the only guest at Dacre; nor did he hear that any others were expected.
He was alone with her again; often was he alone with her, and never
without a strange feeling coming over his frame, which made him tremble.
Mr. Dacre, a man of active habits, always found occupation in his public
duties and in the various interests of a large estate, and usually
requested, or rather required, the Duke of St. James to be his
companion. He was desirous that the Duke should not be alone, and ponder
too much over the past; nor did he conceal his wishes from his daughter,
who on all occasions, as the Duke observed with gratification, seconded
the benevolent intentions of her parent. Nor did our hero indeed wish
to be alone, or to ponder over the past. He was quite contented with
the present; but he did not want to ride with papa, and took every
opportunity to shirk; all of which Mr. Dacre set down to the indolence
of exhaustion, and the inertness of a mind without an object.
‘I am going to ride over to Doncaster, George,’ said Mr. Dacre one
morning at breakfast. ‘I think that you had better order your horse too.
A good ride will rouse you, and you should show yourself there.’
‘Oh! very well, sir; but, but I think that----’
‘But what?’ asked Mr. Dacre, smiling.
The Duke looked to Miss Dacre, who seemed to take pity on his idleness.
‘You make him ride too much, papa. Leave him at home with me. I have
a long round to-day, and want an escort. I will take him instead of my
friend Tom Carter. You must carry a basket though,’ said she, turning to
the Duke, ‘and run for the doctor if he be wanted, and, in short, do any
odd message that turns up.’
So Mr. Dacre departed alone, and shortly after his daughter and the Duke
of St. James set out on their morning ramble. Many were the cottages at
which they called; many the old dames after whose rheumatisms, and many
the young damsels after whose fortunes they enquired. Old Dame Rawdon
was worse or better; worse last night, but better this morning. She was
always better when Miss called. Miss’s face always did her good. And
Fanny was very comfortable at Squire Wentworth’s, and the housekeeper
was very kind to her, thanks to Miss saying a word to the great Lady.
And old John Selby was quite about again. Miss’s stuff had done him a
world of good, to say nothing of Mr. Dacre’s generous old wine.
‘And is this your second son, Dame Rishworth?’ ‘No; that bees our
fourth,’ said the old woman, maternally arranging the urchin’s thin,
white, flat, straight, unmanageable hair. ‘We are thinking what to do
with him, Miss. He wants to go out to service. Since Jem Eustace got on
so, I don’t know what the matter is with the lads; but I think we shall
have none of them in the fields soon. He can clean knives and shoes very
well, Miss. Mr. Bradford, at the Castle, was saying t’other day that
perhaps he might want a young hand. You haven’t heard anything, I
suppose, Miss?’
‘And what is your name, sir?’ asked Miss Dacre. ‘Bobby Rishworth, Miss!’
‘Well, Bobby, I must consult Mr. Bradford.’ ‘We be in great trouble,
Miss,’ said the next cottager. ‘We be in great trouble. Tom, poor Tom,
was out last night, and the keepers will give him up. The good man has
done all he can, we have all done all we can, Miss, and you see how it
ends. He is the first of the family that ever went out. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. Seventy years, our fathers before us, have we
been on the ‘state, and nothing ever sworn agin us. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. I am sure if Tom had been an underkeeper, as Mr.
Roberts once talked of, this would never have happened. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. We are in great trouble surely. Tom, you see, was
our first, Miss.’
‘I never interfere about poaching, you know, Mrs. Jones. Mr. Dacre is
the best judge of such matters. But you can go to him, and say that I
sent you. I am afraid, however, that he has heard of Tom before.’
‘Only that night at Milwood, Miss; and then you see he had been drinking
with Squire Ridge’s people. I hope that will be considered, Miss.’
‘Well, well, go up to the Castle.’
‘Pray be seated, Miss,’ said a neat-looking mistress of a neat little
farmhouse. ‘Pray be seated, sir. Let me dust it first. Dust will get
everywhere, do what we can. And how’s Pa, Miss? He has not given me
a look-in for many a day, not since he was a-hunting: bless me, if it
ayn’t a fortnight. This day fortnight he tasted our ale, sure enough.
Will you take a glass, sir?’
‘You are very good. No, I thank you; not today.’
‘Yes, give him a glass, nurse. He is unwell, and it will do him good.’
She brought the sparkling amber fluid, and the Duke did justice by his
draught.
‘I shall have fine honey for you, Miss, this year,’ said the old nurse.
‘Are you fond of honey, sir? Our honey is well known about. I don’t know
how it is, but we do always contrive to manage the bees. How fond some
people are of honey, good Lord! Now, when you were a little girl (I knew
this young lady, sir, before you did), you always used to be fond of
honey. I remember one day: let me see, it must be, ay! truly, that it
is, eighteen years ago next Martinmas: I was a-going down the nursery
stairs, just to my poor mistress’s room, and I had you in my arms (for I
knew this young lady, sir, before you did). Well! I was a-going down the
stairs, as I just said, to my poor dear mistress’s room with you, who
was then a little-un indeed (bless your smiling face! you cost me many
a weary hour when you were weaned, Miss. That you did! Some thought you
would never get through it; but I always said, while there is life there
is hope; and so, you see I were right); but, as I was saying, I was
a-going down the stairs to my poor dear mistress, and I had a gallipot
in my hand, a covered gallipot, with some leeches. And just as I had
got to the bottom of the stairs, and was a-going into my poor dear
mistress’s room, said you (I never shall forget it), said you, “Honey,
honey, nurse.” She thought it were honey, sir. So you see she were
always very fond of honey (for I knew this young lady long before you
did, sir).’
‘Are you quite sure of that, nurse?’ said Miss Dacre; ‘I think this is
an older friend than you imagine. You remember the little Duke; do not
you? This is the little Duke. Do you think he has grown?’
‘Now! bless my life! is it so indeed? Well, be sure, he has grown. I
always thought he would turn out well, Miss, though Dr. Pretyman were
always a-preaching, and talking his prophecycations. I always thought he
would turn out well at last. Bless me! how he has grown, indeed! Perhaps
he grows too fast, and that makes him weak. Nothing better than a glass
of ale for weak people. I remember when Dr. Pretyman ordered it for my
poor dear mistress. “Give her ale,” said the Doctor, “as strong as it
can be brewed;” and sure enough, my poor dear master had it brewed! Have
you done growing, sir? You was ever a troublesome child. Often and often
have I called George, George, Georgy, Georgy Porgy, and he never would
come near me, though he heard all the time as plainly as he does now.
Bless me! he has grown indeed!’
‘But I have turned out well at last, nurse, eh?’ asked the Duke.
‘Ay! sure enough; I always said so. Often and often have I said, he will
turn out well at last. You be going, Miss? I thank you for looking in.
My duty to my master. I was thinking of bringing up one of those cheeses
he likes so.’
‘Ay! do, nurse. He can eat no cheese but yours.’
As they wandered home, they talked of Lady Caroline, to whom the Duke
mentioned that he must write. He had once intended distinctly to have
explained his feelings to her in a letter from Dacre; but each day he
postponed the close of his destiny, although without hope. He lingered
and he lingered round May Dacre, as a bird flutters round the fruit
which is already grasped by a boy. Circumstances, which we shall
relate, had already occurred, which confirmed the suspicion he had long
entertained that Arundel Dacre was his favoured rival. Impressed with
the folly of again encouraging hope, yet unable to harden his heart
against her continual fascination, the softness of his manner indicated
his passion, and his calm and somewhat languid carriage also told her it
was hopeless. Perhaps, after all, there is no demeanour more calculated
to melt obdurate woman. The gratification he received from her society
was evident, yet he never indulged in that gallantry of which he was
once so proud. When she approached him, a mild smile lit up his pensive
countenance; he adopted her suggestions, but made none; he listened to
her remarks with interest, but no longer bandied repartee. Delicately he
impressed her with the absolute power which she might exercise over his
mind.
‘I write myself to Caroline to-morrow,’ said Miss Dacre.
‘Ah! Then I need not write. I talked of going up sooner. Have the
kindness to explain why I do not: peremptory orders from Mr. Dacre;
fresh air, and----’
‘Arithmetic. I understand you get on admirably.’
‘My follies,’ said the Duke with a serious air, ‘have at least been
productive of one good end, they have amused you.’
‘Nay! I have done too many foolish things myself any more to laugh at
my neighbours. As for yourself, you have only committed those which were
inseparable from your situation; and few, like the Duke of St. James,
would so soon have opened their eyes to the truth of their conduct.’
‘A compliment from you repays me for all.’
‘Self-approbation does, which is much better than compliments from
anyone. See! there is papa, and Arundel too: let us run up!’
CHAPTER III.
_Again the Rival_
THE Duke of St. James had, on his arrival at Dacre, soon observed that
a constant correspondence was maintained between Miss Dacre and her
cousin. There was no attempt to conceal the fact from any of the guests,
and, as that young gentleman was now engaged in an affair interesting to
all his friends, every letter generally contained some paragraph almost
as interesting to the Montingfords as to herself, which was
accordingly read aloud. Mr. Arundel Dacre was candidate for the vacant
representation of a town in a distant county. He had been disappointed
in his views on the borough, about which he had returned to England, but
had been nevertheless persuaded by his cousin to remain in his native
country. During this period, he had been a great deal at Castle Dacre,
and had become much more intimate and unreserved with his uncle, who
observed with great satisfaction this change in his character, and lost
no opportunity of deserving and increasing the confidence for which
he had so long unavailingly yearned, and which was now so unexpectedly
proffered.
The borough for which Arundel Dacre was about to stand was in Sussex, a
county in which his family had no property, and very slight connection.
Yet at the place, the Catholic interest was strong, and on that, and
the usual Whig influence, he ventured. His desire to be a member of
the Legislature, at all and from early times extreme, was now greatly
heightened by the prospect of being present at the impending Catholic
debate. After an absence of three weeks, he had hurried to Yorkshire for
four-and-twenty hours, to give a report of the state of his canvass,
and the probability of his success. In that success all were greatly
interested, but none more so than Miss Dacre, whose thoughts indeed
seemed to dwell on no other subject, and who expressed herself with a
warmth which betrayed her secret feelings. Had the place only been
in Yorkshire, she was sure he must have succeeded. She was the best
canvasser in the world, and everybody agreed that Harry Grey-stoke owed
his election merely to her insinuating tongue and unrivalled powers
of scampering, by which she had completely baffled the tactics of Lady
Amarantha.
Germain, who thought that a canvass was only a long morning call, and
might be achieved in a cashmere and a britzska.
The young Duke, who had seen little of his second since the eventful
day, greeted him with warmth, and was welcomed with a frankness which
he had never before experienced from his friend. Excited by rapid
travel and his present course of life, and not damped by the unexpected
presence of any strangers, Arundel Dacre seemed quite a changed man, and
talked immensely.
‘Come, May, I must have a kiss! I have been kissing as pretty girls as
you. There now! You all said I never should be a popular candidate. I
get regularly huzzaed every day, so they have been obliged to hire a
band of butchers’ boys to pelt me. Whereupon I compare myself to Cæsar
set upon in the Senate House, and get immense cheering in “The County
Chronicle,” which I have bribed. If you knew the butts of wine, the
Heidelberg tuns of ale, that I have drank during the last fortnight,
you would stare indeed. As much as the lake: but then I have to talk
so much, that the ardour of my eloquence, like the hot flannels of the
Humane Society, save me from the injurious effects of all this liquid.’
‘But will you get in; but will you get in?’ exclaimed his cousin.
‘‘Tis not in mortals to command success; but---’
‘Pooh! pooh! you must command it!’ ‘Well, then, I have an excellent
chance; and the only thing against me is, that my committee are quite
sure. But really I think that if the Protestant overseers, whom,
by-the-bye, May, I cannot persuade that I am a heretic (it is very hard
that a man is not believed when he says he shall be damned), if they
do not empty the workhouse, we shall do. But let us go in, for I have
travelled all night, and must be off to-morrow morning.’
