court, and said, with a smile, that

he had heard of conquests in foreign ones. The Duke accounted for his

slight successes by reminding his Majesty that he had the honour of

being his godson, and this he said in a slight and easy way, not smart

or quick, or as a repartee to the royal observation; for ‘it is not

decorous to bandy compliments with your Sovereign.’ His Majesty asked

some questions about an Emperor or an Archduchess, and his Grace

answered to the purpose, but short, and not too pointed. He listened

rather than spoke, and smiled more assents than he uttered. The King was

pleased with his young subject, and marked his approbation by conversing

with that unrivalled affability which is gall to a Roundhead and

inspiration to a Cavalier. There was a _bon mot_, which blazed with all

the soft brilliancy of sheet lightning. What a contrast to the forky

flashes of a regular wit! Then there was an anecdote of Sheridan--the

royal Sheridaniana are not thrice-told tales--recounted with that

curious felicity which has long stamped the illustrious narrator as a

consummate _raconteur_. Then----but the Duke knew when to withdraw; and

he withdrew with renewed loyalty.

CHAPTER XIII.

_A Lover’s Trick_

ONE day, looking in at his jeweller’s, to see some models of a shield

and vases which were executing for him in gold, the young Duke met Lady

Aphrodite and the Fitz-pompeys. Lady Aphrodite was speaking to the

jeweller about her diamonds, which were to be reset for her approaching

fête. The Duke took the ladies upstairs to look at the models, and while

they were intent upon them and other curiosities, his absence for a

moment was unperceived. He ran downstairs and caught Mr. Garnet.

‘Mr. Garnet! I think I saw Lady Aphrodite give you her diamonds?’ ‘Yes,

your Grace.’

‘Are they valuable?’ in a careless tone. ‘Hum! pretty stones; very

pretty stones, indeed. Few Baronets’ ladies have a prettier set; worth

perhaps a 1000L.; say 1200L. Lady Aphrodite Grafton is not the

Duchess of St. James, you know,’ said Mr. Garnet, as if he anticipated

furnishing that future lady with a very different set of brilliants.

‘Mr. Garnet, you can do me the greatest favour.’ ‘Your Grace has only to

command me at all times.’

‘Well, then, in a word, for time presses, can you contrive, without

particularly altering--that is, without altering the general appearance

of these diamonds--can you contrive to change the stones, and substitute

the most valuable that you have; consistent, as I must impress upon you,

with maintaining their general appearance as at present?’

‘The most valuable stones,’ musingly repeated Mr. Garnet; ‘general

appearance as at present? Your Grace is aware that we may run up some

thousands even in this set?’

‘I give you no limit.’

‘But the time,’ rejoined Mr. Garnet. ‘They must be ready for her

Ladyship’s party. We shall be hard pressed. I am afraid of the time.’

‘Cannot the men work all night? Pay them anything.’

‘It shall be done, your Grace. Your Grace may command me in anything.’

‘This is a secret between us, Garnet. Your partners------’

‘Shall know nothing. And as for myself, I am as close as an emerald in a

seal-ring.’

CHAPTER XIV.

_Close of the Season_

HUSSEIN PACHA, ‘the favourite,’ not only of the Marquess of Mash, but of

Tattersall’s, unaccountably sickened and died. His noble master, full of

chagrin took to his bed, and followed his steed’s example. The death

of the Marquess caused a vacancy in the stewardship of the approaching

Doncaster. Sir Lucius Grafton was the other steward, and he proposed to

the Duke of St. James, as he was a Yorkshireman, to become his

colleague. His Grace, who wished to pay a compliment to his county,

closed with the proposition. Sir Lucius was a first-rate jockey; his

colleague was quite ignorant of the noble science in all its details;

but that was of slight importance. The Baronet was to be the working

partner, and do the business; the Duke the show member of the concern,

and do the magnificence; as one banker, you may observe, lives always in

Portland Place, reads the Court Journal all the morning, and has an

opera-box, while his partner lodges in Lombard Street, thumbs a

price-current, and only has a box at Clapham.

The young Duke, however, was ambitious of making a good book; and, with

all the calm impetuosity which characterises a youthful Hauteville,

determined to have a crack stud at once. So at Ascot, where he spent

a few pleasant hours, dined at the Cottage, was caught in a shower, in

return caught a cold, a slight influenza for a week, and all the world

full of inquiries and anxiety; at Ascot, I say, he bought up all the

winning horses at an average of three thousand guineas for each pair of

ears. Sir Lucius stared, remonstrated, and, as his remonstrances were in

vain, assisted him.

As people at the point of death often make a desperate rally, so

this, the most brilliant of seasons, was even more lively as it nearer

approached its end. The _déjeûner_ and the _villa fête_ the water party

and the rambling ride, followed each other with the bright rapidity of

the final scenes in a pantomime. Each _dama_ seemed only inspired with

the ambition of giving the last ball; and so numerous were the parties

that the town really sometimes seemed illuminated. To breakfast at

Twickenham, and to dine in Belgrave Square; to hear,’ or rather to

honour, half an act of an opera; to campaign through half a dozen

private balls, and to finish with a romp at the rooms, as after our wine

we take a glass of liqueur; all this surely required the courage of

an Alexander and the strength of a Hercules, and, indeed, cannot be

achieved without the miraculous powers of a Joshua. So thought the young

Duke, as with an excited mind and a whirling head he threw himself at

half-past six o’clock on a couch which brought him no sleep.

Yet he recovered, and with the aid of the bath, the soda, and the

coffee, and all the thousand remedies which a skilful valet has ever at

hand, at three o’clock on the same day he rose and dressed, and in an

hour was again at the illustrious bow-window, sneering with Charles

Annesley, or laughing downright with Lord Squib.

The Duke of St. James gave a water party, and the astounded Thames

swelled with pride as his broad breast bore on the ducal barges. St.

Maurice, who was in the Guards, secured his band; and Lord Squib, who,

though it was July, brought a furred great coat, secured himself. Lady

Afy looked like Amphitrite, and Lady Caroline looked in love. They

wandered in gardens like Calypso’s; they rambled over a villa which

reminded them of Baise; they partook of a banquet which should have been

described by Ariosto. All were delighted; they delivered themselves to

the charms of an unrestrained gaiety. Even Charles Annesley laughed and

romped.

This is the only mode in which public eating is essentially agreeable.

A banqueting-hall is often the scene of exquisite pleasure; but that is

not so much excited by the gratification of a delicate palate as by

the magnificent effect of light and shade; by the beautiful women, the

radiant jewels, the graceful costume, the rainbow glass, the glowing

wines, the glorious plate. For the rest, all is too hot, too crowded,

and too noisy, to catch a flavour; to analyse a combination, to dwell

upon a gust. To eat, _really_ to eat, one must eat alone, with a soft

light, with simple furniture, an easy dress, and a single dish, at a

time. Hours of bliss! Hours of virtue! for what is more virtuous than to

be conscious of the blessings of a bountiful Nature? A good eater must

be a good man; for a good eater must have a good digestion, and a good

digestion depends upon a good conscience.

But to our tale. If we be dull, skip: time will fly, and beauty will

fade, and wit grow dull, and even the season, although it seems, for the

nonce, like the existence of Olympus, will nevertheless steal away. It

is the hour when trade grows dull and tradesmen grow duller; it is the

hour that Howell loveth not and Stultz cannot abide; though the first

may be consoled by the ghosts of his departed millions of _mouchoirs_,

and the second by the vision of coming millions of shooting-jackets. Oh,

why that sigh, my gloomy Mr. Gunter? Oh, why that frown, my gentle Mrs.

Grange?

One by one the great houses shut; shoal by shoal the little people sail

away. Yet beauty lingers still. Still the magnet of a straggling ball

attracts the remaining brilliants; still a lagging dinner, like a

sumpter-mule on a march, is a mark for plunder. The Park, too, is not

yet empty, and perhaps is even more fascinating; like a beauty in a

consumption, who each day gets thinner and more fair. The young Duke

remained to the last; for we linger about our first season, as we

do about our first mistress, rather wearied, yet full of delightful

reminiscences.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

_His Grace Meets an Early Love_

LADY APHRODITE and the Duke of St. James were for the first time parted;

and with an absolute belief on the lady’s side, and an avowed conviction

on the gentleman’s, that it was impossible to live asunder, they

separated, her Ladyship shedding some temporary tears, and his Grace

vowing eternal fidelity.

It was the crafty Lord Fitz-pompey who brought about this catastrophe.

Having secured his nephew as a visitor to Malthorpe, by allowing him

to believe that the Graftons would form part of the summer coterie,

his Lordship took especial care that poor Lady Aphrodite should not be

invited. ‘Once part them, once get him to Malthorpe alone,’ mused the

experienced Peer, ‘and he will be emancipated. I am doing him, too, the

greatest kindness. What would I have given, when a young man, to have

had such an uncle!’

The Morning Post announced with a sigh the departure of the Duke of St.

James to the splendid festivities of Malthorpe; and also apprised the

world that Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite were entertaining a numerous

and distinguished party at their seat, Cleve Park, Cambridgeshire.

There was a constant bustle kept up at Malthorpe, and the young Duke was

hourly permitted to observe that, independent of all private feeling, it

was impossible for the most distinguished nobleman to ally himself with

a more considered family. There was a continual swell of guests dashing

down and dashing away, like the ocean; brilliant as its foam, numerous

as its waves. But there was one permanent inhabitant of this princely

mansion far more interesting to our hero than the evanescent crowds who

rose like bubbles, glittered, broke, and disappeared.

Once more wandering in that park of Malthorpe where had passed the

innocent days of his boyhood, his thoughts naturally recurred to

the sweet companion who had made even those hours of happiness more

felicitous. Here they had rambled, here they had first tried their

ponies, there they had nearly fallen, there he had quite saved her; here

were the two very elms where St. Maurice made for them a swing, here was

the very keeper’s cottage of which she had made for him a drawing, and

which he still retained. Dear girl! And had she disappointed the romance

of his boyhood; had the experience the want of which had allowed him

then to be pleased so easily, had it taught him to be ashamed of those

days of affection? Was she not now the most gentle, the most graceful,

the most beautiful, the most kind? Was she not the most wife-like woman

whose eyes had ever beamed with tenderness? Why, why not at once close a

career which, though short, yet already could yield reminiscences which

might satisfy the most craving admirer of excitement? But there was Lady

Aphrodite; yet that must end. Alas! on his part, it had commenced in

levity; he feared, on hers, it must terminate in anguish. Yet, though he

loved his cousin; though he could not recall to his memory the woman

who was more worthy of being his wife, he could not also conceal from

himself that the feelings which impelled him were hardly so romantic as

he thought should have inspired a youth of one-and-twenty when he mused

on the woman he loved best. But he knew life, and he felt convinced that

a mistress and a wife must always be different characters. A combination

of passion with present respect and permanent affection he supposed to

be the delusion of romance writers. He thought he must marry Caroline,

partly because he must marry sooner or later; partly because he had

never met a woman whom he had loved so much, and partly because he felt

he should be miserable if her destiny in life were not, in some way or

other, connected with his own. ‘Ah! if she had but been my sister!’

After a little more cogitation, the young Duke felt much inclined to

make his cousin a Duchess; but time did not press. After Doncaster he

must spend a few weeks at Cleve, and then he determined to come to

an explanation with Lady Aphrodite. In the meantime, Lord Fitz-pompey

secretly congratulated himself on his skilful policy, as he perceived

his nephew daily more engrossed with his daughter. Lady Caroline, like

all unaffected and accomplished women, was seen to great effect in the

country.

There, while they feed their birds, tend their flowers, and tune their

harp, and perform those more sacred, but not less pleasing, duties which

become the daughter of a great proprietor, they favourably contrast with

those more modish damsels who, the moment they are freed from the Park

and from Willis’s, begin fighting for silver arrows and patronising

county balls.

September came, and brought some relief to those who were suffering in

the inferno of provincial ennui; but this is only the purgatory to the

Paradise of _battues_. Yet September has its days of slaughter; and

the young Duke gained some laurels, with the aid of friend Egg, friend

Purdy, and Manton. And the Premier galloped down sixty miles in one

morning. He sacked his cover, made a light bet with St. James on the

favourite, lunched standing, and was off before night; for he had only

three days’ holiday, and had to visit Lord Protest, Lord Content, and

Lord Proxy. So, having knocked off four of his crack peers, he galloped

back to London to flog up his secretaries.

And the young Duke was off too. He had promised to spend a week with

Charles Annesley and Lord Squib, who had taken some Norfolk Baronet’s

seat for the autumn, and while he was at Spa were thinning his

preserves. It was a week! What fantastic dissipation! One day, the

brains of three hundred hares made a _pâté_ for Charles Annesley.

Oh, Heliogabalus! you gained eternal fame for what is now ‘done in a

corner!’

CHAPTER II.

_A New Charmer_

THE Carnival of the North at length arrived. All civilised eyes were on

the most distinguished party of the most distinguished steward, who

with his horse Sanspareil seemed to share universal favour. The

French Princes and the Duke of Burlington; the Protocolis, and the

Fitz-pompeys, and the Bloomerlys; the Duke and Duchess of Shropshire,

and the three Ladies Wrekin, who might have passed for the Graces; Lord

and Lady Vatican on a visit from Rome, his Lordship taking hints for a

heat in the Corso, and her Ladyship, a classical beauty with a face like

a cameo; St. Maurice, and Annesley, and Squib, composed the party. The

Premier was expected, and there was murmur of an Archduke. Seven houses

had been prepared, a party-wall knocked down to make a dining-room, the

plate sent down from London, and venison and wine from Hauteville.

The assemblage exceeded in quantity and quality all preceding years,

and the Hauteville arms, the Hauteville liveries, and the Hauteville

outriders, beat all hollow in blazonry, and brilliancy, and number. The

North countrymen were proud of their young Duke and his carriages and

six, and longed for the Castle to be finished. Nothing could exceed the

propriety of the arrangements, for Sir Lucius was an unrivalled hand,

and, though a Newmarket man, gained universal approbation even in

Yorkshire. Lady Aphrodite was all smiles and new liveries, and the Duke

of St. James reined in his charger right often at her splendid equipage.

The day’s sport was over, and the evening’s sport begun, to a quiet man,

who has no bet more heavy than a dozen pair of gloves, perhaps not the

least amusing. Now came the numerous dinner-parties, none to be compared

to that of the Duke of St. James. Lady Aphrodite was alone wanting, but

she had to head the _ménage_ of Sir Lucius. Every one has an appetite

after a race: the Duke of Shropshire attacked the venison as Samson the

Philistines; and the French princes, for once in their life, drank real

champagne.

Yet all faces were not so serene as those of the party of Hauteville.

Many a one felt that strange mixture of fear and exultation which

precedes a battle. To-morrow was the dreaded St. Leger.

‘Tis night, and the banquet is over, and all are hastening to the ball.

In spite of the brilliant crowd, the entrance of the Hauteville party

made a sensation. It was the crowning ornament to the scene, the stamp

of the sovereign, the lamp of the Pharos, the flag of the tower. The

party dispersed, and the Duke, after joining a quadrille with Lady

Caroline, wandered away to make himself generally popular.

As he was moving along, he turned his head; he started.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed his Grace.

The cause of this sudden and ungovernable exclamation can be no other

than a woman. You are right. The lady who had excited it was advancing

in a quadrille, some ten yards from her admirer. She was very young;

that is to say, she had, perhaps, added a year or two to sweet

seventeen, an addition which, while it does not deprive the sex of the

early grace of girlhood, adorns them with that indefinable dignity which

is necessary to constitute a perfect woman. She was not tall, but as she

moved forward displayed a figure so exquisitely symmetrical that for a

moment the Duke forgot to look at her face, and then her head was turned

away; yet he was consoled a moment for his disappointment by watching

the movements of a neck so white, and round, and long, and delicate,

that it would have become Psyche, and might have inspired Praxiteles.

Her face is again turning towards him. It stops too soon; yet his eye

feeds upon the outline of a cheek not too full, yet promising of beauty,

like hope of Paradise.

She turns her head, she throws around a glance, and two streams of

liquid light pour from her hazel eyes on his. It was a rapid, graceful

movement, unstudied as the motion of a fawn, and was in a moment

withdrawn, yet was it long enough to stamp upon his memory a memorable

countenance. Her face was quite oval, her nose delicately aquiline, and

her high pure forehead like a Parian dome. The clear blood coursed under

her transparent cheek, and increased the brilliancy of her dazzling

eyes. His never left her. There was an expression of decision about her

small mouth, an air of almost mockery in her curling lip, which, though

in themselves wildly fascinating, strangely contrasted with all

the beaming light and beneficent lustre of the upper part of her

countenance. There was something, too, in the graceful but rather

decided air with which she moved, that seemed to betoken her

self-consciousness of her beauty or her rank; perhaps it might be her

wit; for the Duke observed that while she scarcely smiled, and conversed

with lips hardly parted, her companion, with whom she was evidently

intimate, was almost constantly convulsed with laughter, although, as he

never spoke, it was clearly not at his own jokes.

Was she married? Could it be? Impossible! Yet there was a richness in

her costume which was not usual for unmarried women. A diamond arrow had

pierced her clustering and auburn locks; she wore, indeed, no necklace;

with such a neck it would have been sacrilege; no ear-rings, for

her ears were too small for such a burthen; yet her girdle was of

brilliants; and a diamond cross worthy of Belinda and her immortal bard

hung upon her breast.

The Duke seized hold of the first person he knew: it was Lord Bagshot.

‘Tell me,’ he said, in the stern, low voice of a despot; ‘tell me who

that creature is.’

‘Which creature?’ asked Lord Bagshot.

‘Booby! brute! Bag, that creature of light and love!’

‘Where?’

‘There!

‘What, my mother?’

‘Your mother! cub! cart-horse! answer me, or I will run you through.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘There, there, dancing with that raw-boned youth with red hair.’

‘What, Lord St. Jerome! Lor! he is a Catholic. I never speak to them. My

governor would be so savage.’

‘But the girl?’

