Dtliaca, iStm ^atk BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 CorneH University Library PR 4084. Y6 1910 The young duke, a moral tale, though gay 3 1924 013 212 455 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013212455 THE YOUNG DUKE COUNT ALARCOS. THE YOUNG DUKE: •^ MORAL TALE, THOUGH GAT.' COUNT ALARCOS: A TRAGEDY. BY THE EAEL OF BEACONSFIELD, K.G. NEW IMPRESSIOS. « LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO, 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YOKE, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1910 S en ADVEETISEMENT. This Work was first publisKed in tlie year 1837. ADVEETISEMENT TO 'THE YOUNG DUKE.' The reader will be kind enough to recollect that ' The ' Young Duke ' was written ' when George the Fourth ' was King' (1829), nearly a quarter of a century ago, and that, therefore, it is entitled to the indulgence which is the privilege of juvenile productions. Though its pages attempt to pom-tray the fleeting manners of a somewhat frivolous age, it is hoped that they convey a moral of a deeper and a more permanent character. Young authors are apt to fall into affectation and con- ceit, and the writer of this work sinned very much in these respects ; but the affectation of youth should be viewed leniently, and every man has a right to be con- ceited until he is successful. October, 1853. THE YOUNG DUKE. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. George Augustus Frederick, Duke of St. James, completed his twenty-first year, an event whicli created almost as great a sensation among the aristocracy of England as the Norman Conquest. A minority of twenty years had con- verted a family always amongst the wealthiest of Great Uritain into one of the richest in Europe. The Duke of St. James possessed estates in the north and in the west of England, besides a whole province in Ireland. In London there were a very handsome square and several streets, all made of bricks, which brought him in yearly more cash than all the palaces of Vicenza are worth in fee-simple, with those of the Grand Canal of Venice to boot. As if this were not enough, he was an hereditary patron of internal navigation ; and although perhaps in his two palaces, three castles, four halls, and lodges ad lihitwm, there were more fires burnt than in any other estabhshment in the empire, this was of no consequence, because the coals were his own. His rent-roll exhibited a sum total, very neatly written, of two hundred thousand pounds ; but this was independent of half a million in the funds, which we had nearly for- gotten, and which remained from the accumulations occa- sioned by the unhappy death of his father, B The late Duke of St. James had one sister, who was married to the Earl of Fitz-pompey. To the great surprise of the world, to the perfect astonishment of the brother- in-law, Iiis Lordship was not appointed guardian to the infant minor. The Earl of Fitz-pompey had always been on the best possible terms with his Grace : the Countess had, only the year before his death, accepted from his fraternal hand a diamond bracelet ; the Lord Viscount St. Maurice, future chief of the house of Fitz-pompey, had the honour not only of being his nephew, but his godson, who could account, then, for an action so perfectly unac- countable? It was quite evident that his Grace had no intention of dying. The guardian, however, that he did appoint was a Mr. Dacre, a Catholic gentleman of ancient family and large fortune, who had been the companion of his travels, and was his neighbour in his county. Mr. Dacre had not been honoured with the acquaintance of Lord Fitz-pompey previous to the decease of his noble friend ; and after that event such an acquaintance would probably not have been productive of agreeable reminiscences ; for from the mo- ment of the opening of the fatal will the name of Dacre was wormwood to the houle of St. Maurice. Lord Fitz- pompey, who, though the brother-in-law of a Whig mag- nate, was a Tory, voted against the Cathohcs with renewed fervour. Shortly after the death of his friend Mr. Dacre married a beautiful and noble lady of the house of Howard, who, after having presented him with a daughter, fell ill, and became that common character, a confirmed invalid. In the present day, and especially among women, one would almost suppose that health was a state of unnatural exist- ence. The iUness of his wife and the non-possession of parliamentary duties rendered Mr. Dacre's visits to his town mansion rare, and the mansion in time was let. The young Duke, with the exception of an occasionai visit to his uncle. Lord Fitz-pompey, passed the early yeaj-s of his life at Castle Dacre. At seven years of age he xras sent to a preparatory school at Richmond, which was THE YOUNG DUKE. 3 entirely devoted to the early culture of the nobility, and ■where the Principal, the Reverend Doctor Coronet, was so extremely exclusive iu his system that it was reported that he had once refused the son of an Irish peer. Miss Coronet fed her imagination with the hope of meeting her father's noble pupils in after-life, and in the meanbme read fashionable novels. The moment that the young Duke was settled at Rich- mond, all the intrigues of tho Fitz-pompey family were directed to that quarter ; and as Mr. Dacre was by nature unsuspicious, and was even desirous that his ward should cultivate the friendship of his only relatives, the St. Mau- rice family had the gratification, as they thought, of com- pletely deceiving him. Lady Fitz-pompey called twice a week at Crest House with a supply of pine-apples or bon- bons, and the Rev. Dr. Coronet bowed in adoration. Lady Isabella St. Maurice gave a china cup to Mrs. Coronet, and Lady Augusta a paper-cutter to Miss. The family was secured. All discipline was immediately set at defiance, and the young Duke passed the greater part of the half- year with his affectionate relations. His Grace, charmed with the bonbons of his aunt and the kisses of his cousins, which were even sweeter than the sugar-plums ; dehghted with the pony of St. Maurice, which immediately becam.e his own ; and inebriated by the attentions of his uncle, who, at eight years of age, treated him, as his Lordship styled it, 'like a man ;' contrasted this life of early excite- ment with what now appeared the gloom and the restraint of Castle Dacre, and he soon entered into the conspiracy which had long been hatching with genuine enthusiasm. He wrote to his guardian, and obtained permission to spend his vacation with his uncle. Thus, through the united indulgence of Dr. Coronet and Mr. Dacre, the Duke of St. James became a member of the family of St. Maurice. No sooner had Lord Fitz-pompey secured the affections of the ward than he entirely changed his system towards the guardian. He wrote to Mr. Dacre, and in a manner equally kind and dignified courted his acouaintance. He B 2 dilated upon the extraordinary, though extremely natural, afifection which Lady Fitz-pompey entertained for the only offspring of her beloved brother, upon the happiuesB which the young Duke enjoyed with his cousins, upon the great and evident advantages which his Grace would derive from companions of his own age, of the singular friendship which he had already formed with St. Maurice ; and then, after paying Mr. Dacre many connpliments upon the admirable manner in which he had already fulfilled the duties of his important office, and urging the lively satisfac- tion that a visit from their brother's friend would confer both upon Lady Fitz-pompey and himself, he requested permission for his nephew to renew the visit in which he had been ' so happy ! ' The Duke seconded the Earl's diplo- matic scrawl in the most graceful round-text. The mas- terly intrigues of Lord Fitz-pompey, assisted by Mrs. Dacre's illness, which daily increased, and which rendered perfect quiet indispensable, were successful, and the young Duke arrived at his twelfth year without revisiting Dacre. Every year, however, when Mr. Dacre made a short visit to London, his ward spent a few days in his conapany, at the house of an old-fashioned Catholic nobleman ; a visit which only afforded a dull contrast to the gay society and constant animation of his uncle's establishment. It would seem that fate had determined to counteract the intentions of the late Duke of St. James, and to achieve those of the Earl of Fitz-pompey. At the moment that the noble minor was about to leave Dr. Coronet for Eton, Mrs. Dacre's state was declared hopeless, except from the assistance of an Italian sky, and Mr. Dacre, whose attachment to his lady was romantic, determined to leave England immediately. It was with deep regret that he parted from his ward, whom he tenderly loved ; but all considerations merged iu the paramount one ; and he was consoled by the reflection that he was, at least, left to the care of his nearest con- nections. Mr. Dacre was not unawai'e of the dangers to which his youthful pledge might be exposed by the indis- criminate indulgence of his uncle, hut he trusted to the THE YOUNG DUKE. 5 impartial and inviolable system of a public scliool to do much ; and he anticipated returning to England before his ward was old enough to form those habits which are gene- rally so injurious to young nobles. In this hope Mr. Dacre was disappointed. Mrs. Dacre lingered, and revived, and lingered, for nearly eight years ; now filling the mind of her husband and her daughter with unreasonable hope, now delivering them to that renewed anguish, that heart-rend- ing grief, which the attendant upon a declining relative can alone experience, additionally agonizing because it cannot be indulged. Mrs. Dacre died, and the widower and his daughter returned to England. In the meantime, the Duke of St. James had not been idle. CHAPTER II. The departure and, at length, the total absence of Mr. Dacre from England yielded to Lord Fitz-pompey all the opportunity he had long desired. Hitherto he had con- tented himself with quietly sapping the influence of the guardian : now that influence was openly assailed. All occasions were seized of depreciating the character of Mr. Dacre, and open lamentations were poured forth on the strange and unhappy indiscretion of the father who had confided the guardianship of his son, not to his natural and devoted friends, but to a harsh and repulsive stranger. Long before the young Duke had completed his sixteenth year all memory of the early kindness of his guardian, if it had ever been imprinted on his mind, was carefully obliterated from it. It was constantly impressed upon him that nothing but the exertions of his aunt and uncle had saved him from a life of stern privation and irrational restraint : and the man who had been the chosen and cherished confidant of the father was looked upon by the sou as a grim tyrant, from whose clutches he had escaped, and in which he determined never again to find himself. ' Old Dacre,' as Lord Pitz- pompey described him, was a phantom enough at any time to frighten his youthful ward. The great object of thq 6 THE YOUNG DUKE. ancle was to teazo and mortify the guardian into resigning his trust, and infinite were the contrivances to bring about this desirable result ; but Mr. Dacre was obstinate, and, although absent, contrived to carry on and complete the system for the management of the HauteviUe pro- perty which he had so beneficially estabUshed and so long pursued. In quitting England, although he had appointed a fixed allowance for his noble ward, Mr. Dacre had thought proper to delegate a discretionary authority to Lord Fitz- pompey to furnish him with what might be called extraor- dinary necessaries. His Lordship availed himself with such dexterity of this power that his nephew appeared to be indebted for every indulgence to his uncle, who in- variably accompanied every act of this description with an insinuation that he might thank Mrs. Dacre's illness for the boon. ' Well, Geoi'ge,' he would say to the young Etonian, ' you shall have the boat, though I hardly know how I shall pass the account at head- quarters ; and make your- self easy about Flash's bill, though I really cannot approve of such proceedings. Thank your stars you have not got to present that account to old Dacre. Well, I am one of those who are always indulgent to young blood. Mr Dacre and T differ. He is your guardian, though. Every- thing is in his power ; but you shall never want while your uncle can help you ; and so run off to Caroline, for I see you want to be with her.' The Lady Isabella and the Lady Augusta, who had so charmed Mrs. and Miss Coronet, were no longer in exist- ence. Each had knocked down her earl. Brought up by a mother exquisitely adroit in female education, the Ladies St. Maurice had run but a brief, though a brilliant, career. Beautiful, and possessing every accomplishment which renders beauty valuable, under the unrivalled ohaperonage of the Countess they had played their popular parts without a single blunder. Always in the best set, never flirting with the wrong man, and never speaking to the wrong woman, all agreed that the Ladies St. Maurice had fairly won their THE YUUNG DUKE. 7 corouets. Their sister Caroline was much younger ; and although she did not promise to develop so unblemished a character as themsplves, she was, in default of another sister, to be the Duchess of St. James. Lady Caroline St. Maurice was nearly of the same age as her cousin, the young Duke. They had been play- fellows since his emancipation from the dungeons of Castle Dacre, and every means had been adopted by her judicious parents to foster and to confirm the kind feelings which had been first engendered by being partners in the same toys and sharing the same sports. At eight years old the little Duke vvas taught to call Caroline his ' wife ; ' and as his Grace grew in years, and could better appreciate the qualities of his sweet and gentle cousin, he was not disposed to retract the title. When George rejoined the courtly Coronet Caroline invariably mingled her tears with those of her sorrowing spouse ; and when the time at length arrived for his departure for Eton, Caroline knitted him a purse and presented him with a watch- ribbon. At the last moment she besought her brother, who was two years older, to watch over him, and soothed the moment of final agony by a promise to correspond. Had the innocent and soft-hearted girl been acquainted with, or been able to comprehend, the purposes of her crafty parents, she could not have adopted means more calculated to accomplish them. The young Duke kissed her a thousand times, and loved her better than all the world. In spite of his private house and his private tutor, his Grace did not make all the progress in his classical studies which means so calculated to promote abstraction and to assist acquirement would seem to promise. The fact is, that as his mind began to unfold itself he found a perpetual and a more pleasing source of study in the contemplation of himself. His early initiation in the school of Pitz- pompey had not been thrown away. He had heard much of nobility, and beauty, and riches, and fashion, and power : he had seen many individuals highly, though differently, considered for the relative quantities which they possessed 8 THE YOUNG DUKE. of tl.ese qualities ; it appeared to the Dake of St. James that among the human race he possessed the largest quantity of them all : he cut his private tutor. His pri- vate tutor, who had been appointed by Mr. Dacre, re- monstrated to Lord Pitz-pompey, and with such success that he thought proper shortly after to resign his situation. Dr. Coronet begged to recommend his son, the Rev. Au- gustus Granville Coronet. The Duke of St. James now got on rapidly, and also found sufficient time for his boat, his tandem, and his toilette. The Duke of St. James appeared at Christ Church. Hi.s conceit kept him alive for a few terms. It is delightful to receive the homage of two thousand young men of the best families in the country, to breakfast with twenty of them, and to cut the rest. In spite, however, of the glories of the golden tuft and a delightful private establishment which he and his followers maintained in the chaste suburbs of Alma Mater, the Duke of St. James felt ennuied. Consequently, one clear night, they set fire to a pyramid of caps and gowns in Peckwater. It was a silly thing for any one : it was a sad indiscretion for a Duke ; but it was done. Some were expelled ; his Grace had timely notice, and having before cut the Oxonians, now cut Oxford. Like all young men who get into scrapes, the Duke of St. James determined to travel. The Dacres returned to England before he did. He dexterously avoided coming into contact with them in Italy. Mr. Dacre had written to him several times during the first years of his absence ; and although the Duke's answers were short, seldom, and not very satisfactory, Mr. Dacre persisted in occasionally addressing him. When, however, the Duke had arrived at an age when he was at least morally responsible for his own conduct, and entirely neglected answering his guar- dian's letters, Mr. Dacre became altogether silent. The traveUing career of the young Duke may be con- ceived by those who have wasted their time, and are com- pensated for that silliness by being called Men of the World. He gamed a little at Paris ; he ate a good deal at Vienna; and he studied the fiue arts in Italy. In all inti zuuNG DUKE. 9 places his homage to the fair sex was renowned. The Pa- risian duchess, the Austrian princess, and the Italian coun- tess spoke in the most enthusiastic terms of the English Qobility. At the end of three years the Duke of St. James was of opinion that he had obtained a great