They entered the house, and the Duke quitted the family group. About an
hour afterwards, he sauntered to the music-room. As he opened the door,
his eyes lighted upon May Dacre and her cousin. They were standing
before the fire, with their backs to the door. His arm was wound
carelessly round her waist, and with his other hand he supported, with
her, a miniature, at which she was looking.
The Duke could not catch her countenance, which was completely hid; but
her companion was not gazing on the picture: his head, a little turned,
indicated that there was a living countenance more interesting to him
than all the skill of the most cunning artist. Part of his cheek was
alone perceptible, and that was burning red.
All this was the work of a moment. The Duke stared, turned pale, closed
the door without a sound, and retired unperceived. When he was sure that
he could no longer be observed, he gasped for breath, a cold dew covered
his frame, his joints loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that
sickening sensation when life appears utterly worthless, and ourselves
utterly contemptible. Yet what had he witnessed? A confirmation of what
he had never doubted. What was this woman to him? Alas! how supreme was
the power with which she ruled his spirit! And this Dacre, this Arundel
Dacre, how he hated him! Oh! that they were hand to hand, and sword to
sword, in some fair field, and there decide it! He must conquer; he felt
that. Already his weapon pierced that craven heart, and ripped open that
breast which was to be the pillow of---. Hell! hell! He rushed to his
room, and began a letter to Caroline St. Maurice; but he could not
write; and after scribbling over a quire of paper, he threw the sheets
to the flames, and determined to ride up to town to-morrow.
The dinner bell sounded. Could he meet them? Ay! meet them! Defy them!
Insult them! He descended to the dining-room. He heard her musical
and liquid voice; the scowl upon his brow melted away; but, gloomy and
silent, he took his seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little he
spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. But Arundel had enough to
say. He was the hero of the party. Well he might be. Story after
story of old maids and young widows, sturdy butchers and corrupt coal
merchants, sparkled away; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the
Duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid.
‘You are not well!’ said Miss Dacre to him, in a low voice.
‘I believe I am,’ answered he shortly.
‘You do not seem quite so,’ she replied, with an air of surprise.
‘I believe I have got a headache,’ he retorted with little more
cordiality. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed.
CHAPTER IV.
_Bitter is Jealousy_
THERE certainly is a dark delight in being miserable, a sort of strange
satisfaction in being savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One of
the greatest pests of philosophy is, that one can no longer be sullen,
and most sincerely do I regret it. To brood over misery, to flatter
yourself that there is not a single being who cares for your existence,
and not a single circumstance to make that existence desirable: there
is wild witchery in it, which we doubt whether opium can reach, and are
sure that wine cannot.
And the Duke! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserable
speculations about the state of the poll, and took his sullen way,
with the air of Ajax, to the terrace. Here he stalked along in a fierce
reverie; asked why he had been born; why he did not die; why he should
live, and so on. His wounded pride, which had borne so much, fairly
got the mastery, and revenged itself for all insults on Love, whom it
ejected most scurvily. He blushed to think how he had humiliated
himself before her. She was the cause of that humiliation, and of every
disagreeable sensation that he was experiencing. He began, therefore, to
imprecate vengeance, walked himself into a fair, cold-hearted, malicious
passion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated her. As for him, most
ardently he hoped that, some day or other, they might again meet at
six o’clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but in a different
relation to each other.
It was dark when he entered the Castle. He was about ascending to his
own room, when he determined not to be cowed, and resolved to show
himself the regardless witness of their mutual loves: so he repaired to
the drawing-room. At one end of this very spacious apartment, Mr. Dacre
and Arundel were walking in deep converse; at the other sat Miss Dacre
at a table reading. The Duke seized a chair without looking at her,
dragged it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, with his
arms folded, his feet on the fender, and his chair tilting, he appeared
to be lost in the abstracting contemplation of the consuming fuel.
Some minutes had passed, when a slight sound, like a fluttering bird,
made him look up: Miss Dacre was standing at his side.
‘Is your head better?’ she asked him, in a soft voice.
‘Thank you, it is quite well,’ he replied, in a sullen one.
There was a moment’s pause, and then she again spoke.
‘I am sure you are not well.’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘Something has happened, then,’ she said, rather imploringly.
‘What should have happened?’ he rejoined, pettishly.
‘You are very strange; very unlike what you always are.’
‘What I always am is of no consequence to myself, or to anyone else;
and as for what I am now, I cannot always command my feelings, though I
shall take care that they are not again observed.’
‘I have offended you?’
‘Then you have shown your discretion, for you should always offend the
forlorn.’
‘I did not think before that you were bitter.’
‘That has made me bitter which has made all others so.’
‘What?’
‘Disappointment.’
Another pause, yet she did not go.
‘I will not quarrel, and so you need not try. You are consigned to my
care, and I am to amuse you. What shall we do?’
‘Do what you like, Miss Dacre; but spare, oh! spare me your pity!’
‘You do indeed surprise me. Pity! I was not thinking of pity! But you
are indeed serious, and I leave you.’
He turned; he seized her hand.
‘Nay! do not go. Forgive me,’ he said, ‘forgive me, for I am most
miserable.’
‘Why, why are you?’
‘Oh! do not ask; you agonise me.’
‘Shall I sing? Shall I charm the evil spirit?’
‘Anything?’
She tripped to the piano, and an air, bursting like the spring, and gay
as a village feast, filled the room with its delight. He listened, and
each instant the chilly weight loosened from his heart. Her balmy voice
now came upon his ear, breathing joy and cheerfulness, content and love.
Could love be the savage passion which lately subjugated his soul? He
rose from his seat; he walked about the room; each minute his heart
was lighter, his brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful and
quivering like the twilight, glanced o’er his mind in indistinct but
exquisite tumult, and hope, like the voice of an angel in a storm, was
heard above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, and, stealing
to the enchantress, seated himself at her side. So softly he reached
her, that for a moment he was unperceived. She turned her head, and her
eyes met his. Even the ineffable incident was forgotten, as he marked
the strange gush of lovely light, that seemed to say---- what to think
of was, after all, madness.
CHAPTER V.
_Arundel’s Disappointment_
THE storm was past. He vowed that a dark thought should not again cross
his mind. It was fated that she should not be his; but it was some
miserable satisfaction that he was only rejected in favour of an
attachment which had grown with her years, and had strengthened with her
stature, and in deference to an engagement hallowed by time as well as
by affection. It was deadly indeed to remember that Fate seemed to have
destined him for that happy position, and that his folly had rejected
the proffered draught of bliss. He blasphemed against the Fitz-pompeys.
However, he did not leave Dacre at the same time as Arundel, but
lingered on. His affairs were far from being arranged. The Irish
business gave great trouble, and he determined therefore to remain.
It was ridiculous to talk of feeding a passion which was not susceptible
of increase. Her society was Heaven; and he resolved to enjoy it,
although he was to be expelled. As for his loss of fortune, it gave him
not a moment’s care. Without her, he felt he could not live in England,
and, even ruined, he would be a match for an Italian prince.
So he continued her companion, each day rising with purer feelings and
a more benevolent heart; each day more convinced of the falseness of his
past existence, and of the possibility of happiness to a well-regulated
mind; each day more conscious that duty is nothing more than
self-knowledge, and the performance of it consequently the development
of feelings which are the only true source of self-gratification. He
mourned over the opportunities which he had forfeited of conducing to
the happiness of others and himself. Sometimes he had resolved to remain
in England and devote himself to his tenantry; but passion blinded him,
and he felt that he had erred too far ever to regain the right road.
The election for which Arundel Dacre was a candidate came on. Each day
the state of the poll arrived. It was nearly equal to the last. Their
agitation was terrible, but forgotten in the deep mortification which
they experienced at the announcement of his defeat. He talked to the
public boldly of petitioning, and his certainty of ultimate success; but
he let them know privately that he had no intention of the first, and
no chance of the second. Even Mr. Dacre could mot conceal his deep
disappointment; but May was quite in despair. Even if her father could
find means of securing him a seat another time, the present great
opportunity was lost.
‘Surely we can make some arrangement for next session,’ said the Duke,
whispering hope to her.
‘Oh! no, no, no; so much depended upon this. It is not merely his taking
a part in the debate, but--but Arundel is so odd, and everything was
staked upon this. I cannot tell you what depended upon it. He will leave
England directly.’
She did not attempt to conceal her agitation. The Duke rose, and paced
the room in a state scarcely less moved. A thought had suddenly flashed
upon him. Their marriage doubtless depended upon this success. He knew
something of Arundel Dacre, and had heard more. He was convinced of the
truth of his suspicion. Either the nephew would not claim her hand
until he had carved out his own fortunes, or perhaps the uncle made his
distinction the condition of his consent. Yet this was odd. It was all
odd. A thousand things had occurred which equally puzzled him. Yet he
had seen enough to weigh against a thousand thoughts.
CHAPTER VI.
_A Generous Action_
ANOTHER fortnight glided away, and he was still at the Castle, still the
constant and almost sole companion of May Dacre. It is breakfast; the
servant is delivering the letter-bag to Mr. Dacre. Interesting moment!
when you extend your hand for the billet of a mistress, and receive your
tailor’s bill! How provokingly slow are most domestic chieftains in this
anxious operation! They turn the letters over and over, and upside and
down; arrange, confuse, mistake, assort; pretend, like Champollion, to
decipher illegible franks, and deliver with a slight remark, which is
intended as a friendly admonition, the documents of the unlucky wight
who encourages unprivileged correspondents.
A letter was delivered to Miss Dacre. She started, exclaimed, blushed,
and tore it open.
‘Only you, only you,’ she said, extending her hand to the young Duke,
‘only you were capable of this!’
It was a letter from Arundel Dacre, not only written but franked by him.
It explained everything that the Duke of St. James might have told them
before; but he preferred hearing all himself, from the delighted and
delightful lips of Miss Dacre, who read to her father her cousin’s
letter.
The Duke of St. James had returned him for one of his Cornish boroughs.
It appeared that Lord St. Maurice was the previous member, who had
accepted the Chiltern Hundreds in his favour.
‘You were determined to surprise, as well as delight us,’ said Mr.
Dacre.
‘I am no admirer of mysteries,’ said the Duke; ‘but the fact is, in
the present case, it was not in my power to give you any positive
information, and I had no desire to provide you, after your late
disappointment, with new sources of anxiety. The only person I could
take the liberty with, at so short a notice, was St. Maurice. He, you
know, is a Liberal; but he cannot forget that he is the son of a Tory,
and has no great ambition to take any active part in affairs at present.
I anticipated less difficulty with him than with his father. St. Maurice
can command me again when it suits him; but, I confess to you, I have
been surprised at my uncle’s kindness in this affair. I really have not
done justice to his character before, and regret it. He has behaved
in the most kind-hearted and the most liberal manner, and put me under
obligations which I never shall forget. He seems as desirous of serving
my friend as myself; and I assure you, sir, it would give you pleasure
to know in what terms of respect he speaks of your family, and
particularly of Arundel.’
‘Arundel says he shall take his seat the morning of the debate. How very
near! how admirably managed! Oh! I never shall recover my surprise and
delight! How good you are!’
‘He takes his seat, then, to-morrow,’ said Mr. Dacre, in a musing tone.
‘My letters give a rather nervous account of affairs. We are to win it,
they hope, but by two only. As for the Lords, the majority against
us will, it is said, be somewhat smaller than usual. We shall never
triumph, George, till May is M.P. for the county. Cannot you return her
for Pen Bronnock too?’
They talked, as you may suppose, of nothing else. At last Mr. Dacre
remembered an appointment with his bailiff, and proposed to the Duke to
join him, who acceded.
‘And I to be left alone this morning, then!’ said Miss Dacre. ‘I am
sure, as they say of children, I can set to nothing.’
‘Come and ride with us, then!’
