CHAPTER XVIII.

_Joys of the Alhambra_

THE Duke threw himself into his carriage in that mood which fits us

for desperate deeds. What he intended to do, indeed, was doubtful,

but something very vigorous, very decided, perhaps very terrible. An

indefinite great effort danced, in misty magnificence, before the vision

of his mind. His whole being was to be changed, his life was to be

revolutionised. Such an alteration was to take place that even she could

not doubt the immense yet incredible result. Then despair whispered its

cold-blooded taunts, and her last hopeless words echoed in his ear. But

he was too agitated to be calmly miserable, and, in the poignancy of his

feelings, he even meditated death. One thing, however, he could obtain;

one instant relief was yet in his power, solitude. He panted for the

loneliness of his own chamber, broken only by his agitated musings.

The carriage stopped; the lights and noise called him to life. This,

surely, could not be home? Whirled open the door, down dashed the steps,

with all that prompt precision which denotes the practised hand of an

aristocratic retainer. (284)

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

‘Your Grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and some gentlemen sup with your

Grace to-night at the Alhambra.’

‘Impossible! Drive home.’

‘Your Grace perhaps forgets that your Grace is expected?’ said the

experienced servant, who knew when to urge a master, who, to-morrow,

might blame him for permitting his caprice.

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

He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was just over, and some parties

who were not staying the ballet, had already assembled there. As he

passed along he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, who would not let such

a capital opportunity escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young Duke

together.

‘Mr. Bulkley,’ said her Ladyship, ‘there must be something wrong about

the carriage.’ An experienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in

society by being always ready and knowing his cue, resigned the arm of

Lady Caroline St. Maurice and disappeared.

‘George,’ said Lady Fitz-pompey, ‘give your arm to Carry just for one

moment.’

If it had been anybody but his cousin, the Duke would easily have

escaped; but Caroline he invariably treated with marked regard; perhaps

because his conscience occasionally reproached him that he had not

treated her with a stronger feeling. At this moment, too, she was

the only being in the world, save one, whom he could remember with

satisfaction: he felt that he loved her most affectionately, but somehow

she did not inspire him with those peculiar feelings which thrilled his

heart at the recollection of May Dacre.

In this mood he offered an arm, which was accepted; but he could not in

a moment assume the tone of mind befitting his situation and the scene.

He was silent; for him a remarkable circumstance.

‘Do not stay here,’ said Lady Caroline is a soft voice, which her mother

could not overhear. ‘I know you want to be away. Steal off.’

‘Where can I be better than with you, Carry?’ said the young Duke,

determined not to leave her, and loving her still more for her modest

kindness; and thereon he turned round, and, to show that he was sincere,

began talking with his usual spirit. Mr. Bulkley of course never

returned, and Lady Fitz-pompey felt as satisfied with her diplomatic

talents as a plenipotentiary who has just arranged an advantageous

treaty.

Arundel Dacre came up and spoke to Lady Fitz-pompey. Never did two

persons converse together who were more dissimilar in their manner and

their feelings; and yet Arundel Dacre did contrive to talk; a result

which he could not always accomplish, even with those who could

sympathise with him. Lady Fitz-pompey listened to him with attention;

for Arundel Dacre, in spite of his odd manner, or perhaps in some degree

in consequence of it, had obtained a distinguished reputation both among

men and women; and it was the great principle of Lady Fitz-pompey to

attach to her the distinguished youth of both sexes. She was pleased

with this public homage of Arundel Dacre; because he was one who, with

the reputation of talents, family, and fashion, seldom spoke to anyone,

and his attentions elevated their object. Thus she maintained her

empire.

St. Maurice now came up to excuse himself to the young Duke for not

attending at the Alhambra to-night. ‘Sophy could not bear it,’ he

whispered: ‘she had got her head full of the most ridiculous fancies,

and it was in vain to speak: so he had promised to give up that, as well

as Crockford’s.’

This reminded our hero of his party, and the purpose of his entering the

opera. He determined not to leave Caroline till her carriage was called;

and he began to think that he really must go to the Alhambra, after all.

He resolved to send them off at an early hour.

‘Anything new to-night, Henry?’ asked his Grace, of Lord St. Maurice. ‘I

have just come in.’

‘Oh! then you have seen them?’

‘Seen whom?’

‘The most knowing _forestieri_ we ever had. We have been speaking of

nothing else the whole evening. Has not Caroline told you? Arundel Dacre

introduced me to them.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I forget their names. Dacre, how do you call the heroes of the night?

Dacre never answers. Did you ever observe that? But, see! there they

come.’

The Duke turned, and observed Lord Darrell advancing with two gentlemen

with whom his Grace was well acquainted. These were Prince Charles de

Whiskerburg and Count Frill.

M. de Whiskerburg was the eldest son of a prince, who, besides being

the premier noble of the empire, possessed, in his own country, a very

pretty park of two or three hundred miles in circumference, in the

boundaries of which the imperial mandate was not current, but hid its

diminished head before the supremacy of a subject worshipped under the

title of John the Twenty-fourth. M. de Whiskerburg was a young man,

tall, with a fine figure, and fine features. In short, a sort of

Hungarian Apollo; only his beard, his mustachios, his whiskers,

his _favoris_, his _padishas_, his sultanas, his mignonettas, his

dulcibellas, did not certainly entitle him to the epithet of _imberbis_,

and made him rather an apter representative of the Hungarian Hercules.

Count Frill was a different sort of personage. He was all rings and

ringlets, ruffles, and a little rouge. Much older than his companion,

short in stature, plump in figure, but with a most defined waist, fair,

blooming, with a multiplicity of long light curls, and a perpetual smile

playing upon his round countenance, he looked like the Cupid of an opera

Olympus.

The Duke of St. James had been intimate with these distinguished

gentlemen in their own country, and had received from them many and

distinguished attentions. Often had he expressed to them his sincere

desire to greet them in his native land. Their mutual anxiety of never

again meeting was now removed. If his heart, instead of being bruised,

had been absolutely broken, still honour, conscience, the glory of his

house, his individual reputation, alike urged him not to be cold or

backward at such a moment. He advanced, therefore, with a due mixture

of grace and warmth, and congratulated them on their arrival. At this

moment, Lady Fitz-pompey’s carriage was announced. Promising to return

to them in an instant, he hastened to his cousin; but Mr. Arundel Dacre

had already offered his arm, which, for Arundel Dacre, was really pretty

well.

The Duke was now glad that he had a small reunion this evening, as he

could at once pay a courtesy to his foreign friends. He ran into the

Signora’s dressing-room, to assure her of his presence. He stumbled

upon Peacock Piggott as he came out, and summoned him to fill the vacant

place of St. Maurice, and then sent him with a message to some friends

who yet lingered in their box, and whose presence, he thought, might be

an agreeable addition to the party.

You entered the Alhambra by a Saracenic cloister, from the ceiling of

which an occasional lamp threw a gleam upon some Eastern arms hung up

against the wall. This passage led to the armoury, a room of moderate

dimensions, but hung with rich contents. Many an inlaid breastplate,

many a Mameluke scimitar and Damascus blade, many a gemmed pistol

and pearl-embroidered saddle, might there be seen, though viewed in a

subdued and quiet light. All seemed hushed, and still, and shrouded in

what had the reputation of being a palace of pleasure.

In this chamber assembled the expected guests. And having all arrived,

they proceeded down a small gallery to the banqueting-room. The room

was large and lofty. It was fitted up as an Eastern tent. The walls

were hung with scarlet cloth, tied up with ropes of gold. Round the room

crouched recumbent lions richly gilt, who grasped in their paws a lance,

the top of which was a coloured lamp. The ceiling was emblazoned with

the Hauteville arms, and was radiant with burnished gold. A cresset lamp

was suspended from the centre of the shield, and not only emitted an

equable flow of soft though brilliant light, but also, as the aromatic

oil wasted away, distilled an exquisite perfume.

The table blazed with golden plate, for the Bird of Paradise loved

splendour. At the end of the room, under a canopy and upon a throne, the

shield and vases lately executed for his Grace now appeared. Everything

was gorgeous, costly, and imposing; but there was no pretence, save

in the original outline, at maintaining the Oriental character. The

furniture was French; and opposite the throne Canova’s Hebe, bounded

with a golden cup from a pedestal of ormolu.

The guests are seated; but after a few minutes the servants withdraw.

Small tables of ebony and silver, and dumb waiters of ivory and gold,

conveniently stored, are at hand, and Spiridion never leaves the room.

The repast was refined, exquisite, various. It was one of those meetings

where all eat. When a few persons, easy and unconstrained, unencumbered

with cares, and of dispositions addicted to enjoyment, get together at

past midnight, it is extraordinary what an appetite they evince. Singers

also are proverbially prone to gourmandise; and though the Bird of

Paradise unfortunately possessed the smallest mouth in all Singingland,

it is astonishing how she pecked! But they talked as well as feasted,

and were really gay.

‘Prince,’ said the Duke, ‘I hope Madame de Harestein approves of your

trip to England?’

The Prince only smiled, for he was of a silent disposition, and

therefore wonderfully well suited his travelling companion.

‘Poor Madame de Harestein!’ exclaimed Count Frill. ‘What despair she was

in, when you left Vienna, my dear Duke. I did what I could to amuse her.

I used to take my guitar, and sing to her morning and night, but without

effect. She certainly would have died of a broken heart, if it had not

been for the dancing-dogs.’

‘Did they bite her?’ asked a lady who affected the wit of Lord Squib,

‘and so inoculate her with gaiety.’

‘Everybody was mad about the dancing-dogs. They came from Peru, and

danced the mazurka in green jackets with a _jabot_. Oh! what a _jabot!_’

‘I dislike animals excessively,’ remarked another lady, who was as

refined as Mr. Annesley, her model.

‘Dislike the dancing-dogs!’ said Count Frill. ‘Ah! my good lady, you

would have been enchanted. Even the Kaiser fed them with pistachio nuts.

Oh! so pretty! Delicate leetle things, soft shining little legs, and

pretty little faces! so sensible, and with such _jabots!_’

‘I assure you they were excessively amusing,’ said the Prince, in a

soft, confidential undertone to his neighbour, Mrs. Montfort, who was as

dignified as she was beautiful, and who, admiring his silence, which she

took for state, smiled and bowed with fascinating condescension.

‘And what else has happened very remarkable, Count, since I left you?’

asked Lord Darrell.

‘Nothing, nothing, my dear Darrell. This _bêtise_ of a war has made

us all serious. If old Clamstandt had not married that gipsy, little

Dugiria, I really think I should have taken a turn to Belgrade.’

‘You should not eat so much, Poppet!’ drawled Charles Annesley to

a Spanish danseuse, tall, dusky and lithe, glancing like a lynx and

graceful as a jennet. She was very silent, but no doubt indicated

the possession of Cervantic humour by the sly calmness with which she

exhausted her own waiter, and pillaged her neighbours.

‘Why not?’ said a little French actress, highly finished like a

miniature, who scarcely ate anything, but drank champagne and chatted

with equal rapidity and composure, and who was always ready to fight

anybody’s battle, provided she could get an opportunity to talk. ‘Why

not, Mr. Annesley? You never will let anybody eat. I never eat myself,

because every night, having to talk so much, I am dry, dry, dry; so

I drink, drink, drink. It is an extraordinary thing that there is no

language which makes you so thirsty as French.’

‘What can be the reason?’ asked a sister of Mrs. Montfort, a tall fair

girl, who looked sentimental, but was only silly.

‘Because there is so much salt in it,’ said Lord Squib.

‘Delia,’ drawled Mr. Annesley, ‘you look very pretty to-night!’

‘I am charmed to charm you, Mr. Annesley. Shall I tell you what Lord Bon

Mot said of you?’