‘Oh! the girl! Lor! she is a Catholic, too.’

‘But who is she?’

‘Lor! don’t you know?’

‘Speak, hound; speak!’

‘Lor! that is the beauty of the county; but then she is a Catholic. How

shocking! Blow us all up as soon as look at us.’

‘If you do not tell me who she is directly, you shall never get into

White’s. I will black-ball you regularly.’

‘Lor! man, don’t be in a passion. I will tell. But then I know you know

all the time. You are joking. Everybody knows the beauty of the county;

everybody knows May Dacre.’

‘May Dacre!’ said the Duke of St. James, as if he were shot.

‘Why, what is the matter now?’ asked Lord Bag-shot.

‘What, the daughter of Dacre of Castle Dacre?’ pursued his Grace.

‘The very same; the beauty of the county. Everybody knows May Dacre. I

knew you knew her all the time. You did not take me in. Why, what is the

matter?’

‘Nothing; get away!’

‘Civil! But you will remember your promise about White’s?’

‘Ay! ay! I shall remember you when you are proposed.’

‘Here, here is a business!’ soliloquized the young Duke. ‘May Dacre!

What a fool I have been! Shall I shoot myself through the head, or

embrace her on the spot? Lord St. Jerome, too! He seems mightily

pleased. And my family have been voting for two centuries to emancipate

this fellow! Curse his grinning face! I am decidedly anti-Catholic. But

then she is a Catholic! I will turn Papist. Ah! there is Lucy. I want a

counsellor.’

He turned to his fellow-steward. ‘Oh, Lucy! such a woman! such an

incident!’

‘What! the inimitable Miss Dacre, I suppose. Everybody speaking of her;

wherever I go, one subject of conversation. Burlington wanting to

waltz with her, Charles Annesley being introduced, and Lady Bloomerly

decidedly of opinion that she is the finest creature in the county.

Well, have you danced with her?’

‘Danced, my dear fellow! Do not speak to me.’

‘What is the matter?’

‘The most diabolical matter that you ever heard of.’

‘Well, well?’

‘I have not even been introduced.’

‘Well! come on at once.’

‘I cannot.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Worse than mad. Where is her father?’

‘Who cares?’

‘I do. In a word, my dear Lucy, her father is that guardian whom I have

perhaps mentioned to you, and to whom I have behaved so delicately.’

‘Why! I thought your guardian was an old curmudgeon.’

‘What does that signify, with such a daughter!’

‘Oh! here is some mistake. This is the only child of Dacre of Castle

Dacre, a most delightful fellow; one of the first fellows in the county;

I was introduced to him to-day on the course. I thought you knew them.

You were admiring his outriders to-day, the green and silver.’

‘Why, Bag told me they were old Lord Sunderland’s.’

‘Bag! How can you believe a word that booby says? He always has an

answer. To-day, when Afy drove in, I asked Bag who she was, and he said

it was his aunt, Lady de Courcy. I begged to be introduced, and took

over the blushing Bag and presented him.’

‘But the father; the father, Lucy! How shall I get out of this scrape?’

‘Oh! put on a bold face. Here! give him this ring, and swear you

procured it for him at Genoa, and then say that, now you are here, you

will try his pheasants.’

‘My dear fellow, you always joke. I am in agony. Seriously, what shall I

do?’

‘Why, seriously, be introduced to him, and do what you can.’

‘Which is he?’

‘At the extreme end, next to the very pretty woman, who, by-the-bye, I

recommend to your notice: Mrs. Dallington Vere. She is amusing. I know

her well. She is some sort of relation to your Dacres. I will present

you to both at once.’

‘Why! I will think of it.’

‘Well, then! I must away. The two stewards knocking their heads together

is rather out of character. Do you know it is raining hard? I am

cursedly nervous about to-morrow.’

‘Pooh! pooh! If I could get through to-night, I should not care for

to-morrow.’

CHAPTER III.

_The Duke Apologises_

AS SIR LUCIUS hurried off his colleague advanced towards the upper end

of the room, and, taking up a position, made his observations, through

the shooting figures of the dancers, on the dreaded Mr. Dacre. The late

guardian of the Duke of St. James was in the perfection of manhood;

perhaps five-and-forty by age; but his youth had lingered long. He

was tall, thin, and elegant, with a mild and benevolent expression of

countenance, not unmixed, however, with a little reserve, the ghost of

youthly pride. Listening with polished and courtly bearing to the pretty

Mrs. Dallington Vere, assenting occasionally to her piquant observations

by a slight bow, or expressing his dissent by a still slighter smile,

seldom himself speaking, yet always with that unembarrassed manner which

makes a saying listened to, Mr. Dacre was altogether, in appearance, one

of the most distinguished personages in this distinguished assembly. The

young Duke fell into an attitude worthy of Hamlet: ‘This, then, is _old_

Dacre! O deceitful Fitz-pompey! O silly St. James! Could I ever forget

that tall, mild man, who now is perfectly fresh in my memory? Ah! that

memory of mine; it has been greatly developed to-night. Would that I had

cultivated that faculty with a little more zeal! But what am I to do?

The case is urgent. What must the Dacres think of me? What must May

Dacre think? On the course the whole day, and I the steward, and not

conscious of the presence of the first family in the Riding! Fool, fool!

Why, why did I accept an office for which I was totally unfitted? Why,

why must I flirt away a whole morning with that silly Sophy Wrekin? An

agreeable predicament, truly, this! What would I give now once more to

be in St. James’s Street! Confound my Yorkshire estates! How they

must dislike, how they must despise me! And now, truly, I am to be

_introduced_ to him! The Duke of St. James, Mr. Dacre! Mr. Dacre,

the Duke of St. James! What an insult to all parties! How supremely

ludicrous! What a mode of offering my gratitude to the man to whom I

am under solemn and inconceivable obligations! A choice way, truly, to

salute the bosom-friend of my sire, the guardian of my interests, the

creator of my property, the fosterer of my orphan infancy! It is

useless to conceal it; I am placed in the most disagreeable, the most

inextricable situation. ‘Inextricable! Am I, then, the Duke of St.

James? Am I that being who, two hours ago, thought that the world was

formed alone for my enjoyment, and I quiver and shrink here like a

common hind? Out, out on such craven cowardice! I am no Hauteville! I

am bastard! Never! I will not be crushed. I will struggle with this

emergency; I will conquer it. Now aid me, ye heroes of my house! On

the sands of Palestine, on the plains of France, ye were not in a more

difficult situation than is your descendant in a ball-room in his own

county. My mind elevates itself to the occasion, my courage expands with

the enterprise; I will right myself with these Dacres with honour, and

without humiliation.’

The dancing ceased, the dancers disappeared. There was a blank between

the Duke of St. James on one side of the broad room, and Mr. Dacre and

those with whom he was conversing on the other. Many eyes were on his

Grace, and he seized the opportunity to execute his purpose. He advanced

across the chamber with the air of a young monarch greeting a victorious

general. It seemed that, for a moment, his Majesty wished to destroy

all difference of rank between himself and the man that he honoured. So

studied and so inexpressibly graceful were his movements that the

gaze of all around involuntarily fixed upon him. Mrs. Dallington Vere

unconsciously refrained from speaking as he approached; and one or two,

without actually knowing his purpose, made way. They seemed awed by his

dignity, and shuffled behind Mr. Dacre, as if he were the only person

who was the Duke’s match.

‘Mr. Dacre,’ said his Grace, in the softest but still audible tones, and

he extended, at the same time, his hand; ‘Mr. Dacre, our first meeting

should have been neither here nor thus; but you, who have excused so

much, will pardon also this!’

Mr. Dacre, though a calm personage, was surprised by this sudden

address. He could not doubt who was the speaker. He had left his ward

a mere child. He saw before him the exact and breathing image of the

heart-friend of his ancient days. He forgot all but the memory of a

cherished friendship.

He was greatly affected; he pressed the offered hand; he advanced; he

moved aside. The young Duke followed up his advantage, and, with an air

of the greatest affection, placed Mr. Dacre’s arm in his own, and then

bore off his prize in triumph.

Right skilfully did our hero avail himself of his advantage. He spoke,

and he spoke with emotion. There is something inexpressibly captivating

in the contrition of a youthful and a generous mind. Mr. Dacre and his

late ward soon understood each other; for it was one of those meetings

which sentiment makes sweet.

‘And now,’ said his Grace, ‘I have one more favour to ask, and that is

the greatest: I wish to be recalled to the recollection of my oldest

friend.’

Mr. Dacre led the Duke to his daughter; and the Earl of St. Jerome, who

was still laughing at her side, rose.

‘The Duke of St. James, May, wishes to renew his acquaintance with you.’

She bowed in silence. Lord St. Jerome, who was the great oracle of the

Yorkshire School, and who had betted desperately against the favourite,

took Mr. Dacre aside to consult him about the rain, and the Duke of

St. James dropped into his chair. That tongue, however, which had never

failed him, for once was wanting. There was a momentary silence, which

the lady would not break; and at last her companion broke it, and not

felicitously.

‘I think there is nothing more delightful than meeting with old

friends.’

‘Yes! that is the usual sentiment; but I half suspect that it is

a commonplace, invented to cover our embarrassment under such

circumstances; for, after all, “an old friend” so situated is a person

whom we have not seen for many years, and most probably not cared to

see.’

[Illustration: frontis-p79]

‘You are indeed severe.’

‘Oh! no. I think there is nothing more painful than parting with old

friends; but when we have parted with them, I am half afraid they are

lost.’

‘Absence, then, with you is fatal?’

‘Really, I never did part with any one I greatly loved; but I suppose it

is with me as with most persons.’

‘Yet you have resided abroad, and for many years?’

‘Yes; but I was too young then to have many friends; and, in fact, I

accompanied perhaps all that I possessed.’

‘How I regret that it was not in my power to accept your kind invitation

to Dacre in the Spring!’

‘Oh! My father would have been very glad to see you; but we really are

dull kind of people, not at all in your way, and I really do not think

that you lost much amusement.’

‘What better amusement, what more interesting occupation, could I have

had than to visit the place where I passed my earliest and my happiest

hours? ‘Tis nearly fifteen years since I was at Dacre.’

‘Except when you visited us at Easter. We regretted our loss.’

‘Ah! yes! except that,’ exclaimed the Duke, remembering his jäger’s

call; ‘but that goes for nothing. I of course saw very little.’

‘Yet, I assure you, you made a great impression. So eminent a personage,

of course, observes less than he himself is observed. We had a graphical

description of you on our return, and a very accurate one, too; for I

recognised your Grace to-night merely from the report of your visit.’

The Duke shot a shrewd glance at his companion’s face, but it betrayed

no indication of badinage, and so, rather puzzled, he thought it best to

put up with the parallel between himself and his servant. But Miss Dacre

did not quit this agreeable subject with all that promptitude which he

fondly anticipated.

‘Poor Lord St. Jerome,’ said she, ‘who is really the most unaffected

person I know, has been complaining most bitterly of his deficiency in

the _air noble_. He is mistaken for a groom perpetually; and once, he

says, had a _douceur_ presented to him in his character of an ostler.

Your Grace must be proud of your advantage over him. You would have been

gratified by the universal panegyric of our household. They, of course,

you know, are proud of their young Duke, a real Yorkshire Duke, and they

love to dwell upon your truly imposing appearance. As for myself, who

am true Yorkshire also, I take the most honest pride in hearing them

describe your elegant attitude, leaning back in your britzska, with your

feet on the opposite cushions, your hat arranged aside with that air of

undefinable grace characteristic of the Grand Seigneur, and, which is

the last remnant of the feudal system, your reiterated orders to drive

over an old woman. You did not even condescend to speak English, which

made them quite enthusiastic--’

‘Oh, Miss Dacre, spare me!’

‘Spare you! I have heard of your Grace’s modesty; but this excessive

sensibility, under well-earned praise, surprises me!’

‘But, Miss Dacre, you cannot indeed really believe that this vulgar

ruffian, this grim scarecrow, this Guy Faux, was--was--myself.’

‘Not yourself! Really, I am a simple personage. I believe in my eyes and

trust to my ears. I am at a loss for your meaning.’

‘I mean, then,’ said the Duke, who had gained time to rally, ‘that this

monster was some impostor, who must have stolen my carriage, picked my

pocket, and robbed me of my card, which, next to his reputation, is a

man’s most delicate possession.’

‘Then you never called upon us?’

‘I blush to confess it, never; but I will call, in future, every day.’

‘Your ingenuousness really rivals your modesty.’

‘Now, after these confessions and compliments, may I suggest a waltz?’

‘No one is waltzing now.’

‘When the quadrille, then, is finished?’

‘Then I am engaged.’

‘After your engagement?’

‘That is indeed making a business of pleasure. I have just refused

a similar request of your fellow-steward. We damsels shall soon be

obliged to carry a book to enrol our engagements as well as our bets, if

this system of reversionary dancing be any longer encouraged.’

‘But you must dance with me!’ said the Duke, imploringly.

‘Oh! you will stumble upon me in the course of the evening, and I shall

probably be more fortunate.

I suppose you feel nervous about to-morrow?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Ah! I forgot. Your Grace’s horse is the favourite. Favourites always

win.’

‘Have I a horse?’

‘Why, Lord St. Jerome says he doubts whether it be one.’

‘Lord St. Jerome seems a vastly amusing personage; and, as he is so

often taken for an ostler, I have no doubt is an exceedingly good judge

of horse-flesh.’

Miss Dacre smiled. It was that wild, but rather wicked, gleam which

sometimes accompanies the indulgence of innocent malice. It seemed to

insinuate, ‘I know you are piqued, and I enjoy it’ But here her hand was

claimed for the waltz.

The young Duke remained musing.

‘There she swims away! By heavens! unrivalled! And there is Lady Afy

and Burlington; grand, too. Yet there is something in this little Dacre

which touches my fancy more. What is it? I think it is her impudence.

That confounded scrape of Carlstein! I will cashier him to-morrow.

Confound his airs! I think I got out of it pretty well. To-night, on

the whole, has been a night of triumph; but if I do not waltz with the

little Dacre I will only vote myself an ovation. But see, here comes Sir

Lucius. Well! how fares my brother consul?’

‘I do not like this rain. I have been hedging with Hounslow, having

previously set Bag at his worthy sire with a little information. We

shall have a perfect swamp, and then it will be strength against speed;

the old story. Damn the St. Leger. I am sick of it.’

‘Pooh! pooh! think of the little Dacre!’

‘Think of her, my dear fellow! I think of her too much. I should

absolutely have diddled Hounslow, if it had not been for her confounded

pretty face flitting about my stupid brain. I saw you speaking to

Guardy. You managed that business well.’

‘Why, as I do all things, I flatter myself, Lucy. Do you know Lord St.

Jerome?’

‘Verbally. We have exchanged monosyllables; but he is of the other set.’

‘He is cursedly familiar with the little Dacre. As the friend of her

father, I think I shall interfere. Is there anything in it, think you?’

‘Oh! no; she is engaged to another.’

‘Engaged!’ said the Duke, absolutely turning pale.

‘Do you remember a Dacre at Eton?’

‘A Dacre at Eton!’ mused the Duke. At another time it would not have

been in his power to have recalled the stranger to his memory; but this

evening the train of association had been laid, and after struggling a

moment with his mind he had the man. ‘To be sure I do: Arundel Dacre, an

odd sort of a fellow; but he was my senior.’

‘Well, that is the man; a nephew of Guardy, and cousin, of course, to La

Bellissima. He inherits, you know, all the property. She will not have

a sou; but old Dacre, as you call him, has managed pretty well, and

Monsieur Arundel is to compensate for the entail by presenting him with

a grandson.’

‘The deuce!’

‘The deuce, indeed! Often have I broken his head. Would that I had to a

little more purpose!’

‘Let us do it now!’

‘He is not here, otherwise----One dislikes a spooney to be successful.’

‘Where are our friends?’

‘Annesley with the Duchess, and Squib with the Duke at écarté.’

‘Success attend them both!’

‘Amen!’

CHAPTER IV.

_Innocence and Experience_

TO FEEL that the possessions of an illustrious ancestry are about to

slide from out your line for ever; that the numerous tenantry, who look

up to you with the confiding eye that the most liberal parvenu cannot

attract, will not count you among their lords; that the proud park,

filled with the ancient and toppling trees that your fathers planted,

will yield neither its glory nor its treasures to your seed, and that

the old gallery, whose walls are hung with pictures more cherished than

the collections of kings, will not breathe with your long posterity; all

these are feelings sad and trying, and are among those daily pangs which

moralists have forgotten in their catalogue of miseries, but which

do not the less wear out those heart-strings at which they are so

constantly tugging.

This was the situation of Mr. Dacre. The whole of his large property was

entailed, and descended to his nephew, who was a Protestant; and yet,

when he looked upon the blooming face of his enchanting daughter, he

blessed the Providence which, after all his visitations, had doomed him

to be the sire of a thing so lovely. An exile from her country at an

early age, the education of May Dacre had been completed in a foreign

land; yet the mingling bloods of Dacre and of Howard would not in a

moment have permitted her to forget The inviolate island of the sage and

free! even if the unceasing and ever-watchful exertions of her father

had been wanting to make her worthy of so illustrious an ancestry.

But this, happily, was not the case; and to aid the development of the

infant mind of his young child, to pour forth to her, as she grew

in years and in reason, all the fruits of his own richly-cultivated

intellect, was the solitary consolation of one over whose conscious head

was impending the most awful of visitations. May Dacre was gifted with

a mind which, even if her tutor had not been her father, would have

rendered tuition a delight. Her lively imagination, which early unfolded

itself; her dangerous yet interesting vivacity; the keen delight, the

swift enthusiasm, with which she drank in knowledge, and then panted for

more; her shrewd acuteness, and her innate passion for the excellent and

the beautiful, filled her father with rapture which he repressed, and

made him feel conscious how much there was to check, to guide, and to

form, as well as to cherish, to admire, and to applaud.