knowledge of mankind. He was mistaken ; travel is not, as is ima- gined, the best school for that sort of science. Knowledge of mankind is a knowledge of their passions. The tra- veller is looked upon as a bird of passage, whose visit is short, and which the vanity of the visited wishes to make agreeable. All is show, all false, and all made up. Coterie succeeds coterie, equally smiling — the explosions take place in his absence. Even a grand passion, vvhich teaches a man more, perhaps, than anything else, is not very easily excited by the traveller. The women know that, sooner or later, he must disappear ; and though this is the case with all lovers, they do not like to miss the possibility of delu- sion. Thus the heroines keep in the bsickgronnd, and the visitor, who is always in a hurry, falls into the net of the first flirtation that ofi'ers. The Duke of St. James had, however, acquired a great knowledge ; if not of mankind, at any rate of manners. He had visited all Courts, and sparkled in the most brilliant circles of the Continent. He retui-ned to his own country with a taste extremely refined, a manner most polished, and a person highly accomplished. CHAPTER III. A SOET of scrambling correspondence had been kept up between the young Duke and his cousin. Lord St. Mau- rice, who had for a few months been his fellow-ti-aveller. By virtue of these epistles, notice of the movements of their interesting relative occasionally reached the circle at Ktz- pompey House, although St. Maurice was scanty in the much-desired communications ; because, like most young Englishmen, he derived singular pleasure from depriving his fellow-creatuxes of all that small information which lo THE YOUNG DUKE. erery one is so desirous to obtain. The announcement, however, of the approaching arrival of the young Duke was duly made. Lord Pitz-pompey wrote and offered apartments at Pitz-pompey House. They were refused. Lord Pitz-pompey wrote again to require instructions for the preparation of Hauteville House. His letter was un- answered. Lord Fitz-pompey was quite puzzled. ' When does your cousin mean to come, Charles ? ' ' Where does your cousin mean to go, Charles ? ' ' What does your cousin mean to do, Charles ? ' These were the hourly queries of the noble uncle. At length, in the middle of January, when no one expected him, the Duke of St. James arrived at Mivart's. He was attended by a French cook, an Italian valet, a German jager, and a Greek page. At this dreary season of the year this party was, perhaps, the most distinguished in the metropolis. Three years' absence and a little knowledge of life had somewhat changed the Duke of St. James's feelings with regard to his noble relatives. He was quite disembarrassed of that Panglossian philosophy which had hitherto induced him to believe that the Earl of Fitz-pompey was the best of all possible uncles. On the contrary, his Grace rather doubted whether the course wliich his relations had pur- sued towards him was quite the most proper and the most prudent ; and he took great credit to himself for having, with such unbounded indulgence, on the whole deported himself with so remarkable a temperance. His Grace, too, could no longer innocently delude himself with the idea that all the attention which had been lavished upon him was solely occasioned by the impulse of consanguinity. Finally, the young Duke's conscience often misgave him when he thought of Mr. Dacre. He determined, therefore, on re- turning to England, not to commit himself too decidedly with the Fitz-pompeys, and he had cautiously guarded himself from being entrapped into becoming their guest. At the same time, the recollection of old intimacy , the general regard which he really felt for them all, and the sincere affoction which he entertained for his cousin Caro- THE YOUNG DUKE. ii line, would have deterred him from giving any outward signs of his altered feelings, even if other considerations had not intervened. And other considerations did intervene. A Duke, and a young Duke, is an important personage ; but he must still be introduced. Even our hero might make a bad tack on his first cruise. Almost as important personages have committed the same blunder. Talk of Catholic emancipa- tion ! ! thou Imperial Parliament, emancipate the forlorn wretches who have got into a bad set ! Even thy omnipo- tence must fail there ! Now, the Countess of Fitz-pompey was a brilliant of the first water. Under no better auspices could the Duke of St. James bound upon the stage. No man in town could ai'range his Club afiairs for him with greater celerity and greater tact than the Earl ; and the married daughters were as much like their mother as a pair of diamond ear-rings are like a diamond necklace. The Duke, therefore, though he did not choose to get eagei in Fitz-pompey House, sent his page, Spiridion, to the Countess, on a special embassy of announcement on the evening of his arrival, and on the following morning his Grace himself made his appearance at an early hour. Lord Fitz-pompey, who was as consummate a judge of men and manners as he was an indifierent speculator on afiairs, and who was almost as finished a man of the world as he was an imperfect philosopher, soon perceived that considerable changes had taken place in the ideas as well as in the exterior of his nephew. The Duke, however, was extremely cordial, and greeted the family in terms almost of fondness. He shook his uncle by the hand with a fer- vour with wliioh few noblemen had communicated for a con- siderable period, and he saluted his aunt on the cheek with a delicacy which did not disturb the rouge. He turned to his cousin. Lady Caroline St. Maurice was indeed a right beautiful being. Her, whom the young Duke had left merely a graceful and kind-hearted girl, three years had changed into a somewhat dignified but most lovely woman. A little 12 THE YOUNG DUKE. perhaps of her native ease had been lost ; a little perhaps of a manner rather too artificial had supplanted that exquisite address which Nature alone had prompted ; but at this moment her manner was as unstudied and as genuine as when they had gambolled together in the bowers of Malthorpe. Her whit§ and delicate arm was extended with cordial grace, her full blue eye beamed with fondness, and tlio soft blush that rose on her fair cheek exquisitely contrasted with the clusters of her dark brown hair. The Duke was struck, almost staggered. He remembered their infant loves ; he recovered with ready address. He bent his head with gracefiil affection and pressed her lips. He almost repented that he had not accepted his uncle's offer of hospitality. CHAPTER IV. LoKD FiTZ-POMPET was a little consoled for the change which he had observed in the character of the Duke by the remembrance of the embrace with which his Grace had greeted Lady Caroline. Never indeed did a process which has, through the lapse of so many ages, occasioned so much delight, produce more lively satisfaction than the kiss in question. Lord Pitz-pompey had given up his plan of managing the Duke after the family dinner which his nephew had the pleasure to join the first day of his lirst visit. The Duke and he were alone, and his Lordship availed himself of the rare opportunity with that adroitness for which he was celebrated. Nothing could be more polite, more affable, more kind, than his Grace's manner ! but the uncle cared little for politeness, or affability, or kindness. The crafty courtier wanted candour, and that was absent. That ingenuous openness of disposition, that frank and affectionate demeanour, for which the Duke of St. James had been so remarkable in his early youth, and with the aid- of which Lord Pitz-pompey had built so many Spanish castles, had quite disappeared. Nothing THE YOUNG DUKE. 13 oonld be more artificial, more conventional, more studied, than his whole deportment. In vain Lord Fitz-pompey pumped ; the empty bucket invariably reminded him of his lost labour. In vain his Lordship laid his Httle diplomatic traps to catch a hint of the purposes or an intimation of the inclinations of his nephew ; the bait was never seized. In vain the Earl affected unusual con- viviality and boundless affection ; the Duke sipped his claret and admired his pictures. Nothing would do. An air of habitual calm, a look of kind condescension, and an inclination to a smile, which never burst into a beam, announced that the Duke of St. James was perfectly sa- tisfied with existence, and conscious that he was himself, of that existence, the most distinguished ornament. In fact, he was a sublime coxcomb ; one of those rare characters whose finished manner and shrewd sense combined prevent their conceit from being contemptible. After many con- sultations it was determined between the aunt and uncle that it would be most prudent to affect a total non- interference with their nephew's affairs, and in the mean- time to trust to the goodness of Providence and the charms of Caroline. Lady Fitz-pompey determined that the young Duke should make his debut at once, and at her house. Although it was yet January, she did not despair of collecting a select band of guests, Brahmins of the highest caste. Some choice spirits were in office, like her lord, and there- fore in town; others were only passing through; but no one caught a flying-fish with more dexterity than the Countess. The notice was short, the whole was unstudied. It was a felicitous impromptu, and twenty guests were assembled, who were the Corinthian capitals of the Temple of Fashion. There was the Premier, who was invited, not because he wa.s a Minister, but because he was a hero. There was another Duke not less celebrated, whose palace was a breathing shrine which sent forth the oracles of mode. True, he had ceased to be a young Duke ; but he might be tsonscled for the vanished lustre of youth by the recollection 14 TI-IE YOUNG DUKE. that he liad enjoyed it, and by the present inspiration of an accomplished manhood. There were the Prince and the Princess Protoooli : his Highness a first-rate diplomatist, unrivalled for his management of an opera ; and his con- sort, with a coantenanoe Uke Cleopatra and a tiara like a constellation, famed alike for her shawls and her snuff". There wore Lord and Lady Bloomerly, who wore the host fiiends on earth : my Lord a sportsman, but soft withal, his talk the Jockey Club, filtered through Wliitc's ; my Lady a little blue, and very beantiful. Their daughter, Lady Charlotte, rose by her mother's side like a tall bud by a full-blown flower. There were the Viscountess Blaze, a peeress in her own right, and her daughter, Miss Blaze Dash away, who, besides the glory of the future coronet, moved in all the confidence of independent thousands. There was the Marquess of Macaroni, who was at the same time a general, an ambassador, and a dandy ; and wlio, if he had liked, could have worn twelve orders ; but this day, being modest, only wore six. There, too, was the Mai'ohioncss, with a stomacher stiff with brilliants ex- tracted from the snuff-boxes presented to her husband at a Congress. There were Lord Sunium, who was not only a peer but a poet ; and his lady, a Greek, who looked just finished by Phidias. There, too, was Pococurante, the epicurean and triple millionnaire, who in a poHtical country dared to despise politics, in the most aristocratic of kingdoms had refused nobility, and in a land which showers all its honours upon its cultivators invested his whole fortune in the funds. He lived in a retreat like the villa of Hadrian, and maintained himself in an elevated position chiefly by his wit and a Uttle by his wealth. There, too, wero his noble wife, thoroughbred to her fingers' tips, and beaming like the evening star; and his son, who was an M.P., and thought his father a fool. In short, our party was no common party, but a band who formed the very core of civilisation ; a high court of last appeal, whose word was a fiat, whose sign was a hint, whose stare was death, and sneer damnation ! THE YOUNG DUKE. 15 The Graces befriend us! We have forgotten the most important personage. It is the first time in his life that Charles Anuesley Las been neglected. It will do him good. Dandy has been voted vulgar, and bean is now the word. It ma,y be doubted whether the revival will stand ; and as for the exploded title, though it had its faults at first, the muse of Byron has made it not only English, but classical. Charles Aunesley could hardly be called a dandy or a bean. There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrangement in his costume, some rare simpli- dty, some curious happiness, always made it distinguished ; there was nothing, however, in his dress, which could ac- count for the influence which he exercised over the manners of his contemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited from his father, a younger brother, a small estate ; and, though heir to a wealthy earldom, he nad never abused what the world called ' his prospects.' Yet his estabhshment, his little house in Mayfair, his horses, his moderate stud at Melton, were all unique, and everything connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued nonchalance, so difiierent from the assumed non-emotion of a more dandy ; his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired ; his cautious courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their passions ; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even while it refrained fi-om wounding. All feared, many admired, and none hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner was his ex- quisite Bupercihousness, a quality which, of all. is the most difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential, and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie which he loved to rule On the whole, he was unlike any of the leading men oi modem 1 6 THE YOUNG DUKE. days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our old brilliant comedy, the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels. Charles Annesley was a member of the distinguished party who were this day to decide the fate of the yonng Duke. Let him come forward ! His Gtrace moved towards them, tail and elegant in figure, and with that air of affable dignity which becomes a noble, and which adorns a court ; none of that aflPected indifference which seems to imply that nothing can com- pensate for the exertion of moving, and ' which makes the dandy, while it mars the man.' His large and somewhat sleepy grey eye, his clear complexion, his small mouth, his aquiline nose, his transparent forehead, his rich brown hair, and the delicacy of his extremities, presented, when combined, a very excellent specimen of that sfyle of beauty for which the nobility of England are remarkable. Gentle, for he felt the importance of the tribunal, never loud, ready, yet a little reserved, he neither courted nor shunned examination. His finished manner, his experience of so- ciety, his pretensions to taste, the gaiety of his temper, and the KveHness of his imagination, gradually developed them- selves with the developing hours. The banquet was over : the Duke of St. James passed his examination with unqualified approval ; and having been stamped at the Mint of Fashion as a sovereign of the brightest die, he was flung forth, like the rest of his golden brethren, to corrupt the society of which he. was the brightest ornament. CHAPTER V. The morning after the initiatory dinner the young Duke drove to Hauteville House, his family mansion, situated in his family square. His Grace particularly prided himself on his knowledge of the arts ; a taste for which, among other things, he intended to introduce into England. Nothing could exceed the horror with which he witnessed THE YOUNG DUKE. 17 the exterior of his mansion, except the agony with which he paced through the interior. ' Is this a palace ? ' thought the young Duke ; ' this hospital a palace ! ' He entered. The marble hall, the broad and lofty double staircase painted in fresco, were not unpromising, in spite of the dingy gilding ; but with what a mixed feeling of wonder and disg-ust did the Duke roam through clusters of those queer chambers which in England are called drawing-rooms ! ' Where are the galleries, where the symmetrical sa- loons, where the lengthened suite, where the collatei-al cabinets, sacred to the statue of a nymph or the mistress of a painter, in which I have been accustomed to reside ? What page would condescend to lounge in this ante- chamber ? And is this gloomy vault, that you call a dining-room, to be my hall of Apollo ? Order my carriage.' The Duke sent immediately for Sir Carte Blanche, the successor, in England, of Sir Christopher Wren. His Grace communicated at the same time his misery and his grand views. Sir Carte was astonished with his Grace's knowledge, and sympathised with his Grace's feelings. He offered consolation and promised estimates. They came in due time. Hauteville House, in the drawing of the worthy Knight, might have been mistaken for the Louvre. Some adjoining mansions were, by some magical process for which Sir Carte was famous, to be cleared of their present occupiers, and the whole side of the square was in future to be the site of Hauteville House. The difficulty was great, but the object was greater. The ex- pense, though the estimate made a bold assault on the half million, was a mere tiifle, ' consideriny.' The Duke was delighted. He condescended to make a slight alteration in Sir Carte's drawing, which Sir Carte affirmed to be a great improvement. Now it was Sir Carte's turn to be delighted. The Duke was excited by his architect's admiration, and gave him a dissertation on Schonbrunn. Although Mr. Dacre