‘No, _ma mignonne!_ I never wish to hear my own good things.’

‘Spoiled, you should add,’ said the fair rival of Lord Squib, ‘if Bon

Mot be in the case.’

‘Lord Bon Mot is a most gentlemanlike man,’ said Delia, indignant at

an admirer being attacked. ‘He always wants to be amusing. Whenever he

dines out, he comes and sits with me for half an hour to catch the air

of the Parisian badinage.’

‘And you tell him a variety of little things?’ asked Lord Squib,

insidiously drawing out the secret tactics of Bon Mot.

‘_Beaucoup, beaucoup_,’ said Delia, extending two little white hands

sparkling with gems. ‘If he come in ever so, how do you call it? heavy,

not that: in the domps. Ah! it is that. If ever he come in the domps, he

goes out always like a _soufflée_.’

‘As empty, I have no doubt,’ said the witty lady.

‘And as sweet, I have no doubt,’ said Lord Squib; ‘for Delcroix

complains sadly of your excesses, Delia.’

‘Mr. Delcroix complain of me! That, indeed, is too bad. Just because I

recommend Montmorency de Versailles to him for an excellent customer,

ever since he abuses me, merely because Montmorency has forgot, in the

hurry of going off, to pay his little account.’

‘But he says you have got all the things,’ said Lord Squib, whose great

amusement was to put Delia in a passion.

‘What of that?’ screamed the little lady. ‘Montmorency gave them me.’

‘Don’t make such a noise,’ said the Bird of Paradise. ‘I never can eat

when there is a noise. Duke,’ continued she in a fretful tone, ‘they

make such a noise!’

‘Annesley, keep Squib quiet.’

‘Delia, leave that young man alone. If Isidora would talk a little

more, and you eat a little more, I think you would be the most agreeable

little ladies I know. Poppet! put those bonbons in your pocket. You

should never eat sugarplums in company.’

Thus, talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agreeable dishes, and sipping

agreeable wines, an hour ran on. Sweetest music from an unseen source

ever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a censer full of perfumes

round the chamber. At length the Duke requested Count Frill to give them

a song. The Bird of Paradise would never sing for pleasure, only for

fame and a slight cheque. The Count begged to decline, and at the same

time asked for a guitar. The Signora sent for hers; and his Excellency,

preluding with a beautiful simper, gave them some slight thing to this

effect.

I.

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!

What a gay little girl is charming Bignetta!

She dances, she prattles,

She rides and she rattles;

But she always is charming, that charming Bignetta!

II

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!

What a wild little witch is charming Bignetta!

When she smiles, I’m all madness;

When she frowns, I’m all sadness;

But she always is smiling, that charming Bignetta!

III.

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!

What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta!

She laughs at my shyness,

And flirts with his Highness;

Yet still she is charming, that charming Bignetta!

IV.

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetta!

What a dear little girl is charming Bignetta!

‘Think me only a sister,’

Said she trembling: I kissed her.

What a charming young sister is charming Bignetta!

To choicer music chimed his gay guitar ‘In Este’s Halls,’ yet still his

song served its purpose, for it raised a smile.

‘I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha, at the Congress of Verona,’ said

Count Frill. ‘It has been thought amusing.’

‘Madame Sapiepha!’ exclaimed the Bird of Paradise. ‘What! that pretty

little woman, who has such pretty caps?’

‘The same! Ah! what caps! what taste!’

‘You like caps, then?’ asked the Bird of Paradise, with a sparkling eye.

‘Oh! if there be anything more than another that I know most, it is the

cap. Here,’ said he, rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, ‘you see

what lace I have got.’

‘Ah me! what lace!’ exclaimed the Bird, in rapture. ‘Duke, look at his

lace. Come here, sit next to me. Let me look at that lace.’ She examined

it with great attention, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a

fascinating smile. ‘_Ah! c’est jolie, n’est-ce pas?_ But you like caps.

I tell you what, you shall see my caps. Spiridion, go, _mon cher_, and

tell Ma’amselle to bring my caps, all my caps, one of each set.’

In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps, all the caps, one of each

set. As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a

panegyric upon each.

‘That is pretty, is it not, and this also? but this is my favourite.

What do you think of this border? _c’est belle cette garniture? et

ce jabot, c’est très-séduisant, n’est-ce pas? Mais voici_, the cap of

Princess Lichtenstein. _C’est superb, c’est mon favori_. But I also love

very much this of the Duchess de Berri. She gave me the pattern herself.

And, after, all, this _cornette à petite santé_ of Lady Blaze is a dear

little thing; then, again, this _coiffe à dentelle_ of Lady Macaroni is

quite a pet.’

‘Pass them down,’ said Lord Squib; ‘we want to look at them.’

Accordingly they were passed down. Lord Squib put one on.

‘Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty?’ asked his Lordship. The

example was contagious, and most of the caps were appropriated. No one

laughed more than their mistress, who, not having the slightest idea of

the value of money, would have given them all away on the spot; not from

any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance that tomorrow she

might amuse half an hour in buying others.

Whilst some were stealing, and she remonstrating, the Duke clapped

his hands like a caliph. The curtain at the end of the apartment was

immediately withdrawn, and the ball-room stood revealed.

It was the same size as the banqueting-hall. Its walls exhibited a long

perspective of golden pilasters, the frequent piers of which were of

looking-glass, save where, occasionally, a picture had been, as it were,

inlaid in its rich frame. Here was the Titian Venus of the Tribune,

deliciously copied by a French artist: there, the Roman Fornarina, with

her delicate grace, beamed like the personification of Raf-faelle’s

genius. Here, Zuleikha, living in the light and shade of that magician

Guercino, in vain summoned the passions of the blooming Hebrew: and

there, Cleopatra, preparing for her last immortal hour, proved by what

we saw that Guido had been a lover.

The ceiling of this apartment was richly painted, and richly gilt: from

it were suspended three lustres by golden cords, which threw a softened

light upon the floor of polished and curiously inlaid woods. At the end

of the apartment was an orchestra.

Round the room waltzed the elegant revellers. Softly and slowly, led by

their host, they glided along like spirits of air; but each time that

the Duke passed the musicians, the music became livelier, and the motion

more brisk, till at length you might have mistaken them for a college of

spinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted couple retreated from the

lists. Some threw themselves on a sofa, some monopolised an easy chair;

but in twenty minutes the whirl had ceased. At length Peacock Piggott

gave a groan, which denoted returning energy, and raised a stretching

leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, upon his foot, one of

the Bird’s sublime and beautiful caps.

‘Halloa! Piggott, armed _cap-au-pied_, I see,’ said Lord Squib. This

joke was a signal for general resuscitation.

The Alhambra formed a quadrangle: all the chambers were on the basement

story. In the middle of the court of the quadrangle was a beautiful

fountain; and the court was formed by a conservatory, which was built

along each side of the interior square, and served, like a cloister

or covered way, for a communication between the different parts of the

building. To this conservatory they now repaired. It was broad, full

of rare and delicious plants and flowers, and brilliantly illuminated.

Busts and statues were intermingled with the fairy grove; and a rich,

warm hue, by a skilful arrangement of coloured lights, was thrown over

many a nymph and fair divinity, many a blooming hero and beardless god.

Here they lounged in different parties, talking on such subjects as

idlers ever fall upon; now and then plucking a flower, now and then

listening to the fountain, now and then lingering over the distant

music, and now and then strolling through a small apartment which opened

to their walks, and which bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. Here,

Canova’s Venus breathed an atmosphere of perfume and of light; that

wonderful statue, whose full-charged eye is not very classical, to be

sure; but then, how true!

While they were thus whiling away their time, Lord Squib proposed a

visit to the theatre, which he had ordered to be lit up. To the theatre

they repaired. They rambled over every part of the house, amused

themselves with a visit to the gallery, and then collected behind the

scenes. They were excessively amused with the properties; and Lord Squib

proposed they should dress themselves. In a few minutes they were all

in costume. A crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and chimney-sweeps,

lawyers and Charleys, Spanish Dons, and Irish officers, rushed upon

the stage. The little Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into magnificent

attitudes, with her sword and plume. Lord Squib was the old woman of

Brentford, and very funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin; and Darrell,

Grimaldi. The Prince, and the Count without knowing it, figured as

watchmen. Squib whispered Annesley, that Sir Lucius O’Trigger might

appear in character, but was prudent enough to suppress the joke.

The band was summoned, and they danced quadrilles with infinite spirit,

and finished the night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by breakfasting

on the stage. By the time this meal was despatched the purple light of

morn had broken into the building, and the ladies proposed an immediate

departure.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

_Pen Bronnock Palace_

THE arrival of the two distinguished foreigners reanimated the dying

season. All vied in testifying their consideration, and the Duke of St.

James exceeded all. He took them to see the alterations at Hauteville

House, which no one had yet witnessed; and he asked their opinion of his

furniture, which no one had yet decided on. Two fêtes in the same week

established, as well as maintained, his character as the Archduke of

fashion. Remembering, however, the agreeable month which he had spent in

the kingdom of John the Twenty-fourth, he was reminded, with annoyance,

that his confusion at Hauteville prevented him from receiving his

friends _en grand seigneur_ in his hereditary castle. Metropolitan

magnificence, which, if the parvenu could not equal, he at least could

imitate, seemed a poor return for the feudal splendour and impartial

festivity of an Hungarian magnate. While he was brooding over these

reminiscences, it suddenly occurred to him that he had never made a

progress into his western territories. Pen Bronnock Palace was the boast

of Cornwall, though its lord had never paid it a visit. The Duke of St.

James sent for Sir Carte Blanche.

Besides entertaining the foreign nobles, the young Duke could no longer

keep off the constantly-recurring idea that something must be done to

entertain himself. He shuddered to think where and what he should have

been been, had not these gentlemen so providentially arrived. As for

again repeating the farce of last year, he felt that it would no longer

raise a smile. Yorkshire he shunned. Doncaster made him tremble. A

week with the Duke of Burlington at Marringworth; a fortnight with the

Fitz-pompeys at Malthorpe; a month with the Graftons at Cleve; and so

on: he shuddered at the very idea. Who can see a pantomime more than

once? Who could survive a pantomime the twentieth time? All the shifting

scenes, and flitting splendour; all the motley crowds of sparkling

characters; all the quick changes, and full variety, are, once,

enchantment. But when the splendour is discovered to be monotony; the

change, order, and the caprice a system; when the characters play ever

the same part, and the variety never varies; how dull, how weary, how

infinitely flat, is such a world to that man who requires from its

converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant excitement!

Pen Bronnock was a new object. At this moment in his life, novelty was

indeed a treasure. If he could cater for a month, no expense should be

grudged; as for the future, he thrust it from his mind. By taking up his

residence, too, at Pen Bronnock, he escaped from all invitations;

and so, in a word, the worthy Knight received orders to make all

preparations at the palace for the reception of a large party in the

course of three weeks.

Sir Carte, as usual, did wonders. There was, fortunately for his

employer, no time to build or paint, but some dingy rooms were hung with

scarlet cloth; cart-loads of new furniture were sent down; the theatre

was re-burnished; the stables put in order; and, what was of infinitely

more importance in the estimation of all Englishmen, the neglected pile

was ‘well aired.’

CHAPTER II.

_A Dandy From Vienna_

WE ARE in the country, and such a country, that even in Italy we think

of thee, native Hesperia! Here, myrtles grow, and fear no blasting

north, or blighting east. Here, the south wind blows with that soft

breath which brings the bloom to flesh. Here, the land breaks in gentle

undulations; and here, blue waters kiss a verdant shore. Hail! to thy

thousand bays, and deep-red earth, thy marble quarries, and thy silver

veins! Hail! to thy far-extending landscape, whose sparkling villages

and streaky fields no clime can match!