As she grew up the bright parts of her character shone with increased

lustre; but, in spite of the exertions of her instructor, some less

admirable qualities had not yet disappeared. She was still too often

the dupe of her imagination, and though perfectly inexperienced, her

confidence in her theoretical knowledge of human nature was unbounded.

She had an idea that she could penetrate the characters of individuals

at a first meeting; and the consequence of this fatal axiom was, that

she was always the slave of first impressions, and constantly the victim

of prejudice. She was ever thinking individuals better or worse than

they really were, and she believed it to be out of the power of anyone

to deceive her. Constant attendance during many years on a dying and

beloved mother, and her deeply religious feelings, had first broken, and

then controlled, a spirit which nature had intended to be arrogant and

haughty. Her father she adored; and she seemed to devote to him all

that consideration which, with more common characters, is generally

distributed among their acquaintance. We hint at her faults. How

shall we describe her virtues? Her unbounded generosity, her dignified

simplicity, her graceful frankness, her true nobility of thought and

feeling, her firmness, her courage and her truth, her kindness to

her inferiors, her constant charity, her devotion to her parents, her

sympathy with sorrow, her detestation of oppression, her pure unsullied

thoughts, her delicate taste, her deep religion. All these combined

would have formed a delightful character, even if unaccompanied with

such brilliant talents and such brilliant beauty. Accustomed from an

early age to the converse of courts and the forms of the most polished

circles, her manner became her blood, her beauty, and her mind. Yet

she rather acted in unison with the spirit of society than obeyed its

minutest decree. She violated etiquette with a wilful grace which made

the outrage a precedent, and she mingled with princes without feeling

her inferiority. Nature, and art, and fortune were the graces which had

combined to form this girl. She was a jewel set in gold, and worn by a

king.

Her creed had made her, in ancient Christendom, feel less an alien; but

when she returned to that native country which she had never forgotten,

she found that creed her degradation. Her indignant spirit clung with

renewed ardour to the crushed altars of her faith; and not before those

proud shrines where cardinals officiate, and a thousand acolytes fling

their censers, had she bowed with half the abandonment of spirit with

which she invoked the Virgin in her oratory at Dacre.

The recent death of her mother rendered Mr. Dacre and herself little

inclined to enter society; and as they were both desirous of residing on

that estate from which they had been so long and so unwillingly absent,

they had not yet visited London. The greater part of their time had been

passed chiefly in communication with those great Catholic families with

whom the Dacres were allied, and to which they belonged. The modern race

of the Howards and the Cliffords, the Talbots, the Arundels, and the

Jerninghams, were not unworthy of their proud progenitors. Miss Dacre

observed with respect, and assuredly with sympathy, the mild

dignity, the noble patience, the proud humility, the calm hope, the

uncompromising courage, with which her father and his friends sustained

their oppression and lived as proscribed in the realm which they had

created. Yet her lively fancy and gay spirit found less to admire in the

feelings which influenced these families in their intercourse with the

world, which induced them to foster but slight intimacies out of the

pale of the proscribed, and which tinged their domestic life with

that formal and gloomy colouring which ever accompanies a monotonous

existence. Her disposition told her that all this affected

non-interference with the business of society might be politic, but

assuredly was not pleasant; her quick sense whispered to her it was

unwise, and that it retarded, not advanced, the great result in which

her sanguine temper dared often to indulge. Under any circumstances,

it did not appear to her to be wisdom to second the efforts of their

oppressors for their degradation or their misery, and to seek no

consolation in the amiable feelings of their fellow-creatures for the

stern rigour of their unsocial government. But, independently of all

general principles, Miss Dacre could not but believe that it was

the duty of the Catholic gentry to mix more with that world which so

misconceived their spirit. Proud in her conscious knowledge of

their exalted virtues, she felt that they had only to be known to be

recognised as the worthy leaders of that nation which they had so often

saved and never betrayed.

She did not conceal her opinions from the circle in which they had grown

up. All the young members were her disciples, and were decidedly of

opinion that if the House of Lords would but listen to May Dacre,

emancipation would be a settled thing. Her logic would have destroyed

Lord Liverpool’s arguments; her wit extinguished Lord Eldon’s jokes.

But the elder members only shed a solemn smile, and blessed May Dacre’s

shining eyes and sanguine spirit.

Her greatest supporter was Mrs. Dallington Vere. This lady was a distant

relation of Mr. Dacre. At seventeen she, herself a Catholic, had married

Mr. Dallington Vere, of Dallington House, a Catholic gentleman of

considerable fortune, whose age resembled his wealth. No sooner had this

incident taken place than did Mrs. Dallington Vere hurry to London, and

soon evinced a most laudable determination to console herself for her

husband’s political disabilities. Mrs. Dallington Vere went to Court;

and Mrs. Dallington Vere gave suppers after the opera, and concerts

which, in number and brilliancy, were only equalled by her balls. The

dandies patronised her, and selected her for their Muse. The Duke of

Shropshire betted on her always at écarté; and, to crown the whole

affair, she made Mr. Dallington Vere lay claim to a dormant peerage. The

women were all pique, the men all patronage. A Protestant minister

was alarmed; and Lord Squib supposed that Mrs. Dallington must be the

Scarlet Lady of whom they had heard so often.

Season after season she kept up the ball; and although, of course, she

no longer made an equal sensation, she was not less brilliant, nor

her position less eminent. She had got into the best set, and was more

quiet, like a patriot in place. Never was there a gayer lady than Mrs.

Dallington Vere, but never a more prudent one. Her virtue was only

equalled by her discretion; but, as the odds were equal, Lord Squib

betted on the last. People sometimes indeed did say--they always

will--but what is talk? Mere breath. And reputation is marble, and iron,

and sometimes brass; and so, you see, talk has no chance. They did say

that Sir Lucius Grafton was about to enter into the Romish communion;

but then it turned out that it was only to get a divorce from his wife,

on the plea that she was a heretic.

The fact was, Mrs. Dallington Vere was a most successful woman, lucky in

everything, lucky even in her husband; for he died. He did not only die;

he left his whole fortune to his wife. Some said that his relations

were going to set aside the will, on the plea that it was written with a

crow-quill on pink paper; but this was false; it was only a codicil.

All eyes were on a very pretty woman, with fifteen thousand a year, and

only twenty-three. The Duke of Shropshire wished he were disembarrassed.

Such a player of écarté might double her income. Lord Raff advanced,

trusting to his beard, and young Amadée de Rouerie mortgaged his

dressing-case, and came post from Paris; but in spite of his sky-blue

nether garments and his Hessians, he followed my Lord’s example, and

re-crossed the water. It is even said that Lord Squib was sentimental;

but this must have been the malice of Charles Annesley.

All, however, failed. The truth is, Mrs. Dallington Vere had nothing to

gain by re-entering Paradise, which matrimony, of course, is; and so she

determined to remain mistress of herself. She had gained fashion, and

fortune, and rank; she was young, and she was pretty. She thought it

might be possible for a discreet, experienced little lady to lead a very

pleasant life without being assisted in her expenses or disturbed in her

diversion by a gentleman who called himself her husband, occasionally

asked her how she slept in a bed which he did not share, or munificently

presented her with a necklace purchased with her own money. Discreet

Mrs. Dallington Vere!

She had been absent from London during the past season, having taken it

also into her head to travel.

She was equally admired and equally plotted for at Rome, at Paris, and

at Vienna, as at London; but the bird had not been caught, and, flying

away, left many a despairing prince and amorous count to muse over their

lean visages and meagre incomes.

Dallington House made its fair mistress a neighbour of her relations,

the Dacres. No one could be a more fascinating companion than Mrs.

Dallington Vere. May Dacre read her character at once, and these ladies

became great allies. She was to assist Miss Dacre in her plans for

rousing their Catholic friends, as no one was better qualified to be

her adjutant. Already they had commenced their operations, and balls at

Dallington and Dacre, frequent, splendid, and various, had already made

the Catholic houses the most eminent in the Riding, and their brilliant

mistresses the heroines of all the youth.

CHAPTER V.

_Ruined Hopes_

IT RAINED all night without ceasing yet the morrow was serene.

Nevertheless the odds had shifted. On the evening, thy had not been more

than two to one against the first favourite, the Duke of St. James’s ch.

c. Sanspareil, by Ne Plus Ultra; while they were five to one against the

second favourite, Mr. Dash’s gr. c. The Dandy, by Banker, and nine and

ten to one against the next in favour. This morning, however, affairs

were altered. Mr. Dash and his Dandy were at the head of the poll; and

as the owner rode his own horse, being a jockey and a fit rival for the

Duke of St. James, his backers were sanguine. Sanspareil, was, however,

the second favourite.

The Duke, however, was confident as an universal conqueror, and came on

in his usual state, rode round the course, inspirited Lady Aphrodite,

who was all anxiety, betted with Miss Dacre, and bowed to Mrs.

Dallington.

There were more than ninety horses, and yet the start was fair. But the

result? Pardon me! The fatal remembrance overpowers my pen. An effort

and some _Eau de Portingale_, and I shall recover. The first favourite

was never heard of, the second favourite was never seen after the

distance post, all the ten-to-oners were in the rear, and a _dark_

horse, which had never been thought of, and which the careless St. James

had never even observed in the list, rushed past the grand stand in

sweeping triumph. The spectators were almost too surprised to cheer; but

when the name of the winner was detected there was a deafening shout,

particularly from the Yorkshiremen. The victor was the Earl of St.

Jerome’s b. f. May Dacre, by Howard.

Conceive the confusion! Sanspareil was at last discovered, and

immediately shipped off for Newmarket, as young gentlemen who get into

scrapes are sent to travel. The Dukes of Burlington and Shropshire

exchanged a few hundreds; the Duchess and Charles Annesley a few gloves.

The consummate Lord Bloomerly, though a backer of the favourite, in

compliment to his host, contrived to receive from all parties, and

particularly from St. Maurice. The sweet little Wrekins were absolutely

ruined. Sir Lucius looked blue, but he had hedged; and Lord Squib looked

yellow, but some doubted. Lord Hounslow was done, and Lord Bagshot was

diddled.

The Duke of St. James was perhaps the heaviest sufferer on the field,

and certainly bore his losses the best. Had he seen the five-and-twenty

thousand he was minus counted before him, he probably would have been

staggered; but as it was, another crumb of his half-million was gone.

The loss existed only in idea. It was really too trifling to think

of, and he galloped up to Miss Dacre, and was among the warmest of her

congratulators.

‘I would offer your Grace my sympathy for your congratulations,’ said

Miss Dacre, in a rather amiable tone; ‘but’ (and here she resumed her

air of mockery) ‘you are too great a man to be affected by so light a

casualty. And, now that I recollect myself, did you run a horse?’

‘Why, no; the fault was, I believe, that he would not run; but

Sanspareil is as great a hero as ever. He has only been conquered by the

elements.’

The dinner at the Duke of St. James’s was this day more splendid even

than the preceding. He was determined to show that the disappointment

had produced no effect upon the temper of so imperial a personage

as himself, and he invited several of the leading gentry to join his

coterie. The Dacres were among the solicited; but they were, during the

races, the guests of Mrs. Dallington Vere, whose seat was only a mile

off, and therefore were unobtainable.

Blazed the plate, sparkled the wine, and the aromatic venison sent forth

its odourous incense to the skies. The favourite cook had done wonders,

though a Sanspareil pâté, on which he had been meditating for a week,

was obliged to be suppressed, and was sent up as a tourte à la Bourbon,

in compliment to his Royal Highness. It was a delightful party: all the

stiffness of metropolitan society disappeared. All talked, and laughed,

and ate, and drank; and the Protocolis and the French princes, who were

most active members of a banquet, ceased sometimes, from want of breath,

to moralize on the English character. The little Wrekins, with their

well-acted lamentations over their losses, were capital; and Sophy

nearly smiled and chattered her head this day into the reversion of the

coronet of Fitz-pompey. May she succeed! For a wilder little partridge

never yet flew. Caroline St. Maurice alone was sad, and would not be

comforted; although St. James, observing her gloom, and guessing at its

cause, had in private assured her that, far from losing, on the whole he

was perhaps even a winner.

None, however, talked more agreeable nonsense and made a more elegant

uproar than the Duke of St. James.

‘These young men,’ whispered Lord Squib to Annesley, ‘do not know the

value of money. We must teach it them. I know too well; I find it very

dear.’

If the old physicians are correct in considering from twenty-five to

thirty-five as the period of lusty youth, Lord Squib was still a lusty

youth, though a very corpulent one indeed. The carnival of his life,

however, was nearly over, and probably the termination of the race-week

might hail him a man. He was the best fellow in the world; short and

sleek, half bald, and looked fifty; with a waist, however, which had not

yet vanished, and where Art successfully controlled rebellious Nature,

like the Austrians the Lombards. If he were not exactly a wit, he was

still, however, full of unaffected fun, and threw out the results of a

_roué_ life with considerable ease and point. He had inherited a fair

and peer-like property, which he had contrived to embarrass in so

complicated and extraordinary a manner that he had been a ruined man for

years, and yet lived well on an income allowed him by his creditors to

manage his estate for their benefit. The joke was, he really managed

it well. It was his hobby, and he prided himself especially upon his

character as a man of business.

The banquet is certainly the best preparative for the ball, if its

blessings be not abused, for then you get heavy. Your true votary of

Terpsichore, and of him we only speak, requires, particularly in a land

of easterly winds, which cut into his cab-head at every turn of every

street, some previous process to make his blood set him an example in

dancing. It is strong Burgundy and his sparkling sister champagne that

make a race-ball always so amusing a _divertissement_. One enters the

room with a gay elation which defies rule without violating etiquette,

and in these county meetings there is a variety of character, and

classes, and manners, which is interesting, and affords an agreeable

contrast to those more brilliant and refined assemblies the members of

which, being educated by exactly the same system and with exactly the

same ideas, think, look, move, talk, dress, and even eat, alike; the

only remarkable personage being a woman somewhat more beautiful than

the beauties who surround her, and a man rather more original in his

affectations than the puppies that surround him. The proof of the

general dulness of polite circles is the great sensation that is always

produced by a new face. The season always commences briskly, because

there are so many. Ball, and dinner, and concert collect then plentiful

votaries; but as we move on the dulness will develop itself, and

then come the morning breakfast, and the water party, and the _fête

champêtre_, all desperate attempts to produce variety with old

materials, and to occasion a second effect by a cause which is already

exhausted.

These philosophical remarks precede another introduction to the public

ball-room at Doncaster. Mrs. Dallington Vere and Miss Dacre are walking

arm in arm at the upper end of the room.

‘You are disappointed, love, about Arundel?’ said Mrs. Dallington.

‘Bitterly; I never counted on any event more certainly than on his

return this summer.’

‘And why tarrieth the wanderer? unwillingly of course?’

‘Lord Darrell, who was to have gone over as _Chargé d’affaires_, has

announced to his father the impossibility of his becoming a diplomatist,

so our poor _attaché_ suffers, and is obliged to bear the _portefeuille

ad interim_.’

‘Does your cousin like Vienna?’

‘Not at all. He is a regular John Bull; and, if I am to judge from his

correspondence, he will make an excellent ambassador in one sense, for

I think his fidelity and his patriotism may be depended on. We seldom

serve those whom we do not love; and, if I am to believe Arundel, there

is neither a person nor a place on the whole Continent that affords him

the least satisfaction.’

‘How singular, then, that he should have fixed on such a _métier_; but,

I suppose, like other young men, his friends fixed for him?’

‘Not at all. No step could be less pleasing to my father than his

leaving England; but Arundel is quite unmanageable, even by papa. He is

the oddest but the dearest person in the world!’

‘He is very clever, is he not?’

‘I think so. I have no doubt he will distinguish himself, whatever

career he runs; but he is so extremely singular in his manner that I do

not think his general reputation harmonises with my private opinion.’

‘And will his visit to England be a long one?’

‘I hope that it will be a permanent one. I, you know, am his confidant,

and entrusted with all his plans. If I succeed in arranging something

according to his wishes, I hope that he will not again quit us.’

‘I pray you may, sweet! and wish, love, for your sake, that he would

enter the room this moment.’

‘This is the most successful meeting, I should think, that ever was

known at Doncaster,’ said Miss Dacre. ‘We are, at least, indebted to the

Duke of St. James for a very agreeable party, to say nothing of all the

gloves we have won.’

‘How do you like the Duke of Burlington?’

‘Much. There is a calm courtliness about him which I think very

imposing. He is the only man I ever saw who, without being very young,

was not an unfit companion for youth. And there is no affectation of

juvenility about him. He involuntarily reminds you of youth, as an empty

orchestra does of music.’

‘I shall tell him this. He is already your devoted; and I have no

doubt that, inspired at the same time by your universal charms and

our universal hints, I shall soon hail you Duchess of Burlington. Don

Arundel will repent his diplomacy.’

‘I thought I was to be another Duchess this morning.’

‘You deserve to be a triple one. But dream not of the unhappy patron of

Sanspareil. There is something in his eyes which tells me he is not a

marrying man.’

There was a momentary pause, and Miss Dacre spoke.

‘I like his brother steward, Bertha. Sir Lucius is witty and candid. It

is an agreeable thing to see a man who had been so gay, and who has had

so many temptations to be gay, turn into a regular domestic character,

without losing any of those qualities which made him an ornament to

society. When men of the world terminate their career as prudently as

Sir Lucius, I observe that they are always amusing companions, because

they are perfectly unaffected.’

‘No one is more unaffected than Lucius Grafton. I am quite happy to find

you like him; for he is an old friend of mine, and I know that he has a

good heart.’

‘I like him especially because he likes you.’

‘Dearest!’

‘He introduced me to Lady Afy. I perceive that she is very attached to

her husband.’

‘Lady Afy is a charming woman. I know no woman so truly elegant as Lady

Afy. The young Duke, you know they say, greatly admires Lady Afy.’

‘Oh! does he? Well now, I should have thought her rather a sentimental

and serious donna; one very unlikely------’

‘Hush! here come two cavaliers.’

The Dukes of Burlington and St. James advanced.

‘We are attracted by observing two nymphs wandering in this desert,’

said his Grace of Burlington. This was the Burgundy.