had been disappointed in his hope a 1 8 THE YOUNG DUKE. of exercising a personal influence over the education of his ward, he had been more fortunate in his plans for the ma- nagenaent of his ward's property. Perhaps there never was an instance of the opportunities afforded by a long minority having been used to greater advantage. The estates had been increased and greatly improved, all and very heavy mortgages had been paid off, and the rents been fairly apportioned. Mr. Dacre, by his constant exer- tions and able dispositions since his return to England, also made up for the neglect with which an important point had been a little treated ; and at no period had the parlia- mentary influence of the house of Hauteville been so ex- tensive, so decided, and so well bottomed as when our hero . became its chief. In spite of his proverbial pride, it seemed that Mr. Dacre was determined not to be offended by the conduct oi his ward. The Duke had not yet announced his arrival in England to his guardian ; but about a month after that event he received a letter of congratulation from Mr. Dacre, who at the same time expressed a desii-e to resign a tru-oi into his Grace's hand which, he believed, had not been abused. The Duke, who rather dreaded an interview, wrote in return that he intended very shortly to visit Yorkshire, when he should have the pleasure of availing himself of the kind invitation to Castle Dacre ; and having thus, as he thought, dexterously got rid of the old gentle- man for the present, he took a ride with Lady Caroline St. Maurice. CHAPTEE VI. Parliament assembled, the town filled, and every moment in the day of the Duke of St. James was occupied. Sir Carte and his tribe filled up the morning. Then there were endless visits to endless visitors ; dressing ; riding, chiefly with Lady CaroUne ; luncheons, and the bow window at White's. Then came the evening with all its, orsiHh and glare ; the banquet, the opera, and the balL THE YOUNG DUKB. 19 The Duke of St. Jaraos took the oatlis and his seat. He was introduced by Lord Pitz-pompey. He heard a debate. We laugh at such a thing, especially in the Upper House ; but, on the whole, the affair is imposing, particularly if we take part in it. Lord Ex-Ohamberlain thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency and constitution. Baron Deprivyseal seconded him with great effect, brief but bitter, satirical and sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered these, full of confidence in the nation and in himself. When the debate was get- ting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something Ught. The Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness. But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his character, when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives, because his auditors could not understand his acts. Then there was a maiden speech, so inaudible that it was doubted whether, after all, the young orator really did lose his virginity. In the end, up started the Premier, who having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and liberal; gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and then the motion was withdrawn. While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept ; yet, on the whole, there was an air about the assembly which can be witnessed in no other in Europe. Even the most indifferent looked as if he would come forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most imbecile as if he could serve his country if it re- quired him. When a man raises his eyes from his bench and sees his ancestor in the tapestry, he begins to under- stand the pride of blood. The young Duke had not experienced many weeks of his career before he began to sicken of living in an hotel. Hitherto he had not reaped any of the fruits of the termi- nation of his minority. He was a cavalier seul, highly considered, truly, but yet a mere member of society. He had been this for years. This was not the existence to c 3 20 THE YOUNG DUKE. enjoy which he had hurried to England. Ho aspired to bt society itself. In a word, his tastes wore of the most mag- nificent description, and he sighed to be surrounded by a court. As Hauteviile House, even with Sir Carte's ex- traordinary exertions, could not be ready for his reception for three years, which to him appeared eternity, he deter- mined to look about for an establishment. He was fortu- nate. A nobleman who possessed an hereditary mansion of the first class, and much too magnificent for his resources, suddenly became diplomatic, and accepted an embassy. The Duke of St. James took everything off his hands : house, furniture, wines, cooks, servants, horses. Sir Carte was sent in to touch up the gilding and make a few tem- porary improvements ; and Lady Fitz-pompey pledged her- self to organise the whole establishment ere the full season commenced a.nd the early Easter had elapsed, which had now arrived. It had arrived, and the young Duke had departed to his chief family seat, Hauteviile Castle, in Yorkshire. He in- tended at the same time to fulfil his long-pledged engage- ment at Castle Dacro. He arrived at Hauteviile amid the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and the crackling of bonfires. The Castle, unlike most Yorkshire castles, was a Gothic edifice, ancient, vast, and strong ; but it had received numerous additions in various styles of archi- tecture, which were at the same time great sources of con . venience and great violations of taste. The young Duke was seized with a violent desire to live in a genuine Gothic castle : each day his refined taste was outraged by disco- vering Roman windows and Grecian doors. He detei'mined to emulate Windsor, and he sent for Sir Carte. Sir Carte came as quick as thunder after lightning. He was immensely struck with Hauteviile, particularly with its capabilities. It was a superb place, certainly, and might be rendered unrivalled. The situation seemed made for the pure Gothic. The left wing should decidedly be pulled down, and its site occupied by a Knight's hall ; the old terrace should be restored ; the donjon keep should be r«ised. ind a gallery, three hundred feet long, thrown THE YOUNG DUKE. 21 through the body of the castle. Estimates, estimates, esti- mates ! But the time ? This was a greater point than the expense. Wonders should be done. There were now five hundred men working for Hauteville House ; there should be a thousand for Hauteville Castle. Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche ! On his arrival in Yorkshire the Duke had learnt that the Dacres were in Norfolk on a visit. As the Castle was some miles oiF, he saw no necessity to make a useless exertion, and so he sent his jager with his card. He had now been ten days in his native county. It was dull, and he was restless. He missed the excitement of perpetual admiration, and his eye drooped for constant glitter. He suddenly returned to town, just when the county had flattered itself that he was about to appoint his public days. CHAPTER VII. jbJASl'jEK was over, the sun shone, the world was mad, and the young Dake made his debut at Almack's. He deter- mined to prove that he had profited by a winter at Vienna. His dancing was declared consummate. He galloped with grace and waltzed with vigour. It was difficult to decide which was more adm.irable, the elegance of his prance or the precision of his whirl. A fat Russian Prince, a lean Austrian Count, a little German Baron, who, somehow or other, always contrived to be the most marked characters of the evening, disappeared in despair. There was a lady iu the room who attracted the notice of our hero. She was a remarkable personage. There are some sorts of beauty which defy description, and almost scrutiny. Some faces rise upon us in the tumult of life like stars from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a picture. Our first impression is anytliing but fleshly. We are struck dumb, we gasp, our limbs quiver, a faint- ness glides over our frame, we are awed ; instead of gazing upon the apparition, we avert the eyes, which yet will feed upon its beauty. A strange sort of uneai'thly pain mixes 22 THE YOUNG DUKE. with the intense pleasure. And not till, with a strugglo; we call back to our memory the commonplaces of exist- ence, can we recover our commonplace demeanour. These, iadeed, are rare visions, early feelings, when our young existence leaps with its mountain torrents ; but as the river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow dimmer or our blood more cold. Some effect of this kind was produced on the Dulte of St. James by the unknown dame. He turned away his head to collect his senses. His eyes again rally ; and this time, being prepared, he was more successful in his observations. The lady was standing against the wall ; a young man was addressing some remarks to her which apparently were not very interesting. She was tall and young, and, as her tiara betokened, married ; dazzling fair, but without colour ; with locks like night and features delicate, but precisely defined. Yet all this did not at first challenge the observation of the young Duke. It was the general and peculiar expression of her countenance which had caused in him such emotion. There was an expression of resignation, or repose, or sorrow, or serenity, which in these excited chambers was strange, and singular, and lone. She gazed like some genius invisible to the crowd, and mourn- ing over its degradation. He stopped St. Maurice, as his cousin passed by, to in- quire her name, and learnt that she was Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the wife of Sir Lucius Grafton. ' What, Lucy Grafton ! ' exclaimed the Duke. ' I re- member ; I was his fag at Eton. He was a handsome dog ; but I doubt whether he deserves such a wife. Intro- duce me.' Lady Aphrodite received our hero with a gentle bow, and did not seem quite as impressed with his importance as most of those to whom he had been presented in the course of the evening. The Duke had considerable tact with women, and soon perceived that the common topics of a hack flirtation would not do in the present case. He was therefore mild and modest, rather piquant, somewhat rational, and apparently perfectly unaffected. Her Lady- THE YOUNG DUKE. 23 ship's reserve wore away. She refused to dance, but con- versed with more animation. The Duke did not leave her side. The vvomen began to stare, the men to bet : Lady Aphrodite against the field. In vain his Grace laid a thousand plans to arrange a tea-room t&te-a-tete. He was unsuccessfiil. As he was about to return to the charge her Ladyship desired a passer-by to sum.mon her carriage. No time was to be lost. The Duke began to talk hard about his old friend and schoolfellow, Sir Lucius. A greenhorn would have thought it madness to take an in- terest in such a person of all others ; but women like you to enter their house as their husband's friend. Lady Aphrodite could not refrain from expressing her conviction that Sir Imcius would be most happy to renew his acquaint- ance with the Duke of St. James, and the Duke of St. James immediately said that he would take the earliest opportunity of giving him that pleasure. CHAPTER VIII. Sir Lucius GKAProN was five or six years older than the Duke of St. James, although he had been his contemporary at Eton. He, too, had been a minor, and had inherited an estate capable of supporting the becoming dignity of an ancient family. In appearance he was an Antinous. There was, however, an expression of Urmness, almost of ferocity, about his mouth, which quite prevented his coun- tenance from being eflfeminate, and broke the dreamy vo- luptuousness of the rest of his features. In mind he was a roue. Devoted to pleasure, he had racked the goblet at an early age ; and before he was five-and-twenty pro- cared for himself a reputation wJiich made all women dread and some men shun him. In the very wildest moment of his career, when he was almost marked like Cain, he had met Lady Aphrodite Maltravers. She was the daughter of a nobleman who justly prided himself, in a degenerate age, on the virtue of his house. Nature, as if in recom- pense for his goodness, had showered all her blessings on 24 THE YOUNG DUKE. his only daughter. Never was daughter more devoted to a widowed sire ; never was woman influenced by principles of purer morality. This was the woman who inspired Sir Lucius Grafton with an ungovernable passion. Despairing of success by any other method, conscious that, sooner or later, he must, for family considerations, propagate future baronets of the name of Grafton, he determined to solicit her hand. But for him to obtain it, he was well aware, was difBcult. Confident in his person, his consummate knowledge of the female character, and his unrivalled powers of dissimulation. Sir Lucius arranged his dispositions. The daughter feared, the father hated him. There was indeed much to be done ; but the remembrance of a thousand triumphs supported the adventurer. Lady Aphrodite was at length persuaded that she alone could confirm the reformation which she alone liad originated. She yielded to a passion which her love of virtue had alone kept in subjection. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite knelt at the feet of the old Earl. The tears of his daughter, ay ! and of his future son-in-law, for Sir Lucius knew when to weep, were too much for his Kind and generous heart. He gave them his blessing, which faltered on his tongue. A year had not elapsed ere Lady Aphrodite woke to all the wildness of a deluded woman. The idol on whom she had lavished all the incense of her innocent afleotious became every day less like a true divinity. At length even the ingenuity of passion could no longer disguise the hideous and bitter truth. She was no longer loved. She thought of her father. Ah, what was the madness of her me- mory ! The agony of her mind disappointed her husband's hope of an heir, and the promise was never renewed. In vain she remonstrated with the being to whom she was devoted : in vain she sought by meek endurance again to melt his heart. It was cold ; it was callous. Most women would have endeavoured to recover their lost influence by difierent tactics ; some, perhaps, would have forgotten their mortifi- cation in their revenge. But Lady Aphrodite had been THE YOUNG DUKE. 25 the victim of passion, and now was its slave. Sbe could act dissemble. Not so her spouse. Sir Lucius knew too well the value of a good character to part very easily with that which he had so unexpectedly regained. Wliatever were his ex- cesses, they were prudent ones. He felt that boyhood could alone excuse the folly of glorying in vice ; and he know that, to respect virtue, it was not absolutely neces- sary to be virtuous. No one was, apparently, more choice in his companions than Sir Lucius Grafton ; no husband was seen oftener with his wife ; no one paid more respect to age, or knew better when to wear a grave countenance. The world praised the magical influence of Lady Aphrodite ; and Lady Aphrodite, in private, wept over her misery. In public she made an effort to conceal all she felt ;" and, as it is a great inducement to every woman to conceal that she is neglected by the man whom she adores, her effort was not unsuccessful. Yet her countenance might in- dicate that she was little interested in Lhe scene in which she mixed. She was too proud to weep, but too sad to smile. Elegant and lone, she stood among lier crushed and lovely hopes like a column amid the ruins of a beautiful temple. The world declared that Lady Aphrodite was desper- ately virtuous, and the world was right. A thousand fireflies had sparkled round this myrtle, and its fresh and verdant hue was still unsullied and unscorched. Not a very accurate image, but pretty ; and those who have watched a glancing shower of these glittering insects will confess that, poetically, the bush might burn. The truth Ls, tliat Lady Aphrodite still trembled when she recalled the early anguish of her broken sleep of love, and had not courage enough to hope that she might dream again. Like the old Hebrews, she had been so chastened for her vrild idolatry that she dared not again raise an image to animate the wilderness of her existence. Man she at the same time feared and despised. Compared with her husband, all who surrounded her were, she felt, in appear- ajioe inferior, and were, she believed, in mind the same. 26 THE YOUNG DUKE. We know not how it is, but love at first sight is a subject of constant ridicule ; but, somehow, we suspect that it haa more to do with the affairs of this world than the world is willing to own. Eyes meet which have never met before, and glances thrill with expression which is strange. We contrast these pleasant sights and new emotions with hackneyed objects and worn sensations. Another glance and another thrill, and we spring into each other's arms. What can be more natural ? Ah, that we should awake so often to truth so bitter ! Ah, that charm by charm should evaporate from the talis- man which had enchanted our existence ! And so it was with this sweet woman, whose feelings grow under the pen. She had repaired to a splendid as- sembly to play her splendid part with the consciousness of misery, without the expectation of hope. She awaited without interest the routine which had been so often unintei'esting ; she viewed without emotion the characters which had never moved. A stranger suddenly appeared upon the stage, fresh as the morning dew, and glittering hke the morning star. All eyes await, all tongues applaud him. His step is grace, his countenance hope, his voice music ! And was such a being bom only to deceive