_Sir Lucius Drops the Mask_
THE fête at ‘the Pavilion,’ such was the title of the Twickenham Villa,
though the subject of universal interest, was anticipated by no one
with more eager anxiety than by Sir Lucius Grafton; for that day, he
determined, should decide the fate of the Duke of St. James. He was
sanguine as to the result, nor without reason. For the last month he
had, by his dark machinery, played desperately upon the feelings of
Lady Aphrodite; and more than once had she despatched rapid notes to her
admirer for counsel and for consolation. The Duke was more skilful in
soothing her griefs than in devising expedients for their removal. He
treated the threatened as a distant evil! and wiped away her tears in a
manner which is almost an encouragement to weep.
At last the eventful morn arrived, and a scorching sun made those exult
to whom the barge and the awning promised a progress equally calm
and cool. Woe to the dusty britzska! woe to the molten furnace of the
crimson cabriolet!
They came, as the stars come out from the heavens, what time the sun
is in his first repose: now a single hero, brilliant as a planet; now a
splendid party, clustering like a constellation. Music is on the
waters and perfume on the land; each moment a barque glides up with its
cymbals, each moment a cavalcade bright with bouquets!
Ah, gathering of brightness! ah, meeting of lustre! why, why are you to
be celebrated by one so obscure and dull as I am? Ye Lady Carolines
and ye Lady Franceses, ye Lady Barbaras and ye Lady Blanches, is it my
fault?
O, graceful Lord Francis, why, why have you left us; why, why have you
exchanged your Ionian lyre for an Irish harp? You were not made for
politics; leave them to clerks. Fly, fly back to pleasure, to frolic,
and fun! Confess, now, that you sometimes do feel a little queer. We say
nothing of the difference between May Fair and Donnybrook.
And thou, too, Luttrell, gayest bard that ever threw off a triplet amid
the clattering of cabs and the chattering of clubs, art thou, too, mute?
Where, where dost thou linger? Is our Druid among the oaks of Ampthill;
or, like a truant Etonian, is he lurking among the beeches of Burnham?
What! has the immortal letter, unlike all other good advice, absolutely
not been thrown away? or is the jade incorrigible? Whichever be the
case, you need not be silent. There is yet enough to do, and yet enough
to instruct. Teach us that wealth is not elegance; that profusion is not
magnificence; and that splendour is not beauty. Teach us that taste is
a talisman which can do greater wonders than the millions of the
loanmonger. Teach us that to vie is not to rival, and to imitate not
to invent. Teach us that pretension is a bore. Teach us that wit is
excessively good-natured, and, like champagne, not only sparkles, but
is sweet. Teach us the vulgarity of malignity. Teach us that envy
spoils our complexions, and that anxiety destroys our figure. Catch the
fleeting colours of that sly chameleon, Cant, and show what excessive
trouble we are ever taking to make ourselves miserable and silly. Teach
us all this, and Aglaia shall stop a crow in its course and present
you with a pen, Thalia hold the golden fluid in a Sèvres vase, and
Euphrosyne support the violet-coloured scroll.
The four hosts greeted the arrivals and assisted the disembarkations,
like the famous four sons of Aymon.
They were all dressed alike, and their costume excited great attention.
At first it was to have been very plain, black and white and a single
rose; but it was settled that simplicity had been overdone, and, like
a country girl after her first season, had turned into a most affected
baggage, so they agreed to be regal; and fancy uniforms, worthy of the
court of Oberon, were the order of the day. We shall not describe them,
for the description of costume is the most inventive province of our
historical novelists, and we never like to be unfair, or trench upon
our neighbour’s lands or rights; but the Alhambra button indicated a
mystical confederacy, and made the women quite frantic with curiosity.