‘And we wish to know whether there be any dragon to destroy, any ogre to

devour, any magician to massacre, or how, when, and where we can testify

our devotion to the ladies of our love,’ added his Grace of St. James.

This was the champagne.

‘The age of chivalry is past,’ said Miss Dacre. ‘Bores have succeeded

to dragons, and I have shivered too many lances in vain ever to hope for

their extirpation; and as for enchantments----’

‘They depend only upon yourself,’ gallantly interrupted the Duke of

Burgundy. Psha!--Burlington.

‘Our spells are dissolved, our wands are sunk five fathom deep; we had

retired to this solitude, and we were moralising,’ said Mrs. Dallington

Vere.

‘Then you were doing an extremely useless and not very magnanimous

thing,’ said the Duke of St. James; ‘for to moralise in a desert is no

great exertion of philosophy. You should moralise in a drawing-room; and

so let me propose our return to that world which must long have missed

us. Let us do something to astound these elegant barbarians. Look at

that young gentleman: how stiff he is! A Yorkshire Apollo! Look at that

old lady; how elaborately she simpers! The Venus of the Riding! They

absolutely attempt to flirt. Let us give them a gallop!’

He was advancing to salute this provincial couple; but his more mature

companion repressed him.

‘Ah! I forgot,’ said the young Duke. ‘I am Yorkshire. If I were a

western, like yourself, I might compromise my character. Your Grace

monopolises the fun.’

‘I think you may safely attack them,’ said Miss Dacre. ‘I do not think

you will be recognised. People entertain in this barbarous country, such

vulgar, old-fashioned notions of a Duke of St. James, that I have not

the least doubt your Grace might have a good deal of fun without being

found out.’

‘There is no necessity,’ said the Duke, ‘to fly from Miss Dacre for

amusement. By-the-bye, you make a good repartee. You must permit me to

introduce you to my friend, Lord Squib. I am sure you would agree so.’

‘I have been introduced to Lord Squib.’

‘And you found him most amusing? Did he say anything which vindicates my

appointment of him as my court jester?’

‘I found him modest. He endeavoured to excuse his errors by being your

companion; and to prove his virtues by being mine.’

‘Treacherous Squib! I positively must call him out. Duke, bear him a

cartel.’

‘The quarrel is ours, and must be decided here,’ said Mrs. Dallington

Vere. ‘I second Miss Dacre.’

‘We are in the way of some good people here, I think,’ said the Duke of

Burlington, who, though the most dignified, was the most considerate of

men; ‘at least, here are a stray couple or two staring as if they wished

us to understand we prevented a set.’

‘Let them stare,’ said the Duke of St. James; ‘we were made to be looked

at. ‘Tis our vocation, Hal, and they are gifted with vision purposely to

behold us.’

‘Your Grace,’ said Miss Dacre, ‘reminds me of my old friend, Prince

Rubarini, who told me one day that when he got up late he always gave

orders to have the sun put back a couple of hours.’

‘And you, Miss Dacre, remind me of my old friend, the Duchess of Nevers,

who told me one day that in the course of her experience she had only

met one man who was her rival in repartee.’

‘And that man,’ asked Mrs. Vere.

‘Was your slave, Mrs. Dallington,’ said the young Duke, bowing

profoundly, with his hand on his heart.

‘I remember she said the same thing to me,’ said the Duke of Burlington,

‘about ten years before.’

‘That was her grandmother, Burley,’ said the Duke of St. James.

‘Her grandmother!’ said Mrs. Dallington, exciting the contest.

‘Decidedly,’ said the young Duke. ‘I remember my friend always spoke of

the Duke of Burlington as grandpapa.’

‘You will profit, I have no doubt, then, by the company of so venerable

a friend,’ said Miss Dacre.

‘Why,’ said the young Duke, ‘I am not a believer in the perfectibility

of the species; and you know, that when we come to a certain point----’

‘We must despair of improvement,’ said the Duke of Burlington.

‘Your Grace came forward, like a true knight, to my rescue,’ said Miss

Dacre, bowing to the Duke of Burlington.

‘Beauty can inspire miracles,’ said the Duke of St. James.

‘This young gentleman has been spoiled by travel, Miss Dacre,’ said the

Duke of Burlington. ‘You have much to answer for, for he tells every one

that you were his guardian.’

The eyes of Miss Dacre and the Duke of St. James met. He bowed with that

graceful impudence which is, after all, the best explanation for every

possible misunderstanding.

‘I always heard that the Duke of St. James was born of age,’ said Miss

Dacre.

‘The report was rife on the Continent when I travelled,’ said Mrs.

Dallington Vere.

‘That was only a poetical allegory, which veiled the precocious results

of my fair tutor’s exertions.’

‘How discreet he is!’ said the Duke of Burlington. ‘You may tell

immediately that he is two-and-forty.’

‘We are neither of us, though, off the _pavé_ yet, Burlington; so what

say you to inducing these inspiring muses to join the waltz which is

just now commencing?’

The young Duke offered his hand to Miss Dacre, and, followed by

their companions, they were in a few minutes lost in the waves of the

waltzers.

CHAPTER VI.

_A Complaisant Spouse_

THE gaieties of the race-week closed with a ball at Dallington House.

As the pretty mistress of this proud mansion was acquainted with all the

members of the ducal party, our hero and his noble band were among those

who honoured it with their presence.

We really have had so many balls both in this and other as immortal

works that, in a literary point of view, we think we must give up

dancing; nor would we have introduced you to Dallington House if there

had been no more serious business on hand than a flirtation with a lady

or a lobster salad. Ah! why is not a little brief communion with the

last as innocent as with the first?

Small feet are flitting in the mazy dance and music winds with inspiring

harmony through halls whose lofty mirrors multiply beauty and add fresh

lustre to the blazing lights. May Dacre there is wandering like a peri

in Paradise, and Lady Aphrodite is glancing with her dazzling brow, yet

an Asmodeus might detect an occasional gloom over her radiant face.

It is but for an instant, yet it thrills. She looks like some favoured

sultana, who muses for a moment amid her splendour on her early love.

And she, the sparkling mistress of this scene; say, where is she? Not

among the dancers, though a more graceful form you could scarcely look

upon; not even among her guests, though a more accomplished hostess

it would be hard to find. Gaiety pours forth its flood, and all

are thinking of themselves, or of some one sweeter even than

self-consciousness, or else perhaps one absent might be missed.

Leaning on the arm of Sir Lucius Grafton, and shrouded in her cashmere,

Mrs. Dallington Vere paces the terrace in earnest conversation.

‘If I fail in this,’ said Sir Lucius, ‘I shall be desperate. Fortune

seems to have sent him for the very purpose. Think only of the state of

affairs for a moment. After a thousand plots on my part; after having

for the last two years never ceased my exertions to make her commit

herself; when neither a love of pleasure, nor a love of revenge, nor the

thoughtlessness to which women in her situation generally have recourse,

produced the slightest effect; this stripling starts upon the stage, and

in a moment the iceberg melts. Oh! I never shall forget the rapture of

the moment when the faithful Lachen announced the miracle!’

‘But why not let the adventure take the usual course? You have your

evidence, or you can get it. Finish the business. The _exposés_, to be

sure, are disagreeable enough; but to be the talk of the town for a week

is no great suffering. Go to Baden, drink the waters, and it will be

forgotten. Surely this is an inconvenience not to be weighed for a

moment against the great result.’

[Illustration: page106]

‘Believe me, my dearest friend, Lucy Grafton cares very little about the

babble of the million, provided it do not obstruct him in his objects.

Would to Heaven I could proceed in the summary and effectual mode you

point out; but that I much doubt. There is about Afy, in spite of

all her softness and humility, a strange spirit, a cursed courage or

obstinacy, which sometimes has blazed out, when I have over-galled her,

in a way half-awful. I confess I dread her standing at bay. I am in her

power, and a divorce she could successfully oppose if I appeared to be

the person who hastened the catastrophe and she were piqued to show that

she would not fall an easy victim. No, no! I have a surer, though a more

difficult, game. She is intoxicated with this boy. I will drive her into

his arms.’

‘A probable result, forsooth! I do not think your genius has

particularly brightened since we last met. I thought your letters were

getting dull. You seem to forget that there is a third person to be

consulted in this adventure. And why in the name of Doctors’ Commons,

the Duke is to close his career by marrying a woman of whom, with your

leave, he is already, if experience be not a dream, half-wearied, is

really past my comprehension, although as Yorkshire, Lucy, I should not,

you know, be the least apprehensive of mortals.’

‘I depend upon my unbounded influence over St. James.’

‘What! do you mean to recommend the step, then?’

‘Hear me! At present I am his confidential counsellor on all

subjects----’

‘But one.’

‘Patience, fair dame; and I have hitherto imperceptibly, but

efficiently, exerted my influence to prevent his getting entangled with

any other nets.’

‘Faithful friend!’

‘_Point de moquerie!_ Listen. I depend further upon his perfect

inexperience of women; for, in spite of his numerous gallantries, he

has never yet had a grand passion, and is quite ignorant, even at this

moment, how involved his feelings are with his mistress. He has not yet

learnt the bitter lesson that, unless we despise a woman when we

cease to love her, we are still a slave, without the consolement of

intoxication. I depend further upon his strong feelings; for strong

I perceive they are, with all his affectation; and on his weakness

of character, which will allow him to be the dupe of his first great

emotion. It is to prevent that explosion from taking place under any

other roof than my own that I now require your advice and assistance;

that advice and assistance which already have done so much for me. I

like not this sudden and uncontemplated visit to Castle Dacre. I fear

these Dacres; I fear the revulsion of his feelings. Above all, I fear

that girl.’

‘But her cousin; is he not a talisman? She loves him.’

‘Pooh! a cousin! Is not the name an answer? She loves him as she loves

her pony; because he was her companion when she was a child, and kissed

her when they gathered strawberries together. The pallid, moonlight

passion of a cousin, and an absent one, too, has but a sorry chance

against the blazing beams that shoot from the eyes of a new lover. Would

to Heaven that I had not to go down to my boobies at Cleve! I should

like nothing better than to amuse myself an autumn at Dallington with

the little Dacre, and put an end to such an unnatural and irreligious

connection. She is a splendid creature! Bring her to town next season.’

‘But to the point. You wish me, I imagine, to act the same part with the

lady as you have done with the gentleman. I am to step in, I suppose,

as the confidential counsellor on all subjects of sweet May. I am to

preserve her from a youth whose passions are so impetuous and whose

principles are so unformed.’

‘Admirable Bertha! You read my thoughts.’

‘But suppose I endanger, instead of advance, your plans. Suppose, for

instance, I captivate his Grace. As extraordinary things have happened,

as you know. High place must be respected, and the coronet of a Duchess

must not be despised.’

‘All considerations must yield to you, as do all men,’ said Sir Lucius,

with ready gallantry, but not free from anxiety.

‘No, no; there is no danger of that. I am not going to play traitress

to my system, even for the Duke of St. James; therefore, anything that

occurs between us shall be merely an incident _pour passer le temps

seulement_, and to preserve our young friend from the little Dacre. I

have no doubt he will behave very well, and that I shall send him safe

to Cleve Park in a fortnight with a good character. I would recommend

you, however, not to encourage any unreasonable delay.’

‘Certainly not; but I must, of course, be guided by circumstances.’ Sir

Lucius observed truly. There were other considerations besides getting

rid of his spouse which cemented his friendship with the young Duke. It

will be curious if lending a few thousands to the husband save our hero

from the wife. There is no such thing as unmixed evil. A man who loses

his money gains, at least, experience, and sometimes something better.

But what the Duke of St. James gained is not yet to be told.

‘And you like Lachen?’ asked Mrs. Dallington.

‘Very much.’

‘I formed her with great care, but you must keep her in good humour.’

‘That is not difficult. _Elle est très jolie_; and pretty women, like

yourself, are always good-natured.’

‘But has she really worked herself into the confidence of the virtuous

Aphrodite?’

‘Entirely. And the humour is, that Lachen has persuaded her that Lachen

herself is on the best possible terms with my confidential valet, and

can make herself at all times mistress of her master’s secrets. So it is

always in my power, apparently without taking the slightest interest in

Afy’s conduct, to regulate it as I will. At present she believes that my

affairs are in a distracted state, and that I intend to reside solely on

the Continent, and to bear her off from her Cupidon. This thought haunts

her rest, and hangs heavy on her waking mind. I think it will do the

business.’

‘We have been too long absent. Let us return.’

‘I accompany you, my charming friend. What should I do without such an

ally? I only wish that I could assist you in a manner equally friendly.

Is there no obdurate hero who wants a confidential adviser to dilate

upon your charms, or to counsel him to throw himself at your feet; or

are that beautiful in face and lovely form, as they must always be,

invincible?’

‘I assure you quite disembarrassed of any attentions whatever. But, I

suppose, when I return to Athens, I must get Platonic again.’

‘Let me be the philosopher!’

‘No, no; we know each other too well. I have been free ever since that

fatal affair of young Darrell, and travel has restored my spirits a

little. They say his brother is just as handsome. He was expected at

Vienna, but I could not meet him, although I suppose, as I made him a

Viscount, I am rather popular than not with him.’

‘Pooh! pooh! think not of this. No one blames you. You are still a

universal favourite. But I would recommend you, nevertheless, to take me

as your cavalier.’

‘You are too generous, or too bold. No, man! I am tired of flirtation,

and really think, for variety’s sake, I must fall in love. After all,

there is nothing like the delicious dream, though it be but a dream.

Spite of my discretion, I sometimes tremble lest I should end by making

myself a fool, with some grand passion. You look serious. Fear not for

the young Duke. He is a dazzling gentleman, but not a hero exactly to my

taste.’

CHAPTER VII.

_At Castle Dacre_

THE moment that was to dissolve the spell which had combined and

enchanted so many thousands of human beings arrived. Nobles and

nobodies, beauties and blacklegs, dispersed in all directions. The Duke

of Burlington carried off the French princes and the Protocolis, the

Bloomerlys and the Vaticans, to his Paradise of Marringworth. The

Fitz-pompeys cantered off with the Shropshires; omen of felicity to

the enamoured St. Maurice and the enamouring Sophy. Annesley and Squib

returned to their pâtés. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite, neither of them

with tempers like summer skies, betook their way to Cambridgeshire, like

Adam and Eve from the glorious garden. The Duke of St. James, after a

hurried visit to London, found himself, at the beginning of October, on

his way to Dacre.

As his carriage rolled on he revelled in delicious fancies. The young

Duke built castles not only at Hauteville, but in less substantial

regions. Reverie, in the flush of our warm youth, generally indulges in

the future. We are always anticipating the next adventure and clothe the

coming heroine with a rosy tint. When we advance a little on our limited

journey, and an act or two of the comedy, the gayest in all probability,

are over, the wizard Memory dethrones the witch Imagination, and ‘tis

the past on which the mind feeds in its musings. ‘Tis then we ponder

on each great result which has stolen on us without the labour of

reflection; ‘tis then we analyse emotions which, at the time, we could

not comprehend, and probe the action which passion inspired, and which

prejudice has hitherto defended. Alas! who can strike these occasional

balances in life’s great ledger without a sigh! Alas! how little do

they promise in favour of the great account! What whisperings of final

bankruptcy! what a damnable consciousness of present insolvency! My

friends! what a blunder is youth! Ah! why does Truth light her torch but

to illume the ruined temple of our existence! Ah! why do we know we are

men only to be conscious of our exhausted energies!

And yet there is a pleasure in a deal of judgment which your judicious

man alone can understand. It is agreeable to see some younkers falling

into the same traps which have broken our own shins; and, shipwrecked

on the island of our hopes, one likes to mark a vessel go down full in

sight. ‘Tis demonstration that we are not branded as Cains among the

favoured race of man. Then giving advice: that _is_ delicious, and

perhaps repays one all. It is a privilege your grey-haired signors

solely can enjoy; but young men now-a-days may make some claims to it.

And, after all, experience is a thing that all men praise. Bards sing

its glories, and proud Philosophy has long elected it her favourite

child. ‘Tis the ‘_rò Kaxàv_’, in spite of all its ugliness, and the

_elixir vitæ_, though we generally gain it with a shattered pulse.

No more! no more! it is a bitter cheat, the consolation of blunderers,

the last refuge of expiring hopes, the forlorn battalion that is to

capture the citadel of happiness; yet, yet impregnable! Oh! what is

wisdom, and what is virtue, without youth! Talk not to me of knowledge

of mankind; give, give me back the sunshine of the breast which they

o’erclouded! Talk not to me of proud morality; oh! give me innocence!

Amid the ruins of eternal Rome I scribble pages lighter than the wind,

and feed with fancies volumes which will be forgotten ere I can hear

that they are even published. Yet am I not one insensible to the magic

of my memorable abode, and I could pour my passion o’er the land; but I

repress my thoughts, and beat their tide back to their hollow caves!

The ocean of my mind is calm, but dim, and ominous of storms that may

arise. A cloud hangs heavy o’er the horizon’s verge, and veils the

future. Even now a star appears, steals into light, and now again

‘tis gone! I hear the proud swell of the growing waters; I hear the

whispering of the wakening winds; but reason lays her trident on the

cresting waves, and all again is hushed.

For I am one, though young, yet old enough to know ambition is a demon;

and I fly from what I fear. And fame has eagle wings, and yet she mounts

not so high as man’s desires. When all is gained, how little then is

won! And yet to gain that little how much is lost! Let us once aspire

and madness follows. Could we but drag the purple from the hero’s heart;

could we but tear the laurel from the poet’s throbbing brain, and read

their doubts, their dangers, their despair, we might learn a greater

lesson than we shall ever acquire by musing over their exploits or

their inspiration. Think of unrecognised Caesar, with his wasting youth,

weeping over the Macedonian’s young career! Could Pharsalia compensate

for those withering pangs? View the obscure Napoleon starving in

the streets of Paris! What was St. Helena to the bitterness of

such existence? The visions of past glory might illumine even that

dark-imprisonment; but to be conscious that his supernatural energies

might die away without creating their miracles: can the wheel or the

rack rival the torture of such a suspicion? Lo! Byron bending o’er his

shattered lyre, with inspiration in his very rage. And the pert taunt

could sting even this child of light! To doubt of the truth of the

creed in which you have been nurtured is not so terrific as to doubt

respecting the intellectual vigour on whose strength you have staked

your happiness. Yet these were mighty ones; perhaps the records of the

world will not yield us threescore to be their mates! Then tremble, ye

whose cheek glows too warmly at their names! Who would be more than man

should fear lest he be less.