and be deceived ? Was he to run the same false, palling, ruinous career which had filled so many hearts with bitterness and dimmed the radiancy of so many eyes ? Never ! The nobility of his soul spoke from his glancing eye, and treated the foul suspicion with scorn. Ah, would that she had such a brother to wai-n, to guide, to love ! So felt the Lady Aphrodite ! So felt ; we will not say so reasoned. When once a woman allows an idea to touch her heart, it is miraculous with what rapidity the idea is fathered by her brain. All her experience, all her anguish, all her despair, vanished like a long frost, in an instant, and in a night. She felt a delicious conviction that a knight had at length come to her rescue, a hero worthy of an adventure so admirable. The image of the young Duke filled her whole mind ; she nad no ear for others' voices . THE YOUNG DUKE. 27 she mused on his idea with the rapture of a votary on the mysteries of a new faith. Yet strange, when he at length approached her when he addressed her, when she replied to that mouth which had fascinated even before it had spoken, she was cold, reserved, constrained. Some talk of the burning cheek and the flashing eye of passion ; but a wise man would not, perhaps, despair of the heroine who, when he approaches her, treats him almost with scorn, and trembles while she aifects to disregard him. Lady Aphrodite has returned home : she hurries to her apartment, she falls into a sweet reverie, hef head leans upon her hand. Her soubrette, a pretty and chattering Swiss, whose republican virtue had been corrupted by Paris, as Rome by Corinth, endeavours to divert her lady's ennui : she excruciates her beautiful mistress with tattle about the admiration of Lord B and the sighs of Sir Harry. Her Ladyship reprimands her for her levity, and the soubrette, grown sullen, revenges herself for her mis- tress's reproof by converting the sleepy process of brushing into lively torture. The Dulie of St. James called upon Lady Aphrodite Grafton the next day, and at an hour when he trusted to find her alone. He was not disappointed. More than once the silver-tongued pendule sounded during that somewhat protracted but most agreeable visit. He was, indeed, greatly interested by her, but he was an habitual gallant, and always began by feigning more than he felt. She, on the contrary, who was really in love, feigned much less. Yet she was no longer constrained, though calm. Fluent, and even gay, she talked as well as lis- tened, and her repartees more than once called forth the resources of her guest. She displayed a delicate and even luxurious taste, not only in her conversation, but (the Duke observed it with delight) in her costume. She had a passion for music and for flowers ; she sang a ro- mance, and she gave him a rose. He retired perfectly Giscinated. 28 THE YOUNG DUKB. CHAPTER IX. Srii Liucius GiiAPTON called on the Duke of St. James They did not immediately swear an eternal friendship, but thoy greeted each other with considerable warmth, talked of old times and old companions, and compared their former sensations with their present. No one could bo a more agreeable companion than Sir Lucius, and this day he left a very favourable impression with his young friend. Prom this day, too, the Duke's visits at the Baronet's were frequent ; and as the Graftons were intimate with the Pitz-pompeys, scarcely a day elapsed without his having the pleasure of passing a portion of it in the company of Lady Aphrodite : his attentions to her were marked, an^.' sometimes mentioned. Lord Fitz-pompey was rather in a flutter. George did not ride so often with Caroline, and never alone with her. This was disagreeable ; but the Earl was a man of the world, and a sanguine man withal. These things will happen. It is of no use to quarrel with the wind ; and, for his part, he was not sorry that he had the honour of the Grafton acquaintance ; it secured Caro- line her cousin's company ; and as for the liaison, if there were one, why it must end, and probably the difficulty of terminating it might even hasten the catastrophe which he had so much at heart. ' So, Laura, dearest ! let the Graf- tons be asked to dinner.' Li one of those rides to which Caroline was not ad- mitted, for Lady Aphrodite was present, the Duke of St. James took his way to the Regent's Park, a wild seques- tered sjiot, whither he invariably repaired when he did not wish to be noticed ; for the inhabitants of this pretty suburb are a distinct race, and although their eyes are not unobserving, from their inability to speak the language of London they are unable to communicate their obser- vations. The spring sun was setting, and flung a crimson flush over the blue waters and the white houses. The scene was rather imposing, and reminded our hero of days of THE YOUNG DUKE. 29 travel. A sudden thought struck him. Would it not bo delightful to build a beautiful retreat in this sweet and retired land, and be able in an instant to fly from tho formal magnificence of a London mansion ? Lady Aphro- dite was charmed with the idea ; for the enamoured are always delighted with what is fanciful. The Duke deter- mined immedia.tely to convert the idea into an object. To lose no tim.e was his grand motto. As he thought that Sir Carte had enough upon his hands, he determined to apply to an artist whose achievements had been greatly vaunted to him by a distinguished and noble judge. M. Bijou de Millecolonnes, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour and member of the Academy of St. Luke's, except in his title, was the antipodes of Sir Carte Blanche. Sir Carte was all solidity, solemnity, and correctness ; Bijou de Millecolonnes all lightness, gaiety, and originality. Sb' Carte was ever armed with the Parthenon, Palladio, and St. Peter's ; Bijou de Millecolonnes laughed at the ancients, called Palladio and Michel barbarians of the middle ages, and had himself invented an order. Bijou was not so plausible as Sir Carte; but he was infinitely more enter- taining. Par from being servile, lie a,llowed no one to talk but himself, and made his fortune by his elegant insolence. How singular it is that those who love servility are always the victims of impertinence ! Gaily did Bijou de Millecolonnes drive his pea-green cabriolet to tho spot in question. He formed his plan in an instant. ' The occasional retreat of a noble should be something picturesque and poetical. The mind should be led to voluptuousness by exquisite associations, as well as by the creations of art. It is thus their luxury is rendered more intense by the reminiscences that add past experience to present enjoyment ! For instance, if you sail down a river, imitate the progress of Cleopatra. And here, here, where the opportunity is so ample, what think you of re- viving the Alhambra ? ' Splendid conception ! The Duke already fancied him- self a Caliph. ' Lose no time, Chevalier ! Dig, plant, build ! ' 30 THE YOUNG DUKE. Nine acres were obtained from the Woods and Forests j niounda were thrown up, shrubs thrown in ; the paths emu- lated the serpent ; the nine acres seemed interminable. All was surrounded by a paling eight feet high, that no one might pierce the mystery of the preparations. A rumour was soon current that the Zoological Society intended to keep a Bengal tiger om naturel, and that they were contriving a residence which would amply compen- sate him for his native jungle. The Regent's Park was in despair, the landlords lowered their rents, and the tenants petitioned the King. In a short time some hooded domes and some Saracenic spires rose to sight, and the truth was then made known that the young Duke of St. James was building a villa. The Regent's Park was in rapture,' the landlords raised their rents, and the tenants withdrew their petition. CHAPTER X. Mb. Dacke again wrote to the Duke of St. James. He regretted that he had been absent from home when his Gk-ace had done him the honour of calling at Castle Dacre. Had he been aware of that intended gratification, he could with ease; and would with pleasure, have postponed his visit to Norfolk. He also regretted that it would not be in his power to visit London this season ; and as he thought chat no further time should be lost in resigning the trust with which he had been so honoured, he begged leave to forward his accounts to the Duke, and with them some notes which he believed would convey some not unim- portant information to his Grace for the future management ot his property. The young Duke took a rapid glance at the sum total of his rental, crammed all the papers into a cabinet with a determination to examine them the first opportunity, and ^hen rolled off to a morning concert of which he was the patron. The intended opportunity for the examination of the important papers was never caught, nor was it surprising THE YOUNG DUKE. 31 that it escaped capture. It is difficult to conceive a career of more various, more constant, or more distracting excite- ment than that in which the Duke of St. James was now engaged. His life was an ocean of enjoym.ent, and each hour, like each wave, threw up its pearl. How dull was the ball in which he did not bound ! How dim the banquet in which he did not glitter ! His presence in the Gardens compensated for the want of flowers ; his vision in the Park for the want of sun. In public breakfasts he was more indispensable than pine-apples ; in private concerts more noticed than an absent prima donna. How fair was the dame on whom he smiled ! How dark was the trades- man on whom he frowned ! Think only of Prime Ministers and Princes, to say no- thing of Princesses ; nay ! think only of managers of operas and French actors, to say nothing of French actresses ; think only of jewellers, milliners, artists, horse-dealers, all the shoals who hurried for his sanction ; iiiink only, of the two or three thousand civilised beings for whom all this population breathed, and who each of them had claims upon our hero's notice ! Think of the statesmen, who had so much to ask and so much to give ; the dandies to feed with and to be fed; the dangerous dowagers and the desperate mothers ; the widows, wild as eai-ly partridges ; the budding virgins, mild as a summer cloud and soft as an opera hat ! Think of the drony bores, with their dull hum ; think of the chivalric guardsmen, with their horses to aqll and their bills to discount ; think of Willis, think of Crockford, think of White's, think of Brooks', and you may form a faint idea how the young Duke had to talk, and eat, and flirt, and cut, and pot, and patronise ! You think it impossible for one man to do all this. There is yet much behind. Tou may add to the catalogue Mel- ton and Newmarket ; and if to hiont without an appetite and to bet without an object will not sicken you, why, build a yacht ! The Duke of St. James gave his first grand entertain- ment for the season. It was like the assembly of the Immortals at the first levee of Jove. All hurried to pay 32 THE YOUNG DUKE. their dovoirs to the young King of Fashion ; and each who succeeded in becoming a member of the Court felt as proud as a peer with a new title, or a baronet with an old one. An air of regal splendour, an almost imperial assumption, was observed in the arrangements of the fete. A troop ot servants in rich liveries filled the hall ; grooms lined the staircase ; Spiridion, the Greek page, lounged on an otto- man in an ante-chamber, and, with the assistance of six young gentlemen in crimson-and-silver uniforros, announced the coming of the cherished guests. Cart-loads of pine- apples were sent up from the Yorkshire Castle, and wag- gons of orange-trees from the Twickenham Villa. A brilliant coterie, of which his Grace was a member, had amused themselves a few nights before by represent- ing in costume the Court of Charles the First. They agreed this night to reappear in their splendid dresses ; and the Duke, who was Villiers, supported his character, even to the gay shedding of a shower of diamonds. In his cap was observed an hereditary sapphire, which blazed Uke a volcano, and which was rumoured to be worth his rent>roll. There was a short concert, at which the most celebrated Signora made her debut; there was a single vaudeville, which a white satin play-bill, presented to each guest as they entered the temporary theatre, indicated to have been written for the occasion ; there was a ball, in which was in- troduced a new dance. Nothing for a moment was allowed to lag. Longueurs were skilfally avoided, and the excitement was so rapid that every one had an appetite for supper. A long gallery lined with bronzes and bijouterie, witli cabinets and sculpture, with china and with paintings, all purchased for the future ornament of Hauteville House, and here stowed away in unpretending, but most artificial, confusion, offered accommodation to all the guests. To a table covered with gold, and placed in a magnificent tent upon the stage, his Grace loyally led two princes of the blood and a child of France. Madame de Protocol!, Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the Duchess of Shropshire, and Lady Fitz-pompey, shared the honours of the pavilion, and some THE YOUNG DUKE. 33 might be excused for envying a party so brilliant and a Rituatiou so distinguished. Yet Lady Aphrodite was an n T) wining member of it; and nothing but the personal solicitation of Sir Lucius would have induced her to consent to the wish of their host. A pink cai-te succeeded to the satin play-bill. Vitellius might have been pleased with the banquet. Ah, how shall WG describe those soups, which surely must have been the magical elixir ! How paint those ortolans dressed by the inimitable artist, a la St. James, for the occasion, and which look so beautiful in death that they must surely have pre- iferred such an euthanasia even to flying in the perfumed air of an Ausonian heaven ! Sweet bird ! though thou hast lost thy plumage, thou shalt fly to my mistress ! Is it not better to be nibbled by her than mumbled by a cai-dinal ? I, too, will feed on thy delicate beauty. Sweet bird ! thy companion has fled to my mistress ; and now thou shalt thrill the nerves of her master ! Oh ! dofi", then, thy waistcoat of wine-leaves, pretty rover ! and show me that bosom more delicious even than woman's. What gushes of rapture ! What a flavour ! How peculiar ! Even how sacred ! Heaven at once sends both manna and quails. Another little wan- derer ! Pray follow my example ! Allow me. All Para- dise opens ! Let me die eating ortolans to the sound of soft music ! Even the supper was brief, though brilliant ; and again the cotillon and the quadrille, the waltz and the galoppe ! At no moment of his life had the young Duke felt exiist- once so intense. Wherever he turned his eye he found a responding glance of beauty and admiration ; wherever he turned his ear the whispered tones were soft and sweet as summer winds. Each look was an offering, each word adoration ! His soul dilated ; the glory of the scene touched all his passions. He almost determined not again to mingle in society ; but, like a monarch, merely to receive the world which worshipped him. The idea was sublime : was it even to him impracticable ? Id the midst of his splen- dour he fell into a reverie, and mused on his magnificence. 