The guests wandered through the gardens, always various, and now a
paradise of novelty. There were four brothers, fresh from the wildest
recesses of the Carpathian Mount, who threw out such woodnotes wild that
all the artists stared; and it was universally agreed that, had they not
been French chorus-singers, they would have been quite a miracle. But
the Lapland sisters were the true prodigy, who danced the Mazurka in
the national style. There was also a fire-eater; but some said he would
never set the river in flames, though he had an antidote against all
poisons! But then our Mithridates always tried its virtues on a stuffed
poodle, whose bark evinced its vitality. There also was a giant in the
wildest part of the shrubbery, and a dwarf, on whom the ladies showered
their sugarplums, and who, in return, offered them tobacco. But it
was not true that the giant sported stilts, or that the dwarf was a
sucking-babe. Some people are so suspicious. Then a bell rang, and
assembled them in the concert-room; and the Bird of Paradise who to-day
was consigned to the cavaliership of Peacock Piggott, condescended to
favour them with a new song, which no one had ever heard, and which,
consequently, made them feel more intensely all the sublimity of
exclusiveness. Shall we forget the panniers of shoes which Melnotte had
placed in every quarter of the gardens? We will say nothing of
Maradan’s cases of caps, because, for this incident, Lord Bagshot is our
authority.
On a sudden, it seemed that a thousand bugles broke the blue air,
and they were summoned to a déjeûner in four crimson tents worthy of
Sardanapalus.
Over each waved the scutcheon of the president. Glittering were the
glories of the hundred quarterings of the house of Darrell. ‘_Si non è
vero è ben trovato_,’ was the motto. Lord Darrell’s grandfather had been
a successful lawyer. Lord Squib’s emblazonry was a satire on its owner.
‘_Holdfast_’ was the motto of a man who had let loose. Annesley’s
simple shield spoke of the Conquest; but all paled before the banner of
the house of Hauteville, for it indicated an alliance with royalty. The
attendants of each pavilion wore the livery of its lord.
Shall we attempt to describe the delicacy of this banquet, where
imagination had been racked for novel luxury? Through the centre of each
table ran a rivulet of rose-water, and gold and silver fish glanced in
its unrivalled course. The bouquets were exchanged every half-hour, and
music soft and subdued, but constant and thrilling, wound them up by
exquisite gradations to that pitch of refined excitement which is so
strange a union of delicacy and voluptuousness, when the soul, as it
were, becomes sensual, and the body, as it were, dissolves into spirit.
And in this choice assembly, where all was youth, and elegance, and
beauty, was it not right that every sound should be melody, every sight
a sight of loveliness, and every thought a thought of pleasure?
They arose and re-assembled on the lawn, where they found, to their
surprise, had arisen in their absence a Dutch Fair. Numerous were the
booths, innumerable were the contents. The first artists had arranged
the picture and the costumes; the first artists had made the trinkets
and the toys. And what a very agreeable fair, where all might suit their
fancy without the permission of that sulky tyrant, a purse! All were in
excellent humour, and no false shame prevented them from plundering
the stalls. The noble proprietors set the example. Annesley offered a
bouquet of precious stones to Charlotte Bloomerly, and it was accepted,
and the Duke of St. James showered a sack of whimsical breloques among a
scrambling crowd of laughing beauties. Among them was Miss Dacre. He had
not observed her. Their eyes met, and she smiled. It seemed that he had
never felt happiness before.
Ere the humours of the fair could be exhausted they were summoned to the
margin of the river, where four painted and gilded galleys, which
might have sailed down the Cydmus, and each owning its peculiar chief,
prepared to struggle for pre-eminence in speed. All betted; and the
Duke, encouraged by the smile, hastened to Miss Dacre to try to win back
some of his Doncaster losses, but Arundel Dacre had her arm in his,
and she was evidently delighted with his discourse. His Grace’s blood
turned, and he walked away.
It was sunset when they returned to the lawn, and then the ball-room
presented itself; but the twilight was long, and the night was warm;
there were no hateful dews, no odious mists, and therefore a great
number danced on the lawn. The fair was illuminated, and all the little
_marchandes_ and their lusty porters walked about in their costume.