Some gales we owe to thee of balmy breath, some gentle hours when life

had fewest charms. And we are grateful for all this, to say nothing of

your cider and your junkets.

The Duke arrived just as the setting sun crowned the proud palace with

his gleamy rays. It was a pile which the immortal Inigo had raised in

sympathy with the taste of a noble employer, who had passed his

earliest years in Lombardy. Of stone, and sometimes even of marble, with

pediments and balustrades, and ornamental windows, and richly-chased

keystones, and flights of steps, and here and there a statue, the

structure was quite Palladian, though a little dingy, and, on the whole,

very imposing.

There were suites of rooms which had no end, and staircases which had no

beginning. In this vast pile, nothing was more natural than to lose your

way, an agreeable amusement on a rainy morning. There was a collection

of pictures, very various, by which phrase we understand not select.

Yet they were amusing; and the Canalettis were unrivalled. There was a

regular ball-room, and a theatre; so resources were at hand. The scenes,

though dusty, were numerous; and the Duke had provided new dresses. The

park was not a park; by which we mean, that it was rather a chase than

the highly-finished enclosure which we associate with the first title.

In fact, Pen Bronnock Chase was the right name of the settlement; but

some monarch travelling, having been seized with a spasm, recruited his

strength under the roof of his loyal subject, then the chief seat of the

House of Hauteville, and having in his urgency been obliged to hold a

privy council there, the supreme title of palace was assumed by right.

The domain was bounded on one side by the sea; and here a yacht and

some slight craft rode at anchor in a small green bay, and offered an

opportunity for the adventurous, and a refuge for the wearied. When you

have been bored for an hour or two on earth, it sometimes is a change to

be bored for an hour or two on water.

The house was soon full, and soon gay. The guests, and the means

of amusing them, were equally numerous. But this was no common

_villeggiatura_, no visit to a family with their regular pursuits and

matured avocations. The host was as much a guest as any other. The young

Duke appointed Lord Squib master of the ceremonies, and gave orders

for nothing but constant excitement. Constant excitement his Lordship

managed to maintain, for he was experienced, clever, careless and gay,

and, for once in his life, had the command of unbounded resources. He

ordered, he invented, he prepared, and he expended. They acted, they

danced, they sported, they sailed, they feasted, they masqueraded; and

when they began to get a little wearied of themselves, and their own

powers of diversion gradually vanished, then a public ball was given

twice a week at the palace, and all the West of England invited. New

faces brought new ideas; new figures brought new fancies. All were

delighted with the young Duke, and flattery from novel quarters will for

a moment whet even the appetite of the satiated. Simplicity, too, can

interest. There were some Misses Gay-weather who got unearthed, who

never had been in London, though nature had given them sparkling eyes

and springing persons. This tyranny was too bad. Papa was quizzed, mamma

flattered, and the daughters’ simplicity amused these young lordlings.

Rebellion was whispered in the small ears of the Gay weathers. The

little heads, too, of the Gay-weathers were turned. They were the

constant butt, and the constant resource, of every lounging dandy.

The Bird of Paradise also arranged her professional engagements so as

to account with all possible propriety for her professional visit at Pen

Bronnock. The musical meeting at Exeter over, she made her appearance,

and some concerts were given, which electrified all Cornwall. Count

Frill was very strong here; though, to be sure, he also danced, and

acted, in all varieties. He was the soul, too, of a masqued ball; but

when complimented on his accomplishments, and thanked for his exertions,

he modestly depreciated his worth, and panegyrised the dancing-dogs.

As for the Prince, on the whole, he maintained his silence; but it

was at length discovered by the fair sex that he was not stupid, but

sentimental. When this was made known he rather lost ground with the

dark sex, who, before thinking him thick, had vowed that he was a

devilish good fellow; but now, being really envious, had their tale

and hint, their sneer and sly joke. M. de Whiskerburg had one active

accomplishment; this was his dancing. His gallopade was declared to

be divine: he absolutely sailed in air. His waltz, at his will, either

melted his partner into a dream, or whirled her into a frenzy! Dangerous

M. de Whiskerburg!

CHAPTER III.

_‘A Little Rift.’_

IT IS said that the conduct of refined society, in a literary point of

view, is, on the whole, productive but of slight interest; that all we

can aspire to is, to trace a brilliant picture of brilliant manners;

and that when the dance and the festival have been duly inspired by the

repartee and the sarcasm, and the gem, the robe, and the plume adroitly

lighted up by the lamp and the lustre, our cunning is exhausted. And so

your novelist generally twists this golden thread with some substantial

silken cord, for use, and works up, with the light dance, and with the

heavy dinner, some secret marriage, and some shrouded murder. And thus,

by English plots and German mysteries, the page trots on, or jolts,

till, in the end, Justice will have her way, and the three volumes are

completed.

A plan both good and antique, and also popular, but not our way. We

prefer trusting to the slender incidents which spring from out our

common intercourse. There is no doubt that that great pumice-stone,

Society, smooths down the edges of your thoughts and manners. Bodies of

men who pursue the same object must ever resemble each other: the life

of the majority must ever be imitation. Thought is a labour to which few

are competent; and truth requires for its development as much courage as

acuteness. So conduct becomes conventional, and opinion is a legend; and

thus all men act and think alike.

But this is not peculiar to what is called fashionable life, it is

peculiar to civilisation, which gives the passions less to work upon.

Mankind are not more heartless because they are clothed in ermine; it is

that their costume attracts us to their characters, and we stare because

we find the prince or the peeress neither a conqueror nor a heroine. The

great majority of human beings in a country like England glides through

existence in perfect ignorance of their natures, so complicated and so

controlling is the machinery of our social life! Few can break the bonds

that tie them down, and struggle for self-knowledge; fewer, when

the talisman is gained, can direct their illuminated energies to the

purposes with which they sympathise.

A mode of life which encloses in its circle all the dark and deep

results of unbounded indulgence, however it may appear to some who

glance over the sparkling surface, does not exactly seem to us one

either insipid or uninteresting to the moral speculator; and, indeed, we

have long been induced to suspect that the seeds of true sublimity lurk

in a life which, like this book, is half fashion and half passion.

We know not how it was, but about this time an unaccountable, almost

an imperceptible, coolness seemed to spring up between our hero and the

Lady Aphrodite. If we were to puzzle our brains for ever, we could not

give you the reason. Nothing happened, nothing had been said or done,

which could indicate its origin. Perhaps this _was_ the origin; perhaps

the Duke’s conduct had become, though unexceptionable, too negative.

But here we only throw up a straw. Perhaps, if we must go on suggesting,

anxiety ends in callousness.

His Grace had thought so much of her feelings, that he had quite

forgotten his own, or worn them out. Her Ladyship, too, was perhaps

a little disappointed at the unexpected reconciliation. When we have

screwed our courage up to the sticking point, we like not to be baulked.

Both, too, perhaps--we go on _perhapsing_--both, too, we repeat,

perhaps, could not help mutually viewing each other as the cause of much

mutual care and mutual anxiousness. Both, too, perhaps, were a little

tired, but without knowing it. The most curious thing, and which would

have augured worst to a calm judge, was, that they silently seemed

to agree not to understand that any alteration had really taken place

between them, which, we think, was a bad sign: because a lover’s

quarrel, we all know, like a storm in summer, portends a renewal of warm

weather or ardent feelings; and a lady is never so well seated in her

admirer’s heart as when those betters are interchanged which express so

much, and those explanations entered upon which explain so little.

And here we would dilate on greater things than some imagine; but,

unfortunately, we are engaged. For Newmarket calls Sir Lucius and his

friends. We will not join them, having lost enough. His Grace half

promised to be one of the party; but when the day came, just remembered

the Shropshires were expected, and so was very sorry, and the rest. Lady

Aphrodite and himself parted with warmth which remarkably contrasted

with their late intercourse, and which neither of them could decide

whether it were reviving affection or factitious effort. M. de

Whiskerburg and Count Frill departed with Sir Lucius, being extremely

desirous to be initiated in the mysteries of the turf, and, above all,

to see a real English jockey.

CHAPTER IV.

_Satiety._

THE newspapers continued to announce the departures of new visitors to

the Duke of St. James, and to dilate upon the protracted and princely

festivity of Pen Bron-nock. But while thousands were envying his lot,

and hundreds aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of our

hero?

A month or two had rolled on and if he had not absolutely tasted

enjoyment, at least he had thrown off reflection; but as the autumn wore

away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the

repetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, he

could no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and those

feelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one who

was receiving the homage of an admiring world. In a word, the Duke of

St. James was the most miserable wretch that ever lived.

‘Where is this to end?’ he asked himself. ‘Is this year to close, to

bring only a repetition of the past? Well, I have had it all, and what

is it? My restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetites

are at length exhausted. I have known this mighty world, and where am

I? Once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the

tremulous and panting lust with which I sighed for it. Have I been

deceived? Have I been disappointed? Is it different from what I

expected? Has it fallen short of my fancy? Has the dexterity of my

musings deserted me? Have I under-acted the hero of my reveries? Have

I, in short, mismanaged my début? Have I blundered? No, no, no! Far, far

has it gone beyond even my imagination, and _my_ life has, if no other,

realised its ideas!

‘Who laughs at me? Who does not burn incense before my shrine? What

appetite have I not gratified? What gratification has proved bitter? My

vanity! Has it been, for an instant, mortified? Am I not acknowledged

the most brilliant hero of the most brilliant society in Europe? Intense

as is my self-love, has it not been gorged? Luxury and splendour were my

youthful dreams, and have I not realised the very romance of indulgence

and magnificence? My career has been one long triumph. My palaces, and

my gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equipages, my

horses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when I

could only meditate; and have my determinations proved a delusion? Ask

the admiring world.

‘And now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which all

this was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight,

to honour. Woman! Oh! when I first dared, among the fields of Eton,

to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fancy, that some day my existence

might perhaps be rendered more intense, by the admiration of these

maddening but then mysterious creatures; could, could I have dreamt of

what has happened? Is not this the very point in which my career has

most out-topped my lofty hopes?

‘I have read, and sometimes heard, of _satiety_. It must then be satiety

that I feel; for I do feel more like a doomed man, than a young noble

full of blood and youth. And yet, satiety; it is a word. What then? A

word is breath, and am I wiser? Satiety! Satiety! Satiety! Oh! give me

happiness! Oh! give me love!

‘Ay! there it is, I feel it now. Too well I feel that happiness must

spring from purer fountains than self-love. We are not born merely for

ourselves, and they who, full of pride, make the trial, as I have done,

and think that the world is made for them, and not for mankind, must

come to as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate; for, by Heavens! I

am half tempted at this moment to fling myself from off this cliff, and

so end all.

‘Why should I live? For virtue, and for duty; to compensate for all

my folly, and to achieve some slight good end with my abused and

unparalleled means. Ay! it is all vastly rational, and vastly sublime,

but it is too late. I feel the exertion above me. I am a lost man.

‘We cannot work without a purpose and an aim. I had mine, although it

was a false one, and I succeeded. Had I one now I might succeed again,

but my heart is a dull void. And Caroline, that gentle girl, will not

give me what I want; and to offer her but half a heart may break hers,

and I would not bruise that delicate bosom to save my dukedom. Those

sad, silly parents of hers have already done mischief enough; but I will

see Darrell, and will at least arrange that. I like him, and will make

him my friend for her sake. God! God! why am I not loved! A word from

her, and all would change. I feel a something in me which could put all

right. I have the will, and she could give the power.