34 THI' YOUNG DUKE. He ooiild no longer resist tho oonviotion tliat lio wns n superior ossdiico, oven to all around him, Tim workl seemed created solely for his onjoymont, Noi- man nor woman could withstand hint. Prom this hour ho delivered himself up to a sublirno selfishness. With all his passions and all his pi'ofusion, a callousness oropt. over his heart. His sympathy for tliosi) lui believed his iiil'oridrs and his vassals was slight. Whdro wo do not respinil. we soon iseaso to lovo ; when we cease to lovo, virl.uo wooiw and flies. His soul wandered in dreams of oninipotonon. This picture perhaps excites your diHlike; perohanoo your oontompt. Pause! Pity him 1 Pity his fatal you (h I CHAPTER XL TiiK Lady Aphni(lil-o at lii'.sl, rol'iihdd to sit in tho Diiko's pavilion. Was she, thou, ill tho Aai// of roCiising? I jet us not forget our VoniiH of the WatorM. Shall wo whlHpor whore tho young I)id rodalj liirnHidf (/< tbo miiJitioH of lifis, THE YOUNG DUKE. 97 How cold, how tamo, how lifeless, how imperfect, how inconsocutivo, did everything appear ! This is the curso of reverie. But tlioy who revel in its pleasures must bear il-R pains, and are content. Yet it wears out the brain, and unfits us for social life. They who indulge in it most ai'o the slaves of solitude. They wander in a wilderness, and people it with their voices. They sit by the side of running waters, with an eye more glassy than the stream. The sight of a human being scares them more than a wild beast does a traveller ; the conduct of life, when thrust npon their notice, seems only a tissue of adventures without point ; and, compared with the creaturus of their imagination, human nature seems to send forth only abortions. ' I must up,' said the young Duke ; ' and this creature on whom I have lived for the last eight hours, who has, in herself, been to me the universe, this constant companion, this chorishod friend, whose voice was Passion and whose look was Love, will meet me with all the formality of a young lady, all the coldness of a person who has never ovou thought of mo since she saw me last. Damnable delusion ! To-morrow I will got up and hunt.' He called Luigi, and a shower-bath assisted him in taking a more healthy viow of afl'airs. Yet his faithful fancy re- curred to her iigain. Pie must indulge it a little. ITe left oil' dressing and Hung himsoll' in a ohiiir. ' And yet,' he continued, ' when I think of it again, there surely can bo no reason that this should not turn iulo a vunuini'o of veal life. I j>orooived that she was a little piqued when we first met at Doncasti^r. Very na- tural ! Vi'vy flatturiiif^- ! I should have been jnqued. Uurtninly, I boliavod diHudedly ill. But how, in the name of Heaven, was I to know that she was the brightest little being that over bnathed ! Well, I am here now ! She has got her wish. And I tliink an evident alteration has already taken place. But she must not melt too quickly. She will not ; she will do nothing but what is exquisitely proper. How I do love this child ! I dote upon her very image. It is the very thing that I have always been H 98 THE YOUNG DUKE. wanting. The women call me inconstant. I have nevei been constant. But they will not listen to us without we foign feelings, and then they upbraid us for not being influenced by them. I have sighed, I have sought, I have wept, for what I now have found. What would she give to know what is passing in my mind ! By Heavens ! there is no blood in England that has a better chance of being a Duchess ! CHAPTER XI. A CANTER is the cure for every evil, and brings the mind back to itself sooner than all the lessons of Chrysippus and Grantor. It is the only process that at the same time calms the feelings and elevates the spirits, banishes blue devils and raises one to the society of ' angels ever bright and fair.' It clears the mind ; it cheers the heart. It is the best preparation for all enterprises, for it puts a man in good humour both with the world and himself; and, whether you are going to make a speech or scribble a scene, whether you are about to conquer the world oi yourself, order your horse. As you bound along, your wit will brighten and your eloquence blaze, your courage grow more adamantine, and your generous feelings burn with a livelier flame. And when the exercise is over the excitement does not cease, as when it grows from music, for your blood is up, and the brilliancy of your eye is fed by your bubbling pulses. Then, my young friend, take my advice : rush into the world, and triumph will grow out of your quick Ufe, like Victory bounding from the palm of Jove ! Our Duke ordered his horses, and as he rattled along recovered from the enervating effects of his soft reverie. On his way home he fell in with Mr. Dacre and the two Baronets, returning on their hackneys from a hard-fought fleld. ' Gay sport ? ' asked his Grace. ' A capital run. I think the last forty minutes the most THE YOUNG DUKE. 99 splitting thing we have had for a long time ! ' answered Sir Chetwode. ' I only hope Jack Wilson will take care of poor Fanny. I did not half hke leaving her. Tour Grace does not join us?' ' I mean to do so ; but I am, unfortunately, a late riser. ' Hem ! ' said Sir Tichborne. The monosyllable meant much. ' I have a horse which I think will suit your Grace,' said Mr. Dacre, ' and to which, in fact, you are entitled, for it hears the name of your house. Tou have ridden Haute- ville. Sir Tichborne ? ' ' Tes ; fine animal ! ' ' I shall certainly try his powers,' said the Duke. ' When is your next field-day ? ' ' Thursday,' said Sir Tichborne ; ' but we shall be too early for you, I am afraid,' with a grufip smile. 'Oh, no!' said the young Duke, who saw his man; 'I assure you I have been up to-day nearly two houi'S. Let us get on.' The first person that his Grace's eye met, when he entered the room in which they assembled before dinner, was Mrs. Dallington Vere. Dinner was a favourite moment with the Duke of St. James during this visit at Castle Dacre, since it was the only time in the day that, thanks to his rank, which he now doubly valued, he could enjoy a tete-a-tSte with its blooming mistress. ' I am going to hunt,' said the Duke, ' and I am to ride Hauteville. I hope you -svill set me an example on Thursday, and that I shall establish my character with Sir Tichborne.' ' I am to lead on that day a bold band of archers. I have already too much neglected my practising, and I fear that my chance of the silver arrow is sUght.' ' I have betted upon you with everybody,' said the Duke of St. James. ' Remember Doncaster ! I am afraid that May Dacre will again be the occasion of your losing your money.' a 2 loo THE YOUNG DUKB. ' But now I am on the right side. Together we nmst conquer.' ' I have a presentiment that our union will not be a fortunate one.' ' Then I am ruined,' said his Grace with rather a seriou.s tone. ' I hope you have not really staked anything upon su ch nonsense ?' said Miss Dacre. ' I hWe staked everything,' said his Grace. ' Talking of stakes,' said Lord St. Jerome, who pricked up his ears at a congenial subject, ' do you know what they are going to do about that affair of Anderson's ? ' ' What does he say for himself ? ' asked Sir Ghetwodo. ' He says that he had no intention of embezzHng the money, but that, as he took it for granted the point could never be decided, he thought it was against the usury laws to allow raoney to He idle.' ' That fellow has always got an answer,' said Sir Tich- borne. ' I hate men who have always got an answer. There is no talking common sense with them,' The Duke made his escape to-day, and, emboldened by nis illustrious example, Charles Faulcon, Lord St. Jerome, and some other heroes followed, to the great disgust of Sir Ohetwode and Sir Tichborne. As the evening glided on conversation naturally fell upon the amusements of society. ' I am sure we are tired of dancing every night,' said Miss Dacre. ' I wonder if we could introduce any novelty. What think you, Bertha ? Ton can always suggest.' ' Tou remember the tableaux vivants 1 ' said Mrs. Bailing- - ton Vere. ' Beautiful ! but too elaborate a business, I fear, for us. We want something more impromptu. The tableaux are nothing without brilHant and accurate costume, and to obtain that we must work at least for a week, and then, after all, in all probability, a failure. lis soni trap re- ehercMs,' she said, lowering her voice to Mrs. DaUington, 'pour nous ici. They must spring out of a society used to Buch exhibitions.' THE YOUNG DUKE. loi ' I have a costume dress here,' said the Duke of St. .Tamos. ' And I have a uniform,' said Lord Mildmay. ' And then,' said Mrs. Dallington, ' there are cashmeres, and scarfs, and jevrels to be collected. I see, however, you think it impossible.' ' I fear so. However, we will think of it. In the meantime, what shall we do now ? Suppose we act a fairy tale ? ' ' None of the girls can act,' said Mrs. Dallington, with a look of kind pity. ' Let us teach them. That itself will be an amusement. Suppose we act Cinderella ? There is the music of Cen- drillon, and yon can compose, when necessary, as you go on. Clara Howard ! ' said May Dacre, ' come here, love ! "We want you to be Cinderella in a little play.' ' I act ! oh ! dear May ! How can you laugh at me so ! I cannot act.' ' You will not have to speak. Only just move about as I direct you while Bertha plays music' ' Oh ! dear May, I cannot, indeed ! I never did act. Ask Eugenia ! ' ' Eugenia ! If you are afraid, I am sure she will faint. I asked you because I thought you were just the person for it.' ' But only think,' said poor Clara, with an imploring voice, 'to act. May! Why, acting is the most difficult thing in the world. Acting is quite a dreadful thing. I know many ladies who will not act.' ' But it is not acting, Clara. "Well ! I will be Cinderella, and you shall be one of the sisters.' ' No, dear May ! ' ' "Well, then, the Fairy ? ' ' No, dear, dear, dear May ! ' ' Well, Duke of St. James, what am I to do with this rebel hous troop ? ' ' Let me be Cinderella ! ' ' It is astonishing,' said Miss Dacre, 'the difficulty which you encounter in England, if you try to make people the I02 THE YOUNG DUKE. least anmsing or vary the regular dull routine, which announces dancing as the beautiful of diversions and cards as the sublime.' ' We are bai-barians,' said the Duke. ' We were not,' said May Dacre. ' What are tableaux, or acted charades, or romances, to masques, which were the splendid and various amusement of our ancestors. Last Christmas we performed "Oomus" herewith great effect ; but then we had Arundel, and he is an admirable actor.' ' Curse Arundel ! ' thought the Duke. ' I had forgotten him.' ' I do not wonder,' said Mrs. Dallington Vere, 'at people objecting to act regular plays, for, independently of the objections, not that I think anything of them myself, which are urged against " private theatricals," the fact is, to get up a play is a tremendous business, and one or two is your bound. But masques, where there is so little to learn by rote, a great consideration, where music and song are so exquisitely introduced, where there is such an admirable opportunity for brilliant costume, and where the scene may be beautiful without change; such an important point; I cannot help wondering that this national diversion is not revived.' ' Suppose we were to act a romance without the cos- tume ? ' said the Duke. ' Let us consider it a rehearsal. And perhaps the Misses Howard will have no objection to sing ? ' ' It is difficult to find a suitable romance,' said Miss Dacre. ' All our modem English ones are too full of fine poetry. We tried once an old ballad, but it was too long. Last Christmas we got up a good many, and Arundel, Isabella, and myself used to scribble some nonsense for the occasion. But I am afraid they are all either burnt or taken away. I will look in the music-casa.' She went to the music-case with the Duke and Mrs. Dalhngton. ' No,' she continued ; ' not one, not a single one. But what are these ? ' She looked at some lines written ir THE YOUNG DUKE. 103 pencil in a music-book. ' Oli ! here is something ; too shght, but it will do. You see,' she continued, reading it to the Duke, ' by the introduction of the same line in erery verse, describing the same action, a back-scene is, as it were, created, and the story, if you can call it such, pro- ceeds in front. Really, I think, we might make something of this.' Mr. Dacre and some others were at whist. The two Baronets were together, talking over the morning's sport. Ecarte covered a flirtation between Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome. Miss Dacre assembled her whole troop ; and, like a manager with a new play, read in the midst of them the ballad, and gave them directions for their con- duct. A japan screen was unfolded at the end of the room. Two couches indicated the limits of the stage. Then taking her guitar, she sang with a sweet voice and arch simplicity these simpler lines : — ■ I. Childe Dacre stands in his father's hall, While all the rest are dancing ; Childe Dacre gazes on the wall. While brightest eyes are glancing. Then prythee tell me, gentles gay ! What makes our Childe so dull to-day ? Bach verse was repeated. In the background they danced a cotillon. In the front, the Duke of St. James, as Childe Dacre, leant against the wall, with arms folded and eyes fixed ; in short, in most romantic mood, and in an attitude which commanded great applause. II. I cannot tell, unless it be, While aU the rest are dancing. The Lady Alice, on the sea. With brightest eyes is glancing. Or muses on the twilight hour Will bring Childe Dacre to her bower. Mrs. Dallingtpn Vera advances as the Lady Ab'ce. Her •^alk is abrupt, her look anxious and distracted ; she 104 THE YOUNG DUKE. seems to be listening for some signal. She falls into a musing attitude, motionless and graceful as a statue. Clara Howard alike marvels at her genius and her courage. III. Childe Dacre hears the curfew chime, While all the rest are dancing ; Unless I find a fitting rhyme, Oh ! here ends my romancing ! But see ! her lover's at her feet! Oh ! words of joy ! oh ! meeting sweet ! The Duke advances, chivalric passion in his every gesture. The Lady Alice rushes to his arms with that look of trembling transport which tells the tale of stolen love. They fall into a group which would have made the fortune of an Annual. IT. Then let us hope, when nex>. I sing, And all the rest are dancing, Our Childe a gentle bride may bring, All other joys enhancing. Then we will bless the twilight hour That call'd him to a lady's bower. The Duke led Mrs. Dallington to the dancers with courtly grace. There was great applause, but the spirit of fim and one-and-twenty inspired him, and he led off a gallop. In fact, it was an elegant romp. The two Baronets started from their slumbers, and Lord Mildmay called for Mademoiselle Dacre. The call was echoed. Miss Dacre yielded to the public voice, and acted to the life the gratified and condescending air of a first-rate performer. Lord Mildmay called for Madame Dallington. Miss Dacre led on her companion as Sontag would MaHbran. There was no wreath at hand, but the Duke of St. James robbed his coat of its rose, and offered it on his knee to Made- moiselle, who presented it with Parisian feeling to her rival. The scene was as superb as anything at the Academie. THE YOUNG DUKE. loj CHAPTER XII. ' YTv. certainly must have a masque,' said the young Duko, as he threw himself into his chair, satisfied with his per- formance. ' You must open Hauteville with one,' said Mrs. Dal lington. ' A capital idea ; but we will practise at Dacre first.' ' When is Hauteville to be finished ? ' asked Mrs. Dal- lington. ' I shall really complain if we are to be kept out of it much longer. I believe I am the only person in the Biding who has not been there.' ' I have been there,' said the Duke, ' and am afraid I must go again ; for Sir Carte has just come down for a few days, and I promised to meet him. It is a sad bore. I wish it were fiidshed.' ' Take me with you,' said Mrs. DalHngton ; ' take us all, and let us make a party.' ' An admirable idea,' exclaimed the young Duke, with a brightening countenance. ' What admirable ideas you have, Mrs. Dallington ! This is, indeed, turning business into pleasure ! What says our hostess ? ' ' I will join you.' ' To-morrow, then ? ' said the Duke. ' To-morrow i Tou are rapid ! ' ' Never postpone, never prepare : that is your own rule. To-morrow, to-morrow, all must go.' ' Papa, will you go to-mori'ow to Hauteville ? ' ' Are you serious ? ' 'Tes,' said Miss Dacre: ' we never postpone ; we never prepare.' ' But do not you think a day, at least, had better inter- vene ? ' urged Mr. Dacre ; ' we shall be unexpected.' ' I vote for to-morrow,' said the Duke. ' To-morrow ! ' was the universal exclamation. To- morrow was carried. ' I will write to Blanche at once,' said the Duke. Mrs. Dallington Vere ran for the writing materials, and hia Grace indicted the following pithy note : — io6 THE YOUNG DUKE. ' Half-past Ten, Castle Dacre. ' Dear Sm Cakte, ' Our party here intend to honour Hauteville with a nsit to-morrow, and anticipate the pleasure of viewing the improvements, with yourself for their cicerone. Let Raw- don know immediately of this. They tell me here that the sun rises about six. As we shall not be with you till noon, I have no doubt your united energies will be able to make all requisite preparations. We may be thirty or forty. Believe me, dear Sir Carte, ' Tour faithful sei-vant, ' St. James. ' Carlstein bears this, which you wUl receive in an hour. Let me have a line by return.' CHAPTER XIII. If was a morning all dew and sunshine, soft yet bright, jusi fit for a hawking party, for dames of high degree, feathered cavaliers, ambling palfreys, and tinkling bells. Our friends rose early, and assembled punctually. All went, and all went on horseback ; but they s.ent before some carriages for the return, in case the ladies should be wearied with ex- cessive pleasure. The cavalcade, for it was no less, broke into parties which were often out of sight of each other. The Duke and Lord St. Jerome, Clara Howard and Charles Faulcon, Miss Dacre and Mrs. Dallington, formed one, and, as they flattered themselves, not the least brilKant. They were all in high spirits, and his Grace lectured on riding-habits with erudite enthusiasm. Their road lay through a country wild and woody, where crag and copse beautifully intermixed with patches of rich cultivation. Halfway, they passed Rosena.ont, a fanciful pavilion where the Dukes of St. James sometimes sought that elegant simplicity which was not afibrdod by all the various charms of their magnificent Hauteville. At length they arrived •••t the park-gate of the castle, which might THE YOUNG DUKE. 107 itself have passed for a tolerable mansion. It was ancient and embattled, flanked by a couple of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the baronial pile which it an- nounce*^ The park was a petty principality ; and its apparently illimitable extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancient woods and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the admiration even of those who had been bom in such magical enclosures. Away they cantered over the turf, each moment with their blood more sparkling. A turn in the road, and Hauteville, with its donjon keep and lordly flag, and many- windowed line of long perspective, its towers, and turrets, and terraces, bathed with the soft autumnal sun, met their glad sight. ' Your Majesty is welcome to my poor castle ! ' said the young Duke, bowing with head uncovered to Miss Dacre. ' Nay, we are at the best but captive princesses about to be immured in that fearful keep ; and this is the way you mock us ! ' ' I am content that you shall be my prisoner.' ' A struggle for fi'eedom ! ' said Miss Dacre, looking back to Mrs. Dalhngton, and she galloped towards the castle. Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome cantered up, and the rest soon assembled. Sir Carte came forward, all smiles, with a olork of the works bearing a portfoHo of plans. A crowd of servants, for the Duke maintained an establishment at Hauteville, advanced, and the fair equest- rians were dismounted. They shook their habits and their curls, vowed that riding was your only exercise, and that dust in the earthly economy was' a blunder. And then they entered the castle. BrOom after room, gallery after gallery ; you know the rest. Shall we describe the silk hangings and the re- verend tapestry, the agate tables and the tall screens, the china and the armour, the state beds and the curious ca- binets, and the family pictures mixed up so quaintly with Italian and Flemish art ? But we pass from meek Msu donnas and seraphic saints, from gleaming Claudes and lo8 THE YOUNG DUKE. Guides soft as Eve, from Rubens' satyrs and Albano's boys, and even from those gay and natural medleys, paint- ings that cheer the heart, where fruit and flower, with their brilliant bloom, call to a feast the butterfly and bee ; we pass from these to square-headed ancestors by Holbein, all black velvet and gold chains ; cavaliers, by Vandyke, all lace and spurs, with pointed beards, that did more execution even than their pointed swords ; patriots and generals, by Kneller, in Blenheim wigs and Steenkirk cravats, all robes and armour ; scarJet judges that supported ship-money, and purple bishops, who had not been sent to the Tower. Here was a wit who had sipped his coffee at Button's, and there some mad Alcibiades duke who had exhausted life ere he had finished youth, and yet might be consoled for all his flashing follies could he witness the bright eyes that Ungered on his countenance, while they glanced over all the patriotism and all the piety, all the illustrious courage and all the historic craft, which, when living, it was daUy told him that he had shamed. Yo dames with dewy eyes that Lely drew ! have we forgotten you ? No ! by that sleepy lovehness that reminds us that night belongs to beauty, ye were made for memory ! And oh ! our grandmothers, that we now look upon as girls, breathing in Reynolds's playful canvas, let us also pay our homage to your grace ! The chapel, where you might trace art from the richly Gothic tomb, designed by some neighbouring abbot, to the last efibrt of Plaxman ; the riding-house, where, brightly framed, looked down upon you with a courtly smile the first and gartered duke, who had been Master of the Horse, were alike visited, and alike admired. They mounted the summit of the round tower, and looked around upon the broad county, which they were proud to call their own. Amid innumerable seats, where blazed the hearths of the best blood of England, they recognised, with delight, the dome of Dacre and the woods of Dal- lington. They walked along a terrace not unworthy of the promenade of a court ; they visited the flower gardens, where the peculiar style of every nation was in turn THE YOUNG DUKE. 109 imitated ; they loitered in the vast conservatories, which were themselves a palace ; they wandered in the wilder- ness, where the invention of consummate art presented them with the ideal of nature. In this poetic solitude, where all was green, and stiU, and sweet, or where the only sound was falling water or fluttering birds, the young Duke recurred to the feelings which, during the last momentous week, had so mastered his nature, and he longed to wind his arm round the beautiful being without whom this en- chanting domain was a dreary waste. They assembled in a green retreat, where the energetic Sir Carte had erected a marquee, and where a collation greeted the eyes of those who were well prepared for it. Rawdon had also done his duty, and the guests, who were aware of the sudden manner in which the whole affair had arisen, wondered at the magic which had produced a result worthy of a week's preparation. But it is a great thing to be a young Duke. The pasties, and the venison, and the game, the pines, and the peaches, and the grapes, the cakes, and the confectionery, and the ices, which proved that the still-room at Hauteville was not an empty name, were all most popular. But the wines, they were marvellous ! And as the finest cellars in the country had been ransacked for excellence and variety, it is not wonderful that their pro- duce obtained a panegyric. There was hock of a century old, which made all stare, though we, for our part, cannot see, or rather taste, the beauty of this antiquity. Wine, like wom.an, in our opinion, should be not too old, so we raise our altar to the infant Bacchus ; but this is not the creed of the million, nor was it the persuasion of Sir Ohetwode Chetwode or of Sir Tichborne Tichborne, good judges both. The Johannisberger quite converted them. They no longer disliked the young Duke. They thought him a fool, to be sure, but at the same time a good-natured one. In the meantime, all were interested, and Carlstein with his key bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, afibrded the only luxury that was wanting. It is six o'clock, carriages are ordered, and horses are harnessed. Back, back to Dacre ! But not at the lively no THE YOUNG DUKE. rate at which they had left that lordly hall this morning. They are all alike inclined to move slowly ; they are silent, yet serene and satisfied ; they ponder upon the reminis- cences of a delightfal morning, and also of a delightfo] meal. Perhaps they are a little weary ; perhaps they wish to gaze upon the sunset. It is eight o'clock, and they enter the park gates. Dinner is universally voted a bore, even hy the Baronets. Coffee covers the retreat of many a wearied bird to her evening bower. The rest lounge on a couch or sofa, or chew the cud of memory on an ottoman. It was a day of pleasure which had been pleasant. That was certain ; but that was past. Who is to be Duchess of St. James? Answer this. May Dacre, or Bertha Vere, or Clara Howard ? Lady St. Jerome, is it to be a daughter of thy house ? Lady Falcon- court, art thou to be hailed as the unrivalled mother ? 'Tis mystery all, as must always be the future of this world. We muse, we plan, we hope, but nought is certain but that which is nought ; for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end attained ; what are they but fit companions for clothes out of fashion, cracked china, and broken &ns? Our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his naind was too full of exciting fancies to think of the interests of his body. As all were withdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace. It was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from Rogers' shell, and brilliant as a phrase just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiled from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes a lover muse. Fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deep and yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. It could not be the wind! His heart was full, liis hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. And in this shrine, where all was like his love, inunaculate and beautiful, he vowed a faith which had not been returned. Such is the madness of love ! Such is the magic of beauty ! Music rose upon the air. Some huntsmen were practis- ing their horns. The triumphant strain elevated his high THE YOUNG DUKE. in hopes, the tender tone accorded with his emotions. He paced up and down the terrace in excited reverie, fed by the music. In imagination she was with him : she spoke, she smiled, she loved. He gazed upon her beaming coun- tenance : his soul thrilled with tones which only she could utter. He pressed her to his throbbing and tumultuous breast ! The music stopped. He fell from his seventh heaven. He felt all the exhaustion of his prolonged reverie. All was flat, dull, unpromising. The moon seemed dim, the stars were surely fading, the perfume of the trees was faint, the wind of the woods was a howling demon. Exhausted, dis- pirited, ay ! almost desperate, with a darkened soul and r.taggering pace, he regained his chamber. CHAPTER XIV. There is nothing more strange, but nothing more certain, than the different influence which the seasons of night and day exercise upon the moods of our minds. Him whom ihe moon sends to bed with a head full of misty meaning the sun will summon in the morning with a brain clear and lucid as his beam. Twilight makes us pensive ; Aurora is the goddess of activity. Despair curses at midnight ; Hope blesses at noon. And the bright beams of Phoebus ; why should this good old name be forgotten ? called up our Duke rather later than a monk at matins, in a less sublime disposition than that in which he had paced among the oramge-trees of Dacre. His passion remained, but his poetry was gone. He was all confidence, and gaiety, and love, and panted for the moment when he could place his mother's coronet on the only head that was worthy to share the proud fortunes of the house of Hauteville. ' Luigi, I will rise. What is going on to-day ?' ' The gentlemen are all out, your Grace.' ' And the ladies ? ' ' Are going to the Archery Ground, youi' Grftoe.' 112 THE YOUNG DUKE. ' All ! slie will be there, Luigi ? ' ' Yes, your Grace.' ' My robe, Luigi.' ' Tes, your Grace.' ' I forgot what I was going to say. Luigi ! ' ' Tes, your Grace.' ' Luigi, Luigi, Luigi,' hiimined the Duke, perfectly nn- conscious, and beating time with his brush. His valet stared, but more when his lord, with eyes fixed on the ground, fell into a soliloquy, not a word of which, most provoldngly, was audible, except to my reader. ' How beautiful she looked yesterday upon the keep when she tried to find Dacre ! I never saw such eyes in my life ! I must speak to Lawrence immediately. I think I must have her face painted in four positions, like that picture of Lady Alice Gordon by Sir Joshua. Her full face is sublime ; and yet there is a piquancy in the profile, which I am not sure ; and yet again, when her countenance is a little bent towards you, and her neck gently turned, 1 think that is, after all ; but then when her eyes meet yours, fiill ; on ! yes ! yes ! yes ! That first look at Doncaster. It is impressed upon my brain like self-consciousness. I never can forget it. But then her smile ! When she sang on Tuesday night ! By Heavens ! ' he exclaimed aloud, ' life with such a creature is immortality ! ' About one o'clock the Duke descended into empty chambers. Not a soul was to be seen. The birds had fiown. He determined to go to the Ajpchery Ground. He opened the door of the music-room. He found Miss Dacre alone at a table, writing. She looked up, and his heart yielded as her eye met his. ' Ton do not join the nymphs ? ' asked the Duke. ' I have lent my bow,' she said, ' to an able substitute.' She resumed her task, which he perceived was copying music. He advanced, he seated himself at the table, and began playing with a pen. He gazed upon her, his soul thrilled with unwonted sensations, his frame shook with emotions which, for a moment, deprived him even of speech At length he ppoke in a low and tremulous tone : — THE YOUNG DUKE. 113 ■ I tear I am disturbing you, Miss Dacre ? ' ' By no means,' she said, with a courteous air ; and then, remembering she was a hostess, ' Is there anything that you require ? ' ' Much ; more than I can hope. Miss Dacre ! suffer me to tell you how much I admire, how much I love you ! ' She started, she stared at him with distended eyes, and her small mouth was open like a ring. ' My Lord ! ' ' Yes ! ' he continued in a rapid and impassioned tone. ' I at length find an opportunity of giving way to feelings which it has been long difiicult for me to control. beau- tiful being ! tell me, tell me that I am blessed ! ' ' My Lord ! I, I am most honoured ; pardon me if I say, most surprised.' ' Tes ! from the first moment that your ineffable loveli- ness rose on my vision my mind has fed upon your image. Our acquaintance has only realised, of your character, all that my imagination had preconceived. Such unrivalled beauty, such unspeakable grace, could only have been the companions of that exquisite taste and that charming delicacy which, even to witness, has added great felicity to my existence. Oh ! tell me ; tell me that they shall be for me something better than a transient spectacle. Con- descend to share the fortune and the fate of one who only esteems his lot in life because it enables him to offer you a station not utterly unworthy of your transcendent excel- lence ! ' ' I have permitted your Grace to proceed too far. For your, for my own sake, I should sooner have interfered, but, in truth, I was so astounded at your unexpected ad- dress that I have but just succeeded in recalling myscattered senses. Let me again express to you my acknowledgments for an honour which I feel is great ; but permit me to regret that for your offer of your hand and fortune these acknowledgments are all I can return.' ' Miss Dacre ! am I then to wake to the misery of being rejected ? ' ' A little week ago, Duke of St. James, we were strangers. I 114 THE YOUNG DUKE. It would be hard if it were in the power of either of us> iiow to deliver the other to misery. ' ' You are offended, then, at the presumption which, on so slight an acquaintance, has aspired to your hand. It is indeed a high possession. I thought only of you, not of myself. Tour perfections require no time for recognition. Perhaps my imperfections require time for indulgence. Let me then hope ! ' ' You have misconceived my meaning, and I regret that a foohsh phrase should occasion you the trouble of fresh solicitude, and me the pain of renewed refusal. In a word, it is not in my power to accept your hand.' He rose from the table, and stifled the groan which struggled in his throat. He paced up and down the room with an agitated step and a convulsed brow, which marked the contest of his passions. But he was not desperate. His heart was full of high resolves and mighty meanings, indefinite but great. He felt like some conqueror, who, marking the battle going against him, proud in his infinite resources and invincible power, cannot credit the madness of a defeat. And the lady, she leant her head upon her delicate arm, and screened her countenance from his scrutiny. He advanced. ' Miss Dacre ! pardon this prolonged intrusion ; forgive this renewed discourse. But let me only hope that a more favoured rival is the cause of my despair, and I will thank you ' ' My Lord Duke,' she said, looking up with a faint blush, but with a flashing eye, and in an audible and even energetic tone, 'the question you ask is neither fair nor manly ; but, as you choose to press me, I will say that it requires no recollection of a third person to make me decline the honour which you intended me.' 'Miss Daore ! you speak in anger, almost in bitterness. Believe me,' he added, rather with an air of pique, ' had 1 imagined from your conduct towards me that I was ac object of dislike, I would have spared you this incon- venience and myself this humiliation.' THE YOUNG DUKE. iiS ' &.1 Castle Dacre, my conduct to all its inmates is the game. The Duke of St. James, indeed, hath both hereditary and personal claims to be considered here as something better than a mere inmate ; but your Grace has elected to dissolve all connection with our house, and I am not desirous of assisting you in again forming any.' ' Harsh words, Miss Dacre ! ' 'Harsher truth, my Lord Duke,' said Miss Dacre, rising from her seat, and twisting a pen with agitated energy. ' You have prolonged this interview, not I. Let it end, for I am not skilful in veiling my mind ; and I should regret, here at least, to express what I have hitherto succeeded in conceaKng.' ' It cannot end thus,' said his Grace : ' let me, at any rate, know the worst. You have, if not too much kindness, at least too much candour, to part so ! ' ' I am at a loss to understand,' said Miss Dacre, ' what other object our conversation can have for your Grace than to ascertain my feelings, which I have ah'eady declared more than once, upon a point which you have already more than once urged. If I have not been sufficiently explicit or saflBciently clear, let me tell you, sir, that nothing but the request of a parent whom I adore would have induced me even to speak to the person who had dared to treat him with contempt.' • ' Miss Dacre ! ' ' You are moved, or you afiect to be moved. 