The Duke again rallied his courage, and seeing Arundel Dacre with
Mrs. Dallington Vere, he absolutely asked Miss Dacre to dance. She was
engaged. He doubted, and walked into the house disconsolate; yet, if he
had waited one moment, he would have seen Sir Lucius Grafton rejoin
her, and lead her to the cotillon that was forming on the turf. The Duke
sauntered to Lady Aphrodite, but she would not dance; yet she did
not yield his arm, and proposed a stroll. They wandered away to the
extremity of the grounds. Fainter and fainter grew the bursts of the
revellers, yet neither of them spoke much, for both were dull.
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Yet at length her Ladyship did speak, and amply made up for her previous
silence. All former scenes, to this, were but as the preface to the
book. All she knew and all she dreaded, all her suspicions, all her
certainties, all her fears, were poured forth in painful profusion. This
night was to decide her fate. She threw herself on his mercy, if he had
forgotten his love. Out dashed all those arguments, all those
appeals, all those assertions, which they say are usual under these
circumstances. She was a woman; he was a man. She had staked her
happiness on this venture; he had a thousand cards to play. Love, and
first love, with her, as with all women, was everything; he and all men,
at the worst, had a thousand resources. He might plunge into politics,
he might game, he might fight, he might ruin himself in innumerable
ways, but she could only ruin herself in one. Miserable woman! Miserable
sex! She had given him her all. She knew it was little: would she had
more! She knew she was unworthy of him: would she were not! She did not
ask him to sacrifice himself to her: she could not expect it; she did
not even desire it. Only, she thought he ought to know exactly the state
of affairs and of consequences, and that certainly if they were parted,
which assuredly they would be, most decidedly she would droop, and fade,
and die. She wept, she sobbed; his entreaties alone seemed to prevent
hysterics.
These scenes are painful at all times, and even the callous, they say,
have a twinge; but when the actress is really beautiful and pure, as
this lady was, and the actor young and inexperienced and amiable, as
this actor was, the consequences are more serious than is usual. The
Duke of St. James was unhappy, he was discontented, he was dissatisfied
with himself. He did not love this lady, if love were the passion which
he entertained for Miss Dacre, but she loved him. He knew that she was
beautiful, and he was convinced that she was excellent. The world
is malicious, but the world had agreed that Lady Aphrodite was an
unblemished pearl: yet this jewel was reserved for him! Intense
gratitude almost amounted to love. In short, he had no idea at this
moment that feelings are not in our power. His were captive, even if
entrapped. It was a great responsibility to desert this creature, the
only one from whom he had experienced devotion. To conclude: a season
of extraordinary dissipation, to use no harsher phrase, had somewhat
exhausted the nervous powers of our hero; his energies were deserting
him; he had not heart or heartlessness enough to extricate himself from
this dilemma. It seemed that if this being to whom he was indebted for
so much joy were miserable, he must be unhappy; that if she died, life
ought to have, could have, no charms for him. He kissed away her tears,
he pledged his faith, and Lady Aphrodite Grafton was his betrothed!
She wonderfully recovered. Her deep but silent joy seemed to repay him
even for this bitter sacrifice. Compared with the late racking of his
feelings, the present calm, which was merely the result of suspense
being destroyed, seemed happiness. His conscience whispered approbation,
and he felt that, for once, he had sacrificed himself to another.
They re-entered the villa, and he took the first opportunity of
wandering alone to the least frequented parts of the grounds: his mind
demanded solitude, and his soul required soliloquy.
‘So the game is up! truly a most lame and impotent conclusion! And this,
then, is the result of all my high fancies and indefinite aspirations!
Verily, I am a very distinguished hero, and have not abused my
unrivalled advantages in the least. What! am I bitter on myself? There
will be enough to sing my praises without myself joining in this chorus
of congratulation. O! fool! fool! Now I know what folly is. But barely
fifteen months since I stepped upon these shores, full of hope and full
of pride; and now I leave them; how? O! my dishonoured fathers! Even my
posterity, which God grant I may not have, will look on my memory with
hatred, and on hers with scorn!