‘Now see what a farce life is! I shall go on, Heaven knows how! I cannot

live long. Men like me soon bloom and fade. What I may come to, I dread

to think. There is a dangerous facility in my temper; I know it well,

for I know more of myself than people think; there is a dangerous

facility which, with May Dacre, might be the best guaranty of virtue;

but with all others, for all others are at the best weak things, will as

certainly render me despicable, perhaps degraded. I hear the busy devil

whispering even now. It is my demon. Now, I say, see what a farce life

is! I shall die like a dog, as I have lived like a fool; and then my

epitaph will be in everybody’s mouth. Here are the consequences of

self-indulgence: here is a fellow, forsooth, who thought only of the

gratification of his vile appetites; and by the living Heaven, am I not

standing here among my hereditary rocks, and sighing to the ocean, to be

virtuous!

‘She knew me well, she read me in a minute, and spoke more truth at that

last meeting than is in a thousand sermons. It is out of our power to

redeem ourselves. Our whole existence is a false, foul state, totally

inimical to love and purity, and domestic gentleness, and calm delight.

Yet are we envied! Oh! could these fools see us at any other time except

surrounded by our glitter, and hear of us at any other moment save in

the first bloom of youth, which is, even then, often wasted; could they

but mark our manhood, and view our hollow marriages, and disappointed

passions; could they but see the traitors that we have for sons, the

daughters that own no duty; could they but watch us even to our grave,

tottering after some fresh bauble, some vain delusion, which, to the

last, we hope may prove a substitute for what we have never found

through life, a contented mind, they would do something else but envy

us.

‘But I stand prating when I am wanted. I must home. Home! O sacred word!

and then comes night! Horrible night! Horrible day! It seems to me I am

upon the eve of some monstrous folly, too ridiculous to be a crime, and

yet as fatal. I have half a mind to go and marry the Bird of Paradise,

out of pure pique with myself, and with the world.’

CHAPTER V.

_A Startling Letter_

SOUTHEY, that virtuous man, whom Wisdom calls her own, somewhere thanks

God that he was not born to a great estate. We quite agree with the

seer of Keswick; it is a bore. Provided a man can enjoy every personal

luxury, what profits it that your flag waves on castles you never visit,

and that you count rents which you never receive? And yet there are some

things which your miserable, moderate incomes cannot command, and which

one might like to have; for instance, a band.

A complete, a consummate band, in uniforms of uncut white velvet, with

a highly-wrought gold button, just tipped with a single pink topaz,

appears to me [Greek phrase]. When we die, ‘Band’ will be found

impressed upon our heart, like ‘Frigate’ on the core of Nelson. The

negroes should have their noses bored, as well as their ears, and hung

with rings of rubies. The kettle-drums should be of silver. And with

regard to a great estate, no doubt it brings great cares; or, to get

free of them, the estate must be neglected, and then it is even worse.

Elections come on, and all your members are thrown out; so much for

neglected influence. Agricultural distress prevails, and all your

farms are thrown up; so much for neglected tenants. Harassed by leases,

renewals, railroads, fines, and mines, you are determined that life

shall not be worn out by these continual and petty cares. Thinking it

somewhat hard, that, because you have two hundred thousand a-year, you

have neither ease nor enjoyment, you find a remarkably clever man, who

manages everything for you. Enchanted with his energy, his acuteness,

and his foresight, fascinated by your increasing rent-roll, and the

total disappearance of arrears, you dub him your right hand, introduce

him to all your friends, and put him into Parliament; and then, fired

by the ambition of rivalling his patron, he disburses, embezzles, and

decamps.

But where is our hero? Is he forgotten? Never! But in the dumps, blue

devils, and so on. A little bilious, it may be, and dull. He scarcely

would amuse you at this moment. So we come forward with a graceful bow;

the Jack Pudding of our doctor, who is behind.

In short, that is to say, in long--for what is true use of this affected

brevity? When this tale is done, what have you got? So let us make it

last. We quite repent of having intimated so much: in future, it is our

intention to develop more, and to describe, and to delineate, and to

define, and, in short, to bore. You know the model of this kind of

writing, Richardson, whom we shall revive. In future, we shall, as a

novelist, take Clarendon’s Rebellion for our guide, and write our hero’s

notes, or heroine’s letters, like a state paper, or a broken treaty.

The Duke, and the young Duke--oh! to be a Duke, and to be young, it is

too much--was seldom seen by the gay crowd who feasted in his hall. His

mornings now were lonely, and if, at night, his eye still sparkled, and

his step still sprang, why, between us, wine gave him beauty, and wine

gave him grace.

It was the dreary end of dull November, and the last company were

breaking off. The Bird of Paradise, according to her desire, had gone

to Brighton, where his Grace had presented her with a tenement, neat,

light, and finished; and though situated amid the wilds of Kemp Town,

not more than one hyæna on a night ventured to come down from the

adjacent heights. He had half promised to join her, because he thought

he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited

a fresh supply of visitors from town, or rather from the country. As he

was hesitating about what he should do, he received a letter from his

bankers, which made him stare. He sent for the groom of the chambers,

and was informed the house was clear, save that some single men still

lingered, as is their wont. They never take a hint. His Grace ordered

his carriage; and, more alive than he had been for the last two months,

dashed off to town.

CHAPTER VI.

_The Cost of Pleasure_

THE letter from his bankers informed the Duke of St. James that not only

was the half-million exhausted, but, in pursuance of their powers, they

had sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, had advanced

even beyond it. They were ready to accommodate him in every possible

way, and to advance as much more as he could desire, at five per cent.!

Sweet five per cent.! Oh! magical five per cent.! Lucky the rogue now

who gets three. Nevertheless, they thought it but proper to call his

Grace’s attention to the circumstance, and to put him in possession of

the facts. Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell

the truth.

The Duke of St. James had never affected to be a man of business; still,

he had taken it for granted that pecuniary embarrassment was not ever

to be counted among his annoyances. He wanted something to do, and

determined to look into his affairs, merely to amuse himself.

The bankers were most polite. They brought their books, also several

packets of papers neatly tied up, and were ready to give every

information. The Duke asked for results. He found that the turf,

the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in purchasing the lease and

furniture of his mansion, and the rest, had, with his expenditure,

exhausted his first year’s income; but he reconciled himself to this,

because he chose to consider them extraordinary expenses. Then the

festivities of Pen Bronnock counterbalanced the economy of his more

scrambling life the preceding year; yet he had not exceeded his income

much. Then he came to Sir Carte’s account. He began to get a little

frightened. Two hundred and fifty thousand had been swallowed by

Hauteville Castle: one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville House.

Ninety-six thousand had been paid for furniture. There were also some

awkward miscellanies which, in addition, exceeded the half-million.

This was smashing work; but castles and palaces, particularly of the

correctest style of architecture, are not to be had for nothing. The

Duke had always devoted the half-million to this object; but he had

intended that sum to be sufficient. What puzzled and what annoyed him

was a queer suspicion that his resources had been exhausted without

his result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, who gave every

information, and assured him that, had he had the least idea that a

limit was an object, he would have made his arrangements accordingly. As

it was, he assured the young Duke that he would be the Lord of the most

sumptuous and accurate castle, and of the most gorgeous and tasteful

palace, in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of words, when his

employer cut him short by a peremptory demand of the exact sum requisite

for the completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, and requested

time. The estimates should be sent in as quickly as possible. The clerks

should sit up all night, and even his own rest should not be an object,

any more than the Duke’s purse. So they parted.

The Duke determined to run down to Brighton for change of scene.

He promised his bankers to examine everything on his return; in the

meantime, they were to make all necessary advances, and honour his

drafts to any amount.

He found the city of chalk and shingles not quite so agreeable as last

year. He discovered that it had no trees. There was there, also, just

everybody that he did not wish to see. It was one great St. James’

Street, and seemed only an anticipation of that very season which he

dreaded. He was half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not fix

upon any spot. London might be agreeable, as it was empty; but then

those confounded accounts awaited him. The Bird of Paradise was a sad

bore. He really began to suspect that she was little better than an

idiot: then, she ate so much, and he hated your eating women. He gladly

shuffled her off on that fool Count Frill, who daily brought his guitar

to Kemp Town. They just suited each other. What a madman he had been, to

have embarrassed himself with this creature! It would cost him a pretty

ransom now before he could obtain his freedom. How we change! Already

the Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, shillings, and pence. A

year ago, so long as he could extricate himself from a scrape by force

of cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow.

The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily expected. He really could

not stand them. As for Lady Afy, he execrated the greenhornism which had

made him feign a passion, and then get caught where he meant to capture.

As for Sir Lucius, he wished to Heaven he would just take it into

his head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent him at that

confounded election, to say nothing of anything else.

Then there was Burlington, with his old loves and his new dances. He

wondered how the deuce that fellow could be amused with such frivolity,

and always look so serene and calm. Then there was Squib: that man never

knew when to leave off joking; and Annesley, with his false refinement;

and Darrell, with his petty ambition. He felt quite sick, and took a

solitary ride: but he flew from Scylla to Charybdis. Mrs. Montfort could

not forget their many delightful canters last season to Rottingdean,

and, lo! she was at his side. He wished her down the cliff.

In this fit of the spleen he went to the theatre: there were eleven

people in the boxes. He listened to the ‘School for Scandal.’ Never

was slander more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry when it was

over, but was consoled by the devils of ‘Der Freischutz.’ How sincerely,

how ardently did he long to sell himself to the demon! It was eleven

o’clock, and he dreaded the play to be over as if he were a child. What

to do with himself, or where to go, he was equally at a loss. The

door of the box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must be an

acquaintance, this cub was better than any of his refined and lately

cherished companions.

‘Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?’

‘Oh! I don’t know; just looking in for a lark. Any game?’

‘On my honour, I can’t say.’

‘What’s that girl? Oh! I see; that’s little Wilkins. There’s Moll Otway.

Nothing new. I shall go and rattle the bones a little; eh! my boy?’

‘Rattle the bones? what is that?’

‘Don’t you know?’ and here this promising young peer manually explained

his meaning.

‘What do you play at?’ asked the Duke.

‘Hazard, for my money; but what you like.’

‘Where?’

‘We meet at De Berghem’s. There is a jolly set of us. All crack men.

When my governor is here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose there

must be only one gamester in the family; eh! my covey?’ Lord Bagshot,

excited by the unusual affability of the young Duke, grew quite

familiar.

‘I have half a mind to look in with you,’ said his Grace with a careless

air.

‘Oh! come along, by all means. They’ll be devilish glad to see you. De

Berghem was saying the other day what a nice fellow you were, and how he

should like to know you. You don’t know De Berghem, do you?’

‘I have seen him. I know enough of him.’

They quitted the theatre together, and under the guidance of Lord

Bagshot, stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There they found

collected a numerous party, but all persons of consideration. The Baron,

who had once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and now lived in

England, by choice, on his pension and private fortune, received them

with marked courtesy. Proud of his companion, Lord Bagshot’s hoarse,

coarse, idiot voice seemed ever braying. His frequent introductions

of the Duke of St. James were excruciating, and it required all the

freezing of a finished manner to pass through this fiery ordeal. His

Grace was acquainted with most of the guests by sight, and to some he

even bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, with the exception

of two or three young peers like himself.

There was the Earl of Castlefort, plump and luxurious, with a youthful

wig, who, though a sexagenarian, liked no companion better than a minor.

His Lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky;

but the first was his merit, and the second was not his fault. There was

the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done his brothers out of

their miserable 5,000L. patrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinkle

that had already ruffled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and his

convulsive lip, had been thrown, we suppose, into the bargain, and, in

our opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had run

through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though only

thirty, one thing alone remained to be lost, what he called his honour,

which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Cogit, who, when

he was drunk, swore that he had had a father; but this was deemed the

only exception to _in vino Veritas_. Who he was, the Goddess of Chance

alone could decide; and we have often thought that he might bear the

same relation to her as Æneas to the Goddess of Beauty. His age was as

great a mystery as anything else. He dressed still like a boy, yet some

vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had,

and yet he contrived to live; connection he was not born with, yet he

was upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer

going. He did the honours of a _rouge et noir_ table to a miracle; and

looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a

gold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced après. Lord

Castlefort had few secrets from him: he was the jackal to these prowling

beasts of prey; looked out for pigeons, got up little parties to

Richmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make

a noise, and yet desired a little life, and perhaps could cog a die,

arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler.

Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place

is to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerous

follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous,

sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted by

the desire of gain, or as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of

excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life which

stultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and

mortifies all our beautiful aspirations.

We know that we are broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and

which some will protest against, when we declare our belief that no

person, whatever his apparent wealth, ever yet gamed except from the

prospect of immediate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, of

ennui, of satiety; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sort

of substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a more

intense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too

anxious, too complicated, too troublesome; in a word, _too sensible_ an

affair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinite

distraction.

The fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible,

clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting;

no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the affair at all. It

is the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre-supposes in its

votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its

train are the most mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoying

of daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them

except the great object which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing

to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gaming-table in a paroxysm.

The first visit requires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stake

will make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and the

stoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter of

calculation and management, even in games of chance. Night after night

will men play at _rouge et noir_, upon what they call a system, and for

hours their attention never ceases, any more than it would if they were

in the shop or oh the wharf. No manual labour is more fatiguing, and

more degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Every gamester feels

ashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace, moralists

daily inform us, man can never escape, is just the one from which

the majority of men most completely, and most often, free themselves.

Infinite is the number of men who have lost thousands in their youth,

and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oftener

than any other, leads man to self-knowledge. Appalled by the absolute

destruction on the verge of which he finds his early youth just

stepping; aghast at the shadowy crimes which, under the influence of

this life, seem, as it were, to rise upon his soul; often he hurries to

emancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and with a ruined fortune,

and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is still

white, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweet

air of heaven.

And our young Duke, we must confess, gamed, as all other men have

gamed, for money. His satiety had fled the moment that his affairs were

embarrassed. The thought suddenly came into his head while Bag-shot was

speaking. He determined to make an effort to recover; and so completely

was it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned that, in the

present state of his affairs, a few thousands more would not signify;

that these few thousands might lead to vast results, and that, if they

did, he would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same coolness with

which he had saluted it.

Yet he felt a little odd when he first ‘rattled the bones;’ and his

affected nonchalance made him constrained. He fancied every one was

watching him; while, on the contrary, all were too much interested in

their own different parties. This feeling, however, wore off.

According to every novelist, and the moralists ‘our betters,’ the Duke

of St. James should have been fortunate at least to-night. You always

win at first, you know. If so, we advise said children of fancy and of

fact to pocket their gains, and not play again. The young Duke had not

the opportunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred pounds, and at

half-past five he quitted the Baron’s.

Hot, bilious, with a confounded twang in his mouth, and a cracking pain

in his head, he stood one moment and sniffed in the salt sea breeze.

The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and her cool, beneficent light

reminded him, with disgust, of the hot, burning glare of the Baron’s

saloon. He thought of May Dacre, but clenched his fist, and drove her

image from his mind.

CHAPTER VII.

_Dangerous Friends_

HE ROSE late, and as he was lounging over his breakfast, entered Lord

Bagshot and the Baron. Already the young Duke began to experience one

of the gamester’s curses, the intrusive society of those of whom you

are ashamed. Eight-and-forty hours ago, Lord Bagshot would no more have

dared to call on the Duke of St. James than to call at the Pavilion; and

now, with that reckless want of tact which marks the innately vulgar,

he seemed to triumph in their unhallowed intimacy, and lounging into

his Grace’s apartment with that half-shuffling, hair-swaggering air

indicative of the ‘cove,’ hat cocked, and thumbs in his great-coat

pockets, cast his complacent eye around, and praised his Grace’s

‘rooms.’ Lord Bagshot, who for the occasional notice of the Duke of St.

James had been so long a ready and patient butt, now appeared to assume

a higher character, and addressed his friend in a tone and manner which

were authorised by the equality of their rank and the sympathy of their

tastes. If this change had taken place in the conduct of the Viscount,

it was not a singular one. The Duke also, to his surprise, found himself

addressing his former butt in a very different style from that which he

had assumed in the ballroom of Doncaster. In vain he tried to rally, in

vain he tried to snub. It was indeed in vain. He no longer possessed any

right to express his contempt of his companion. That contempt, indeed,

he still felt. He despised Lord Bagshot still, but he also despised

himself.

The soft and silky Baron was a different sort of personage; but

there was something sinister in all his elaborate courtesy and highly

artificial manner, which did not touch the feelings of the Duke, whose

courtesy was but the expression of his noble feelings, and whose grace

was only the impulse of his rich and costly blood. Baron de Berghem was

too attentive, and too deferential. He smiled and bowed too much.

He made no allusion to the last night’s scene, nor did his tutored

companion, but spoke of different and lighter subjects, in a manner

which at once proved his experience of society, the liveliness of his

talents, and the cultivation of his taste. He told many stories, all

short and poignant, and always about princes and princesses. Whatever

was broached, he always had his _apropos_ of Vienna, and altogether

seemed an experienced, mild, tolerant man of the world, not bigoted to

any particular opinions upon any subject, but of a truly liberal and

philosophic mind.

When they had sat chatting for half-an-hour, the Baron developed the

object of his visit, which was to endeavour to obtain the pleasure of

his Grace’s company at dinner, to taste some wild boar and try some

tokay. The Duke, who longed again for action, accepted the invitation;

and then they parted.

Our hero was quite surprised at the feverish anxiety with which he

awaited the hour of union. He thought that seven o’clock would never

come. He had no appetite at breakfast, and after that he rode, but

luncheon was a blank. In the midst of the operation, he found himself

in a brown study, calculating chances. All day long his imagination had

been playing hazard, or _rouge et noir_. Once he thought that he had

discovered an infallible way of winning at the latter. On the long run,

he was convinced it must answer, and he panted to prove it.

Seven o’clock at last arrived, and he departed to Brunswick Terrace.

There was a brilliant party to meet him: the same set as last night,

but select. He was faint, and did justice to the _cuisine_ of his host,

which was indeed remarkable. When we are drinking a man’s good wine, it

is difficult to dislike him. Prejudice decreases with every draught.

His Grace began to think the Baron as good-hearted as agreeable. He was

grateful for the continued attentions of old Castlefort, who, he now

found out, had been very well acquainted with his father, and once even

made a trip to Spa with him. Lord Dice he could not manage to endure,

though that worthy was, for him, remarkably courteous, and grinned with

his parchment face, like a good-humoured ghoul. Temple Grace and the

Duke became almost intimate. There was an amiable candour in that

gentleman’s address, a softness in his tones, and an unstudied and

extremely interesting delicacy in his manner, which in this society was

remarkable. Tom Cogit never presumed to come near the young Duke, but

paid him constant attention. He sat at the bottom of the table, and

was ever sending a servant with some choice wine, or recommending him,

through some third person, some choice dish. It is pleasant to be ‘made

much of,’ as Shakspeare says, even by scoundrels. To be king of your

company is a poor ambition, yet homage is homage, and smoke is smoke,

whether it come out of the chimney of a palace or of a workhouse.

The banquet was not hurried. Though all wished it finished, no one liked

to appear urgent. It was over at last, and they walked up-stairs, where

the tables were arranged for all parties, and all play. Tom Cogit went

up a few minutes before them, like the lady of the mansion, to review

the lights, and arrange the cards. Feminine Tom Cogit!

The events of to-night were much the same as of the preceding one. The

Duke was a loser, but his losses were not considerable. He retired about

the same hour, with a head not so hot, or heavy: and he never looked

at the moon, or thought of May Dacre. The only wish that reigned in his

soul was a longing for another opportunity, and he had agreed to dine

with the Baron, before he left Brunswick Terrace.

Thus passed a week, one night the Duke of St. James redeeming himself,

another falling back to his old position, now pushing on to Madrid, now

re-crossing the Tagus. On the whole, he had lost four or five thousand

pounds, a mere trifle to what, as he had heard, had been lost and gained

by many of his companions during only the present season. On the whole,

he was one of the most moderate of these speculators, generally played

at the large table, and never joined any of those private coteries, some

of which he had observed, and of some of which he had heard. Yet this

was from no prudential resolve or temperate resolution. The young Duke

was heartily tired of the slight results of all his anxiety, hopes, and

plans, and ardently wished for some opportunity of coming to closer and

more decided action. The Baron also had resolved that an end should

be put to this skirmishing; but he was a calm head, and never hurried

anything.

‘I hope your Grace has been lucky to-night!’ said the Baron one evening,

strolling up to the Duke: ‘as for myself, really, if Dice goes on

playing, I shall give up banking. That fellow must have a talisman. I

think he has broken more banks than any man living. The best thing he

did of that kind was the roulette story at Paris. You have heard of

that?’

‘Was that Lord Dice?’

‘Oh yes! he does everything. He must have cleared his hundred thousand

last year. I have suffered a good deal since I have been in England.

Castlefort has pulled in a great deal of my money. I wonder to whom he

will leave his property?’

‘You think him rich?’

‘Oh! he will cut up large!’ said the Baron, elevating his eyebrows. ‘A

pleasant man too! I do not know any man that I would sooner play with

than Castlefort; no one who loses his money with better temper.’

‘Or wins it,’ said his Grace.

‘That we all do,’ said the Baron, faintly laughing. ‘Your Grace has

lost, and you do not seem particularly dull. You will have your revenge.

Those who lose at first are always the children of fortune. I always

dread a man who loses at first. All I beg is, that you will not break my

bank.’

‘Why! you see I am not playing now.’ ‘I am not surprised. There is too

much heat and noise here,’ said he. ‘We will have a quiet dinner some

day, and play at our ease. Come to-morrow, and I will ask Castlefort

and Dice. I should uncommonly like, _entre nous_, to win some of their

money. I will take care that nobody shall be here whom you would not

like to meet. By-the-bye, whom were you riding with this morning? Fine

woman!’

CHAPTER VIII.

_Birds of Prey_

THE young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berg-hem

for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice,

and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour.

The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet

everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual

silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone

observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely

presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and

dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was the

man for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it! Cayenne

and Burgundy and limes were ingredients, but there was a magic in the

incantation with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular care

to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as

he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked

consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never

addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, ‘Take this

to the Duke;’ or asking the attendant, ‘whether his Grace would try the

Hermitage?’

After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding

some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to

_écarté_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed

a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a

pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their

universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive.

Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron’s

elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All

this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.

Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say,

so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for

at present his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by

the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the

delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some

cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron,

to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring

great trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to

serve him. Our hero devoured--we use the word advisedly, as fools say

in the House of Commons--he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the

Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter.

They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o’clock accounts were so

complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with

his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened.

The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace

owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the

tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but

slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the

used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the

candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a

tumbler for them. At eight o’clock the Duke’s situation was worsened.

The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He

pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten o’clock,

owed everyone something. No one offered to give over; and everyone,

perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets

and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were

opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again.

They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Duke

made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were,

nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at

all depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his

resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten

thousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; then

thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of

limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything.

At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began

to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating,

he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery,

and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is

nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded

feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no

charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible.

[Illustration: page338]

On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He

floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough.

Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on

each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a

gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were

prodigious.

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No

attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing

the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a

Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything

but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the

room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town

in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching

every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed their

total inability to sympathise with their fellow-beings. All forms of

society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed

about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of

occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing

one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: a false tooth

had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been

most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and

he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and

his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk.

Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep

blue eyes gleamed like a hyaena’s. The Baron was least changed. Tom

Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed

rat.

On they played till six o’clock in the evening, and then they agreed

to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord

Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they

were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts.