‘An excellent idea! Let us canter over to Hauteville! I am just in the
humour for a gallop up the avenue, and feel half emancipated already
with a Dacre in the House! Oh! to-morrow, how nervous I shall be!’
‘I will despatch Barrington, then,’ said Mr. Dacre, ‘and join you in ten
minutes.’
‘How good you are!’ said Miss Dacre to the Duke. ‘How can we thank you
enough? What can we do for you?’
‘You have thanked me enough. What have I done after all? My opportunity
to serve my friends is brief. Is it wonderful that I seize the
opportunity?’
‘Brief! brief! Why do you always say so? Why do you talk so of leaving
us?’
‘My visit to you has been already too long. It must soon end, and I
remain not in England when it ceases.’
‘Come and live at Hauteville, and be near us?’
He faintly smiled as he said, ‘No, no; my doom is fixed. Hauteville is
the last place that I should choose for my residence, even if I remained
in England. But I hear the horses.’
The important night at length arrived, or rather the important
messenger, who brought down, express, a report of its proceedings to
Castle Dacre.
Nothing is more singular than the various success of men in the House of
Commons. Fellows who have been the oracles of coteries from their
birth; who have gone through the regular process of gold medals,
senior wranglerships, and double firsts, who have nightly sat down
amid tumultuous cheering in debating societies, and can harangue
with unruffled foreheads and unfaltering voice, from one end of a
dinner-table to the other, who, on all occasions, have something to say,
and can speak with fluency on what they know nothing about, no sooner
rise in the House than their spells desert them. All their effrontery
vanishes. Commonplace ideas are rendered even more uninteresting by
monotonous delivery; and keenly alive as even boobies are in those
sacred walls to the ridiculous, no one appears more thoroughly aware of
his unexpected and astounding deficiencies than the orator himself. He
regains his seat hot and hard, sultry and stiff, with a burning cheek
and an icy hand, repressing his breath lest it should give evidence of
an existence of which he is ashamed, and clenching his fist, that
the pressure may secretly convince him that he has not as completely
annihilated his stupid body as his false reputation.
On the other hand, persons whom the women have long deplored, and the
men long pitied, as having ‘no manner,’ who blush when you speak to
them, and blunder when they speak to you, suddenly jump up in the House
with a self-confidence, which is only equalled by their consummate
ability. And so it was with Arundel Dacre. He rose the first night
that he took his seat (a great disadvantage, of which no one was more
sensible than himself), and for an hour and a half he addressed the
fullest House that had long been assembled, with the self-possession of
an habitual debater. His clenching argument, and his luminous detail,
might have been expected from one who had the reputation of having been
a student. What was more surprising was, the withering sarcasm that
blasted like the simoom, the brilliant sallies of wit that flashed like
a sabre, the gushing eddies of humour that drowned all opposition and
overwhelmed those ponderous and unwieldy arguments which the producers
announced as rocks, but which he proved to be porpoises. Never was there
such a triumphant début; and a peroration of genuine eloquence, because
of genuine feeling, concluded amid the long and renewed cheers of all
parties.
The truth is, Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full,
like a wholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are
much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency. Few are
the men who cannot express their meaning, when the occasion demands
the energy; as the lowest will defend their lives with acuteness,
and sometimes even with eloquence. They are masters of their subject.
Knowledge must be gained by ourselves. Mankind may supply us with facts;
but the results, even if they agree with previous ones, must be the work
of our own mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to
feel ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be, when we
are vomiting forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not a mere
collection of words; and it is a delusion to suppose that thought can
be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than our own. What is
repetition, by a curious mystery ceases to be truth, even if it were
truth when it was first heard; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move
and mimic all the actions of vitality, is not life. When a man is not
speaking, or writing, from his own mind, he is as insipid company as a
looking-glass.
Before a man can address a popular assembly with command, he must know
something of mankind; and he can know nothing of mankind without knowing
something of himself. Self-knowledge is the property of that man whose
passions have their play, but who ponders over their results. Such a man
sympathises by inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart.
He can divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require,
all that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel that
a master-hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from necessity,
they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing more than
the sophistry which results from attempting to account for what is
unintelligible, or to defend what is improper.
Perhaps, although we use the term, we never have had oratory in England.
There is an essential difference between oratory and debating. Oratory
seems an accomplishment confined to the ancients, unless the French
preachers may put in their claim, and some of the Irish lawyers. Mr.
Shiel’s speech in Kent was a fine oration; and the boobies who taunted
him for having got it by rote, were not aware that in doing so he only
wisely followed the example of Pericles, Demosthenes, Lysias, Isocrates,
Hortensius, Cicero, Cæsar, and every great orator of antiquity. Oratory
is essentially the accomplishment of antiquity: it was their most
efficient mode of communicating thought; it was their substitute for
printing.
I like a good debate; and, when a stripling, used sometimes to be
stifled in the Gallery, or enjoy the easier privileges of a member’s
son. I like, I say, a good debate, and have no objection to a due
mixture of bores, which are a relief. I remember none of the giants of
former days; but I have heard Canning. He was a consummate rhetorician;
but there seemed to me a dash of commonplace in all that he said, and
frequent indications of the absence of an original mind. To the last,
he never got clear of ‘Good God, sir!’ and all the other hackneyed
ejaculations of his youthful debating clubs. The most commanding speaker
that I ever listened to is, I think, Sir Francis Burdett. I never heard
him in the House; but at an election. He was full of music, grace» and
dignity, even amid all the vulgar tumult; and, unlike all mob orators,
raised the taste of the populace to him, instead of lowering his own to
theirs. His colleague, Mr. Hobhouse, seemed to me ill qualified for a
demagogue, though he spoke with power. He is rather too elaborate, and
a little heavy, but fluent, and never weak. His thoughtful and
highly-cultivated mind maintains him under all circumstances; and his
breeding never deserts him. Sound sense comes recommended from his lips
by the language of a scholar and the urbanity of a gentleman.
Mr. Brougham, at present, reigns paramount in the House of Commons. I
think the lawyer has spoiled the statesman. He is said to have great
powers of sarcasm. From what I have observed there, I should think very
little ones would be quite sufficient. Many a sneer withers in those
walls, which would scarcely, I think, blight a currant-bush out of
them; and I have seen the House convulsed with raillery which, in other
society, would infallibly settle the rallier to be a bore beyond all
tolerance. Even an idiot can raise a smile. They are so good-natured, or
find it so dull. Mr. Canning’s badinage was the most successful, though
I confess I have listened to few things more calculated to make a man
gloomy. But the House always ran riot, taking everything for granted,
and cracked their universal sides before he opened his mouth. The fault
of Mr. Brougham is, that he holds no intellect at present in great
dread, and, consequently, allows himself on all occasions to run wild.
Few men hazard more unphilosophical observations; but he is safe,
because there is no one to notice them. On all great occasions, Mr.
Brougham has come up to the mark; an infallible test of a man of genius.
I hear that Mr. Macaulay is to be returned. If he speaks half as well as
he writes, the House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is one of
those who, like the individual whom he has most studied, will ‘give up
to party what was meant for mankind.’
At any rate, he must get rid of his rabidity. He writes now on all
subjects, as if he certainly intended to be a renegade, and was
determined to make the contrast complete.
Mr. Peel is the model of a minister, and improves as a speaker; though,
like most of the rest, he is fluent without the least style. He should
not get so often in a passion either, or, if he do, should not get out
of one so easily. His sweet apologies are cloying. His candour--he
will do well to get rid of that. He can make a present of it to Mr.
Huskisson, who is a memorable instance of the value of knowledge, which
maintains a man under all circumstances and all disadvantages, and will.
In the Lords, I admire the Duke. The readiness with which he has adopted
the air of a debater, shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky
sort of a downright Montaignish naïveté about him, which is quaint,
unusual, and tells. You plainly perceive that he is determined to be a
civilian; and he is as offended if you drop a hint that he occasionally
wears an uniform, as a servant on a holiday if you mention the word
_livery_.
Lord Grey speaks with feeling, and is better to hear than to read,
though ever strong and impressive. Lord Holland’s speeches are like a
_refacimento_ of all the suppressed passages in Clarendon, and the
notes in the new edition of Bishop Burnet’s Memoirs: but taste throws a
delicate hue over the curious medley, and the candour of a philosophic
mind shows that in the library of Holland House he can sometimes cease
to be a partisan.
One thing is clear, that a man may speak very well in the House of
Commons, and fail very completely in the House of Lords. There are two
distinct styles requisite: I intend, in the course of my career, if I
have time, to give a specimen of both. In the Lower House Don Juan may
perhaps be our model; in the Upper House, Paradise Lost.
BOOK V [CONTINUED]
CHAPTER VII.
_‘To See Ourselves as Others See Us.’_
NOTHING was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. Arundel Dacre’s speech. All
the world flocked to Castle Dacre to compliment and to congratulate; and
an universal hope was expressed that he might come in for the county,
if indeed the success of his eloquence did not enable his uncle to
pre-occupy that honour. Even the calm Mr. Dacre shared the general
elation, and told the Duke of St. James regularly every day that it was
all owing to him. May Dacre was enthusiastic; but her gratitude to him
was synonymous with her love for Arundel, and valued accordingly. The
Duke, however, felt that he had acted at once magnanimously, generously,
and wisely. The consciousness of a noble action is itself ennobling.
His spirit expanded with the exciting effects which his conduct
had produced; and he felt consolation under all his misery from
the conviction that he had now claims to be remembered, and perhaps
regarded, when he was no more among them.
The Bill went swimmingly through the Commons, the majority of two
gradually swelling into eleven; and the important night in the Lords was
at hand.
‘Lord Faulconcourt writes,’ said Mr. Dacre, ‘that they expect only
thirty-eight against us.’
‘Ah! that terrible House of Lords!’ said Miss Dacre. ‘Let us see: when
does it come on, the day after to-morrow? Scarcely forty-eight hours
and all will be over, and we shall be just where we were. You and your
friends manage very badly in your House,’ she added, addressing herself
to the Duke.
‘I do all I can,’ said his Grace, smiling. ‘Burlington has my proxy.’
‘That is exactly what I complain of. On such an occasion, there should
be no proxies. Personal attendance would indicate a keener interest in
the result. Ah! if I were Duke of St. James for one night!’
‘Ah! that you would be Duchess of St. James!’ thought the Duke; but
a despairing lover has no heart for jokes, and so he did not give
utterance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and caught May Dacre’s
eye. She smiled, and slightly blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness of
her remark, though too late.
The Duke retired early, but not to sleep. His mind was busied on a great
deed. It was past midnight before he could compose his agitated feelings
to repose, and by five o’clock he was again up. He dressed himself, and
then put on a rough travelling coat, which, with a shawl, effectually
disguised his person; and putting in one pocket a shirt, and in the
other a few articles from his dressing-case, the Duke of St. James stole
out of Castle Dacre, leaving a note for his host, accounting for his
sudden departure by urgent business at Hauteville, and promising a
return in a day or two.
The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his hurried way through the long
dewy grass, and, crossing the Park, gained the road, which, however, was
not the high one. He had yet another hour’s rapid walk, before he could
reach his point of destination; and when that was accomplished, he found
himself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign his own arms, and
situated in the high road opposite his own Park. He was confident that
his person was unknown to the host, or to any of the early idlers who
were lingering about the mail, then breakfasting.
‘Any room, guard, to London?’
‘Room inside, sir: just going off.’
The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James took his seat in the
Edinburgh and York Mail. He had two companions: the first, because
apparently the most important, was a hard-featured, grey-headed
gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air of
acuteness and conceit; the other was a humble-looking widow in
her weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had recently roused
themselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and now, after their welcome
meal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds.
‘Well! now we are off,’ said the gentleman. ‘Very neat, cleanly little
house this, ma’am,’ continued he to his companion. ‘What is the sign?’