‘Well, I suppose we must live for ourselves. We both of us know the
world; and Heaven can bear witness that we should not be haunted by any
uneasy hankering after what has brought us such a heartache. If it were
for love, if it were for--but away! I will not profane her name; if
it were for her that I was thus sacrificing myself. I could bear it,
I could welcome it. I can imagine perfect and everlasting bliss in the
sole society of one single being, but she is not that being. Let me not
conceal it; let me wrestle with this bitter conviction!
‘And am I, indeed, bound to close my career thus; to throw away all
hope, all chance of felicity, at my age, for a point of honour? No, no;
it is not that. After all, I have experienced that with her, and from
her, which I have with no other woman; and she is so good, so gentle,
and, all agree, so lovely! How infinitely worse would her situation be
if deserted, than mine is as her perpetual companion! The very thought
makes my heart bleed. Yes! amiable, devoted, dearest Afy, I throw aside
these morbid feelings; you shall never repent having placed your trust
in me. I will be proud and happy of such a friend, and you shall be mine
for ever!’
A shriek broke on the air: he started. It was near: he hastened after
the sound. He entered into a small green glade surrounded by shrubs,
where had been erected a fanciful hermitage. There he found Sir Lucius
Grafton on his knees, grasping the hand of the indignant but terrified
Miss Dacre. The Duke rushed forward; Miss Dacre ran to meet him; Sir
Lucius rose.
‘This lady, Sir Lucius Grafton, is under my protection,’ said the young
Duke, with a flashing eye but a calm voice. She clung to his arm; he
bore her away. The whole was the affair of an instant.
The Duke and his companion proceeded in silence. She tried to hasten,
but he felt her limbs shake upon his arm. He stopped: no one, not even
a servant, was near. He could not leave her for an instant. There she
stood trembling, her head bent down, and one hand clasping the other,
which rested on his arm. Terrible was her struggle, but she would not
faint, and at length succeeded in repressing her emotions. They were yet
a considerable way from the house. She motioned with her left hand
to advance; but still she did not speak. On they walked, though more
slowly, for she was exhausted, and occasionally stopped for breath or
strength.
At length she said, in a faint voice, ‘I cannot join the party. I must
go home directly. How can it be done?’
‘Your companions?’ said the Duke.
‘Are of course engaged, or not to be found; but surely somebody I know
is departing. Manage it: say I am ill.’
‘O, Miss Dacre! if you knew the agony of my mind!’
‘Do not speak; for Heaven’s sake, do not speak!’
He turned off from the lawn, and approached by a small circuit the gate
of the ground. Suddenly he perceived a carriage on the point of going
off. It was the Duchess of Shropshire’s.
‘There is the Duchess of Shropshire! You know her; but not a minute is
to be lost. There is such a noise, they will not hear. Are you afraid to
stop here one instant by yourself? I shall not be out of sight, and not
away a second. I run very quick.’
‘No, no, I am not afraid. Go, go!’
Away rushed the Duke of St. James as if his life were on his speed. He
stopped the carriage, spoke, and was back in an instant.
‘Lean, lean on me with all your strength. I have told everything
necessary to Lady Shropshire. Nobody will speak a word, because they
believe you have a terrible headache. I will say everything necessary
to Mrs. Dallington and your cousin. Do not give yourself a moment’s
uneasiness. And, oh! Miss Dacre! if I might say one word!’
She did not stop him.
‘If,’ continued he, ‘it be your wish that the outrage of to-night should
be known only to myself and him, I pledge my word it shall be so; though
willingly, if I were authorised, I would act a different part in this
affair.’
‘It is my wish.’ She spoke in a low voice, with her eyes still upon the
ground. ‘And I thank you for this, and for all.’
They had now joined the Shropshires; but it was now discovered Miss
Dacre had no shawl: and sundry other articles were wanting, to the
evident dismay of the Ladies Wrekin. They offered theirs, but their
visitor refused, and would not allow the Duke to fetch her own. Off they
drove; but when they had proceeded above half a mile, a continued shout
on the road, which the fat coachman for a long time would not hear,
stopped them, and up came the Duke of St. James, covered with dust, and
panting like a racer, with Miss Dacre’s shawl.