He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds.

Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us say,

at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin.

As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in

his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read.

He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen

over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a

dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights

that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been the

exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes even

been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow

this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped with

this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly

scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible? it could not

be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those

unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from

his state, as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, as if he had betrayed

his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a

flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate

this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with the

softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything

that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was

the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted

nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a

ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet

air.

He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more.

There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done.

Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him

to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he

would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated

himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts,

Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort,

in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time

recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was

cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the

Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.

The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any

evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated,

‘Pay us when we meet again,’ he said, ‘I think it very improbable that

we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had

heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a

young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion.’

He reached his house. The Bird was out. He gave orders for himself not

to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What

rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His

hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with

supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would

have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he

had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute

he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his

late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace;

each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was

only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was,

at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained

any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed

him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and

he slept.

CHAPTER IX.

_A Duke Without A Friend_

O YE immortal Gods! ye are still immortal, although no longer ye hover

o’er Olympus. The Crescent glitters on your mountain’s base, and Crosses

spring from out its toppling crags. But in vain the Mufti, and the

Patriarch, and the Pope flout at your past traditions. They are married

to man’s memory by the sweetest chain that ever Fancy wove for Love. The

poet is a priest, who does not doubt the inspiration of his oracles; and

your shrines are still served by a faithful band, who love the beautiful

and adore the glorious! In vain, in vain they tell us your divinity is

a dream. From the cradle to the grave, our thoughts and feelings take

their colour from you! O! Ægiochus, the birch has often proved thou

art still a thunderer; and, although thy twanging bow murmur no longer

through the avenging air, many an apple twig still vindicates thy

outraged dignity, _pulcher_ Apollo.

O, ye immortal Gods! nothing so difficult as to begin a chapter, and

therefore have we flown to you. In literature, as in life, it is the

first step; you know the rest. After a paragraph or so our blood Is up,

and even our jaded hackneys scud along, and warm up into friskiness.

The Duke awoke: another day of his eventful life is now to run its

course. He found that the Bird of Paradise had not returned from an

excursion to a neighbouring park: he left a note for her, apprising her

of his departure to London, and he despatched an affectionate letter to

Lady Aphrodite, which was the least that he could do, considering that

he perhaps quitted Brighton the day of her arrival. And having done all

this, he ordered his horses, and before noon was on his first stage.

It was his birthday. He had completed his twenty-third year. This was

sufficient, even if he had no other inducement, to make him indulge in

some slight reflection. These annual summings up are awkward things,

even to the prosperous and the happy, but to those who are the reverse,

who are discontented with themselves, and find that youth melting away

which they believe can alone achieve anything, I think a birthday is

about the most gloomy four-and-twenty hours that ever flap their damp

dull wings over melancholy man.

Yet the Duke of St. James was rather thoughtful than melancholy. His

life had been too active of late to allow him to indulge much in that

passive mood. ‘I may never know what happiness is,’ thought his Grace,

as he leaned back in his whirling britzska, ‘but I think I know what

happiness is not. It is not the career which I have hitherto pursued.

All this excitement which they talk of so much wears out the mind,

and, I begin to believe, even the body, for certainly my energies

seem deserting me. But two years, two miserable years, four-and-twenty

months, eight-and-forty times the hours, the few hours, that I have been

worse than wasting here, and I am shipwrecked, fairly bulged. Yet I have

done everything, tried everything, and my career has been an eminent

career. Woe to the wretch who trusts to his pampered senses for

felicity! Woe to the wretch who flies from the bright goddess Sympathy,

to sacrifice before the dark idol Self-love! Ah! I see too late, we were

made for each other. Too late, I discover the beautiful results of this

great principle of creation. Oh! the blunders of an unformed character!

Oh! the torture of an ill-regulated mind!

‘Give me a life with no fierce alternations of rapture and anguish, no

impossible hopes, no mad depression. Free me from the delusions which

succeed each other like scentless roses, that are ever blooming. Save me

from the excitement which brings exhaustion, and from the passion that

procreates remorse. Give me the luminous mind, where recognised and

paramount duty dispels the harassing, ascertains the doubtful, confirms

the wavering, sweetens the bitter. Give me content. Oh! give me love!

‘How is it to end? What is to become of me? Can nothing rescue me? Is

there no mode of relief, no place of succour, no quarter of refuge, no

hope of salvation? I cannot right myself, and there is an end of it.

Society, society, society! I owe thee much; and perhaps in working in

thy service, those feelings might be developed which I am now convinced

are the only source of happiness; but I am plunged too deep in the quag.

I have no impulse, no call. I know not how it is, but my energies, good

and evil, seem alike vanishing. There stares that fellow at my carriage!

God! willingly would I break the stones upon the road for a year, to

clear my mind of all the past!’

A carriage dashed by, and a lady bowed. It was Mrs. Dallington Vere.

The Duke had appointed his banker to dine with him, as not a moment must

be lost in preparing for the reception of his Brighton drafts. He was

also to receive, this evening, a complete report of all his affairs. The

first thing that struck his eye on his table was a packet from Sir Carte

Blanche. He opened it eagerly, stared, started, nearly shrieked. It

fell from his hands. He was fortunately alone. The estimates for the

completion of his works, and the purchase of the rest of the furniture,

exactly equalled the sum already expended. Sir Carte added, that the

works might of course be stopped, but that there was no possible way

of reducing them, with any deference to the original design, scale, and

style; that he had already given instructions not to proceed with the

furniture until further notice, but regretted to observe that the orders

were so advanced that he feared it was too late to make any sensible

reduction. It might in some degree reconcile his Grace to this report

when he concluded by observing that the advanced state of the works

could permit him to guarantee that the present estimates would not be

exceeded.

The Duke had sufficiently recovered before the arrival of his

confidential agent not to appear agitated, only serious. The awful

catastrophe at Brighton was announced, and his report of affairs

was received. It was a very gloomy one. Great agricultural distress

prevailed, and the rents could not be got in. Five-and-twenty per cent,

was the least that must be taken off his income, and with no prospect

of being speedily added on. There was a projected railroad which would

entirely knock up his canal, and even if crushed must be expensively

opposed. Coals were falling also, and the duties in town increasing.

There was sad confusion in the Irish estates. The missionaries, who were

patronised on the neighbouring lands of one of the City Companies, had

been exciting fatal confusion. Chapels were burnt, crops destroyed,

stock butchered, and rents all in arrear. Mr. Dacre had contrived with

great prudence to repress the efforts of the new reformation, and had

succeeded in preventing any great mischief. His plans for the pursual

of his ideas and feelings upon this subject had been communicated to his

late ward in an urgent and important paper, which his Grace had never

seen, but one day, unread, pushed into a certain black cabinet, which

perhaps the reader may remember. His Grace’s miscellaneous debts

had also been called in, and amounted to a greater sum than they had

anticipated, which debts always do. One hundred and forty thousand

pounds had crumbled away in the most imperceptible manner. A great slice

of this was the portion of the jeweller. His shield and his vases would

at least be evidence to his posterity of the splendour and the taste

of their imprudent ancestor; but he observed the other items with less

satisfaction. He discovered that in the course of two years he had given

away one hundred and thirty-seven necklaces and bracelets; and as for

rings, they must be counted by the bushel. The result of this gloomy

interview was, that the Duke had not only managed to get rid of the

immortal half-million, but had incurred debts or engagements to the

amount of nearly eight hundred thousand pounds, incumbrances which were

to be borne by a decreased and perhaps decreasing income. His Grace was

once more alone. ‘Well! my brain is not turned; and yet I think it has

been pretty well worked these last few days. It cannot be true: it must

all be a dream. He never could have dined here, and said all this. Have

I, indeed, been at Brighton? No, no, no; I have been sleeping after

dinner. I have a good mind to ring and ask whether he really was here.

It must be one great delusion. But no! there are those cursed accounts.

Well! what does it signify? I was miserable before, and now I am only

contemptible in addition. How the world will laugh! They were made

forsooth for my diversion. O, idiot! you will be the butt of everyone!

Talk of Bagshot, indeed! Why, he will scarcely speak to me!

‘Away with this! Let me turn these things in my mind. Take it at one

hundred and fifty thousand. It is more, it must be more, but we will

take it at that. Now, suppose one hundred thousand is allotted every

year to meet my debts; I suppose, in nine or ten years I shall be free.

Not that freedom will be worth much then; but still I am thinking of the

glory of the House I have betrayed. Well, then, there is fifty thousand

a-year left. Let me see; twenty thousand have always been spent in

Ireland, and ten at Pen Bronnock, and they must not be cut down. The

only thing I can do now is, not to spare myself. I am the cause, and

let me meet the consequences. Well, then, perhaps twenty thousand a-year

remain to keep Hauteville Castle and Hauteville House; to maintain the

splendour of the Duke of St. James. Why, my hereditary charities alone

amount to a quarter of my income, to say nothing of incidental charges:

I too, who should and who would wish to rebuild, at my own cost, every

bridge that is swept away, and every steeple that is burnt, in my

county.

‘And now for the great point. Shall I proceed with my buildings? My own

personal convenience whispers no! But I have a strong conviction that

the advice is treasonable. What! the young Duke’s folly for every gazer

in town and country to sneer at! Oh! my fathers, am I indeed your child,

or am I bastard? Never, never shall your shield be sullied while I bear

it! Never shall your proud banner veil while I am chieftain! They shall

be finished; certainly, they shall be finished, if I die an exile! There

can be no doubt about this; I feel the deep propriety.

‘This girl, too, something must be done for her. I must get Squib to

run down to Brighton for me: and Afy, poor dear Afy, I think she will be

sorry when she hears it all!

‘My head is weak: I want a counsellor. This man cannot enter into my

feelings. Then there is my family lawyer; if I ask him for advice, he

will ask me for instructions. Besides, this is not a matter of pounds,

shillings, and pence; it is an affair as much of sentiment as economy;

it involves the honour of my family, and I want one to unburden myself

to, who can sympathise with the tortured feelings of a noble, of a Duke

without a dukedom, for it has come to that. But I will leave sneers to

the world.

‘There is Annesley. He is clever, but so coldblooded. He has no heart.

There is Squib; he is a good fellow, and has heart enough; and I

suppose, if I wanted to pension off a mistress, or compound with a few

rascally tradesmen, he would manage the affair to a miracle. There is

Darrell; but he will be so fussy, and confidential, and official. Every

meeting will be a cabinet council, every discussion a debate, every

memorandum a state paper. There is Burlington; he is experienced, and

clever, and kind-hearted, and, I really think, likes me; but, no, no, it

is too ridiculous. We who have only met for enjoyment, whose countenance

was a smile, and whose conversation was badinage; we to meet, and

meditate on my broken fortunes! Impossible! Besides, what right have I

to compel a man, the study of whose life is to banish care, to take

all my anxieties on his back, or refuse the duty at the cost of my

acquaintance and the trouble of his conscience. Ah! I once had a friend,

the best, the wisest; but no more of that. What is even the loss of

fortune and of consideration to the loss of his--his daughter’s love?’

His voice faltered, yet it was long before he retired; and he rose on

the morrow only to meditate over his harassing embarrassments. As if the

cup of his misery were not o’erflowing, a new incident occurred about

this time, which rendered his sense of them even keener. But this is

important enough to commence a new chapter.

CHAPTER X.

_A New Star Rises_

WILLIAM HENRY, MARQUESS OF MARYLEBONE, completed his twenty-first year:

an event which created a greater sensation among the aristocracy of

England, even, than the majority of George Augustus Frederick, Duke

of St. James. The rent-roll of his Grace was great: but that of his

Lordship was incalculable. He had not indeed so many castles as our

hero; but then, in the metropolis, a whole parish owned him as Lord,

and it was whispered that, when a few miles of leases fell in, the very

Civil List must give him the wall. Even in the duration of his minority,

he had the superiority over the young Duke, for the Marquess was a

posthumous son.