Yet there is hope, there should be happiness, for them, for all. Kind

Nature, ever mild, extends her fond arms to her truant children, and

breathes her words of solace. As we weep on her indulgent and maternal

breast, the exhausted passions, one by one, expire like gladiators in

yon huge pile that has made barbarity sublime. Yes! there is hope and

joy; and it is here!

Where the breeze wanders through a perfumed sky, and where the beautiful

sun illumines beauty.

On the poet’s farm and on the conqueror’s arch thy beam is lingering!

It lingers on the shattered porticoes that once shrouded from thy

o’erpowering glory the lords of earth; it lingers upon the ruined

temples that even in their desolation are yet sacred! ‘Tis gone, as

if in sorrow! Yet the woody lake still blushes with thy warm kiss; and

still thy rosy light tinges the pine that breaks the farthest heaven!

A heaven all light, all beauty, and all love! What marvel men should

worship in these climes? And lo! a small and single cloud is sailing in

the immaculate ether, burnished with twilight, like an Olympian chariot

from above, with the fair vision of some graceful god!

It is the hour that poets love; but I crush thoughts that rise from out

my mind, like nymphs from out their caves, when sets the sun. Yes, ‘tis

a blessing here to breathe and muse. And cold his clay, indeed, who does

not yield to thy Ausonian beauty! Clime where the heart softens and the

mind expands! Region of mellowed bliss! O most enchanting land!

But we are at the park gates.

They whirled along through a park which would have contained half a

hundred of those Patagonian paddocks of modern times which have usurped

the name. At length the young Duke was roused from his reverie

by Carlstein, proud of his previous knowledge, leaning over and

announcing--

‘Château de Dacre, your Grace!’

The Duke looked up. The sun, which had already set, had tinged with a

dying crimson the eastern sky, against which rose a princely edifice.

Castle Dacre was the erection of Vanbrugh, an imaginative artist,

whose critics we wish no bitterer fate than not to live in his splendid

creations. A spacious centre, richly ornamented, though broken, perhaps,

into rather too much detail, was joined to wings of a corresponding

magnificence by fanciful colonnades. A terrace, extending the whole

front, was covered with orange trees, and many a statue, and many an

obelisk, and many a temple, and many a fountain, were tinted with

the warm twilight. The Duke did not view the forgotten scene of youth

without emotion. It was a palace worthy of the heroine on whom he had

been musing. The carriage gained the lofty portal. Luigi and Spiridion,

who had preceded their master, were ready to receive the Duke, who was

immediately ushered to the rooms prepared for his reception. He was

later than he had intended, and no time was to be unnecessarily lost in

his preparation for his appearance.

His Grace’s toilet was already prepared: the magical dressing-box

had been unpacked, and the shrine for his devotions was covered

with richly-cut bottles of all sizes, arranged in all the elegant

combinations which the picturesque fancy of his valet could devise,

adroitly intermixed with the golden instruments, the china vases, and

the ivory and rosewood brushes, which were worthy even of Delcroix’s

exquisite inventions.

The Duke of St. James was master of the art of dress, and consequently

consummated that paramount operation with the decisive rapidity of one

whose principles are settled. He was cognisant of all effects, could

calculate in a second all consequences, and obtained his result with

that promptitude and precision which stamp the great artist. For a

moment he was plunged in profound abstraction, and at the same time

stretched his legs after his drive. He then gave his orders with the

decision of Wellington on the arrival of the Prussians, and the battle

began.

His Grace had a taste for magnificence in costume; but he was handsome,

young, and a duke. Pardon him. Yet to-day he was, on the whole, simple.

Confident in a complexion whose pellucid lustre had not yielded to a

season of dissipation, his Grace did not dread the want of relief which

a white face, a white cravat, and a white waistcoat would seem to imply.

A hair chain set in diamonds, worn in memory of the absent Aphrodite,

and to pique the present Dacre, is annexed to a glass, which reposes

in the waistcoat pocket. This was the only weight that the Duke of St.

James ever carried. It was a bore, but it was indispensable.

It is done. He stops one moment before the long pier-glass, and shoots

a glance which would have read the mind of Talleyrand. It will do.

He assumes the look, the air that befit the occasion: cordial, but

dignified; sublime, but sweet. He descends like a deity from Olympus to

a banquet of illustrious mortals.

CHAPTER VIII.

_‘Fair Women and Brave Men.’_

MR. DACRE received him with affection: his daughter with a cordiality

which he had never yet experienced from her. Though more simply dressed

than when she first met his ardent gaze, her costume again charmed his

practised eye. ‘It must be her shape,’ thought the young Duke; ‘it is

magical!’

The rooms were full of various guests, and some of these were presented

to his Grace, who was, of course, an object of universal notice, but

particularly by those persons who pretended not to be aware of his

entrance. The party assembled at Castle Dacre consisted of some thirty

or forty persons, all of great consideration, but of a different

character from any with whom the Duke of St. James had been acquainted

during his short experience of English society. They were not what are

called fashionable people. We have no princes and no ambassadors, no

duke who is a gourmand, no earl who is a jockey, no manoeuvring mothers,

no flirting daughters, no gambling sons, for your entertainment. There

is no superfine gentleman brought down specially from town to gauge

the refinement of the manners of the party, and to prevent them, by

his constant supervision and occasional sneer, from losing any of the

beneficial results of their last campaign. We shall sadly want, too,

a Lady Patroness to issue a decree or quote her code of consolidated

etiquette. We are not sure that Almack’s will ever be mentioned: quite

sure that Maradan has never yet been heard of. The Jockey Club may be

quoted, but Crockford will be a dead letter. As for the rest, Boodle’s

is all we can promise; miserable consolation for the bow-window. As for

buffoons and artists, to amuse a vacant hour or sketch a vacant face, we

must frankly tell you at once that there is not one. Are you frightened?

Will you go on? Will you trust yourself with these savages? Try. They

are rude, but they are hospitable.

The party, we have said, were all persons of great consideration; some

were noble, most were rich, all had ancestors. There were the Earl

and Countess of Faulconcourt. He looked as if he were fit to reconquer

Palestine, and she as if she were worthy to reward him for his valour.

Misplaced in this superior age, he was _sans peur_ and she _sans

reproche_. There was Lord Mildmay, an English peer and a French colonel.

Methinks such an incident might have been a better reason for a late

measure than an Irishman being returned a member of our Imperial

Parliament. There was our friend Lord St. Jerome; of course his

stepmother, yet young, and some sisters, pretty as nuns. There were some

cousins from the farthest north, Northumbria’s bleakest bound, who came

down upon Yorkshire like the Goths upon Italy, and were revelling in

what they considered a southern clime.

There was an M.P. in whom the Catholics had hopes. He had made a great

speech; not only a great speech, but a great impression. His matter

certainly was not new, but well arranged, and his images not singularly

original, but appositely introduced; in short, a bore, who, speaking

on a subject in which a new hand is indulged, and connected with the

families whose cause he was pleading, was for once courteously listened

to by the very men who determined to avenge themselves for their

complaisance by a cough on the first opportunity. But the orator was

prudent; he reserved himself, and the session closed with his fame yet

full-blown.

Then there were country neighbours in great store, with wives that

were treasures, and daughters fresh as flowers. Among them we would

particularise two gentlemen. They were great proprietors, and Catholics

and Baronets, and consoled themselves by their active maintenance of the

game-laws for their inability to regulate their neighbours by any other.

One was Sir Chetwode Chetwode of Chetwode; the other was Sir Tichborne

Tichborne of Tichborne. It was not easy to see two men less calculated

to be the slaves of a foreign and despotic power, which we all know

Catholics are. Tall, and robust, and rosy, with hearts even stouter

than their massy frames, they were just the characters to assemble in

Runnymede, and probably, even at the present day, might have imitated

their ancestors, even in their signatures. In disposition they were

much the same, though they were friends. In person there were some

differences, but they were slight. Sir Chetwode’s hair was straight and

white; Sir Tichborne’s brown and curly. Sir Chetwode’s eyes were blue;

Sir Tichborne’s grey.

Sir Chetwode’s nose was perhaps a snub; Sir Tichborne’s was certainly a

bottle. Sir Chetwode was somewhat garrulous, and was often like a man at

a play, in the wrong box! Sir Tichborne was somewhat taciturn; but when

he spoke, it was always to the purpose, and made an impression, even if

it were not new. Both were kind hearts; but Sir Chetwode was jovial,

Sir Tichborne rather stern. Sir Chetwode often broke into a joke; Sir

Tichborne sometimes backed into a sneer. .

A few of these characters were made known by Mr. Dacre to his young

friend, but not many, and in an easy way; those that stood nearest.

Introduction is a formality and a bore, and is never resorted to by your

well-bred host, save in a casual way. When proper people meet at proper

houses, they give each other credit for propriety, and slide into an

acquaintance by degrees. The first day they catch a name; the next, they

ask you whether you are the son of General----. ‘No; he was my uncle.’

‘Ah! I knew him well. A worthy soul!’ And then the thing is settled. You

ride together, shoot, or fence, or hunt. A game of billiards will do no

great harm; and when you part, you part with a hope that you may meet

again.

Lord Mildmay was glad to meet with the son of an old friend. He knew the

late Duke well, and loved him better. It is pleasant to hear our fathers

praised. We, too, may inherit their virtues with their lands, or

cash, or bonds; and, scapegraces as we are, it is agreeable to find a

precedent for the blood turning out well. And, after all, there is no

feeling more thoroughly delightful than to be conscious that the kind

being from whose loins we spring, and to whom we cling with an innate

and overpowering love, is viewed by others with regard, with reverence,

or with admiration. There is no pride like the pride of ancestry, for it

is a blending of all emotions. How immeasurably superior to the herd is

the man whose father only is famous! Imagine, then, the feelings of

one who can trace his line through a thousand years of heroes and of

princes!

‘Tis dinner! hour that I have loved as loves the bard the twilight; but

no more those visions rise that once were wont to spring in my quick

fancy. The dream is past, the spell is broken, and even the lore on

which I pondered in my first youth is strange as figures in Egyptian

tombs.

No more, no more, oh! never more to me, that hour shall bring its

rapture and its bliss! No more, no more, oh! never more for me, shall

Flavour sit upon her thousand thrones, and, like a syren with a sunny

smile, win to renewed excesses, each more sweet! My feasting days are

over: me no more the charms of fish, or flesh, still less of fowl, can

make the fool of that they made before. The fricandeau is like a dream

of early love; the fricassee, with which I have so often flirted, is

like the tattle of the last quadrille; and no longer are my dreams

haunted with the dark passion of the rich ragoût. Ye soups! o’er whose

creation I have watched, like mothers o’er their sleeping child! Ye

sauces! to which I have even lent a name, where are ye now? Tickling,

perchance, the palate of some easy friend, who quite forgets the boon

companion whose presence once lent lustre even to his ruby wine and

added perfume to his perfumed hock!

Our Duke, however, had not reached the age of retrospection. He pecked

as prettily as any bird. Seated on the right hand of his delightful

hostess, nobody could be better pleased; supervised by his jäger, who

stood behind his chair, no one could be better attended. He smiled,

with the calm, amiable complacency of a man who feels the world is quite

right.

CHAPTER IX.

_The Châtelaine of Castle Dacre_

HOW is your Grace’s horse, Sans-pareil?’ asked Sir Chetwode Chetwode

of Chetwode of the Duke of St. James, shooting at the same time a sly

glance at his opposite neighbour, Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne.

‘Quite well, sir,’ said the Duke in his quietest tone, but with an air

which, he flattered himself, might repress further inquiry.

‘Has he got over his fatigue?’ pursued the dogged Baronet, with a short,

gritty laugh, that sounded like a loose drag-chain dangling against the

stones. ‘We all thought the Yorkshire air would not agree with him.’

‘Yet, Sir Chetwode, that could hardly be your opinion of Sanspareil,’

said Miss Dacre, ‘for I think, if I remember right, I had the pleasure

of making you encourage our glove manufactory.’

Sir Chetwode looked a little confused. The Duke of St. James, inspirited

by his fair ally, rallied, and hoped Sir Chetwode did not back his steed

to a fatal extent. ‘If,’ continued he, ‘I had had the slightest idea

that any friend of Miss Dacre was indulging in such an indiscretion, I

certainly would have interfered, and have let him known that the horse

was not to win.’

‘Is that a fact?’ asked Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne, with a

sturdy voice.

‘Can a Yorkshireman doubt it?’ rejoined the Duke. ‘Was it possible for

anyone but a mere Newmarket dandy to have entertained for a moment the

supposition that anyone but May Dacre should be the Queen of the St.

Leger?’

‘I have heard something of this before,’ said Sir Tichborne, ‘but I did

not believe it. A young friend of mine consulted me upon the subject.

“Would you advise me,” said he, “to settle?” “Why,” said I, “if you

can prove any bubble, my opinion is, don’t; but if you cannot prove

anything, my opinion is, do.”’

‘Very just! very true!’ were murmured by many in the neighbourhood of

the oracle; by no one with more personal sincerity than Lady Tichborne

herself.

‘I will write to my young friend,’ continued the Baronet.

‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Dacre. ‘His Grace’s candour must not be abused. I

have no idea of being robbed of my well-earned honours. Sir Tichborne,

private conversation must be respected, and the sanctity of domestic

life must not be profaned. If the tactics of Doncaster are no longer to

be fair war, why, half the families in the Riding will be ruined!’

‘Still,’--said Sir Tichborne.

But Mr. Dacre, like a deity in a Trojan battle, interposed, and asked

his opinion of a keeper.

‘I hope you are a sportsman,’ said Miss Dacre to the Duke, ‘for this is

the palace of Nimrod!’

‘I have hunted; it was not very disagreeable. I sometimes shoot; it is

not very stupid.’

‘Then, in fact, I perceive that you are a heretic. Lord Faulconcourt,

his Grace is moralising on the barbarity of the chase.’

‘Then he has never had the pleasure of hunting in company with Miss

Dacre.’

‘Do you indeed follow the hounds?’ asked the Duke.

‘Sometimes do worse, ride over them; but Lord Faulconcourt is fast

emancipating me from the trammels of my frippery foreign education,

and I have no doubt that, in another season, I shall fling off quite in

style.’

‘You remember Mr. Annesley?’ asked the Duke.

‘It is difficult to forget him. He always seemed to me to think that the

world was made on purpose for him to have the pleasure of “cutting” it.’

‘Yet he was your admirer!’

‘Yes, and once paid me a compliment. He told me it was the only one that

he had ever uttered.’

‘Oh, Charley, Charley! this is excellent. We shall have a tale when we

meet. What was the compliment?’

‘It would be affectation in me to pretend that I have forgotten it.

Nevertheless, you must excuse me.’

‘Pray, pray let me have it!’

‘Perhaps you will not like it?’

‘Now, I must hear it.’

‘Well then, he said that talking to me was the only thing that consoled

him for having to dine with you and to dance with Lady Shropshire.’

‘Charles is jealous,’ drawled the Duke.

‘Of her Grace?’ asked Miss Dacre, with much anxiety.

‘No; but Charles is aged, and once, when he dined with me, was taken for

my uncle.’

The ladies retired, and the gentlemen sat barbarously long. Sir Chetwode

Chetwode of Chetwode and Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne were two

men who drank wine independent of fashion, and exacted, to the last

glass, the identical quantity which their fathers had drunk half a

century before, and to which they had been used almost from their

cradle. The only subject of conversation was sporting. Terrible shots,

more terrible runs, neat barrels, and pretty fencers. The Duke of St.

James was not sufficiently acquainted with the geography of the mansion

to make a premature retreat, an operation which is looked upon with an

evil eye, and which, to be successful, must be prompt and decisive,

and executed with supercilious nonchalance. So he consoled himself by

a little chat with Lord Mildmay, who sat smiling, handsome, and

mustachioed, with an empty glass, and who was as much out of water as he

was out of wine. The Duke was not very learned in Parisian society; but

still, with the aid of the Duchess de Berri and the Duchess de Duras,

Léontine Fay, and Lady Stuart de Rothesay, they got on, and made out the

time until Purgatory ceased and Paradise opened.

For Paradise it was, although there were there assembled some thirty or

forty persons not less dull than the majority of our dull race, and in

those little tactics that make society less burdensome perhaps even less

accomplished. But a sunbeam will make even the cloudiest day break into

smiles; a bounding fawn will banish monotony even from a wilderness; and

a glass of claret, or perchance some stronger grape, will convert even

the platitude of a goblet of water into a pleasing beverage, and so May

Dacre moved among her guests, shedding light, life, and pleasure.

She was not one who, shrouded in herself, leaves it to chance or fate

to amuse the beings whom she has herself assembled within her halls.

Nonchalance is the _métier_ of your modern hostess; and so long as

the house be not on fire, or the furniture not kicked, you may be

even ignorant who is the priestess of the hospitable fane in which you

worship.

They are right; men shrink from a fussy woman. And few can aspire to

regulate the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as an

hour’s amusement, without rare powers. There is no greater sin than to

be _trop prononcée_. A want of tact is worse than a want of virtue.

Some women, it is said, work on pretty well against the tide without the

last: I never knew one who did not sink who ever dared to sail without

the first.