'Tis well : if a word from a stranger can thus affect you, you may be better able to comprehend the feelings of that person whose affections you have so long outraged ; your equal in blood, Duke of St. James, your superior in all other respects.' ' Beautiful being ! ' said his Grace, advancing, falling on his knee, and seizing her hand. ' Pardon, pardon, pardon ! Like your admirable sire, forgive ; cast into oblivion all remembrance of my fatal youth. Is not your anger, is not this moment, a bitter, an utter expiation for all my folly, all my thoughtless, all my inexperienced folly ; for it was no worse ? On my knees, and iu tie fiicQ of Heaven, I 2 Ii6 THE YOUNG DUKE. let me pray you to be mine. I have staked my happiness upon this venture. In yonr power is my fate. On you it depends whether I shall discharge my duty to society, to the country to which I owe so na.uch, or whether I shall move in it without an aim, an object, or a hope. Think, think only of the sympathy of our dispositions ; the simi- larity of our tastes. Think, think only of the felicity that might be ours. Think of the xmiversal good we might achieve ! Is there anything that human reason could require that we could not command ? any object which human mind could imagine that we could not obtain ? And, as for my- self, I swear that I will be the creature of your will. Nay, nay ! oaths are mockery, vows are idle ! Is it possible to share existence with you, beloved girl ! without watching for your every wish, without ' ' My Lord Duke, this must end. Tou do not recommend yourself to me by this rhapsody. What do you know of me, that you should feel all this ? I may be different from what you expected ; that is all. Another week, and another woman may command a similar effusion. I do not believe you to be insincere. There would be more hope for you if you were. You act from impulse, and not from principle. This is your best excuse for your conduct to my father. It is one that I accept, but which will certainly ever prevent me from becoming your wife. Farewell ! ' ' Nay, nay ! let us not part in enmity ! ' ' Enmity and friendship are strong words ; words that are much abused. There is another, which must describe our feelings towards the majority of mankind, and mine towards you. Substitute for enmity indifference.' She quitted the room : he remained there for some minutes, leaning on the mantelpiece, and then rushed into the park. He hurried for some distance with the rapid and uncertain step which betokens a tumultuous and dis-' ordered mind. At length he found himself among the ruins of Dacre Abbey. The silence and solemnity of the scene made him conscious, by the contrast, of his own agitated existence ; the desolation of the beautiful ruin accorded with his own crushed and beautiful hopes. He sat himself THE YOUNG DUKE. 117 at tlie feet of tlie clustered columns, and, covering his face with his hands, he wept. They were the first tears that he had shed since child- hood, and they were agony. Men weep but once, but then their tears are blood. We think almost their hearts must crack a little, so heartless are they ever after. Enough of this. It is bitter to leave our father's hearth for the first time ; bitter ia the eve of our return, when a thousand fears rise in our haunted souls. Bitter are hope deferred, and self- reproach, and power unrecognised. Bitter is poverty ; bitterer still is debt. It is bitter to be neglected ; it is more bitter to be misunderstood. It is bitter to lose an only child. It is bitter to look upon the land which once was ours. Bitter is a sister's woe, a brother's scrape ; bitter a mother's tear, and bitterer still a father's curse. Bitter are a briefless bag, a curate's bread, a diploma that brings no fee. Bitter is half-pay ! It is bitter to muse on vanished youth ; it is bitter to lose an election or a suit. Bitter are rage suppressed, ven- geance un wreaked, and prize-money kept back. Bitter are a faiUng crop, a glutted market, and a shattering spec. Bitter are rents in arrear and tithes in kind. Bitter are salaries reduced and perquisites destroyed. Bitter is a tax, particularly if misapplied ; a rate, particularly if em- bezzled. Bitter is a trade too full, and bitterer stiU a trade that has worn out. Bitter is a bore ! It is bitter to lose one's hair or teeth. It is bitter to fimd our annual charge exceed our income. It is bitter to hear of others' fame when we are boys. It is bitter to resign the seals we fain would keep. It is bitter to hear the winds blow when we have ships at sea, or friends. Bitter are a broken friendship and a dying love. Bitter a* woman scorned, a man betrayed ! Bitter is the secret woe which none can share. Bitter are a brutal husband and a faithless wife, a silly daughter and a sulky son. Bitter are a losing card, a losing horsa Bitter the public hiss, the private sneer. Bitter are old age without respect, manhood without wealth, youth with. ii8 THE YOUNG DUKE. out fame. Bitter is the east wind's blast ; bitter a step- dame's kiss. It is bitter to m.ark the woe which we cannot relieve. It is bitter to die in a foreign land. But bitterer far than this, than these, than all, is wakiug from our first delusion ! For then we first feel the nothing- ness of self; that hell of sanguine spirits. All is dreary, blank, and cold._ The sun of hope sets without a ray, and the dim night of dark despair shadows only phantoms. The spirits that guard round us in our pride have gone. Fancy, weeping, flies. Imagination droops her glittering pinions and sinks into the earth. Courage has no heart, and love seems a traitor. A busy demon whispers in our ear that all is vain and worthless, and we among the vainest of a worthless crew ! And so our young friend here now depreciated as much as he had before exaggerated his powers. There seemed not on the earth's face a more forlorn, a more feeble, a less esti- mable wretch than himself, but just now a hei'o. O ! what a fool, what a miserable, contemptible fool was he ! With what a light tongue and lighter heart had he spoken of this woman who despised, who spurned him ! His face blushed, ay ! burnt, at the remembrance of his reveries and his fond monologues ! the very recollection made him shudder with disgust. He looked up to see if any demon were jeering him among the ruins. His heart was so crushed that Hope could not find even one desolate chamber to smile in. His courage was so cowed that, far from indulging in the distant romance to which, under these circumstances, we sometimes fly, he only wondered at the absolute insanity which, for a mo- ment, had permitted him to aspire to her possession. ' Sympathy of dispositions ! Similarity of tastes, forsooth ! Why, we are different existences ! Nature could never have made us for the same world or with the same clay ! consummate being ! why, why did we meet ? Why, why are my eyes at length unsealed ? Why, why do I at length feel conscious of my utter worthlessness ? O God ! 1 am miserable ! ' THE YOUNG DUKE. ug He arose and hastened to the house. He gave orders to Luigi and his people to follow him to Rosemount with aU practicable speed, and having left a note for his host with the usual excuse, he mounted his horse, and in half an hour's time, with a countenance like a stormy sea, was galloping through the park g-ates of Daore. 126 THE YOUNG DVKM. BOOK iU. CHAPTER I. The day after the arrival of the Duke of St. Jamus at Ciovt Park, his host, Sir Lucius Grafton, received the following note from Mrs. Dallington Vere : ' Castle Dacre, , 182—. ' Mt deae Baeonet, ' Tour pigeon has flown, otherwise 1 should have tied this under his wing, for I take it for granted he is trained too dexterously to alight anywhere but at Cleve. ' I confess that in this affair your penetration has ex- ceeded mine. I hope throughout it will serve you as well. I kept my promise, and arrived here only a few hours after him. The prejudice which I had long observed in the little Dacre against your protege was too marked to render any interference on my part at once necessary, nor did I anti- cipate even beginning to giv.e her good advice for a month to come. Heaven knows what a month of his conduct might have done ! A month achieves such wonders ! And, to do him justice, he was most agreeable ; but our young gentleman grew impetuous, and so the day before yesterday he vanished, and in the most extraordinary manner ! Sudden departure, unexpected business , letter and servants both left behind ; Monsieur grave, and a little astonished ; and the Demoiselle thoughtful at the least, but not curious. Very suspicious this last circumstance ! A flash crossed my mind, but I could gain nothing, even with my most dexterous wiles, from the Httle Dacre, who is a most un- miinageable heroine. However, with the good assistance of a person who in a French tragedy would figure as my THE YOUNG DUKE. 121 confidante, and who is the sister of your Lachen, something was learnt from Monsieur le Talet, to say nothing of the page. All agree ; a countenance pale as death, orders given in a low voice of suppressed passion and sundry oaths. 1 hear he sulked the night at Bosemount. ' Now, my good Lucy, listen to me. Lose no time about the great object. If possible, let this autumn be distin- guished. You have an id^a that our friend is a very ma- nageable sort of personage ; in phrase less courteous, is sufficiently weak for all reasonable purposes. I am not quite so clear about this. He is at present very young, and his character is not formed ; but there is a something about him which makes me half fear that, if you permit his know- ledge of life to increase too much, you may quite fear having neglected my admonitions. At present his passions are high. Use his blood while it is hot, and remember that if you count on his rashness you may, as nearly in the pre- sent instance, yourself rue it. In a word, despatch. The deed that is done, you know ' My kindest remembrances to dear Lady Afy, and tell her how much I regret I cannot avail myself of her most friendly invitation. Considering, as I know, she hates me, I really do feel flattered. ' Yon cannot conceive what Vandals I am at present among ! Nothing but my sincere regard for you, my much- valued friend, would induce me to stay here a moment. I have received from the countenance of the Dacres all the benefit which a marked connection with so respectable and so moral a family confers, and I am tired to death. But it is a well-devised plan to have a reserve in the battles of society. Ton understand me ; and I am led to believe that it has had the best effect, and silenced even the loudest. " Confound their politics ! " as dear little Squib says, from whom I had the other day the funniest letter, which I have half a mind to send you, only you figure in it so much ! ' Burlington is at Brighton, and all my friends, except yourself. I have a few barbarians to receive at Dallington, and then I shall be off there. Join us as quickly as you can. Do you know, I think that it would be an excelloitt- 122 THE YOUNG DUKE. locale for tLe scena. We might drive them over to Dieppe : only do not put off your visit too long, or else there will be uo steamers. ' The Duke of Shropshire has had a fit, but rallied. He vows he was only picking up a letter, or tying his shoe- string, or something of that kind ; but Ruthven says he dined off houdins a la Sefton, and that, after a certain age, you know * ' Lord Darrell is with Annesley and Co. I understand, most friendly towards me, which is pleasant ; and Charles, who is my firm ally, takes care to confirm the Irind feeling. I am glad about this. ' Felix Crawlegh, or CrawZey, as some say, has had an affair with Tommy Seymour, at Grant's. Felix was grand about porter, or something, which he never drank, and all that. Tommy, who knew nothing about the brewing father, asked him, very innocently, why malt liquors had so degenerated. Conceive the agony, particularly as Lady Selina is said to have no violent aversion to quartering her arms with a mash-tub, argent. ' The Macaronis are most hospitable this year ; and the ' Marquess says that the only reason that they kept in before was because he was determined to see whether economy was practicable. He finds it is not ; so now expense is no object. ' Augustus Henley is about to become a senator ! What do you think of this ? He says he has tried everything for an honest livelihood, and even once began a novel, but could not get on ; which, Squib says, is odd, because there is a receipt going about for that operation which saves all trouble : ' " Take a pair of pistols and a pack of cards, a cookery- book and a set of new quadrilles ; mix them up with half in intrigue and a whole marriage, and divide them into three equal portions." Now, as Augustus has both fought and gamed, dined and danced, I suppose it was the morality which posed him, or perhaps the marriage. ' They say there is something about Lady Flutter, but, I jliould think, all talk. Most probably, a report set about THE YOUNG DUKE. 123 by lier Ladyship. Lord riame has been blackballed, that is certain. But there is no more news, except that the Wiltshires are going to the Continent : we know why ; and that the Spankers are making more dash than ever ; God knows how ! Adieu ! B. D. V.' The letter ended ; all things end at last. A she-corre- spondent for our money ; provided always that she does not cross. Our Duke ; in spite of his disgrace, lie still is ours, and yours too, I hope, gentlest reader ; our Duke found himself at Oleve Park again, in a different circle from the one to which he had been chiefly accustomed. The sporting world received him with open arms. With some of these worthies, as owner of Sanspareil, he had become slightly acquainted. But what is half a morning at Tattersall's, or half a week at Doncaster, compared with a meeting at Newmarket ? There your congenial spirits congregate. Freemasons every man of them ! No uninitiated wretch there dares to disturb, with his profane presence, the hallowed mysteries. There the race is not a peg to hang a few days of dissipa- tion on, but a sacred ceremony, to the celebration of which all men and all circumstances tend and bend. No balls, no concerts, no public breakfasts, no bands from Litolf, no singers from Welsh, no pineapples from Gunter, are there called for by thoughtless thousands, who have met, not from any affection for the Turf's delights or their neigh- bour's cash, but to sport their splendid Uveries and to disport their showy selves. The house was full of men, whose talk was fall of bets. The women were not as bad, but they were not plentiful. Some lords and signers were there without their dames. Lord Bloomerly, for instance, alone, or rather with his eldest son. Lord Bloom, just of age, and already a know- ing hand. His father introduced him to all his friends with that smiling air of self-content which men assume when they introduce a youth who may show the world what they were at his years ; so the Earl presented the young Viscount as a lover presents his miniature to his mistress. 124 THE YOUNG DUKS. Lady Afy shone in imapproaclied perfection. A dull Mar- chioness, a gauche Viscountess, and some other dames, who did not look like the chorus of this Diana, acted as capital foils, and permitted her to meet her cavalier under what are called the most favourable auspices. They dined, and discussed the agricultural interest in all its exhausted ramifications. Wheat was sold over again, even at a higher price ; poachers were recalled to life, or from beyond seas, to be re-killed or re-transported. The poor-laws were a very rich topic, and the poor lands a very ruinous one. But all this was merely the light conversa- tion, just to vaiy, in an agreeable mode, which all could understand, the regular material of discourse, and that was of stakes and stallions, pedigrees and plates. Our party rose early, for their pleasure was their busi- ness. Here were no lounging dandies and no exclusive belles, who kept their bowers until hunger, which also drives down wolves from the Pyrenees, brought them from their mystical chambers to luncheon and to life. In short, an air of interest, a serious and a thoughtful look, pervaded every countenance. Fashion was kicked to the devil, and they were all too much in earnest to have any time for affectation. Breakfast was over, and it was a regular meal at which all attended, and they hurried to the course. It seems, when the party arrive, that they are the only spectators, A party or two come on to keep them company. A club discharges a crowd of gentlemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. At length a sprinkling of human beings is col- lected, but all is wondrous still and wondrous cold. The only thing that gives sign of life is Lord Breedall's movable stand ; and the only intimation that fire is still an element is the sailing breath of a stray cigar. ' This, then, is Newmarket ! ' exclaimed the young Duke. ' If it required five-and- twenty thousand pounds «;o make Doncaster amusing, a plum, at least, will go in rendering Newmarket endurable. But the young Duke was wrong. There was a fine race, and the connoisseurs got enthusiastic. Sir Lucius GraftoD THE YOUNG DUKE. 125 was the winner. The Duke sympathised with his friend'" success. He began galloping about the course, and his blood warmed. He paid a visit to Sanspareil. He heard his steed was still a favourite for a coming race. He backed his steed, and Sanspareil won. He began to find New- market not so disagreeable. In a word, our friend was in an entirely new scene, which was exactly the tiling he required. He was interested, and forgot, or rather forcibly expelled from his mind, his late overwhelming adventure. He grew popular with the set. His courteous manners, his affable address, his gay humour, and the facility with which he adopted their tone and temper, joined with his rank and wealth, subdued the most rugged and the coldest hearts. Even the jockeys were civil to him, and welcomed him with a sweet smile and gracious nod, instead of the sour grin and malicious wink with which those characters generally greet a stranger ; those mysterious characters who, in their influence over their superiors, and their total want of sympathy with their species, are our only match for the oriental eunuch. He grew, we say, popular with the set. They were glad to see among them a young nobleman of spirit. He became a member of the Jockey Olub, and talked of taking a place in the neighbourhood. All recommended the step, and assured him of their readiness to dine with him as often as he pleased. He was a universal favourite ; and e^en Chuck Farthing, the gentleman jockey, with a cock-eye and a knowing shake of his head, squeaked out, in a sport- ing treble, one of his monstrous fudges about the Prince in days of yore, and swore that, like his Royal Highness, the young Duke made the Market all alive. The heart of our hero was never insensible to flattery. He could not refrain from comparing his present mth his recent situation. The