Lord Marylebone was a short, thick, swarthy young gentleman, with

wiry black hair, a nose somewhat flat, sharp eyes, and tusky mouth;

altogether not very unlike a terrier. His tastes were unknown: he had

not travelled, nor done anything very particular, except, with a

few congenial spirits, beat the Guards in a rowing-match, a

pretty diversion, and almost as conducive to a small white hand as

almond-paste.

But his Lordship was now of age, and might be seen every day at a

certain hour rattling up Bond Street in a red drag, in which he drove

four or five particular friends who lived at Stevens’ Hotel, and

therefore, we suppose, were the partners of his glory in his victory

over his Majesty’s household troops. Lord Marylebone was the universal

subject of conversation. Pursuits which would have devoted a shabby Earl

of twelve or fifteen thousand a year to universal reprobation, or, what

is much worse, to universal sneers, assumed quite a different character

when they constituted the course of life of this fortunate youth. He

was a delightful young man. So unaffected! No super-refinement, no false

delicacy. Everyone, each sex, everything, extended his, her, or its hand

to this cub, who, quite puzzled, but too brutal to be confused, kept

driving on the red van, and each day perpetrating some new act

of profligacy, some new instance of coarse profusion, tasteless

extravagance, and inelegant eccentricity.

But, nevertheless, he was the hero of the town. He was the great point

of interest in ‘The Universe,’ and ‘The New World’ favoured the old one

with weekly articles on his character and conduct. The young Duke

was quite forgotten, if really young he could be longer called. Lord

Marylebone was in the mouth of every tradesman, who authenticated his

own vile inventions by foisting them on his Lordship. The most grotesque

fashions suddenly inundated the metropolis; and when the Duke of St.

James ventured to express his disapprobation, he found his empire was

over. ‘They were sorry that it did not meet his Grace’s taste, but

really what his Grace had suggested was quite gone by. This was the only

hat, or cane, or coat which any civilised being could be seen with. Lord

Marylebone wore, or bore, no other.’

In higher circles, it was much the same. Although the dandies would not

bate an inch, and certainly would not elect the young Marquess for their

leader, they found, to their dismay, that the empire which they were

meditating to defend, had already slipped away from their grasp. A

new race of adventurous youths appeared upon the stage. Beards, and

greatcoats even rougher, bull-dogs instead of poodles, clubs instead of

canes, cigars instead of perfumes, were the order of the day. There was

no end to boat-racing; Crockford’s sneered at White’s; and there was

even a talk of reviving the ring. Even the women patronised the young

Marquess, and those who could not be blind to his real character, were

sure, that, if well managed, he would not turn out ill.

Assuredly our hero, though shelved, did not envy his successful rival.

Had he been, instead of one for whom he felt a sovereign contempt, a

being even more accomplished than himself, pity and not envy would have

been the sentiment he would have yielded to his ascendant star.

But, nevertheless, he could not be insensible to the results of this

incident; and the advent of the young Marquess seemed like the sting in

the epigram of his life. After all his ruinous magnificence, after

all the profuse indulgence of his fantastic tastes, he had sometimes

consoled himself, even in the bitterness of satiety, by reminding

himself, that he at least commanded the admiration of his

fellow-creatures, although it had been purchased at a costly price. Not

insensible to the power of his wealth, the magic of his station, he had,

however, ventured to indulge in the sweet belief that these qualities

were less concerned in the triumphs of his career than his splendid

person, his accomplished mind, his amiable disposition, and his finished

manner; his beauty, his wit, his goodness, and his grace. Even from this

delusion, too, was he to waken, and, for the first time in his life, he

gauged the depth and strength of that popularity which had been so dear

to him, and which he now found to be so shallow and so weak.

‘What will they think of me when they know all? What they will: I care

not. I would sooner live in a cottage with May Dacre, and work for our

daily bread, than be worshipped by all the beauty of this Babylon.’

Gloomy, yet sedate, he returned home. His letters announced two

extraordinary events. M. de Whiskerburg had galloped off with Lady

Aphrodite, and Count Frill had flown away with the Bird of Paradise.

CHAPTER XI.

_‘Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly.’_

THE last piece of information was a relief; but the announcement of the

elopement cost him a pang. Both surprised, and the first shocked him.

We are unreasonable in love, and do not like to be anticipated even in

neglect. An hour ago Lady Aphrodite Grafton was to him only an object of

anxiety and a cause of embarrassment. She was now a being to whom he was

indebted for some of the most pleasing hours of his existence, and who

could no longer contribute to his felicity. Everybody appeared deserting

him.

He had neglected her, to be sure; and they must have parted, it was

certain. Yet, although the present event saved him from the most

harrowing of scenes, he could not refrain shedding a tear. So good! and

so beautiful! and was this her end? He who knew all knew how bitter had

been the lot of her life.

It is certain that when one of your very virtuous women ventures to be

a little indiscreet, we say it is certain, though we regret it, that

sooner or later there is an explosion. And the reason is this, that they

are always in a hurry to make up for lost time, and so love with them

becomes a business instead of being a pleasure. Nature had intended Lady

Aphrodite Grafton for a Psyche, so spiritual was her soul, so pure her

blood! Art--that is, education, which at least should be an art, though

it is not--art had exquisitely sculptured the precious gem that Nature

had developed, and all that was wanting was love to stamp an impression.

Lady Aphrodite Grafton might have been as perfect a character as was

ever the heroine of a novel. And to whose account shall we place her

blighted fame and sullied lustre? To that animal who seems formed

only to betray woman. Her husband was a traitor in disguise. She found

herself betrayed; but like a noble chieftain, when her capital was lost,

maintained herself among the ruins of her happiness, in the citadel of

her virtue. She surrendered, she thought, on terms; and in yielding her

heart to the young Duke, though never for a moment blind to her conduct,

yet memory whispered extenuation, and love added all that was necessary.

Our hero (we are for none of your perfect heroes) did not behave much

better than her husband. The difference between them was, Sir Lucius

Grafton’s character was formed, and formed for evil; while the Duke

of St. James, when he became acquainted with Lady Aphrodite, possessed

none. Gallantry was a habit, in which he had been brought up. To protest

to woman what he did not believe, and to feign what he did not feel,

were, as he supposed, parts in the character of an accomplished

gentleman; and as hitherto he had not found his career productive of

any misery, we may perhaps view his conduct with less severity. But at

length he approaches, not a mere woman of the world, who tries to delude

him into the idea that he is the first hero of a romance that has been

a hundred times repeated. He trembles at the responsibility which he

has incurred by engaging the feelings of another. In the conflict of

his emotions, some rays of moral light break upon his darkened soul.

Profligacy brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly that man is

the subject of sympathy, and not the slave of self-love.

This remorse protracts a connection which each day is productive of more

painful feelings; but the heart cannot be overstrung, and anxiety

ends in callousness. Then come neglect, remonstrance, explanations,

protestations, and, sooner or later, a catastrophe.

But love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easily

thrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving the

passion a new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surprising how

many adventures end in a convent. A dame, in her desperation, flies to

the grate, which never reopens; but in Protestant regions she has time

to cool, and that’s the deuce; so, instead of taking the veil, she takes

a new lover.

Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young Duke to a step the

very mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. What an

enchanter is Passion! No wonder Ovid, who was a judge, made love so much

connected with his Metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty she had dared

to admit the idea of flying with his Grace; but when the idea was once

admitted, when she really had, once or twice, constantly dwelt on the

idea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about to

indulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and of

which she had been rifled; when, I say, all this occurred, and her hero

diplomatised, and, in short, kept back; why, she had advanced one step,

without knowing it, to running away with another man.

It was unlucky that De Whiskerburg stepped in. An Englishman would not

have done. She knew them well, and despised them all; but he was new

(dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they were

strange, she believed to be unhackneyed; and he was impassioned. We need

not go on.

So this star has dropped from out the heaven; so this precious pearl no

longer gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in a

foreign land, among strange faces and stranger customs, and, when she

thinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries to

persuade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country,

and blood, and opinion. And her father’s face no longer shines with its

proud love, and her mother’s voice no longer whispers to her with sweet

anxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the

radiancy of her budding sister’s bloom.

Poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those who

set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite,

by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just remember

beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although

the beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we

don’t know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these

circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.

But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yielded

to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it is

right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.

To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your

Penates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return,

no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone;

to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have your

children asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the

influenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard to

digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends

Mr. Ward or Mr. Bulwer.

CHAPTER XII.

_Kindly Words_

THE Duke had passed a stormy morning with his solicitor, who wished him

to sell the Pen Bronnock property, which, being parliamentary, would

command a price infinitely greater than might be expected from its

relative income. The very idea of stripping his coronet of this

brightest jewel, and thus sacrificing for wealth the ends of riches,

greatly disordered him, and he more and more felt the want of a

counsellor who could sympathise with his feelings as well as arrange his

fortunes. In this mood he suddenly seized a pen, and wrote the following

letter:--

‘----House, Feb. 5, 182--.

‘My dear Mr. Dacre,

‘I keenly feel that you are the last person to whom I should apply for

the counsels or the consolation of friendship. I have long ago forfeited

all claims to your regard, and your esteem I never possessed. Yet,

if only because my career ought to end by my being an unsuccessful

suppliant to the individual whom both virtue and nature pointed out to

me as my best friend, and whose proffered and parental support I have so

wantonly, however thoughtlessly, rejected, I do not regret that this is

written. No feeling of false delicacy can prevent me from applying to

one to whom I have long ago incurred incalculable obligations, and no

feeling of false delicacy will, I hope, for a moment, prevent you from

refusing the application of one who has acknowledged those obligations

only by incalculable ingratitude.

‘In a word, my affairs, are, I fear, inextricably involved. I will not

dwell upon the madness of my life; suffice that its consequences appall

me. I have really endeavoured to examine into all details, and am

prepared to meet the evil as becomes me; but, indeed, my head turns with

the complicated interests which solicit my consideration, and I tremble

lest, in the distraction of my mind, I may adopt measures which may

baffle the very results I would attain. For myself, I am ready to pay

the penalty of my silly profligacy; and if exile, or any other personal

infliction, can redeem the fortunes of the House that I have betrayed, I

shall cheerfully submit to my destiny. My career has been productive of

too little happiness to make me regret its termination.

‘But I want advice: I want the counsel of one who can sympathise with

my distracted feelings, who will look as much, or rather more, to the

honour of my family than to the convenience of myself. I cannot obtain

this from what are called men of business, and, with a blush I confess,

I have no friend. In this situation my thoughts recur to one on whom,

believe me, they have often dwelt; and although I have no right to

appeal to your heart, for my father’s sake you will perhaps pardon this

address. Whatever you may resolve, my dearest sir, rest assured that you

and your family will always command the liveliest gratitude of one who

regrets he may not subscribe himself

‘Your obliged and devoted friend,

‘St. James.

‘I beg that you will not answer this, if your determination be what I

anticipate and what I deserve. ‘Dacre Dacre, Esq., &c, &c, &c.’

It was signed, sealed, and sent. He repented its transmission when it

was gone. He almost resolved to send a courier to stop the post. He

continued walking up and down his room for the rest of the day; he

could not eat, or read, or talk. He was plunged in a nervous reverie.

He passed the next day in the same state. Unable to leave his house, and

unseen by visitors, he retired to his bed feverish and dispirited. The

morning came, and he woke from his hot and broken sleep at an early

hour; yet he had not energy to rise. At last the post arrived, and his

letters were brought up to him. With a trembling hand and sinking breath

he read these lines:--

‘Castle Dacre, February 6, 182--.