Loud when they should be low, quoting the wrong person, talking on

the wrong subject, teasing with notice, excruciating with attentions,

disturbing a tête-à-tête in order to make up a dance; wasting eloquence

in persuading a man to participate in amusement whose reputation depends

on his social sullenness; exacting homage with a restless eye, and

not permitting the least worthy knot to be untwined without their

divinityships’ interference; patronising the meek, anticipating the

slow, intoxicated with compliment, plastering with praise, that you in

return may gild with flattery; in short, energetic without elegance,

active without grace, and loquacious without wit; mistaking bustle

for style, raillery for badinage, and noise for gaiety, these are the

characters who mar the very career they think they are creating, and who

exercise a fatal influence on the destinies of all those who have the

misfortune to be connected with them.

Not one of these was she, the lady of our tale. There was a quiet

dignity lurking even under her easiest words and actions which made you

feel her notice a compliment: there was a fascination in her calm smile

and in her sunlit eye which made her invitation to amusement itself

a pleasure. If you refused, you were not pressed, but left to that

isolation which you appeared to admire; if you assented, you were

rewarded with a word which made you feel how sweet was such society!

Her invention never flagged, her gaiety never ceased; yet both were

spontaneous, and often were unobserved. All felt amused, and all were

unconsciously her agents. Her word and her example seemed, each instant,

to call forth from her companions new accomplishments, new graces, new

sources of joy and of delight. All were surprised that they were so

agreeable.

CHAPTER X.

_Love’s Young Dream_

MORNING came, and the great majority of the gentlemen rose early as

Aurora. The chase is the favourite pastime of man and boy; yet some

preferred plundering their host’s preserves, by which means their

slumbers were not so brief and their breakfast less disturbed. The

_battue_, however, in time, called forth its band, and then one by one,

or two by two, or sometimes even three, leaning on each other’s arms

and smiling in each other’s faces, the ladies dropped into the

breakfast-room at Castle Dacre. There, until two o’clock, a lounging

meal might always be obtained, but generally by twelve the coast was

clear; for our party were a natural race of beings, and would have

blushed if flaming noon had caught them napping in their easy couches.

Our bright bird, May Dacre, too, rose from her bower, full of the memory

of the sweetest dreams, and fresh as lilies ere they kiss the sun.

She bends before her ivory crucifix, and gazes on her blessed mother’s

face, where the sweet Florentine had tinged with light a countenance

Too fair for worship, too divine for love!

And innocence has prayed for fresh support, and young devotion told her

holy beads. She rises with an eye of mellowed light, and her soft cheek

is tinted with the flush that comes from prayer. Guard over her, ye

angels! wheresoe’er and whatsoe’er ye are! For she shall be your meet

companion in an after-day. Then love your gentle friend, this sinless

child of clay!

The morning passed as mornings ever pass where twenty women, for the

most part pretty, are met together. Some read, some drew, some worked,

all talked. Some wandered in the library, and wondered why such great

books were written. One sketched a favourite hero in the picture

gallery, a Dacre, who had saved the State or Church, had fought at

Cressy, or flourished at Windsor: another picked a flower out of the

conservatory, and painted its powdered petals. Here, a purse, half-made,

promised, when finished quite, to make some hero happy. Then there was

chat about the latest fashions, caps and bonnets, _séduisantes_, and

sleeves. As the day grew’ old, some rode, some walked, some drove. A

pony-chair was Lady Faulconcourt’s delight, whose arm was roundly turned

and graced the whip; while, on the other hand, Lady St. Jerome rather

loved to try the paces of an ambling nag, because her figure was of the

sublime; and she looked not unlike an Amazonian queen, particularly when

Lord Mildmay was her Theseus.

He was the most consummate, polished gentleman that ever issued from the

court of France. He did his friend Dacre the justice to suppose that he

was a victim to his barbarous guests; but for the rest of the galloping

crew, who rode and shot all day, and in the evening fell asleep just

when they were wanted, he shrugged his shoulders, and he thanked his

stars! In short, Lord Mildmay was the ladies’ man; and in their morning

dearth of beaux, to adopt their unanimous expression, ‘quite a host!’

Then there was archery for those who could draw a bow or point an

arrow; and we are yet to learn the sight that is more dangerous for your

bachelor to witness, or the ceremony which more perfectly develops all

that the sex would wish us to remark, than this ‘old English’ custom.

With all these resources, all was, of course, free and easy as the air.

Your appearance was your own act. If you liked, you might have remained,

like a monk or nun, in your cell till dinner-time, but no later. Privacy

and freedom are granted you in the morning, that you may not exhaust

your powers of pleasing before night, and that you may reserve for those

favoured hours all the new ideas that you have collected in the course

of your morning adventures.

But where was he, the hero of our tale? Fencing? Craning? Hitting?

Missing? Is he over, or is he under? Has he killed, or is he killed? for

the last is but the chance of war, and pheasants have the pleasure

of sometimes seeing as gay birds as themselves with plumage quite as

shattered. But there is no danger of the noble countenance of the Duke

of St. James bearing to-day any evidence of the exploits of himself or

his companions. His Grace was in one of his sublime fits, and did not

rise. Luigi consoled himself for the bore of this protracted attendance

by diddling the page-in-waiting at dominos.

The Duke of St. James was in one of his sublime fits. He had commenced

by thinking of May Dacre, and he ended by thinking of himself. He was

under that delicious and dreamy excitement which we experience when the

image of a lovely and beloved object begins to mix itself up with our

own intense self-love. She was the heroine rather of an indefinite

reverie than of definite romance. Instead of his own image alone playing

about his fancy, her beautiful face and springing figure intruded their

exquisite presence. He no longer mused merely on his own voice and wit:

he called up her tones of thrilling power; he imagined her in all the

triumph of her gay repartee. In his mind’s eye, he clearly watched all

the graces of her existence. She moved, she gazed, she smiled. Now he

was alone, and walking with her in some rich wood, sequestered,

warm, solemn, dim, feeding on the music of her voice, and gazing with

intenseness on the wakening passion of her devoted eye. Now they rode

together, scudded over champaign, galloped down hills, scampered through

valleys, all life, and gaiety, and vivacity, and spirit. Now they were

in courts and crowds; and he led her with pride to the proudest kings.

He covered her with jewels; but the world thought her brighter than his

gems. Now they met in the most unexpected and improbable manner: now

they parted with a tenderness which subdued their souls even more than

rapture. Now he saved her life: now she blessed his existence. Now his

reverie was too vague and misty to define its subject. It was a stream

of passion, joy, sweet voices, tender tones, exulting hopes, beaming

faces, chaste embraces, immortal transports!

It was three o’clock, and for the twentieth time our hero made an effort

to recall himself to the realities of life. How cold, how tame, how

lifeless, how imperfect, how inconsecutive, did everything appear! This

is the curse of reverie. But they who revel in its pleasures must bear

its pains, and are content. Yet it wears out the brain, and unfits us

for social life. They who indulge in it most are the slaves of solitude.

They wander in a wilderness, and people it with their voices. They sit

by the side of running waters, with an eye more glassy than the stream.

The sight of a human being scares them more than a wild beast does a

traveller; the conduct of life, when thrust upon their notice, seems

only a tissue of adventures without point; and, compared with the

creatures of their imagination, human nature seems to send forth only

abortions.

‘I must up,’ said the young Duke; ‘and this creature on whom I have

lived for the last eight hours, who has, in herself, been to me the

universe, this constant companion, this cherished friend, whose voice

was passion and whose look was love, will meet me with all the formality

of a young lady, all the coldness of a person who has never even thought

of me since she saw me last. Damnable delusion! To-morrow I will get up

and hunt.’

He called Luigi, and a shower-bath assisted him in taking a more healthy

view of affairs. Yet his faithful fancy recurred to her again. He must

indulge it a little. He left off dressing and flung himself in a chair.

‘And yet,’ he continued, ‘when I think of it again, there surely can

be no reason that this should not turn into a romance of real life. I

perceived that she was a little piqued when we first met at Don-caster.

Very natural! Very flattering! I should have been piqued. Certainly,

I behaved decidedly ill. But how, in the name of Heaven, was I to know

that she was the brightest little being that ever breathed! Well, I am

here now! She has got her wish. And I think an evident alteration has

already taken place. But she must not melt too quickly. She will not;

she will do nothing but what is exquisitely proper. How I do love this

child! I dote upon her very image. It is the very thing that I have

always been wanting. The women call me inconstant. I have never been

constant. But they will not listen to us without we feign feelings, and

then they upbraid us for not being influenced by them. I have sighed, I

have sought, I have wept, for what I now have found. What would she give

to know what is passing in my mind! By Heavens! there is no blood in

England that has a better chance of being a Duchess!’

CHAPTER XI.

_Le Roi S’Amuse_

A CANTER is the cure for every evil, and brings the mind back to itself

sooner than all the lessons of Chrysippus and Crantor. It is the only

process that at the same time calms the feelings and elevates the

spirits, banishes blue devils and raises one to the society of ‘angels

ever bright and fair.’ It clears the mind; it cheers the heart. It is

the best preparation for all enterprises, for it puts a man in good

humour both with the world and himself; and, whether you are going to

make a speech or scribble a scene, whether you are about to conquer the

world or yourself, order your horse. As you bound along, your wit will

brighten and your eloquence blaze, your courage grow more adamantine,

and your generous feelings burn with a livelier flame. And when the

exercise is over the excitement does not cease, as when it grows from

music, for your blood is up, and the brilliancy of your eye is fed by

your bubbling pulses. Then, my young friend, take my advice: rush into

the world, and triumph will grow out of your quick life, like Victory

bounding from the palm of Jove!

Our Duke ordered his horses, and as he rattled along recovered from the

enervating effects of his soft reverie. On his way home he fell in with

Mr. Dacre and the two Baronets, returning on their hackneys from a hard

fought field.

‘Gay sport?’ asked his Grace.

‘A capital run. I think the last forty minutes the most splitting thing

we have had for a long time!’ answered Sir Chetwode. ‘I only hope Jack

Wilson will take care of poor Fanny. I did not half like leaving her.

Your Grace does not join us?’

‘I mean to do so; but I am, unfortunately, a late riser.’

‘Hem!’ said Sir Tichborne. The monosyllable meant much.

‘I have a horse which I think will suit your Grace,’ said Mr. Dacre,

‘and to which, in fact, you are entitled, for it bears the name of your

house. You have ridden Hauteville, Sir Tichborne?’

‘Yes; fine animal!’

‘I shall certainly try his powers,’ said the Duke. ‘When is your next

field-day?’

‘Thursday,’ said Sir Tichborne; ‘but we shall be too early for you, I am

afraid,’ with a gruff smile.

‘Oh, no!’ said the young Duke, who saw his man; ‘I assure you I have

been up to-day nearly two hours. Let us get on.’

The first person that his Grace’s eye met, when he entered the room in

which they assembled before dinner, was Mrs. Dallington Vere.

Dinner was a favourite moment with the Duke of St. James during this

visit at Castle Dacre, since it was the only time in the day that,

thanks to his rank, which he now doubly valued, he could enjoy a

tête-à-tête with its blooming mistress.

‘I am going to hunt,’ said the Duke, ‘and I am to ride Hauteville. I

hope you will set me an example on Thursday, and that I shall establish

my character with Sir Tichborne.’

‘I am to lead on that day a bold band of archers. I have already too

much neglected my practising, and I fear that my chance of the silver

arrow is slight.’

‘I have betted upon you with everybody,’ said the Duke of St. James.

‘Remember Doncaster! I am afraid that May Dacre will again be the

occasion of your losing your money.’

‘But now I am on the right side. Together we must conquer.’

‘I have a presentiment that our union will not be a fortunate one.’

‘Then I am ruined,’ said his Grace with rather a serious tone.

‘I hope you have not really staked anything upon such nonsense?’ said

Miss Dacre.

‘I have staked everything,’ said his Grace.

‘Talking of stakes,’ said Lord St. Jerome, who pricked up his ears at

a congenial subject, ‘do you know what they are going to do about that

affair of Anderson’s?’

‘What does he say for himself?’ asked Sir Chetwode.

‘He says that he had no intention of embezzling the money, but that, as

he took it for granted the point could never be decided, he thought it

was against the usury laws to allow money to lie idle.’

‘That fellow has always got an answer,’ said Sir Tichborne. ‘I hate men

who have always got an answer. There is no talking common sense with

them.’

The Duke made his escape to-day, and, emboldened by his illustrious

example, Charles Faulcon, Lord St. Jerome, and some other heroes

followed, to the great disgust of Sir Chetwode and Sir Tichborne.

As the evening glided on conversation naturally fell upon the amusements

of society.

‘I am sure we are tired of dancing every night,’ said Miss Dacre. ‘I

wonder if we could introduce any novelty. What think you, Bertha? You

can always suggest.’

‘You remember the _tableaux vivants_?’ said Mrs. Dallington Vere.

‘Beautiful! but too elaborate a business, I fear, for us. We want

something more impromptu. The _tableaux_ are nothing without brilliant

and accurate costume, and to obtain that we must work at least for a

week, and then, after all, in all probability, a failure. _Ils sont trop

recherchés_,’ she said, lowering her voice to Mrs. Dallington, ‘_pour

nous ici_. They must spring out of a society used to such exhibitions.’

‘I have a costume dress here,’ said the Duke of

St. James.

‘And I have a uniform,’ said Lord Mildmay.

‘And then,’ said Mrs. Dallington, ‘there are cashmeres, and scarfs, and

jewels to be collected. I see, however, you think it impossible.’

‘I fear so. However, we will think of it. In the meantime, what shall we

do now? Suppose we act a fairy tale?’

‘None of the girls can act,’ said Mrs. Dallington, with a look of kind

pity.

‘Let us teach them. That itself will be an amusement. Suppose we act

Cinderella? There is the music of Cendrillon, and you can compose, when

necessary, as you go on. Clara Howard!’ said May Dacre, ‘come here,

love! We want you to be Cinderella in a little play.’

‘I act! oh! dear May! How can you laugh at me so! I cannot act.’

‘You will not have to speak. Only just move about as I direct you while

Bertha plays music.’

‘Oh! dear May, I cannot, indeed! I never did act. Ask Eugenia!’

‘Eugenia! If you are afraid, I am sure she will faint. I asked you

because I thought you were just the person for it.’

‘But only think,’ said poor Clara, with an imploring voice, ‘to act,

May! Why, acting is the most difficult thing in the world. Acting is

quite a dreadful thing. I know many ladies who will not act.’

‘But it is not acting, Clara. Well! I will be Cinderella, and you shall

be one of the sisters.’

‘No, dear May!’

‘Well, then, the Fairy?’ ‘No, dear, dear, dear May!’

‘Well, Duke of St. James, what am I to do with this rebellious troop?’

‘Let me be Cinderella!’

‘It is astonishing,’ said Miss Dacre, ‘the difficulty which you

encounter in England, if you try to make people the least amusing or

vary the regular dull routine, which announces dancing as the beautiful

of diversions and cards as the sublime.’

‘We are barbarians,’ said the Duke. ‘We were not,’ said May Dacre. ‘What

are _tableaux_, or acted charades, or romances, to masques, which were

the splendid and various amusement of our ancestors. Last Christmas we

performed “Comus” here with great effect; but then we had Arundel, and

he is an admirable actor.’

‘Curse Arundel!’ thought the Duke. ‘I had forgotten him.’

‘I do not wonder,’ said Mrs. Dallington Vere, ‘at people objecting to

act regular plays, for, independently of the objections, not that

I think anything of them myself, which are urged against “private

theatricals,” the fact is, to get up a play is a tremendous business,

and one or two is your bound. But masques, where there is so little

to learn by rote, a great consideration, where music and song are so

exquisitely introduced, where there is such an admirable opportunity

for brilliant costume, and where the scene may be beautiful without

change--such an important point--I cannot help wondering that this

national diversion is not revived.’

‘Suppose we were to act a romance without the costume?’ said the Duke.

‘Let us consider it a rehearsal. And perhaps the Misses Howard will have

no objection to sing?’

‘It is difficult to find a suitable romance,’ said Miss Dacre. ‘All our

modern English ones are too full of fine poetry. We tried once an old

ballad, but it was too long. Last Christmas we got up a good many, and

Arundel, Isabella, and myself used to scribble some nonsense for the

occasion. But I am afraid they are all either burnt or taken away. I

will look in the music-case.’

She went to the music-case with the Duke and Mrs. Dallington.

‘No,’ she continued; ‘not one, not a single one. But what are these?’

She looked at some lines written in pencil in a music-book. ‘Oh! here is

something; too slight, but it will do. You see,’ she continued, reading

it to the Duke, ‘by the introduction of the same line in every verse,

describing the same action, a back-scene is, as it were, created, and

the story, if you can call it such, proceeds in front. Really, I think,

we might make something of this.’

Mr. Dacre and some others were at whist. The two Baronets were together,

talking over the morning’s sport. Ecarté covered a flirtation between

Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome. Miss Dacre assembled her whole troop;

and, like a manager with a new play, read in the midst of them the

ballad, and gave them directions for their conduct. A japan screen was

unfolded at the end of the room. Two couches indicated the limits of

the stage. Then taking her guitar, she sang with a sweet voice and arch

simplicity these simpler lines:--

I.

Childe Dacre stands in his father’s hall,

While all the rest are dancing;

Childe Dacre gazes on the wall,

While brightest eyes are glancing.

Then prythee tell me, gentles gay!

What makes our Childe so dull to-day?

Each verse was repeated.

In the background they danced a cotillon.

In the front, the Duke of St. James, as Childe Dacre, leant against the

wall, with arms folded and eyes fixed; in short, in an attitude which

commanded great applause.

II.

I cannot tell, unless it be,

While all the rest are dancing,

The Lady Alice, on the sea,

With brightest eyes is glancing,

Or muses on the twilight hour

Will bring Childe Dacre to her bower.

Mrs. Dallington Vere advances as the Lady Alice. Her walk is abrupt, her

look anxious and distracted; she seems to be listening for some signal.

She falls into a musing attitude, motionless and graceful as a statue.

Clara Howard alike marvels at her genius and her courage.

III.

Childe Dacre hears the curfew chime,

While all the rest are dancing;

Unless I find a fitting rhyme,

Oh! here ends my romancing!

But see! her lover’s at her feet!