‘The Hauteville Arms.’ ‘Oh! Hauteville; that is--that is, let me see!
the St. James family. Ah! a pretty fool that young man has made of
himself, by all accounts. Eh! sir?’
‘I have reason to believe so,’ said the Duke.
‘I suppose this is his park, eh? Hem! going to London, sir?’
‘I am.’
‘Ah! hem! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. Fine ground wasted. What the
use of parks is, I can’t say.’
‘The place seems well kept up,’ said the widow.
‘So much the worse; I wish it were in ruins.’
‘Well, for my part,’ continued the widow in a low voice, ‘I think a park
nearly the most beautiful thing we have. Foreigners, you know, sir----’
‘Ah! I know what you are going to say,’ observed the gentleman in a
curt, gruffish voice. ‘It is all nonsense. Foreigners are fools. Don’t
talk to me of beauty; a mere word. What is the use of all this? It
produces about as much benefit to society as its owner does.’
‘And do you think his existence, then, perfectly useless?’ asked the
Duke.
‘To be sure, I do. So the world will, some day or other. We are
opening our eyes fast. Men begin to ask themselves what the use of an
aristocracy is. That is the test, sir.’
‘I think it not very difficult to demonstrate the use of an
aristocracy,’ mildly observed the Duke.
‘Pooh! nonsense, sir! I know what you are going to say; but we have
got beyond all that. Have you read this, sir? This article on the
aristocracy in “The Screw and Lever Review?”’
‘I have not, sir.’
‘Then I advise you to make yourself master of it, and you will talk no
more of the aristocracy. A few more articles like this, and a few more
noblemen like the man who has got this park, and people will open their
eyes at last.’
‘I should think,’ said his Grace, ‘that the follies of the man who had
got this park have been productive of evil only to himself. In fact,
sir, according to your own system, a prodigal noble seems to be a very
desirable member of the commonwealth and a complete leveller.’
‘We shall get rid of them all soon, sir,’ said his companion, with a
malignant smile.
‘I have heard that he is very young, sir,’ remarked the widow.
‘What is that to you or me?’
‘Ah! youth is a trying time. Let us hope the best! He may turn out well
yet, poor soul!’
‘I hope not. Don’t talk to me of poor souls. There is a poor soul,’ said
the utilitarian, pointing to an old man breaking stones on the highway.
‘That is what I call a poor soul, not a young prodigal, whose life has
been one long career of infamous debauchery.’
‘You appear to have heard much of this young nobleman,’ said the Duke;
‘but it does not follow, sir, that you have heard truth.’
‘Very true, sir,’ said the widow. ‘The world is very foul-mouthed. Let
us hope he is not so very bad.’
‘I tell you what, my friends; you know nothing about what you are
talking of. I don’t speak without foundation. You have not the least
idea, sir, how this fellow has lived. Now, what I am going to tell you
is a fact: I know it to be a fact. A very intimate friend of mine, who
knows a person, who is a very intimate friend of an intimate friend of a
person, who knows the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one night
they had for supper--what do you think ma’am?--Venison cutlets, each
served up in a hundred pound note!’
‘Mercy!’ exclaimed the widow.
‘And do you believe it?’ asked the Duke.
‘Believe it! I know it!’
‘He is very young,’ said the widow. ‘Youth is a very trying time.’
‘Nothing to do with his youth. It’s the system, the infernal system. If
that man had to work for his bread, like everybody else, do you think he
would dine off bank notes? No! to be sure he wouldn’t! It’s the system.’
‘Young people are very wild!’ said the widow.
‘Pooh! ma’am. Nonsense! Don’t talk cant. If a man be properly educated,
he is as capable at one-and-twenty of managing anything, as at any time
in his life; more capable. Look at the men who write “The Screw and
Lever;” the first men in the country. Look at them. Not one of age.
Look at the man who wrote this article on the aristocracy: young Duncan
Macmorrogh. Look at him, I say, the first man in the country by far.’
‘I never heard his name before,’ calmly observed the Duke.
‘Not heard his name? Not heard of young Duncan Macmorrogh, the first
man of the day, by far; not heard of him? Go and ask the Marquess of
Sheepshead what he thinks of him. Go and ask Lord Two and Two what he
thinks of him. Duncan dines with Lord Two and Two every week.’
The Duke smiled, and his companion proceeded.
‘Well, again, look at his friends. There is young First Principles.
What a «head that fellow has got! Here, this article on India is by him.
He’ll knock up their Charter. He is a clerk in the India House. Up to
the detail, you see. Let me read you this passage on monopolies. Then
there is young Tribonian Quirk. By G--, what a mind that fellow has got!
By G--, nothing but first principles will go down with these
fellows! They laugh at anything else. By G--, sir, they look upon the
administration of the present day as a parcel of sucking babes! When I
was last in town, Quirk told me that he would not give that for all the
public men that ever existed! He is keeping his terms at Gray’s Inn.
This article on a new Code is by him. Shows as plain as light, that,
by sticking close to first principles, the laws of the country might be
carried in every man’s waistcoat pocket.’
The coach stopped, and a colloquy ensued.
‘Any room to Selby?’
‘Outside or in?’
‘Out, to be sure.’
‘Room inside only.’
‘Well! in then.’
The door opened, and a singularly quaint-looking personage presented
himself. He was very stiff and prim in his appearance; dressed in a blue
coat and scarlet waistcoat, with a rich bandanna handkerchief tied very
neatly round his neck, and a very new hat, to which his head seemed
little habituated.
‘Sorry to disturb you, ladies and gentlemen: not exactly the proper
place for me. Don’t be alarmed. I’m always respectful wherever I am. My
rule through life is to be respectful.’
‘Well, now, in with you,’ said the guard.
‘Be respectful, my friend, and don’t talk so to an old soldier who has
served his king and his country.’
Off they went.
‘Majesty’s service?’ asked the stranger of the Duke.
‘I have not that honour.’
‘Hum! Lawyer, perhaps?’
‘Not a lawyer.’
‘Hum! A gentleman, I suppose?’
The Duke was silent; and so the stranger addressed himself to the
anti-aristocrat, who seemed vastly annoyed by the intrusion of so low a
personage.
‘Going to London, sir?’
‘I tell you what, my friend, at once; I never answer impertinent
questions.’
‘No offence, I hope, sir! Sorry to offend. I’m always respectful. Madam!
I hope I don’t inconvenience you; I should be sorry to do that. We
sailors, you know, are always ready to accommodate the ladies.’
‘Sailor!’ exclaimed the acute utilitarian, his curiosity stifling his
hauteur. ‘Why! just now, I thought you were a soldier.’
‘Well! so I am.’
‘Well, my friend, you are a conjuror then.’
‘No, I ayn’t; I’m a marine.’
‘A very useless person, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly educated, such an
amphibious corps would never have been formed, and some of the most
atrocious sinecures ever tolerated would consequently not have existed.’
‘Sinecures! I never heard of him. I served under Lord Combermere. Maybe
you have heard of him, ma’am? A nice man; a beautiful man. I have seen
him stand in a field like that, with the shot falling about him like
hail, and caring no more for them than peas.’
‘If that were for bravado,’ said the utilitarian, ‘I think it a very
silly thing.’
‘Bravado! I never heard of him. It was for his king and country.’
‘Was it in India?’ asked the widow.
‘In a manner, ma’am,’ said the marine, very courteously. ‘At Bhurtpore,
up by Pershy, and thereabouts; the lake of Cashmere, where all the
shawls come from. Maybe you have heard of Cashmere, ma’am?’
‘“Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere!’” hummed the Duke to
himself.
‘Ah! I thought so,’ said the marine; ‘all people know much the same; for
some have seen, and some have read. I can’t read, but I have served my
king and country for five-and-twenty years, and I have used my eyes.’
‘Better than reading,’ said the Duke, humouring the character.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the marine, with a knowing look. ‘I suspect
there is a d--d lot of lies in your books. I landed in England last
seventh of June, and went to see St. Paul’s. “This is the greatest
building in the world,” says the man. Thinks I, “You lie.” I did not
tell him so, because I am always respectful. I tell you what, sir; maybe
you think St. Paul’s the greatest building in the world, but I tell you
what, it’s a lie. I have seen one greater. Maybe, ma’am, you think I am
telling you a lie too; but I am not. Go and ask Captain Jones, of the
58th. I went with him: I give you his name: go and ask Captain Jones, of
the 58th, if I be telling you a lie. The building I mean is the
palace of the Sultan Acber; for I have served my king and country
five-and-twenty years last seventh of June, and have seen strange
things; all built of precious stones, ma’am. What do you think of that?
All built of precious stones; carnelian, of which you make your seals;
as sure as I’m a sinner saved. If I ayn’t speaking the truth, I am not
going to Selby. Maybe you’d like to know why I am going to Selby? I’ll
tell you what. Five-and-twenty years have I served my king and country
last seventh of June. Now I begin with the beginning. I ran away from
home when I was eighteen, you see! and, after the siege of Bhurtpore, I
was sitting on a bale of silk alone, and I said to myself, I’ll go and
see my mother. Sure as I am going to Selby, that’s the whole. I landed
in England last seventh of June, absent five-and-twenty years, serving
my king and country. I sent them a letter last night. I put it in the
post myself. Maybe I shall be there before my letter now.’
‘To be sure you will,’ said the utilitarian; ‘what made you do such a
silly thing? Why, your letter is in this coach.’
‘Well! I shouldn’t wonder. I shall be there before my letter now. All
nonsense, letters: my wife wrote it at Falmouth.’
‘You are married, then?’ said the widow.
‘Ayn’t I, though? The sweetest cretur, madam, though I say it before
you, that ever lived.’
‘Why did you not bring your wife with you?’ asked the widow.
‘And wouldn’t I be very glad to? but she wouldn’t come among strangers
at once; and so I have got a letter, which she wrote for me, to put in
the post, in case they are glad to see me, and then she will come on.’
‘And you, I suppose, are not sorry to have a holiday?’ said the Duke.
‘Ayn’t I, though? Ayn’t I as low about leaving her as ever I was in my
life; and so is the poor cretur. She won’t eat a bit of victuals till
I come back, I’ll be sworn; not a bit, I’ll be bound to say that; and
myself, although I am an old soldier and served my king and country for
five-and-twenty years, and so got knocked about, and used to anything,
as it were, I don’t know how it is, but I always feel queer whenever I
am away from her. I shan’t make a hearty meal till I see her. Somehow or
other, when I am away from her, everything feels dry in the throat.’
‘You are very fond of her, I see,’ said the Duke.
‘And ought I not to be? Didn’t I ask her three times before she said
_yes_? Those are the wives for wear, sir. None of the fruit that falls
at a shaking for me! Hasn’t she stuck by me in every climate, and
in every land I was in? Not a fellow in the company had such a wife.
Wouldn’t I throw myself off this coach this moment, to give her a
moment’s peace? That I would, though; d----me if I wouldn’t.’
‘Hush! hush!’ said the widow; ‘never swear. I am afraid you talk too
much of your love,’ she added, with a faint smile.
‘Ah! you don’t know my wife, ma’am. Are you married, sir?’
‘I have not that happiness,’ said the Duke.
‘Well, there is nothing like it! but don’t take the fruit that falls at
a shake. But this, I suppose, is Selby?’
The marine took his departure, having stayed long enough to raise in the
young Duke’s mind curious feelings.
As he was plunged into reverie, and as the widow was silent,
conversation was not resumed until the coach stopped for dinner.
‘We stop here half-an-hour, gentlemen,’ said the guard. ‘Mrs. Burnet,’
he continued, to the widow, ‘let me hand you out.’
They entered the parlour of the inn. The Duke, who was ignorant of the
etiquette of the road, did not proceed to the discharge of his
duties, as the youngest guest, with all the promptness desired by his
fellow-travellers.
‘Now, sir,’ said an outside, ‘I will thank you for a slice of that
mutton, and will join you, if you have no objection in a bottle of
sherry.’