‘My dear young Friend,

‘Not only for your father’s sake, but your own, are my services ever at

your command. I have long been sensible of your amiable disposition, and

there are circumstances which will ever make me your debtor.

‘The announcement of the embarrassed state of your affairs fills me with

sorrow and anxiety, yet I will hope the best. Young men, unconsciously,

exaggerate adversity as well as prosperity. If you are not an habitual

gamester, and I hope you have not been even an occasional one, unbounded

extravagance could scarcely in two years have permanently injured your

resources. However, bring down with you all papers, and be careful to

make no arrangement, even of the slightest nature, until we meet.

‘We expect you hourly. May desires her kindest regards, and begs me to

express the great pleasure which she will feel at again finding you our

guest. It is unnecessary for me to repeat how very sincerely

‘I am your friend,

‘Dacre Dacre.’

He read the letter three times to be sure he did not mistake the

delightful import. Then he rang the bell with a vivacity which had not

characterised him for many a month.

‘Luigi! prepare to leave town to-morrow morning for an indefinite

period. I shall only take you. I must dress immediately, and order

breakfast and my horses.’

The Duke of St. James had communicated the state of his affairs to Lord

Fitz-pompey, who was very shocked, offered his best services, and also

asked him to dinner, to meet the Marquess of Marylebone. The young

Duke had also announced to his relatives, and to some of his particular

friends, that he intended to travel for some time, and he well knew that

their charitable experience would understand the rest. They understood

everything. The Marquess’s party daily increased, and ‘The Universe’ and

‘The New World’ announced that the young Duke was ‘done up.’

There was one person to whom our hero would pay a farewell visit before

he left London. This was Lady Caroline St. Maurice. He had called at

Fitz-pompey House one or two mornings in the hope of finding her alone,

and to-day he determined to be more successful. As he stopped his horse

for the last time before his uncle’s mansion, he could not help calling

to mind the first visit which he had paid after his arrival. But the

door opens, he enters, he is announced, and finds Lady Caroline alone.

Ten minutes passed away, as if the morning ride or evening ball were

again to bring them together. The young Duke was still gay and still

amusing. At last he said with a smile,

‘Do you know, Caroline, this is a farewell visit, and to you?’

She did not speak, but bent her head as if she were intent upon some

work, and so seated herself that her countenance was almost hid.

‘You have heard from my uncle,’ continued he, laughing; ‘and if you

have not heard from him, you have heard from somebody else, of my little

scrape. A fool and his money, you know, Caroline, and a short reign and

a merry one. When we get prudent we are wondrous fond of proverbs. My

reign has certainly been brief enough; with regard to the merriment,

that is not quite so certain. I have little to regret except your

society, sweet coz!’

‘Dear George, how can you talk so of such serious affairs! If you knew

how unhappy, how miserable I am, when I hear the cold, callous world

speak of such things with indifference, you would at least not imitate

their heartlessness.’

‘Dear Caroline!’ said he, seating himself at her side.

‘I cannot help thinking,’ she continued, ‘that you have not sufficiently

exerted yourself about these embarrassments. You are, of course, too

harassed, too much annoyed, too little accustomed to the energy and the

detail of business, to interfere with any effect; but surely a friend

might. You will not speak to my father, and perhaps you have your

reasons; but is there no one else? St. Maurice, I know, has no head. Ah!

George, I often feel that if your relations had been different people,

your fate might have been different. We are the fault.’

He kissed her hand.

‘Among all your intimates,’ she continued, ‘is there no one fit to be

your counsellor, no one worthy of your confidence?’

‘None,’ said the Duke, bitterly, ‘none, none. I have no friend among

those intimates: there is not a man of them who cares to serve or is

capable of serving me.’

‘You have well considered?’ asked Lady Caroline.

‘Well, dear, well. I know them all by rote, head and heart. Ah! my dear,

dear Carry, if you were a man, what a nice little friend you would be!’

‘You will always laugh, George. But I--I have no heart to laugh. This

breaking up of your affairs, this exile, this losing you whom we all

love, love so dearly, makes me quite miserable.’

He kissed her hand again.

‘I dare say,’ she continued, ‘you have thought me as heartless as the

rest, because I never spoke. But I knew; that is, I feared; or, rather,

hoped that a great part of what I heard was false; and so I thought

notice was unnecessary, and might be painful. Yet, heaven knows, there

are few subjects that have been oftener in my thoughts, or cost me more

anxiety. Are you sure you have no friend?’

‘I have you, Caroline. I did not say I had no friends: I said I had none

among those intimates you talked of; that there was no man among them

capable of the necessary interference, even if he were willing to

undertake it. But I am not friendless, not quite forlorn, dear! My fate

has given me a friend that I but little deserve: one whom, if I had

prized better, I should not perhaps have been obliged to put his

friendship to so severe a trial. To-morrow, Caroline, I depart for

Castle Dacre; there is my friend. Alas! how little have I deserved such

a boon!’

‘Dacre!’ exclaimed Lady Caroline, ‘Mr. Dacre! Oh! you have made me so

happy, George! Mr. Dacre is the very, very person; that is, the very

best person you could possibly have applied to.’

‘Good-bye, Caroline,’ said his Grace, rising.

She burst into tears.

Never, never had she looked so lovely: never, never had he loved her

so entirely! Tears! tears shed for him! Oh! what, what is grief when

a lovely woman remains to weep over our misfortunes! Could he be

miserable, could his career indeed be unfortunate, when this was

reserved for him? He was on the point of pledging his affection, but to

leave her under such circumstances was impossible: to neglect Mr. Dacre

was equally so. He determined to arrange his affairs with all possible

promptitude, and then to hasten up, and entreat her to share his

diminished fortunes. But he would not go without whispering hope,

without leaving some soft thought to lighten her lonely hours. He caught

her in his arms; he covered her sweet small mouth with kisses, and

whispered, in the midst of their pure embrace,

‘Dearest Carry! I shall soon return, and we will yet be happy.’

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

_Once More at Dacre_

MISS DACRE, although she was prepared to greet the Duke of St. James

with cordiality, did not anticipate with equal pleasure the arrival

of the page and the jäger. Infinite had been the disturbances they had

occasioned during their first visit, and endless the complaints of the

steward and the housekeeper. The men-servants were initiated in

the mysteries of dominoes, and the maid-servants in the tactics of

flirtation. Karlstein was the hero of the under-butlers, and even the

trusty guardian of the cellar himself was too often on the point of

obtaining the German’s opinion of his master’s German wines. Gaming, and

drunkenness, and love, the most productive of all the teeming causes

of human sorrow, had in a week sadly disordered the well-regulated

household of Castle Dacre, and nothing but the impetuosity of our hero

would have saved his host’s establishment from utter perdition. Miss

Dacre was, therefore, not less pleased than surprised when the britzska

of the Duke of St. James discharged on a fine afternoon, its noble

master, attended only by the faithful Luigi, at the terrace of the

Castle.

A few country cousins, fresh from Cumberland, who knew nothing of the

Duke of St. James except from a stray number of ‘The Universe,’ which

occasionally stole down to corrupt the pure waters of their lakes, were

the only guests. Mr. Dacre grasped our hero’s hand with a warmth and

expression which were unusual with him, but which conveyed, better than

words, the depth of his friendship; and his daughter, who looked more

beautiful than ever, advanced with a beaming face and joyous tone, which

quite reconciled the Duke of St. James to being a ruined man.

The presence of strangers limited their conversation to subjects of

general interest. At dinner, the Duke took care to be agreeable: he

talked in an unaffected manner, and particularly to the cousins, who

were all delighted with him, and found him ‘quite a different person

from what they had fancied.’ The evening passed over, and even lightly,

without the aid of _écarté_, romances, or gallops. Mr. Dacre chatted

with old Mr. Montingford, and old Mrs. Montingford sat still admiring

her ‘girls,’ who stood still admiring May Dacre singing or talking, and

occasionally reconciled us to their occasional silence by a frequent

and extremely hearty laugh; that Cumberland laugh which never outlives a

single season in London.

And the Duke of St. James, what did he do? It must be confessed that in

some points he greatly resembled the Misses Montingford, for he was both

silent and admiring; but he never laughed. Yet he was not dull, and

was careful not to show that he had cares, which is vulgar. If a man be

gloomy, let him keep to himself. No one has a right to go croaking

about society, or, what is worse, looking as if he stifled grief. These

fellows should be put in the pound. We like a good broken heart or so

now and then; but then one should retire to the Sierra Morena mountains,

and live upon locusts and wild honey, not ‘dine out’ with our cracked

cores, and, while we are meditating suicide, the Gazette, or the

Chiltern Hundreds, damn a vintage or eulogise an _entrée_.

And as for cares, what are cares when a man is in love? Once more they

had met; once more he gazed upon that sunny and sparkling face; once

more he listened to that sweet and thrilling voice, which sounded like

a bird-like burst of music upon a summer morning. She moved, and each

attitude was fascination. She was still, and he regretted that she

moved. Now her neck, now her hair, now her round arm, now her tapering

waist, ravished his attention; now he is in ecstasies with her twinkling

foot; now he is dazzled with her glancing hand.

Once more he was at Dacre! How different was this meeting to their

first! Then, she was cold, almost cutting; then she was disregardful,

almost contemptuous; but then he had hoped; ah! madman, he had more than

hoped. Now she was warm, almost affectionate; now she listened to him

with readiness, ay! almost courted his conversation. And now he could

only despair. As he stood alone before the fire, chewing this bitter

cud, she approached him.

‘How good you were to come directly!’ she said with a smile, which

melted his heart. ‘I fear, however, you will not find us so merry as

before. But you can make anything amusing. Come, then, and sing to these

damsels. Do you know they are half afraid of you? and I cannot persuade

them that a terrible magician has not assumed, for the nonce, the air

and appearance of a young gentleman of distinction.’

He smiled, but could not speak. Repartee sadly deserts the lover; yet

smiles, under those circumstances, are eloquent; and the eye, after all,

speaks much more to the purpose than the tongue. Forgetting everything

except the person who addressed him, he offered her his hand, and

advanced to the group which surrounded the piano.

CHAPTER II.

_The Moth and the Flame_

THE next morning was passed by the Duke of St. James in giving Mr.

Dacre his report of the state of his affairs. His banker’s accounts,

his architect’s estimates, his solicitor’s statements, were all brought

forward and discussed. A ride, generally with Miss Dacre and one of her

young friends, dinner, and a short evening, and eleven o’clock, sent

them all to repose. Thus glided on a fortnight. The mornings continued

to be passed in business. Affairs were more complicated than his Grace

had imagined, who had no idea of detail. He gave all the information

that he could, and made his friend master of his particular feelings.

For the rest, Mr. Dacre was soon involved in much correspondence; and

although the young Duke could no longer assist him, he recommended and

earnestly begged that he would remain at Dacre; for he could perceive,

better than his Grace, that our hero was labouring under a great deal of

excitement, and that his health was impaired. A regular course of life

was therefore as necessary for his constitution as it was desirable for

all other reasons.

Behold, then, our hero domesticated at Dacre; rising at nine, joining

a family breakfast, taking a quiet ride, or moderate stroll, sometimes

looking into a book, but he was no great reader; sometimes fortunate

enough in achieving a stray game at billiards, usually with a Miss

Montingford, and retiring to rest about the time that in London his most

active existence generally began. Was he dull? was he wearied? He was

never lighter-hearted or more contented in his life. Happy he could not

allow himself to be styled, because the very cause which breathed this

calm over his existence seemed to portend a storm which could not be

avoided. It was the thought, the presence, the smile, the voice of May

Dacre that imparted this new interest to existence: that being who never

could be his. He shuddered to think that all this must end; but although

he never indulged again in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed

him to thrust away the future, and to participate in all the joys of the

flowing hour.