Oh! words of joy! oh! meeting sweet!

The Duke advances, chivalric passion in his every gesture. The Lady

Alice rushes to his arms with that look of trembling transport which

tells the tale of stolen love. They fall into a group which would have

made the fortune of an Annual.

IV.

Then let us hope, when next I sing,

And all the rest are dancing,

Our Childe a gentle bride may bring,

All other joys enhancing.

Then we will bless the twilight hour

That call’d him to a lady’s bower.

The Duke led Mrs. Dallington to the dancers with courtly grace. There

was great applause, but the spirit of fun and one-and-twenty inspired

him, and he led off a gallop. In fact, it was an elegant romp. The

two Baronets started from their slumbers, and Lord Mildmay called for

Mademoiselle Dacre. The call was echoed. Miss Dacre yielded to the

public voice, and acted to the life the gratified and condescending air

of a first-rate performer. Lord Mildmay called for Madame Dallington.

Miss Dacre led on her companion as Sontag would Malibran. There was no

wreath at hand, but the Duke of St. James robbed his coat of its rose,

and offered it on his knee to Mademoiselle, who presented it with

Parisian feeling to her rival. The scene was as superb as anything at

the _Académie_.

CHAPTER XII.

_An Impromptu Excursion_

‘WE CERTAINLY must have a masque,’ said the young Duke, as he threw

himself into his chair, satisfied with his performance.

‘You must open Hauteville with one,’ said Mrs. Dallington.

‘A capital idea; but we will practise at Dacre first.’

‘When is Hauteville to be finished?’ asked Mrs. Dallington. ‘I shall

really complain if we are to be kept out of it much longer. I believe I

am the only person in the Riding who has not been there.’

‘I have been there,’ said the Duke, ‘and am afraid I must go again; for

Sir Carte has just come down for a few days, and I promised to meet him.

It is a sad bore. I wish it were finished.’

‘Take me with you,’ said Mrs. Dallington; ‘take us all, and let us make

a party.’

‘An admirable idea,’ exclaimed the young Duke, with a brightening

countenance. ‘What admirable ideas you have, Mrs. Dallington! This is,

indeed, turning business into pleasure! What says our hostess?’

‘I will join you.’

‘To-morrow, then?’ said the Duke.

‘To-morrow! You are rapid!’

‘Never postpone, never prepare: that is your own rule. To-morrow,

to-morrow, all must go.’

‘Papa, will you go to-morrow to Hauteville?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Dacre: ‘we never postpone; we never prepare.’

‘But do not you think a day, at least, had better intervene?’ urged Mr.

Dacre; ‘we shall be unexpected.’

‘I vote for to-morrow,’ said the Duke.

‘To-morrow!’ was the universal exclamation. Tomorrow was carried.

‘I will write to Blanche at once,’ said the Duke.

Mrs. Dallington Vere ran for the writing materials, and his Grace

indicted the following pithy note:--

‘Half-past Ten, Castle Dacre.

‘Dear Sir Carte,

‘Our party here intend to honour Hauteville with a visit to-morrow, and

anticipate the pleasure of viewing the improvements, with yourself for

their cicerone. Let Rawdon know immediately of this. They tell me here

that the sun rises about six. As we shall not be with you till noon, I

have no doubt your united energies will be able to make all requisite

preparations. We may be thirty or forty. Believe me, dear Sir Carte,

‘Your faithful servant,

‘St. James.

‘Carlstein bears this, which you will receive in an hour. Let me have a

line by return.’

CHAPTER XIII.

_The Charms of Hauteville_

IT WAS a morning all dew and sunshine, soft yet bright, just fit for a

hawking party, for dames of high degree, feathered cavaliers, ambling

palfreys, and tinkling bells. Our friends rose early, and assembled

punctually. All went, and all went on horseback; but they sent before

some carriages for the return, in case the ladies should be wearied

with excessive pleasure. The cavalcade, for it was no less, broke into

parties which were often out of sight of each other. The Duke and

Lord St. Jerome, Clara Howard and Charles Faulcon, Miss Dacre and Mrs.

Dallington, formed one, and, as they flattered themselves, not the least

brilliant. They were all in high spirits, and his Grace lectured on

riding-habits with erudite enthusiasm.

Their road lay through a country wild and woody, where crag and copse

beautifully intermixed with patches of rich cultivation. Halfway, they

passed Rosemount, a fanciful pavilion where the Dukes of St. James

sometimes sought that elegant simplicity which was not afforded by

all the various charms of their magnificent Hauteville. At length they

arrived at the park-gate of the castle, which might itself have passed

for a tolerable mansion. It was ancient and embattled, flanked by a

couple of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the baronial

pile which it announced. The park was a petty principality; and its

apparently illimitable extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancient

woods and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the admiration even

of those who had been born in such magical enclosures.

Away they cantered over the turf, each moment with their blood more

sparkling. A turn in the road, and Hauteville, with its donjon keep and

lordly flag, and many-windowed line of long perspective, its towers, and

turrets, and terraces, bathed with the soft autumnal sun, met their glad

sight.

‘Your Majesty is welcome to my poor castle!’ said the young Duke, bowing

with head uncovered to Miss Dacre.

‘Nay, we are at the best but captive princesses about to be immured in

that fearful keep; and this is the way you mock us!’

‘I am content that you shall be my prisoner.’

‘A struggle for freedom!’ said Miss Dacre, looking back to Mrs.

Dallington, and she galloped towards the castle.

Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome cantered up, and the rest soon

assembled. Sir Carte came forward, all smiles, with a clerk of the

works bearing a portfolio of plans. A crowd of servants, for the Duke

maintained an establishment at Hauteville, advanced, and the fair

equestrians were dismounted. They shook their habits and their curls,

vowed that riding was your only exercise, and that dust in the earthly

economy was a blunder. And then they entered the castle.

Room after room, gallery after gallery; you know the rest. Shall we

describe the silk hangings and the reverend tapestry, the agate tables

and the tall screens, the china and the armour, the state beds and the

curious cabinets, and the family pictures mixed up so quaintly with

Italian and Flemish art? But we pass from meek Madonnas and seraphic

saints, from gleaming Claudes and Guidos soft as Eve, from Rubens’s

satyrs and Albano’s boys, and even from those gay and natural medleys,

paintings that cheer the heart, where fruit and flower, with their

brilliant bloom, call to a feast the butterfly and bee; we pass from

these to square-headed ancestors by Holbein, all black velvet and gold

chains; cavaliers, by Vandyke, all lace and spurs, with pointed beards,

that did more execution even than their pointed swords; patriots and

generals, by Kneller, in Blenheim wigs and Steen-kirk cravats, all

robes and armour; scarlet judges that supported ship-money, and purple

bishops, who had not been sent to the Tower. Here was a wit who had

sipped his coffee at Button’s, and there some mad Alcibiades duke who

had exhausted life ere he had finished youth, and yet might be consoled

for all his flashing follies could he witness the bright eyes that

lingered on his countenance, while they glanced over all the patriotism

and all the piety, all the illustrious courage and all the historic

craft, which, when living, it was daily told him that he had shamed. Ye

dames with dewy eyes that Lely drew! have we forgotten you? No! by that

sleepy loveliness that reminds us that night belongs to beauty, ye were

made for memory! And oh! our grandmothers, that we now look upon as

girls, breathing in Reynolds’s playful canvas, let us also pay our

homage to your grace!

The chapel, where you might trace art from the richly Gothic tomb,

designed by some neighbouring abbot, to the last effort of Flaxman;

the riding-house, where, brightly framed, looked down upon you with a

courtly smile the first and gartered duke, who had been Master of the

Horse, were alike visited, and alike admired. They mounted the summit

of the round tower, and looked around upon the broad county, which they

were proud to call their own. Amid innumerable seats, where blazed the

hearths of the best blood of England, they recognised, with delight, the

dome of Dacre and the woods of Dallington. They walked along a terrace

not unworthy of the promenade of a court; they visited the flower

gardens, where the peculiar style of every nation was in turn imitated;

they loitered in the vast conservatories, which were themselves

a palace; they wandered in the wilderness, where the invention of

consummate art presented them with the ideal of nature. In this poetic

solitude, where all was green, and still, and sweet, or where the only

sound was falling water or fluttering birds, the young Duke recurred to

the feelings which, during the last momentous week, had so mastered his

nature, and he longed to wind his arm round the beautiful being without

whom this enchanting domain was a dreary waste.

They assembled in a green retreat, where the energetic Sir Carte had

erected a marquée, and where a collation greeted the eyes of those

who were well prepared for it. Rawdon had also done his duty, and the

guests, who were aware of the sudden manner in which the whole affair

had arisen, wondered at the magic which had produced a result worthy of

a week’s preparation. But it is a great thing to be a young Duke. The

pasties, and the venison, and the game, the pines, and the peaches, and

the grapes, the cakes, and the confectionery, and the ices, which proved

that the still-room at Hauteville was not an empty name, were all most

popular. But the wines, they were marvellous! And as the finest cellars

in the country had been ransacked for excellence and variety, it is not

wonderful that their produce obtained a panegyric. There was hock of a

century old, which made all stare, though we, for our part, cannot see,

or rather taste, the beauty of this antiquity. Wine, like woman, in

our opinion, should not be too old, so we raise our altar to the infant

Bacchus; but this is not the creed of the million, nor was it the

persuasion of Sir Chetwode Chetwode or of Sir Tichborne Tichborne, good

judges both. The Johannisberger quite converted them. They no longer

disliked the young Duke. They thought him a fool, to be sure, but at the

same time a good-natured one. In the meantime, all were interested, and

Carlstein with his key bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, afforded

the only luxury that was wanting.

It is six o’clock, carriages are ordered, and horses are harnessed.

Back, back to Dacre! But not at the lively rate at which they had left

that lordly hall this morning. They are all alike inclined to move

slowly; they are silent, yet serene and satisfied; they ponder upon the

reminiscences of a delightful morning, and also of a delightful meal.

Perhaps they are a little weary; perhaps they wish to gaze upon the

sunset.

It is eight o’clock, and they enter the park gates. Dinner is

universally voted a bore, even by the Baronets. Coffee covers the

retreat of many a wearied bird to her evening bower. The rest lounge on

a couch or sofa, or chew the cud of memory on an ottoman. It was a day

of pleasure which had been pleasant. That was certain: but that was

past. Who is to be Duchess of St. James? Answer this. May Dacre, or

Bertha Vere, or Clara Howard? Lady St. Jerome, is it to be a daughter

of thy house? Lady Faulconcourt, art thou to be hailed as the unrivalled

mother?’ Tis mystery all, as must always be the future of this world. We

muse, we plan, we hope, but naught is certain but that which is naught;

for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end attained; what are

they but fit companions for clothes out of fashion, cracked china, and

broken fans?

Our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his mind was too full of

exciting fancies to think of the interests of his body. As all were

withdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace.

It was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from Rogers’ shell, and

brilliant as a phrase just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiled

from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes a

lover muse. Fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden

orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deep

and yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. It could not be the wind!

His heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. And

in this shrine, where all was like his love, immaculate and beautiful,

he vowed a faith which had not been returned. Such is the madness of

love! Such is the magic of beauty!

Music rose upon the air. Some huntsmen were practising their horns. The

triumphant strain elevated his high hopes, the tender tone accorded with

his emotions. He paced up and down the terrace in excited reverie, fed

by the music. In imagination she was with him: she spoke, she smiled,

she loved. He gazed upon her beaming countenance: his soul thrilled with

tones which, only she could utter. He pressed her to his throbbing and

tumultuous breast!

The music stopped. He fell from his seventh heaven. He felt all the

exhaustion of his prolonged reverie. All was flat, dull, unpromising.

The moon seemed dim, the stars were surely fading, the perfume of the

trees was faint, the wind of the woods was a howling demon. Exhausted,

dispirited, ay! almost desperate, with a darkened soul and staggering

pace, he regained his chamber.

CHAPTER XIV.

_Pride Has a Fall_

THERE is nothing more strange, but nothing more certain, than the

different influence which the seasons of night and day exercise upon the

moods of our minds. Him whom the moon sends to bed with a head full of

misty meaning the sun-will summon in the morning with a brain clear and

lucid as his beam. Twilight makes us pensive; Aurora is the goddess of

activity. Despair curses at midnight; Hope blesses at noon.

And the bright beams of Phoebus--why should this good old name be

forgotten?--called up our Duke rather later than a monk at matins, in

a less sublime disposition than that in which he had paced among the

orange-trees of Dacre. His passion remained, but his poetry was gone. He

was all confidence, and gaiety, and love, and panted for the moment when

he could place his mother’s coronet on the only head that was worthy to

share the proud fortunes of the house of Hauteville.

‘Luigi, I will rise. What is going on to-day?’ ‘The gentlemen are all

out, your Grace.’

‘And the ladies?’

‘Are going to the Archery Ground, your Grace.’

‘Ah! she will be there, Luigi?’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘My robe, Luigi.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘I forgot what I was going to say. Luigi!’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

‘Luigi, Luigi, Luigi,’ hummed the Duke, perfectly unconscious, and

beating time with his brush. His valet stared, but more when his lord,

with eyes fixed on the ground, fell into a soliloquy, not a word of

which, most provokingly, was audible, except to my reader.

‘How beautiful she looked yesterday upon the keep when she tried to

find Dacre! I never saw such eyes in my life! I must speak to Lawrence

immediately. I think I must have her face painted in four positions,

like that picture of Lady Alice Gordon by Sir Joshua. Her full face

is sublime; and yet there is a piquancy in the profile, which I am not

sure--and yet again, when her countenance is a little bent towards you,

and her neck gently turned, I think that is, after all--but then

when her eyes meet yours, full! oh! yes! yes! yes! That first look at

Doncaster! It is impressed upon my brain like self-consciousness. I

never can forget it. But then her smile! When she sang on Tuesday

night! By Heavens!’ he exclaimed aloud, ‘life with such a creature is

immortality!’

About one o’clock the Duke descended into empty chambers. Not a soul

was to be seen. The birds had flown. He determined to go to the Archery

Ground. He opened the door of the music-room.

He found Miss Dacre alone at a table, writing. She looked up, and his

heart yielded as her eye met his.

‘You do not join the nymphs?’ asked the Duke.

‘I have lent my bow,’ she said, ‘to an able substitute.’

She resumed her task, which he perceived was copying music. He advanced,

he seated himself at the table, and began playing with a pen. He gazed

upon her, his soul thrilled with unwonted sensations, his frame shook

with emotions which, for a moment, deprived him even of speech. At

length he spoke in a low and tremulous tone:--

‘I fear I am disturbing you, Miss Dacre?’

‘By no means,’ she said, with a courteous air; and then, remembering she

was a hostess, ‘Is there anything that you require?’

‘Much; more than I can hope. O Miss Dacre! suffer me to tell you how

much I admire, how much I love you!’

She started, she stared at him with distended eyes, and her small mouth

was open like a ring.

‘My Lord!’

‘Yes!’ he continued in a rapid and impassioned tone. ‘I at length

find an opportunity of giving way to feelings which it has been long

difficult for me to control. O beautiful being! tell me, tell me that I

am blessed!’

‘My Lord! I--I am most honoured; pardon me if I say, most surprised.’

‘Yes! from the first moment that your ineffable loveliness rose on

my vision my mind has fed upon your image. Our acquaintance has only

realised, of your character, all that my imagination had preconceived,

Such unrivalled beauty, such unspeakable grace, could only have been

the companions of that exquisite taste and that charming delicacy which,

even to witness, has added great felicity to my existence. Oh! tell

me--tell me that they shall be for me something better than a transient

spectacle. Condescend to share the fortune and the fate of one who only

esteems his lot in life because it enables him to offer you a station

not utterly unworthy of your transcendent excellence!’

‘I have permitted your Grace to proceed too far. For your--for my own

sake, I should sooner have interfered, but, in truth, I was so astounded

at your unexpected address that I have but just succeeded in recalling

my scattered senses. Let me again express to you my acknowledgments for

an honour which I feel is great; but permit me to regret that for your

offer of your hand and fortune these acknowledgments are all I can

return.’

‘Miss Dacre! am I then to wake to the misery of being rejected?’

‘A little week ago, Duke of St. James, we were strangers. It would be

hard if it were in the power of either of us now to deliver the other to

misery.’

‘You are offended, then, at the presumption which, on so slight an

acquaintance, has aspired to your hand. It is indeed a high possession.

I thought only of you, not of myself. Your perfections require no time

for recognition. Perhaps my imperfections require time for indulgence.

Let me then hope!’

‘You have misconceived my meaning, and I regret that a foolish phrase

should occasion you the trouble of fresh solicitude, and me the pain of

renewed refusal. In a word, it is not in my power to accept your hand.’

He rose from the table, and stifled the groan which struggled in his

throat. He paced up and down the room with an agitated step and a

convulsed brow, which marked the contest of his passions. But he was

not desperate. His heart was full of high resolves and mighty meanings,

indefinite but great, He felt like some conqueror, who, marking the

battle going against him, proud in his infinite resources and invincible

power, cannot credit the madness of a defeat. And the lady, she leant

her head upon her delicate arm, and screened her countenance from his

scrutiny.

He advanced.

‘Miss Dacre! pardon this prolonged intrusion; forgive this renewed

discourse. But let me only hope that a more favoured rival is the cause

of my despair, and I will thank you----’

‘My Lord Duke,’ she said, looking up with a faint blush, but with a

flashing eye, and in an audible and even energetic tone, ‘the question

you ask is neither fair nor manly; but, as you choose to press me, I

will say that it requires no recollection of a third person to make me

decline the honour which you intended me.’

‘Miss Dacre! you speak in anger, almost in bitterness. Believe me,’ he

added, rather with an air of pique, ‘had I imagined from your conduct

towards me that I was an object of dislike, I would have spared you this

inconvenience and myself this humiliation.’

‘At Castle Dacre, my conduct to all its inmates is the same. The Duke

of St. James, indeed, hath both hereditary and personal claims to be

considered here as something better than a mere inmate; but your Grace

has elected to dissolve all connection with our house, and I am not

desirous of assisting you in again forming any.’