‘What you please, sir. May I have the pleasure of helping you, ma’am?’
After dinner the Duke took advantage of a vacant outside place.
Tom Rawlins was the model of a guard. Young, robust, and gay, he had a
letter, a word, or a wink for all he met. All seasons were the same to
him; night or day he was ever awake, and ever alive to all the interest
of the road; now joining in conversation with a passenger, shrewd,
sensible, and respectful; now exchanging a little elegant badinage with
the coachman; now bowing to a pretty girl; now quizzing a passer-by; he
was off and on his seat in an instant, and, in the whiff of his cigar,
would lock a wheel, or unlock a passenger.
From him the young Duke learned that his fellow-inside was Mr. Duncan
Macmorrogh, senior, a writer at Edinburgh, and, of course, the father of
the first man of the day. Tom Rawlins could not tell his Grace as much
about the principal writer in ‘The Screw and Lever Review’ as we can;
for Tom was no patron of our periodical literature, farther than a
police report in the Publican’s Journal. Young Duncan Macmorrogh was a
limb of the law, who had just brought himself into notice by a series
of articles in ‘The Screw and Lever,’ in which he had subjected the
universe piecemeal to his critical analysis. Duncan Macmorrogh cut
up the creation, and got a name. His attack upon mountains was most
violent, and proved, by its personality, that he had come from the
Lowlands. He demonstrated the inutility of all elevation, and declared
that the Andes were the aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he rather
patronised; but flowers he quite pulled to pieces, and proved them to
be the most useless of existences. Duncan Macmorrogh informed us that we
were quite wrong in supposing ourselves to be the miracle of creation.
On the contrary, he avowed that already there were various pieces of
machinery of far more importance than man; and he had no doubt, in
time, that a superior race would arise, got by a steam-engine on a
spinning-jenny.
The other ‘inside’ was the widow of a former curate of a Northumbrian
village. Some friend had obtained for her only child a clerkship in
a public office, and for some time this idol of her heart had gone on
prospering; but unfortunately, of late, Charles Burnet had got into
a bad set, was now involved in a terrible scrape, and, as Tom Rawlins
feared, must lose his situation and go to ruin.
‘She was half distracted when she heard it first, poor creature! I have
known her all my life, sir. Many the kind word and glass of ale I have
had at her house, and that’s what makes me feel for her, you see. I
do what I can to make the journey easy to her, for it is a pull at her
years. God bless her! there is not a better body in this world; that I
will, say for her. When I was a boy, I used to be the playfellow in a
manner with Charley Burnet: a gay lad, sir, as ever you’d wish to see
in a summer’s day, and the devil among the girls always, and that’s been
the ruin of him; and as open-a-hearted fellow as ever lived. D----me!
I’d walk to the land’s end to save him, if it were only for his mother’s
sake, to say nothing of himself.’
‘And can nothing be done?’ asked the Duke.
‘Why, you see, he is back in £ s. d.; and, to make it up, the poor body
must sell her all, and he won’t let her do it, and wrote a letter like a
prince (No room, sir), as fine a letter as ever you read (Hilloa, there!
What! are you asleep?)--as ever you read on a summer’s day. I didn’t
see it, but my mother told me it was as good as e’er a one of the old
gentleman’s sermons. “Mother,” said he, “my sins be upon my own head. I
can bear disgrace (How do, Mr. Wilkins?), but I cannot bear to see you a
beggar!”’
‘Poor fellow!’
‘Ay! sir, as good-a-hearted fellow as ever you’d wish to meet!’
‘Is he involved to a great extent, think you?’
‘Oh! a long figure, sir (I say, Betty, I’ve got a letter for you from
your sweetheart), a very long figure, sir (Here, take it!); I should be
sorry (Don’t blush; no message?)--I should be sorry to take two hundred
pounds to pay it. No, I wouldn’t take two hundred pounds, that I
wouldn’t (I say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith’s).’
Night came on, and the Duke resumed his inside place. Mr. Macmorrogh
went to sleep over his son’s article; and the Duke feigned slumber,
though he was only indulging in reverie. He opened his eyes, and a
light, which they passed, revealed the countenance of the widow. Tears
were stealing down her face.
‘I have no mother; I have no one to weep for me,’ thought the Duke; ‘and
yet, if I had been in this youth’s station, my career probably would
have been as fatal. Let me assist her. Alas! how I have misused my
power, when, even to do this slight deed, I am obliged to hesitate, and
consider whether it be practicable.’
The coach again stopped for a quarter of an hour. The Duke had, in
consideration of the indefinite period of his visit, supplied himself
amply with money on repairing to Dacre. Besides his purse, which was
well stored for the road, he had somewhat more than three hundred pounds
in his notebook. He took advantage of their tarrying, to inclose it and
its contents in a sheet of paper with these lines:
‘An unknown friend requests Mrs. Burnet to accept this token of his
sympathy with suffering virtue.’
Determined to find some means to put this in her possession before
their parting, he resumed his place. The Scotchman now prepared for his
night’s repose. He produced a pillow for his back, a bag for his feet,
and a cap for his head. These, and a glass of brandy-and-water, in time
produced a due effect, and he was soon fast asleep. Even to the widow,
night brought some solace. The Duke alone found no repose. Unused to
travelling in public conveyances at night, and unprovided with any of
the ingenious expedients of a mail coach adventurer, he felt all the
inconveniences of an inexperienced traveller. The seat was unendurably
hard, his back ached, his head whirled, the confounded sherry, slight as
was his portion, had made him feverish, and he felt at once excited
and exhausted. He was sad, too; very depressed. Alone, and no longer
surrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made solitude
precious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energy
vanished. He repented his rashness; and the impulse of the previous
night, which had gathered fresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He
felt alone, and without a friend, and night passed without a moment’s
slumber, watching the driving clouds.
The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the whole journey. At St.
Alban’s he got out, took a cup of coffee with Tom Rawlins, and, although
the morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. In the first
gloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got out. The Duke sent Rawlins after
her with the parcel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. He
watched the widow protesting it was not hers, his faithful emissary
appealing to the direction, and with delight he observed it left in
her hands. They rattled into London, stopped in Lombard Street, reached
Holborn, entered an archway; the coachman threw the whip and reins from
his now careless hands. The Duke bade farewell to Tom Rawlins, and was
shown to a bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
_The Duke Makes a Speech_
THE return of morning had in some degree dissipated the gloom that had
settled on the young Duke during the night. Sound and light made him
feel less forlorn, and for a moment his soul again responded to his high
purpose. But now he was to seek necessary repose. In vain. His heated
frame and anxious mind were alike restless. He turned, he tossed in his
bed, but he could not banish from his ear the whirling sound of his late
conveyance, the snore of Mr. Macmorrogh, and the voice of Tom Rawlins.
He kept dwelling on every petty incident of his journey, and repeating
in his mind every petty saying. His determination to slumber made him
even less sleepy. Conscious that repose was absolutely necessary to
the performance of his task, and dreading that the boon was now
unattainable, he became each moment more feverish and more nervous; a
crowd of half-formed ideas and images flitted over his heated brain.
Failure, misery, May Dacre, Tom Rawlins, boiled beef, Mrs. Burnet, the
aristocracy, mountains and the marine, and the tower of St. Alban’s
cathedral, hurried along in infinite confusion. But there is nothing
like experience. In a state of distraction, he remembered the hopeless
but refreshing sleep he had gained after his fatal adventure at
Brighton. He jumped out of bed, and threw himself on the floor, and in
a few minutes, from the same cause, his excited senses subsided into
slumber.
He awoke; the sun was shining through his rough shutter. It was noon. He
jumped up, rang the bell, and asked for a bath. The chambermaid did not
seem exactly to comprehend his meaning, but said she would speak to the
waiter. He was the first gentleman who ever had asked for a bath at the
Dragon with Two Tails. The waiter informed him that he might get a bath,
he believed, at the Hum-mums. The Duke dressed, and to the Hummums he
then took his way. As he was leaving the yard, he was followed by an
ostler, who, in a voice musically hoarse, thus addressed him:
‘Have you seen missis, sir?’
‘Do you mean me? No, I have not seen your missis;’ and the Duke
proceeded.
‘Sir, sir,’ said the ostler, running after him, ‘I think you said you
had not seen missis?’
‘You think right,’ said the Duke, astonished; and again he walked on.
‘Sir, sir,’ said the pursuing ostler, ‘I don’t think you have got any
luggage?’
‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ said the Duke; ‘I see it. I am in your debt;
but I meant to return.’
‘No doubt on’t, sir; but when gemmen don’t have no luggage, they sees
missis before they go, sir.’
‘Well, what am I in your debt? I can pay you here.’
‘Five shillings, sir.’
‘Here!’ said the Duke; ‘and tell me when a coach leaves this place
to-morrow for Yorkshire.’
‘Half-past six o’clock in the morning precisely,’ said the ostler.
‘Well, my good fellow, I depend upon your securing me a place; and that
is for yourself,’ added his Grace, throwing him a sovereign. ‘Now, mind;
I depend upon you.’
The man stared as if he had been suddenly taken into partnership with
missis; at length he found his tongue.
‘Your honour may depend upon me. Where would you like to sit? In or out?
Back to your horses, or the front? Get you the box if you like. Where’s
your great coat, sir? I’ll brush it for you.’
The bath and the breakfast brought our hero round a good deal, and
at half-past two he stole to a solitary part of St. James’s Park, to
stretch his legs and collect his senses. We must now let our readers
into a secret, which perhaps they have already unravelled. The Duke
had hurried to London with the determination, not only of attending the
debate, but of participating in it. His Grace was no politician; but the
question at issue was one simple in its nature and so domestic in its
spirit, that few men could have arrived at his period of life without
having heard its merits, both too often and too amply discussed. He was
master of all the points of interest, and he had sufficient confidence
in himself to believe that he could do them justice. He walked up and
down, conning over in his mind not only the remarks which he intended
to make, but the very language in which he meant to offer them. As he
formed sentences, almost for the first time, his courage and his fancy
alike warmed: his sanguine spirit sympathised with the nobility of the
imaginary scene, and inspirited the intonations of his modulated voice.
About four o’clock he repaired to the House. Walking up one of the
passages his progress was stopped by the back of an individual bowing
with great civility to a patronising peer, and my-lording him with
painful repetition. The nobleman was Lord Fitz-pompey; the bowing
gentleman, Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh, the anti-aristocrat, and father of the
first man of the day.
‘George! is it possible!’ exclaimed Lord Fitz-pompey. ‘I will speak to
you in the House,’ said the Duke, passing on, and bowing to Mr. Duncan
Macmorrogh.
He recalled his proxy from the Duke of Burlington, and accounted for
his presence to many astonished friends by being on his way to the
Continent; and, passing through London, thought he might as well
be present, particularly as he was about to reside for some time in
Catholic countries. It was the last compliment that he could pay his
future host. ‘Give me a pinch of snuff.’
The debate began. Don’t be alarmed. I shall not describe it. Five or six
peers had spoken, and one of the ministers had just sat down when the
Duke of St. James rose. He was extremely nervous, but he repeated to
himself the name of May Dacre for the hundredth time, and proceeded. He
was nearly commencing ‘May Dacre’ instead of ‘My Lords,’ but he escaped
this blunder. For the first five or ten minutes he spoke in almost as
cold and lifeless a style as when he echoed the King’s speech; but he
was young and seldom troubled them, and was listened to therefore with
indulgence. The Duke warmed, and a courteous ‘hear, hear,’ frequently
sounded; the Duke became totally free from embarrassment, and spoke
with eloquence and energy. A cheer, a stranger in the House of Lords,
rewarded and encouraged him. As an Irish landlord, his sincerity could
not be disbelieved when he expressed his conviction of the safety of
emancipation; but it was as an English proprietor and British noble
that it was evident that his Grace felt most keenly upon this important
measure. He described with power the peculiar injustice of the situation
of the English Catholics. He professed to feel keenly upon this subject,
because his native county had made him well acquainted with the temper
of this class; he painted in glowing terms the loyalty, the wealth, the
influence, the noble virtues of his Catholic neighbours; and he closed a
speech of an hour’s duration, in which he had shown that a worn subject
was susceptible of novel treatment, and novel interest, amid loud
and general cheers. The Lords gathered round him, and many personally
congratulated him upon his distinguished success. The debate took
its course. At three o’clock the pro-Catholics found themselves in
a minority, but a minority in which the prescient might have well
discovered the herald of future justice. The speech of the Duke of St.
James was the speech of the night.
The Duke walked into White’s. It was crowded. The first man who welcomed
him was Annesley. He congratulated the Duke with a warmth for which the
world did not give him credit.
‘I assure you, my dear St. James, that I am one of the few people whom
this display has not surprised. I have long observed that you were
formed for something better than mere frivolity. And between ourselves
I am sick of it. Don’t be surprised if you hear that I go to Algiers.
Depend upon it that I am on the point of doing something dreadful.’
‘Sup with me, St. James,’ said Lord Squib; ‘I will ask O’Connell to meet
you.’
Lord Fitz-pompey and Lord Darrell were profuse in congratulations; but
he broke away from them to welcome the man who now advanced. He was one
of whom he never thought without a shudder, but whom, for all that, he
greatly liked.
‘My dear Duke of St. James,’ said Arundel Dacre, ‘how ashamed I am
that this is the first time I have personally thanked you for all your
goodness!’
‘My dear Dacre, I have to thank you for proving for the first time to
the world that I was not without discrimination.’
‘No, no,’ said Dacre, gaily and easily; ‘all the congratulations and all
the compliments to-night shall be for you. Believe me, my dear friend, I
share your triumph.’
They shook hands with earnestness.
‘May will read your speech with exultation,’ said Arundel. ‘I think we
must thank her for making you an orator.’
The Duke faintly smiled and shook his head.
‘And how are all our Yorkshire friends?’ continued Arundel. ‘I am
disappointed again in getting down to them; but I hope in the course of
the month to pay them a visit.’
‘I shall see them in a day or two,’ said the Duke. ‘I pay Mr. Dacre one
more visit before my departure form England.’
‘Are you then indeed going?’ asked Arundel, in a kind voice.
‘For ever.’
‘Nay, nay, _ever_ is a strong word.’
‘It becomes, then, my feelings. However, we will not talk of this. Can I
bear any letter for you?’
‘I have just written,’ replied Arundel, in a gloomy voice, and with a
changing countenance, ‘and therefore will not trouble you. And yet----’
‘What!’
‘And yet the letter is an important letter: to me. The post, to be sure,
never does miss; but if it were not troubling your Grace too much, I
almost would ask you to be its bearer.’
‘It will be there as soon,’ said the Duke, ‘for I shall be off in an
hour.’
‘I will take it out of the box then,’ said Arundel; and he fetched it.
‘Here is the letter,’ said he on his return: ‘pardon me if I impress
upon you its importance. Excuse this emotion, but, indeed, this letter
decides my fate. My happiness for life is dependent on its reception!’
He spoke with an air and voice of agitation.
The Duke received the letter in a manner scarcely less disturbed; and
with a hope that they might meet before his departure, faintly murmured
by one party, and scarcely responded to by the other, they parted.
‘Well, now,’ said the Duke, ‘the farce is complete; and I have come to
London to be the bearer of his offered heart! I like this, now. Is there
a more contemptible, a more ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous ass
than myself? Fear not for its delivery, most religiously shall it be
consigned to the hand of its owner. The fellow has paid a compliment to
my honour or my simplicity: I fear the last, and really I feel rather
proud. But away with these feelings! Have I not seen her in his arms?
Pah! Thank God! I spoke. At least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does
not think me quite a fool. O, May Dacre, May Dacre! if you were but
mine, I should be the happiest fellow that ever breathed!’
He breakfasted, and then took his way to the Dragon with Two Tails. The
morning was bright, and fresh, and beautiful, even in London. Joy came
upon his heart, in spite of all his loneliness, and he was glad and
sanguine. He arrived just in time. The coach was about to start. The
faithful ostler was there with his great-coat, and the Duke found that
he had three fellow-passengers. They were lawyers, and talked for the
first two hours of nothing but the case respecting which they were
going down into the country. At Woburn, a despatch arrived with the
newspapers. All purchased one, and the Duke among the rest. He was
well reported, and could now sympathise with, instead of smile at, the
anxiety of Lord Darrell.
‘The young Duke of St. James seems to have distinguished himself very
much,’ said the first lawyer.
‘So I observe,’ said the second one. ‘The leading article calls our
attention to his speech as the most brilliant delivered.’
‘I am surprised,’ said the third. ‘I thought he was quite a different
sort of person.’
‘By no means,’ said the first: ‘I have always had a high opinion of him.
I am not one of those who think the worse of a young man because he is a
little wild.’
‘Nor I,’ said the second. ‘Young blood, you know, is young blood.’
‘A very intimate friend of mine, who knows the Duke of St. James well,
once told me,’ rejoined the first, ‘that I was quite mistaken about him;
that he was a person of no common talents; well read, quite a man of the
world, and a good deal of wit, too; and let me tell you that in these
days wit is no common thing.’
‘Certainly not,’ said the third. ‘We have no wit now.’
‘And a kind-hearted, generous fellow,’ continued the first, ‘and _very_
unaffected.’
‘I can’t bear an affected man,’ said the second, without looking off his
paper. ‘He seems to have made a very fine speech indeed.’
‘I should not wonder at his turning out something great,’ said the
third.
‘I have no doubt of it,’ said the second.
‘Many of these wild fellows do.’
‘He is not so wild as we think,’ said the first.
‘But he is done up,’ said the second.
‘Is he indeed?’ said the third. ‘Perhaps by making a speech he wants a
place?’
‘People don’t make speeches for nothing,’ said the third.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if he is after a place in the Household,’ said the
second.
‘Depend upon it, he looks to something more active,’ said the first.
‘Perhaps he would like to be head of the Admiralty?’ said the second.
‘Or the Treasury?’ said the third.
‘That is impossible!’ said the first. ‘He is too young.’
‘He is as old as Pitt,’ said the third.
‘I hope he will resemble him in nothing but his age, then,’ said the
first.
‘I look upon Pitt as the first man that ever lived,’ said the third.
‘What!’ said the first. ‘The man who worked up the national debt to
nearly eight hundred millions!’
‘What of that?’ said the third. ‘I look upon the national debt as the
source of all our prosperity.’
‘The source of all our taxes, you mean.’
‘What is the harm of taxes?’
‘The harm is, that you will soon have no trade; and when you have no
trade, you will have no duties; and when you have no duties, you will
have no dividends; and when you have no dividends, you will have no law;
and then, where is your source of prosperity?’ said the first.
But here the coach stopped, and the Duke got out for an hour.
By midnight they had reached a town not more than thirty miles from
Dacre. The Duke was quite exhausted, and determined to stop. In half an
hour he enjoyed that deep, dreamless slumber, with which no luxury can
compete. One must have passed restless nights for years, to be able to
appreciate the value of sound sleep.
CHAPTER IX.
_A Last Appeal_
HE ROSE early, and managed to reach Dacre at the breakfast hour of the
family. He discharged his chaise at the Park gate, and entered the house
unseen. He took his way along a corridor lined with plants, which led
to the small and favourite room in which the morning meetings of May and
himself always took place when they were alone. As he lightly stepped
along, he heard a voice that he could not mistake, as it were in
animated converse. Agitated by sounds which ever created in him emotion,
for a moment he paused. He starts, his eye sparkles with strange
delight, a flush comes over his panting features, half of modesty, half
of triumph. He listens to his own speech from the lips of the woman he
loves. She is reading to her father with melodious energy the passage
in which he describes the high qualities of his Catholic neighbours. The
intonations of the voice indicate the deep sympathy of the reader. She
ceases. He hears the admiring exclamation of his host. He rallies his
strength, he advances, he stands before them. She utters almost a shriek
of delightful surprise as she welcomes him.
How much there was to say! how much to ask! how much to answer! Even Mr.
Dacre poured forth questions like a boy. But May: she could not
speak, but leant forward in her chair with an eager ear, and a look of
congratulation, that rewarded him for all his exertion. Everything was
to be told. How he went; whether he slept in the mail; where he went;
what he did; whom he saw; what they said; what they thought; all must be
answered. Then fresh exclamations of wonder, delight, and triumph.
The Duke forgot everything but his love, and for three hours felt the
happiest of men.
At length Mr. Dacre rose and looked at his watch with a shaking head. ‘I
have a most important appointment,’ said he, ‘and I must gallop to keep
it. God bless you, my dear St. James! I could stay talking with you for
ever; but you must be utterly wearied. Now, my dear boy, go to bed.’
‘To bed!’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘Why, Tom Rawlins would laugh at you!’
‘And who is Tom Rawlins?’
‘Ah! I cannot tell you everything; but assuredly I am not going to bed.’
‘Well, May, I leave him to your care; but do not let him talk any more.’
‘Oh! sir,’ said the Duke, ‘I really had forgotten. I am the bearer to
you, sir, of a letter from Mr. Arundel Dacre.’ He gave it him.
As Mr. Dacre read the communication, his countenance changed, and
the smile which before was on his face, vanished. But whether he were
displeased, or only serious, it was impossible to ascertain, although
the Duke watched him narrowly. At length he said, ‘May! here is a letter
from Arundel, in which you are much interested.’
‘Give it me, then, papa!’
‘No, my love; we must speak of this together. But I am pressed for time.
When I come home. Remember.’ He quitted the room.
They were alone: the Duke began again talking, and Miss Dacre put her
finger to her mouth, with a smile.
‘I assure you,’ said he, ‘I am not wearied. I slept at----y, and the
only thing I now want is a good walk. Let me be your companion this
morning!’
‘I was thinking of paying nurse a visit. What say you?’
‘Oh! I am ready; anywhere.’
She ran for her bonnet, and he kissed her handkerchief, which she left
behind, and, I believe, everything else in the room which bore the
slightest relation to her. And then the recollection of Arundel’s letter
came over him, and his joy fled. When she returned, he was standing
before the fire, gloomy and dull.
‘I fear you are tired,’ she said.
‘Not in the least.’
‘I shall never forgive myself if all this exertion make you ill.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, although I will not tell papa, I am sure my nonsense is the
cause of your having gone to London.’
‘It is probable; for you are the cause of all that does not disgrace
me.’ He advanced, and was about to seize her hand; but the accursed
miniature occurred to him, and he repressed his feelings, almost with
a groan. She, too, had turned away her head, and was busily engaged in
tending a flower.
‘Because she has explicitly declared her feelings to me, and, sincere
in that declaration, honours me by a friendship of which alone I am
unworthy, am I to persecute her with my dishonoured overtures--the twice
rejected? No, no!’
They took their way through the park, and he soon succeeded in
re-assuming the tone that befitted their situation. Traits of the
debate, and the debaters, which newspapers cannot convey, and which
he had not yet recounted; anecdotes of Annesley and their friends, and
other gossip, were offered for her amusement. But if she were amused,
she was not lively, but singularly, unusually silent. There was only one
point on which she seemed interested, and that was his speech. When he
was cheered, and who particularly cheered; who gathered round him,
and what they said after the debate: on all these points she was most
inquisitive.
They rambled on: nurse was quite forgotten; and at length they found
themselves in the beautiful valley, rendered more lovely by the ruins of
the abbey. It was a place that the Duke could never forget, and which he
ever avoided. He had never renewed his visit since he first gave vent,
among its reverend ruins, to his overcharged and most tumultuous heart.