‘Harsh words, Miss Dacre!’

‘Harsher truth, my Lord Duke,’ said Miss Dacre, rising from her seat,

and twisting a pen with agitated energy. ‘You have prolonged this

interview, not I. Let it end, for I am not skilful in veiling my mind;

and I should regret, here at least, to express what I have hitherto

succeeded in concealing.’

‘It cannot end thus,’ said his Grace: ‘let me, at any rate, know the

worst. You have, if not too much kindness, at least too much candour, to

part sol’ ‘I am at a loss to understand,’ said Miss Dacre, ‘what other

object our conversation can have for your Grace than to ascertain my

feelings, which I have already declared more than once, upon a point

which you have already more than once urged. If I have not been

sufficiently explicit or sufficiently clear, let me tell you, sir, that

nothing but the request of a parent whom I adore would have induced me

even to speak to the person who had dared to treat him with contempt.’

‘Miss Dacre!’

‘You are moved, or you affect to be moved. ‘Tis well: if a word from a

stranger can thus affect you, you may be better able to comprehend the

feelings of that person whose affections you have so long outraged; your

equal in blood, Duke of St. James, your superior in all other respects.’

‘Beautiful being!’ said his Grace, advancing, falling on his knee, and

seizing her hand. ‘Pardon, pardon, pardon! Like your admirable sire,

forgive; cast into oblivion all remembrance of my fatal youth. Is not

your anger, is not this moment, a bitter, an utter expiation for all

my folly, all my thoughtless, all my inexperienced folly; for it was

no worse? On my knees, and in the face of Heaven, let me pray you to be

mine. I have staked my happiness upon this venture. In your power is my

fate. On you it depends whether I shall discharge my duty to society,

to the country to which I owe so much, or whether I shall move in it

without an aim, an object, or a hope. Think, think only of the sympathy

of our dispositions; the similarity of our tastes. Think, think only of

the felicity that might be ours. Think of the universal good we might

achieve! Is there anything that human reason could require that we could

not command? any object which human mind could imagine that we could not

obtain? And, as for myself, I swear that I will be the creature of your

will. Nay, nay! oaths are mockery, vows are idle! Is it possible to

share existence with you, beloved girl! without watching for your every

wish, without--’

‘My Lord Duke, this must end. You do not recommend yourself to me by

this rhapsody. What do you know of me, that you should feel all this? I

may be different from what you expected; that is all. Another week, and

another woman may command a similar effusion. I do not believe you to

be insincere. There would be more hope for you if you were. You act

from impulse, and not from principle. This is your best excuse for your

conduct to my father. It is one that I accept, but which will certainly

ever prevent me from becoming your wife. Farewell!’ ‘Nay, nay! let us

not part in enmity!’ ‘Enmity and friendship are strong words; words

that are much abused. There is another, which must describe our feelings

towards the majority of mankind, and mine towards you. Substitute for

enmity indifference.’

She quitted the room: he remained there for some minutes, leaning on the

mantelpiece, and then rushed into the park. He hurried for some distance

with the rapid and uncertain step which betokens a tumultuous and

disordered mind. At length he found himself among the ruins of Dacre

Abbey. The silence and solemnity of the scene made him conscious, by the

contrast, of his own agitated existence; the desolation of the beautiful

ruin accorded with his own crushed and beautiful hopes. He sat himself

at the feet of the clustered columns, and, covering his face with his

hands, he wept.

They were the first tears that he had shed since childhood, and they

were agony. Men weep but once, but then their tears are blood. We think

almost their hearts must crack a little, so heartless are they ever

after. Enough of this.

It is bitter to leave our fathers hearth for the first time; bitter is

the eve of our return, when a thousand fears rise in our haunted souls.

Bitter are hope deferred, and self-reproach, and power unrecognised.

Bitter is poverty; bitterer still is debt. It is bitter to be neglected;

it is more bitter to be misunderstood. It is bitter to lose an only

child. It is bitter to look upon the land which once was ours. Bitter is

a sister’s woe, a brother’s scrape; bitter a mother’s tear, and bitterer

still a father’s curse. Bitter are a briefless bag, a curate’s bread, a

diploma that brings no fee. Bitter is half-pay!

It is bitter to muse on vanished youth; it is bitter to lose an

election or a suit. Bitter are rage suppressed, vengeance unwreaked, and

prize-money kept back. Bitter are a failing crop, a glutted market, and

a shattering spec. Bitter are rents in arrear and tithes in kind.

Bitter are salaries reduced and perquisites destroyed. Bitter is a tax,

particularly if misapplied; a rate, particularly if embezzled. Bitter is

a trade too full, and bitterer still a trade that has worn out. Bitter

is a bore!

It is bitter to lose one’s hair or teeth. It is bitter to find our

annual charge exceed our income. It is bitter to hear of others’ fame

when we are boys. It is bitter to resign the seals we fain would keep.

It is bitter to hear the winds blow when we have ships at sea, or

friends. Bitter are a broken friendship and a dying love. Bitter a woman

scorned, a man betrayed!

Bitter is the secret woe which none can share. Bitter are a brutal

husband and a faithless wife, a silly daughter and a sulky son. Bitter

are a losing card, a losing horse. Bitter the public hiss, the private

sneer. Bitter are old age without respect, manhood without wealth, youth

without fame. Bitter is the east wind’s blast; bitter a stepdame’s kiss.

It is bitter to mark the woe which we cannot relieve. It is bitter to

die in a foreign land.

But bitterer far than this, than these, than all, is waking from our

first delusion! For then we first feel the nothingness of self; that

hell of sanguine spirits. All is dreary, blank, and cold. The sun of

hope sets without a ray, and the dim night of dark despair shadows only

phantoms. The spirits that guard round us in our pride have gone. Fancy,

weeping, flies. Imagination droops her glittering pinions and sinks into

the earth. Courage has no heart, and love seems a traitor. A busy demon

whispers in our ear that all is vain and worthless, and we among the

vainest of a worthless crew!

And so our young friend here now depreciated as much as he had before

exaggerated his powers. There seemed not on the earth’s face a more

forlorn, a more feeble, a less estimable wretch than himself, but just

now a hero. O! what a fool, what a miserable, contemptible fool was he!

With what a light tongue and lighter heart had he spoken of this woman

who despised, who spurned him! His face blushed, ay! burnt, at

the remembrance of his reveries and his fond monologues! the very

recollection made him shudder with disgust. He looked up to see if any

demon were jeering him among the ruins.

His heart was so crushed that hope could not find even one desolate

chamber to smile in. His courage was so cowed that, far from indulging

in the distant romance to which, under these circumstances, we sometimes

fly, he only wondered at the absolute insanity which, for a moment, had

permitted him to aspire to her possession. ‘Sympathy of dispositions!

Similarity of tastes, forsooth! Why, we are different existences! Nature

could never have made us for the same world or with the same clay! O

consummate being! why, why did we meet? Why, why are my eyes at

length unsealed? Why, why do I at length feel conscious of my utter

worthlessness? O God! I am miserable!’ He arose and hastened to the

house. He gave orders to Luigi and his people to follow him to Rosemount

with all practicable speed, and having left a note for his host with the

usual excuse, he mounted his horse, and in half an hour’s time, with a

countenance like a stormy sea, was galloping through the park gates of

Dacre.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

_‘If She Be Not Fair For Me.’_

THE day after the arrival of the Duke of St. James at Cleve Park,

his host, Sir Lucius Grafton, received the following note from Mrs.

Dallington Vere:

‘Castle Dacre,-------, 182--.

‘My dear Baronet,

‘Your pigeon has flown, otherwise I should have tied this under his

wing, for I take it for granted he is trained too dexterously to alight

anywhere but at Cleve.

‘I confess that in this affair your penetration has exceeded mine.

I hope throughout it will serve you as well. I kept my promise, and

arrived here only a few hours after him. The prejudice which I had long

observed in the little Dacre against your protégé was too marked

to render any interference on my part at once necessary, nor did I

anticipate even beginning to give her good advice for a month to come.

Heaven knows what a month of his conduct might have done! A month

achieves such wonders! And, to do him justice, he was most agreeable;

but our young gentleman grew impetuous, and so the day before yesterday

he vanished, and in the most extraordinary manner! Sudden departure,

unexpected business, letter and servants both left behind; Monsieur

grave, and a little astonished; and the demoiselle thoughtful at the

least, but not curious. Very suspicious this last circumstance! A flash

crossed my mind, but I could gain nothing, even with my most dexterous

wiles, from the little Dacre, who is a most unmanageable heroine.

However, with the good assistance of a person who in a French tragedy

would figure as my confidante, and who is the sister of your Lachen,

something was learnt from Monsieur le valet, to say nothing of the page.

All agree; a countenance pale as death, orders given in a low voice

of suppressed passion and sundry oaths. I hear he sulked the night at

Rosemount.

‘Now, my good Lucy, listen to me. Lose no time about the great object.

If possible, let this autumn be distinguished. You have an idea that our

friend is a very manageable sort of personage; in phrase less courteous,

is sufficiently weak for all reasonable purposes. I am not quite so

clear about this. He is at present very young, and his character is

not formed; but there is a something about him which makes me half fear

that, if you permit his knowledge of life to increase too much, you may

quite fear having neglected my admonitions. At present his passions are

high. Use his blood while it is hot, and remember that if you count on

his rashness you may, as nearly in the present instance, yourself rue

it. In a word, despatch. The deed that is done, you know--

‘My kindest remembrances to dear Lady Afy, and tell her how much

I regret I cannot avail myself of her most friendly invitation.

Considering, as I know, she hates me, I really do feel flattered.

‘You cannot conceive what Vandals I am at present among! Nothing but my

sincere regard for you, my much-valued friend, would induce me to stay

here a moment. I have received from the countenance of the Dacres all

the benefit which a marked connection with so respectable and so moral

a family confers, and I am tired to death. But it is a well-devised plan

to have a reserve in the battles of society. You understand me; and I

am led to believe that it has had the best effect, and silenced even the

loudest. “Confound their politics!” as dear little Squib says, from whom

I had the other day the funniest letter, which I have half a mind to

send you, only you figure in it so much!

‘Burlington is at Brighton, and all my friends, except yourself. I

have a few barbarians to receive at Dallington, and then I shall be off

there. Join us as quickly as you can. Do you know, I think that it would

be an excellent _locale_ for the _scena_. We might drive them over to

Dieppe: only do not put off your visit too long, or else there will be

no steamers.

‘The Duke of Shropshire has had a fit, but rallied. He vows he was only

picking up a letter, or tying his shoestring, or something of that kind;

but Ruthven says he dined off _boudins à la Sefton_, and that, after a

certain age, you know--

‘Lord Darrell is with Annesley and Co. I understand, most friendly

towards me, which is pleasant; and Charles, who is my firm ally, takes

care to confirm the kind feeling. I am glad about this.

‘Felix Crawlegh, or Crawl_ey_, as some say, has had an affair with Tommy

Seymour, at Grant’s. Felix was grand about porter, or something, which

he never drank, and all that. Tommy, Who knew nothing about the brewing

father, asked him, very innocently, why malt liquors had so degenerated.

Conceive the agony, particularly as Lady Selina is said to have no

violent aversion to quartering her arms with a mash-tub, argent.

‘The Macaronis are most hospitable this year; and the Marquess says that

the only reason that they kept in before was because he was determined

to see whether economy was practicable. He finds it is not; so now

expense is no object.

‘Augustus Henley is about to become a senator! What do you think of

this? He says he has tried everything for an honest livelihood, and even

once began a novel, but could not get on; which, Squib says, is odd,

because there is a receipt going about for that operation which saves

all trouble:

‘“Take a pair of pistols and a pack of cards, a cookery-book and a

set of new quadrilles; mix them up with half an intrigue and a whole

marriage, and divide them into three equal portions.” Now, as Augustus

has both fought and gamed, dined and danced, I suppose it was the

morality which posed him, or perhaps the marriage.

‘They say there is something about Lady Flutter, but, I should think,

all talk. Most probably a report set about by her Ladyship. Lord Flame

has been blackballed, that is certain. But there is no more news, except

that the Wiltshires are going to the Continent: we know why; and that

the Spankers are making more dash than ever: God knows how! Adieu!

‘B. D. V.’

The letter ended; all things end at last. A she-correspondent for our

money; provided always that she does not _cross_.

Our Duke--in spite of his disgrace, he still is ours, and yours too, I

hope, gentlest reader--our Duke found himself at Cleve Park again, in a

different circle from the one to which he had been chiefly accustomed.

The sporting world received him with open arms. With some of these

worthies, as owner of Sanspareil, he had become slightly acquainted.

But what is half a morning at Tattersall’s, or half a week at Doncaster,

compared with a meeting at Newmarket? There your congenial spirits

congregate. Freemasons every man of them! No uninitiated wretch there

dares to disturb, with his profane presence, the hallowed mysteries.

There the race is not a peg to hang a few days of dissipation on, but

a sacred ceremony, to the celebration of which all men and all

circumstances tend and bend. No balls, no concerts, no public

breakfasts, no bands from Litolf, no singers from Welsh, no pineapples

from Gunter, are there called for by thoughtless thousands, who have

met, not from any affection for the turfs delights or their neighbour’s

cash, but to sport their splendid liveries and to disport their showy

selves.

The house was full of men, whose talk was full of bets. The women were

not as bad, but they were not plentiful. Some lords and signors were

there without their dames. Lord Bloomerly, for instance, alone, or

rather with his eldest son, Lord Bloom, just of age, and already a

knowing hand. His father introduced him to all his friends with that

smiling air of self-content which men assume when they introduce a

youth who may show the world what they were at his years; so the Earl

presented the young Viscount as a lover presents his miniature to his

mistress. Lady Afy shone in unapproached perfection. A dull Marchioness,

a _gauche_ Viscountess, and some other dames, who did not look like the

chorus of this Diana, acted as capital foils, and permitted her to meet

her cavalier under what are called the most favourable auspices.

They dined, and discussed the agricultural interest in all its exhausted

ramifications. Wheat was sold over again, even at a higher price;

poachers were recalled to life, or from beyond seas, to be re-killed or

re-transported. The poor-laws were a very rich topic, and the poor lands

a very ruinous one. But all this was merely the light conversation, just

to vary, in an agreeable mode, which all could understand, the regular

material of discourse, and that was of stakes and stallions, pedigrees

and plates.

Our party rose early, for their pleasure was their business. Here were

no lounging dandies and no exclusive belles, who kept their bowers until

hunger, which also drives down wolves from the Pyrenees, brought them

from their mystical chambers to luncheon and to life. In short, an

air of interest, a serious and a thoughtful look, pervaded every

countenance. Fashion was kicked to the devil, and they were all too much

in earnest to have any time for affectation. Breakfast was over, and

it was a regular meal at which all attended, and they hurried to

the course. It seems, when the party arrive, that they are the only

spectators. A party or two come on to keep them company. A club

discharges a crowd of gentlemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. At length

a sprinkling of human beings is collected, but all is wondrous still and

wondrous cold. The only thing that gives sign of life is Lord Breedall’s

movable stand; and the only intimation that fire is still an element is

the sailing breath of a stray cigar.

‘This, then, is Newmarket!’ exclaimed the young Duke. ‘If it required

five-and-twenty thousand pounds to make Doncaster amusing, a plum, at

least, will go in rendering Newmarket endurable.’

But the young Duke was wrong. There was a fine race, and the

connoisseurs got enthusiastic. Sir Lucius Grafton was the winner. The

Duke sympathised with his friend’s success.

He began galloping about the course, and his blood warmed. He paid a

visit to Sanspareil. He heard his steed was still a favourite for a

coming race. He backed his steed, and Sanspareil won. He began to find

Newmarket not so disagreeable. In a word, our friend was in an entirely

new scene, which was exactly the thing he required. He was interested,

and forgot, or rather forcibly expelled from his mind, his late

overwhelming adventure. He grew popular with the set. His courteous

manners, his affable address, his gay humour, and the facility with

which he adopted their tone and temper, joined with his rank and wealth,

subdued the most rugged and the coldest hearts. Even the jockeys were

civil to him, and welcomed him with a sweet smile and gracious nod,

instead of the sour grin and malicious wink with which those characters

generally greet a stranger; those mysterious characters who, in their

influence over their superiors, and their total want of sympathy with

their species, are our only match for the oriental eunuch.

He grew, we say, popular with the set. They were glad to see among them

a young nobleman of spirit. He became a member of the Jockey Club, and

talked of taking a place in the neighbourhood. All recommended the

step, and assured him of their readiness to dine with him as often as

he pleased. He was a universal favourite; and even Chuck Farthing,

the gentleman jockey, with a cock-eye and a knowing shake of his head,

squeaked out, in a sporting treble, one of his monstrous fudges about

the Prince in days of yore, and swore that, like his Royal Highness, the

young Duke made the Market all alive.

The heart of our hero was never insensible to flattery. He could not

refrain from comparing his present with his recent situation. The

constant consideration of all around him, the affectionate cordiality of

Sir Lucius, and the unobtrusive devotion of Lady Afy, melted his soul.

These agreeable circumstances graciously whispered to him each hour that

he could scarcely be the desolate and despicable personage which lately,

in a moment of madness, he had fancied himself. He began to indulge the

satisfactory idea, that a certain person, however unparalleled in form

and mind, had perhaps acted with a little precipitation. Then his eyes

met those of Lady Aphrodite; and, full of these feelings, he exchanged a

look which reminded him of their first meeting; though now, mellowed by

gratitude, and regard, and esteem, it was perhaps even more delightful.

He was loved, and he was loved by an exquisite being, who was the object

of universal admiration. What could he desire more? Nothing but the

wilfulness of youth could have induced him for a moment to contemplate

breaking chains which had only been formed to secure his felicity. He

determined to bid farewell for ever to the impetuosity of youth. He

had not been three days under the roof of Cleve before he felt that his

happiness depended upon its fairest inmate. You see, then, that absence

is not always fatal to love!