They stood in silence before the holy pile with its vaulting arches and
crumbling walls, mellowed by the mild lustre of the declining sun. Not
two years had fled since here he first staggered after the breaking
glimpses of self-knowledge, and struggled to call order from out the
chaos of his mind. Not two years, and yet what a change had come over
his existence! How diametrically opposite now were all his thoughts, and
views, and feelings, to those which then controlled his fatal soul! How
capable, as he firmly believed, was he now of discharging his duty to
his Creator and his fellow-men! and yet the boon that ought to have been
the reward for all this self-contest, the sweet seal that ought to have
ratified this new contract of existence, was wanting.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed aloud, and in a voice of anguish, ‘ah! if I ne’er had
left the walls of Dacre, how different might have been my lot!’
A gentle but involuntary pressure reminded him of the companion whom,
for once in his life, he had for a moment forgotten.
‘I feel it is madness; I feel it is worse than madness; but must I yield
without a struggle, and see my dark fate cover me without an effort? Oh!
yes, here, even here, where I have wept over your contempt, even here,
although I subject myself to renewed rejection, let--let me tell you,
before we part, how I adore you!’
She was silent; a strange courage came over his spirit; and, with
a reckless boldness, and rapid voice, a misty sight, and total
unconsciousness of all other existence, he resumed the words which had
broken out, as if by inspiration.
‘I am not worthy of you. Who is? I was worthless. I did not know it.
Have not I struggled to be pure? have not I sighed on my nightly pillow
for your blessing? Oh! could you read my heart (and sometimes, I think,
you can read it, for indeed, with all its faults, it is without guile) I
dare to hope that you would pity me. Since we first met, your image
has not quitted my conscience for a second. When you thought me least
worthy; when you thought me vile, or mad, oh! by all that is sacred,
I was the most miserable wretch that ever breathed, and flew to
dissipation only for distraction!
‘Not--not for a moment have I ceased to think you the best, the most
beautiful, the most enchanting and endearing creature that ever graced
our earth. Even when I first dared to whisper my insolent affection,
believe me, even then, your presence controlled my spirit as no other
woman had. I bent to you then in pride and power. The station that I
could then offer you was not utterly unworthy of your perfection. I am
now a beggar, or, worse, an insolvent noble, and dare I--dare I to ask
you to share the fortunes that are broken, and the existence that is
obscure?’
She turned; her arm fell over his shoulder; she buried her head in his
breast.
CHAPTER X.
_‘Love is Like a Dizziness.’_
MR. DACRE returned home with an excellent appetite, and almost as keen a
desire to renew his conversation with his guest; but dinner and the Duke
were neither to be commanded. Miss Dacre also could not be found. No
information could be obtained of them from any quarter. It was nearly
seven o’clock, the hour of dinner. That meal, somewhat to Mr. Dacre’s
regret, was postponed for half an hour, servants were sent out, and the
bell was rung, but no tidings. Mr. Dacre was a little annoyed and more
alarmed; he was also hungry, and at half-past seven he sat down to a
solitary meal.
About a quarter-past eight a figure rapped at the dining-room window:
it was the young Duke. The fat butler seemed astonished, not to say
shocked, at this violation of etiquette; nevertheless, he slowly opened
the window.
‘Anything the matter, George? Where is May?’
‘Nothing. We lost our way. That is all. May--Miss Dacre desired me to
say, that she would not join us at dinner.’
‘I am sure, something has happened.’
‘I assure you, my dear sir, nothing, nothing at all the least
unpleasant, but we took the wrong turning. All my fault.’
‘Shall I send for the soup?’
‘No. I am not hungry, I will take some wine.’ So saying, his Grace
poured out a tumbler of claret.
‘Shall I take your Grace’s hat?’ asked the fat butler.
‘Dear me! have I my hat on?’
This was not the only evidence afforded by our hero’s conduct that his
presence of mind had slightly deserted him. He was soon buried in a deep
reverie, and sat with a full plate, but idle knife and fork before him,
a perfect puzzle to the fat butler, who had hitherto considered his
Grace the very pink of propriety.
‘George, you have eaten no dinner,’ said Mr. Dacre.
‘Thank you, a very good one indeed, a remarkably good dinner. Give me
some red wine, if you please.’
At length they were left alone.
‘I have some good news for you, George.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I think I have let Rosemount.’
‘So!’
‘And exactly to the kind of person that you wanted, a man who will take
a pride, although merely a tenant, in not permitting his poor neighbours
to feel the _want_ of a landlord. You will never guess: Lord Mildmay!’
‘What did you say of Lord Mildmay, sir?’
‘My dear fellow, your wits are wool-gathering; I say I think I have let
Rosemount.’
‘Oh! I have changed my mind about letting Rosemount.’
‘My dear Duke, there is no trouble which I will grudge, to further your
interests; but really I must beg, in future, that you will, at least,
apprise me when you change your mind. There is nothing, as we have both
agreed, more desirable than to find an eligible tenant for Rosemount.
You never can expect to have a more beneficial one than Lord Mildmay;
and really, unless you have positively promised the place to another
person (which, excuse me for saying, you were not authorised to do) I
must insist, after what has passed, upon his having the preference.’
‘My dear sir, I only changed my mind this afternoon: I couldn’t tell
you before. I have promised it to no one; but I think of living there
myself.’
‘Yourself! Oh! if that be the case, I shall be quite reconciled to the
disappointment of Lord Mildmay. But what in the name of goodness, my
dear fellow, has produced this wonderful revolution in all your plans in
the course of a few hours? I thought you were going to mope away life on
the Lake of Geneva, or dawdle it away in Florence or Rome.’
‘It is very odd, sir. I can hardly believe it myself: and yet it must be
true. I hear her voice even at this moment. Oh! my dear Mr. Dacre, I am
the happiest fellow that ever breathed!’
‘What is all this?’
‘Is it possible, my dear sir, that you have not long before detected
the feelings I ventured to entertain for your daughter? In a word, she
requires only your sanction to my being the most fortunate of men.’
‘My dear friend, my dear, dear boy!’ cried Mr. Dacre, rising from his
chair and embracing him, ‘it is out of the power of man to impart to me
any event which could afford me such exquisite pleasure! Indeed, indeed,
it is to me most surprising! for I had been induced to suspect, George,
that some explanation had passed between you and May, which, while
it accounted for your mutual esteem, gave little hope of a stronger
sentiment.’
‘I believe, sir,’ said the young Duke, with a smile, ‘I was obstinate.’
‘Well, this changes all our plans. I have intended, for this fortnight
past, to speak to you finally on your affairs. No better time than the
present; and, in the first place----’
But, really, this interview is confidential.
CHAPTER XI.
_‘Perfection in a Petticoat.’_
THEY come not: it is late. He is already telling all! She relapses into
her sweet reverie. Her thought fixes on no subject; her mind is
intent on no idea; her soul is melted into dreamy delight; her only
consciousness is perfect bliss! Sweet sounds still echo in her ear, and
still her pure pulse beats, from the first embrace of passion.
The door opens, and her father enters, leaning upon the arm of her
beloved. Yes, he has told all! Mr. Dacre approached, and, bending down,
pressed the lips of his child. It was the seal to their plighted faith,
and told, without speech, that the blessing of a parent mingled with the
vows of a lover! No other intimation was at present necessary;’ but she,
the daughter, thought now only of her father, that friend of her long
life, whose love had ne’er been wanting: was she about to leave him? She
arose, she threw her arms around his neck and wept.
The young Duke walked away, that his presence might not control the full
expression of her hallowed soul. ‘This jewel is mine,’ was his thought;
‘what, what have I done to be so blessed?’
In a few minutes he again joined them, and was seated by her side; and
Mr. Dacre considerately remembered that he wished to see his steward,
and they were left alone. Their eyes meet, and their soft looks tell
that they were thinking of each other. His arm steals round the back of
her chair, and with his other hand he gently captures hers.
First love, first love! how many a glowing bard has sung thy beauties!
How many a poor devil of a prosing novelist, like myself, has echoed
all our superiors, the poets, teach us! No doubt, thou rosy god of young
Desire, thou art a most bewitching little demon; and yet, for my part,
give me last love.
Ask a man which turned out best, the first horse he bought, or the one
he now canters on? Ask--but in short there is nothing in which knowledge
is more important and experience more valuable than in love. When we
first love, we are enamoured of our own imaginations. Our thoughts are
high, our feelings rise from out the deepest caves of the tumultuous
tide of our full life. We look around for one to share our exquisite
existence, and sanctify the beauties of our being.
But those beauties are only in our thoughts. We feel like heroes,
when we are but boys. Yet our mistress must bear a relation, not to
ourselves, but to our imagination. She must be a real heroine, while our
perfection is but ideal. And the quick and dangerous fancy of our race
will, at first, rise to the pitch. She is all we can conceive. Mild and
pure as youthful priests, we bow down before our altar. But the idol to
which we breathe our warm and gushing vows, and bend our eager knees,
all its power, does it not exist only in our idea; all its beauty, is
it not the creation of our excited fancy? And then the sweetest of
superstitions ends. The long delusion bursts, and we are left like
men upon a heath when fairies vanish; cold and dreary, gloomy, bitter,
harsh, existence seems a blunder.
But just when we are most miserable, and curse the poet’s cunning and
our own conceits, there lights upon our path, just like a ray fresh
from the sun, some sparkling child of light, that makes us think we are
premature, at least, in our resolves. Yet we are determined not to be
taken in, and try her well in all the points in which the others failed.
One by one, her charms steal on our warming soul, as, one by one, those
of the other beauty sadly stole away, and then we bless our stars, and
feel quite sure that we have found perfection in a petticoat.
But our Duke--where are we? He had read woman thoroughly, and
consequently knew how to value the virgin pages on which his thoughts
now fixed. He and May Dacre wandered in the woods, and nature seemed to
them more beautiful from their beautiful loves. They gazed upon the
sky; a brighter light fell o’er the luminous earth. Sweeter to them the
fragrance of the sweetest flowers, and a more balmy breath brought on
the universal promise of the opening year.
They wandered in the woods, and there they breathed their mutual
adoration. She to him was all in all, and he to her was like a new
divinity. She poured forth all that she long had felt, and scarcely
could suppress. From the moment he tore her from the insulter’s arms,
his image fixed in her heart, and the struggle which she experienced
to repel his renewed vows was great indeed. When she heard of
his misfortunes, she had wept; but it was the strange delight she
experienced when his letter arrived to her father that first convinced
her how irrevocably her mind was his.
And now she does not cease to blame herself for all her past obduracy;
now she will not for a moment yield that he could have been ever
anything but all that was pure, and beautiful, and good.
CHAPTER XII.
_Another Betrothal_
BUT although we are in love, business must not be utterly neglected, and
Mr. Dacre insisted that the young Duke should for one morning cease to
wander in his park, and listen to the result of his exertions during the
last three months. His Grace listened. Rents had not risen, but it was
hoped that they had seen their worst; the railroad had been successfully
opposed; and coals had improved. The London mansion and the Alhambra had
both been disposed of, and well: the first to the new French Ambassador,
and the second to a grey-headed stock-jobber, very rich, who, having
no society, determined to make solitude amusing. The proceeds of these
sales, together with sundry sums obtained by converting into cash the
stud, the furniture, and the _bijouterie,_ produced a most respectable
fund, which nearly paid off the annoying miscellaneous debts. For the
rest, Mr. Dacre, while he agreed that it was on the whole advisable that
the buildings should be completed, determined that none of the estates
should be sold, or even mortgaged. His plan was to procrastinate the
termination of these undertakings, and to allow each year itself to
afford the necessary supplies. By annually setting aside one hundred
thousand pounds, in seven or eight years he hoped to find everything
completed and all debts cleared. He did not think that the extravagance
of the Duke could justify any diminution in the sum which had hitherto
been apportioned for the maintenance of the Irish establishments; but
he was of opinion that the decreased portion which they, as well as
the western estates, now afforded to the total income, was a sufficient
reason. Fourteen thousand a-year were consequently allotted to Ireland,
and seven to Pen Bronnock. There remained to the Duke about thirty
thousand per annum; but then Hauteville was to be kept up with this.
Mr. Dacre proposed that the young people should reside at Rosemount, and
that consequently they might form their establishment from the Castle,
without reducing their Yorkshire appointments, and avail themselves,
without any obligation, or even the opportunity, of great expenses, of
all the advantages afforded by the necessary expenditure. Finally, Mr.
Dacre presented his son with his town mansion and furniture; and as
the young Duke insisted that the settlements upon her Grace should be
prepared in full reference to his inherited and future income, this
generous father at once made over to him the great bulk of his personal
property amounting to upwards of a hundred thousand pounds, a little
ready money, of which he knew the value.
The Duke of St. James had duly informed his uncle, the Earl of
Fitz-pompey, of the intended change in his condition, and in answer
received the following letter:--
‘Fitz-pompey Hall, May, 18--.
‘My dear George,--Your letter did not give us so much surprise as you
expected; but I assure you it gave us as much pleasure. You have shown
your wisdom and your taste in your choice; and I am free to confess that
I am acquainted with no one more worthy of the station which the
Duchess of St. James must always fill in society, and more calculated to
maintain the dignity of your family, than the lady whom you are about
to introduce to us as our niece. Believe me, my dear George, that the
notification of this agreeable event has occasioned even additional
gratification both to your aunt and to myself, from the reflection that
you are about to ally yourself with a family in whose welfare we must
ever take an especial interest, and whom we may in a manner look upon as
our own relatives. For, my dear George, in answer to your flattering and
most pleasing communication, it is my truly agreeable duty to inform you
(and, believe me, you are the first person out of our immediate family
to whom this intelligence is made known) that our Caroline, in whose
happiness we are well assured you take a lively interest, is about to
be united to one who may now be described as your near relative, namely,
Mr. Arundel Dacre.
‘It has been a long attachment, though for a considerable time, I
confess, unknown to us; and indeed at first sight, with Caroline’s rank
and other advantages, it may not appear, in a mere worldly point of
view, so desirable a connection as some perhaps might expect. And to
be quite confidential, both your aunt and myself were at first a little
disinclined (great as our esteem and regard have ever been for him), a
little disinclined, I say, to the union. But Dacre is certainly the most
rising man of the day. In point of family, he is second to none; and his
uncle has indeed behaved in the most truly liberal manner. I assure you,
he considers him as a son; and even if there were no other inducement,
the mere fact of your connection with the family would alone not
only reconcile, but, so to say, make us perfectly satisfied with the
arrangement. It is unnecessary to speak to you of the antiquity of the
Dacres. Arundel will ultimately be one of the richest Commoners, and I
think it is not too bold to anticipate, taking into consideration the
family into which he marries, and above all, his connection with you,
that we may finally succeed in having him called up to us. You are of
course aware that there was once a barony in the family.
‘Everybody talks of your speech. I assure you, although I ever gave you
credit for uncommon talents, I was astonished. So you are to have the
vacant ribbon! Why did you not tell me? I learnt it to-day, from
Lord Bobbleshim. But we must not quarrel with men in love for not
communicating.
‘You ask me for news of all your old friends. You of course saw the
death of old Annesley. The new Lord took his seat yesterday; he was
introduced by Lord Bloomerly. I was not surprised to hear in the evening
that he was about to be married to Lady Charlotte, though the world
affect to be astonished.
I should not forget to say that Lord Annesley asked most particularly
after you. For him, quite warm, I assure you.
‘The oddest thing has happened to your friend, Lord Squib. Old Colonel
Carlisle is dead, and has left his whole fortune, some say half a
million, to the oddest person, merely because she had the reputation
of being his daughter. Quite an odd person, you understand me: Mrs.
Montfort. St. Maurice says you know her; but we must not talk of these
things now. Well, Squib is going to be married to her. He says that he
knows all his old friends will cut him when they are married, and so he
is determined to give them an excuse. I understand she is a fine woman.
He talks of living at Rome and Florence for a year or two.
‘Lord Darrell is about to marry Harriet Wrekin; and between ourselves
(but don’t let this go any further at present) I have very little doubt
that young Pococurante will shortly be united to Isabel. Connected as we
are with the Shropshires, these excellent alliances are gratifying.
‘I see very little of Lucius Grafton. He seems ill.
I understand, for certain, that her Ladyship opposes the divorce. _On
dit_, she has got hold of some letters, through the treachery of her
soubrette, whom he supposed quite his creature, and that your friend
is rather taken in. But I should not think this true. People talk very
loosely. There was a gay party at Mrs. Dallington’s the other night, who
asked very kindly after you.
‘I think I have now written you a very long letter. I once more
congratulate you on your admirable selection, and with the united
remembrance of our circle, particularly Caroline, who will write
perhaps by this post to Miss Dacre, believe me, dear George, your truly
affectionate uncle,
‘FITZ-POMPEY.
‘P.S.--Lord Marylebone is very unpopular, quite a brute. We all miss
you.’
It is not to be supposed that this letter conveyed the first intimation
to the Duke of St. James of the most interesting event of which it
spoke. On the contrary, he had long been aware of the whole affair; but
we have been too much engaged with his own conduct to find time to let
the reader into the secret, which, like all secrets, it is to be hoped
was no secret. Next to gaining the affections of May Dacre, it was
impossible for any event to occur more delightful to our hero than
the present. His heart had often misgiven him when he had thought of
Caroline. Now she was happy, and not only happy, but connected with
him for life, just as he wished. Arundel Dacre, too, of all men he most
wished to like, and indeed most liked. One feeling alone had prevented
them from being bosom friends, and that feeling had long triumphantly
vanished.
May had been almost from the beginning the _confidante_ of her cousin.
In vain, however, had she beseeched him to entrust all to her father.
Although he now repented his past feelings he could not be induced to
change; and not till he had entered Parliament and succeeded and gained
a name, which would reflect honour on the family with which he wished to
identify himself, would he impart to his uncle the secret of his heart,
and gain that support without which his great object could never have
been achieved. The Duke of St. James, by returning him to Parliament,
had been the unconscious cause of all his happiness, and ardently did
he pray that his generous friend might succeed in what he was well aware
was his secret aspiration, and that his beloved cousin might yield her
hand to the only man whom Arundel Dacre considered worthy of her.
CHAPTER XIII.
_Joy’s Beginning_
ANOTHER week brought another letter from the Earl of Fitz-pompey.
The Earl of Fitz-pompey to the Duke of St. James. [Read this alone.]
‘My dear George,
‘I beg you will not be alarmed by the above memorandum, which I thought
it but prudent to prefix. A very disagreeable affair has just taken
place, and to a degree exceedingly alarming; but it might have turned
out much more distressing, and, on the whole, we may all congratulate
ourselves at the result. Not to keep you in fearful suspense, I beg to
recall your recollection to the rumour which I noticed in my last, of
the intention of Lady Aphrodite Grafton to oppose the divorce. A
few days back, her brother Lord Wariston, with whom I was previously
unacquainted, called upon me by appointment, having previously requested
a private interview. The object of his seeing me was no less than to
submit to my inspection the letters by aid of which it was anticipated
that the divorce might be successfully opposed. You will be astounded
to hear that these consist of a long series of correspondence of Mrs.
Dallington Vere’s, developing, I am shocked to say, machinations of a
very alarming nature, the effect of which, my dear George, was no less
than very materially to control your fortunes in life, and those of that
charming and truly admirable lady whom you have delighted us all so much
by declaring to be our future relative.
‘From the very delicate nature of the disclosures, Lord Wariston felt
the great importance of obtaining all necessary results without making
them public; and, actuated by these feelings, he applied to me, both
as your nearest relative, and an acquaintance of Sir Lucius, and, as he
expressed it, and I may be permitted to repeat, as one whose experience
in the management of difficult and delicate negotiations was not
altogether unknown, in order that I might be put in possession of the
facts of the case, advise and perhaps interfere for the common good.
‘Under these circumstances, and taking into consideration the extreme
difficulty attendant upon a satisfactory arrangement of the affair,
I thought fit, in confidence, to apply to Arundel, whose talents I
consider of the first order, and only equalled by his prudence and calm
temper. As a relation, too, of more than one of the parties concerned,
it was perhaps only proper that the correspondence should be submitted
to him.
‘I am sorry to say, my dear George, that Arundel behaved in a very
odd manner, and not at all with that discretion which might have been
expected both from one of his remarkably sober and staid disposition,
and one not a little experienced in diplomatic life. He exhibited the
most unequivocal signs of his displeasure at the conduct of the parties
principally concerned, and expressed himself in so vindictive a manner
against one of them, that I very much regretted my application, and
requested him to be cool.
‘He seemed to yield to my solicitations, but I regret to say his
composure was only feigned, and the next morning he and Sir Lucius
Grafton met. Sir Lucius fired first, without effect, but Arundel’s aim
was more fatal, and his ball was lodged in the thigh of his adversary.
Sir Lucius has only been saved by amputation; and I need not remark to
you that to such a man life on such conditions is scarcely desirable.
All idea of a divorce is quite given over. The letters in question were
stolen from his cabinet by his valet, and given to a soubrette of his
wife, whom Sir Lucius considered in his interest, but who, as you see,
betrayed him.
‘For me remained the not very agreeable office of seeing Mrs. Dallington
Vere. I made known to her, in a manner as little offensive as possible,
the object of my visit. The scene, my dear George, was trying; and I
think it hard that the follies of a parcel of young people should really
place me in such a distressing position. She fainted, &c, and wished
the letters to be given up, but Lord Wariston would not consent to this,
though he promised to keep their contents secret provided she quitted
the country. She goes directly; and I am well assured, which is not the
least surprising part of this strange history, that her affairs are in a
state of great distraction. The relatives of her late husband are
about again to try the will, and with prospect of success. She has been
negotiating with them for some time through the agency of Sir Lucius
Grafton, and the late _exposé_ will not favour her interests.
‘If anything further happens, my dear George, depend upon my writing;
but Arundel desires me to say that on Saturday he will run down to Dacre
for a few days, as he very much wishes to see you and all. With our
united remembrance to Mr. and Miss Dacre,
‘Ever, my dear George,
‘Your very affectionate uncle,
‘Fitz-pompey.’
The young Duke turned with trembling and disgust from these dark
terminations of unprincipled careers; and these fatal evidences of
the indulgence of unbridled passions. How nearly, too, had he been
shipwrecked in this moral whirlpool! With what gratitude did he not
invoke the beneficent Providence that had not permitted the innate seeds
of human virtue to be blighted in his wild and neglected soul! With
what admiration did he not gaze upon the pure and beautiful being whose
virtue and whose loveliness were the causes of his regeneration, the
sources of his present happiness, and the guarantees of his future joy!
Four years have now elapsed since the young Duke of St. James was united
to May Dacre; and it would not be too bold to declare, that during
that period he has never for an instant ceased to consider himself
the happiest and the most fortunate of men. His life is passed in the
agreeable discharge of all the important duties of his exalted station,
and his present career is by far a better answer to the lucubrations of
young Duncan Macmorrogh than all the abstract arguments that ever yet
were offered in favour of the existence of an aristocracy.
Hauteville House and Hauteville Castle proceed in regular course. These
magnificent dwellings will never erase simple and delightful Rosemount
from the grateful memory of the Duchess of St. James. Parliament, and
in a degree society, invite the Duke and Duchess each year to the
metropolis, and Mr. Dacre is generally their guest. Their most intimate
and beloved friends are Arundel and his wife, and as Lady Caroline now
heads the establishment of Castle Dacre, they are seldom separated.
But among their most agreeable company is a young gentleman styled by
courtesy Dacre, Marquess of Hauteville, and his young sister, who has
not yet escaped from her beautiful mother’s arms, and who beareth the
blooming title of the Lady May.
[Illustration: coverplate]