constant consideration of all around him, the affectionate cordiality of Sir Lucius, and the un- obtrusive devotion of Lady Afy, melted his soul. These flo-reeable circumstances graciously whispered to him each hour that he could scarcely be the desolate and despicable 126 THE YOUNG DUKE. personage which lately, in a moment of madness, he had fancied himself. He began to indulge the satisfactory idea, that a certain person, however unparalleled in form and mind, had perhaps acted with a little precipitation. Then his eyes met those of Lady Aphrodite ; and, full of these feel- ings, he exchanged a look which reminded him of their first meeting ; though now, mellowed by gratitude, and regard, and esteem, it was perhaps even more delightful. He was loved, and he was loved by an exquisits being, who was the object of universal admiration. What could he desire more ? Nothing but the wilfulness of youth could have induced him for a moment to contemplate breaking chains which had only been formed to secure his felicity. He de- termined to bid farewell for ever to the impetuosity of youth. He had not been three days under the roof of Cleve before he felt that his happiness depended upon its fairest inmate. You see, then, that absence is not always fatal to love ! CHAPTER II. Ills Grace completed his stud, and became one of the most distinguished votaries of the Turf. Sir Lucius was the in- spiring divinity upon this occasion. Our hero, like all young men, and particularly young nobles, did everything in extremes ; and extensive arrangements were made by himself and his friend for the ensuing campaign. Sir Lucius was to reap half the profit, and to undertake the whole management. The Duke was to produce the capita] and to pocket the whole glory. Thus rolled on some weeks, at the end of which our hero began to get a little tired. He had long ago recovered all his self-complacency, and i^ the form of May Dacre ever flitted before his vision for ai instant, he clouded it over directly by the apparition of a bet, or thrust it away with that desperate recklessness with wlu'ch we expel an ungracious thought. The Duke sighed for a little novelty. Christmas was at hand. He began to think that a regular country Christmas must be a sad THE YOUNG DUKE. 127 borfc. Lady Afy, too, was rather exigea/nte. It destroys one's nerves to be amiable every day to the same human being. She was the best creature in the world ; but Cam- bridgeshire was not a pleasant county. He was most attached ; but there was not another agreeable woman in the house. He would not hurt her feelings for the world ; but his own were suffering desperately. He had no idea that he ever should get so entangled. Brighton, they say, is a pleasant place. To Brighton he went ; and although the Graflons were to follow him in a fortnight, still oven these fourteen days were a holiday. It is extraordinary how hourly, and how violently, change the feelings of an inexperienced young man. Sir Lucius, however, was disappointed in his Brighton trip. Ten days after the departure of the young Duke the county member died. Sir Lucius had been long maturing his pretensions to the vacant representation. He was strongly supported ; for he was a personal favourite, and his family had claims ; but he was violently opposed ; for a twmus Jiomo was ambitious, and the Baronet was poor. Sir Lucius was a man of violent passions, and all feelings and considerations immediately merged in his paramount ambi- tion. His wife, too, at this moment, was an important per- sonage. She was generally popular ; she was beautiful, highly connected, and highly considered. Her canvassing was a great object. She canvassed with earnestness and with success ; for since her consolatory friendship with the Duke of St. James her character had greatly changed, and she was now as desirous of conciliating her husband and the opinion of society as she was before disdainful of the one and fearless of the other. Sir Lucius and Lady A.phrodite Grafton were indeed on the best possible terms, and the whole county admired his conjugal attentions and her wifelike affections. The Duke, who had no influence in this part of the world, and who was not at all desirous of quitting Brighton, compensated for his absence at this critical moment by a friendly letter and the offer of his purse. By this good aid, 128 THE YOUNG DUKE. his wife's attractions, and Lis own talents, Sir Lucy suc- ceeded, and by the time Parliament had assembled he wafl returned member for his native county. In the meantime, his friend had been spending his time at Brighton in a far less agitated manner, but, in its way, not less successful ; for he was amused, and therefore gained his object as much as the Baronet. The Dute liked Brighton much. Without tie bore of an establishment, he found himself among many agreeable friends, living in an unostentatious and impromptu, though refined and luxuri- ous, style. One day a new face, another day a new dish, another day a new dance, successively interested his feel- ings, particularly if the face rode, which they all do ; the dish was at Sir George Sauceville's, and the dance at the Duke of Burlington's. So time flew on, between a canter to B/ottindean, the ilavours of a Perigord, and the blunders of the Mazurka. But February arrived, and this agreeable life must end. The philosophy of society is so practical that it is not allowed, even, to a young Duke, absolutely to trifle away existence. Duties will arise, in spite of our best endeavours ; and his Grace had to roll up to town, to diiio with the Premier, and to move the Address. CHAPTER ni. Another season had arrived, another of those magical periods of which one had already witnessed his unparalleled triumphs, and from which he had derived such exquisite dchght. To his surprise, he viewed its arrival without emotion ; if vrith any feeling, with disgust. He had quaffed the cup too eagerly. The draught had been delicious ; but time also proved that it had been satiating. Was it possible for his vanity to be more com- pletely gratified than it had been ? Was it possible for victories to be more numerous and more unquestioned during the coming campaign than during the last ? Had not Ids life, then, been one long triumph ? Who had not THE YOUNG DUKE. 129 offered their admiration ? Who had not paid homage to his all-acknowledged empire ? Tet, even this career, how- ever dazzling, had not been pursued, even this success, however brilliant, had not been attained, without some effort and some weariness, also some exhaustion. Often, as he now remembered, had his head ached ; more than once, as now occurred to him, had his heart faltered. Even his fii'st season had not passed over without his feehng lone in the crowded saloon, or starting at the supernatural finger in the banqueting-hall. Yet then he was the crea- ture of excitement, who pursued an end which was as indefinite as it seemed to be splendid. All had now hap- pened that could happen. He drooped. He required the impulse which we derive from an object unattained. Tet, had he exhausted life at two-and-twenty ? This must not be. His feelings must be more philosophically accounted for. He began to suspect that he had lived too much for the world and too little for himself; that he had sacrificed his ease to the applause of thousands, and mistaken excitement for enjoyment. His memory dwelt with satis- faction on the hours which had so agreeably glided away at Brighton, in the choice society of a few intimates. He determined entirely to remodel the system of his life ; and with the sanguine impetuosity which characterised him, he, at the same moment, felt that he had at length discovered the road to happiness, and determined to pursae it without the loss of a precious moment. The Duke of St. James was seen less in the world, and " he appeared but seldom at the various entertainments which he had once so adorned. Tet he did not resign his exalted position in the world of Fashion ; but, on the contrary, adopted a course of conduct which even iacreased his con- sideration. He received the world not less frequently or less splendidly than heretofore ; and his magnificent mansion, early in the season, was opened to the favoured crowd. Tet in that mansion, which had been acquired with such energy and at such cost, its lord was almost as strange, and cer- tainly not as pleased, an inmate as the guests, who felt their presence in liis chambers a confirmation, (;r a oreati»)i, ol K I30 THE YOUNG DUKE. their claims to the world's homage. The Alhamhra was finished, and there the Duke of St. James entirely resided ; bnt its regal splendour was concealed from the prying eye of public curiosity with a proud reserve, a studied secrecy, and stately liaughtiness becoming a caliph. A small band of initiated friends alone had the occasional entree, and the mysterious air which they provokingly assumed whenever they were cross-examined on the internal arrangements of this mystical structure, only increased the number and the wildneas of the incidents which daily were afloat respect- ing the fantastic profasion and scientific dissipation of the youthful sultan and his envied viziers. The town, ever since the season commenced, had been in feverish expectation of the arrival of a new singer, whose fame had heralded her presence in all the courts of Chris- tendom. Whether she were an Italian or a German, a Gaul or a Greek, was equally unknown. An air of mystery en- vironed the most celebrated creature in Europe. There were odd whispers of her parentage. Every potentate was in turn entitled to the gratitude of mankind for the creation of this marvel. Now it was an emperor, now a king. A grand duke then put in his claim, and then an archduke. To-day she was married, to-morrow she was single. To- day her husband was a prince incog., to-morrow a drum- major well known. Even her name was a mystery ; and she was known and worshipped throughout the whole civilised world by the mere title of ' The Bird of Paradise ! ' About a month before Easter telegraphs announced her arrival. The Admiralty yacht was too late. She deter- mined to make her first appearance at the Opera ; and not only the young Duke, but even a far more exalted person- age, was disappointed in the sublime idea of anticipating the public opinion by a private concert. She was to appear for the first time on Tuesday; the House of Commons adjourned. The curtain is drawn up, and the house is crowded. Everybody is there who is anybody. Protocoli, looking as full of fate as if the French were again on the Danube : Macaroni, as full of himself as if no other being were en THE YOUNG DUKE. 131 grossing universal attention. Tlie Premier appears far more anxious than he does at Council, and the Duke of Burlington arranges his fan-like screen with an agitation which, for a moment, makes him forget his unrivalled non- chalance. Even Lady Bloomerly is in suspense, and even Charles Annesley's heart beats. But ah ! (or rather, bah !) the enthusiasm of Lady de Courcy ! Even the young Guardsman, who paid her Ladyship for her ivory franks by his idle presence, even he must have felt, callous as those young Guardsmen are. Will that bore of a tenor ever finish that provoking aria, that we have heard so often ? How drawlingly he drags on his dull, deafening EccOLA ! Have you seen the primal dew ere the sun has lipped the pearl ? Have you seen a summer fly, with tinted wings of shifting light, glance in the liquid noontide air? Have you marked a shooting star, or watched a young gazelle at play ? Then you have seen nothing fresher, nothing brighter, nothing wilder, nothing lighter, than the girl who stands before you ! She was infinitely small, fair, and bright. Her black hair was braided in Madounas over a brow like ivory ; a deep pure pink spot gave lustre to each cheek. Her features were delicate beyond a dream ! her nose quite straight, with a nostril which would have made you crazy, if you had not already been struck with idiocy by gazing on her mouth. She a singer ! Impossible ! She cannot speak. And, now we look again, she must sing with her eyes, they are so large and lustrous ! The Bird of Paradise curtsied as if she shrunk under, the overwhelming greeting, and crossed her breast with arms that gleamed like naoonbeams and hands that glit- tered like stars. This gave time to the cognoscenti to remark her costume, which was ravishing, and to try to see her feet ; but they were too small. At last Lord Squib announced that he had discovered them by a new glass, and described them as a couple of diamond-claws most exqui- sitely finished. R S 132 THE YOUNG DUKE. She moved her head with a faint smile, as, if she distrusted her powers and feared the assembly would be disappointed, and then she shot forth a note which thrilled through every heart and nearly cracked the chandelier. Even Lady Fitz-pompey said ' Brava ! ' As she proceeded the audience grew quite frantic. It was agreed on all hands that miracles had recommenced. Each air was only sung to call forth fresh exclamations of ' Miracolo ! ' and encores were as unmerciful as an usurper. Amid all this rapture the young Duke was not silent. His box was on the stage ; and ever and anon the syren shot a glance which seemed to tell him that he was marked out amid this brilliant multitude. Each round of applause, each roar of ravished senses, only added a more fearful action to the wild purposes which began to flit about his Grace's mind. His imagination was touched. His old passion to be distinguished returned in full force. This creature was strange, mysterious, celebrated. Her beauty, her accomplishments, were as singular and as rare as her destiny and her fame. His reverie absolutely raged ; it was only disturbed by her repeated notice and his returned acknowledgments. He arose in a state of mad excitation, once more the slave or the victim of his intoxicated vanity. He hurried behind the scenes. He congratulated her on her success, her genius, and her beauty ; and, to be brief, . within a week of her arrival in our metropolis, the Bird of Paradise was fairly caged in the Alhambra. CHAPTER IV. HiTHEETO the Duke of St. James had been a celebrated personage, but his fame had been confined to the two thousand Brahmins who constitute the World. His pa- tronage of the Signora extended his celebrity in a manner which he had not anticipated ; and he became also the hero of the ten, or twelve, or fifteen millions of Pariahs for whose existence philosophers have hitherto failed to adduce! a satisfactory cause. THE YOUNG DUKE. 133 The Diike of St. James was now, in the comprehensive sense of the phrase, a Public Character. Some choice spirits took the hmt from the public feeling, and determined, to dine on the public curiosity. A Sunday journal was im.mediately established. Of this epic our Duke was the hero. His manners, his sayings, his adventures, regularly regaled, on each holy day, the Protestant population of this Protestant empire, who iu Prance or Italy, or even Ger- many, faint at the sight of a peasantry testifying their gratitude for a day of rest by a dance or a tune. ' Sketches of the Alhambra,' ' Soupers in the Regent's Park,' ' The Court of the Caliph,' ' The Bird Cage,' &c., &c., &o., were duly announced and duly devoured. This journal, being solely devoted to the illustration of the life of a single and a ^irivate individual, was appropriately entitled ' The Uni- verse.' Its contributors were eminently successful. Their pure inventions and impure details were accepted as deKcate truth; and their ferocious familiarity with persons with whom they were totally unacquainted demonstrated at the same time their knowledge both of the forms and the per- sonages of polite society. At the first announcement of this hebdomadal his Grace was a little annoyed, and ' Noctes Hautevillienses ' made him fear treason ; but when he had read a number, he en- tirely acquitted any person of a breach of confidence. On the whole he was amused. A variety of ladies in time were introduced, with many of whom the Duke had scarcely interchanged a bow ; but the respectR,ble editor was not up to Lady Afy. If his Grace, however, were soon reconciled to this not very agreeable notoriety, and consoled himself under the activity of his libellers by the conviction that their prolu- sions did not even amount to a caricature, he was less easily satisfied with another performance which speedily advanced its claims to public notice. There is an unavoidable reaction in all human affairs. The Duke of St. James had been so successfully attacked that it became worth while successfully to defend him, and another Sunday paper appeared, the object of which was to 134 THE YOUNG DUKE. maintain the silver side of the shield. Here everything was coulev/r de rose. One week the Duke saved a poor man from the Serpentine ; anotlier n poor woman from star- ration ; now an orphan was grateful ; and now Miss Zouch, impelled by her necessity and his reputation, addressed him^ a column and a half^ quite heart-rending. Parents with nine children ; nine children without parents ; clergy- men most improperly unbeneficed ; officers most wickedly reduced ; widows of younger sons of quality sacrificed to the Colonies ; sisters of literary men sacrificed to national works, which required his patronage to appear ; daughters who had known better days, but somehow or other had not been so well acquainted with their parents ; all advanced with multiplied petitions, and that liackneyed, heartless air of misery which denotes the Mumper. His Grace was in- finitely annoyed, and scarcely compensated for the incon- venience by the prettiest little creature in the world, who one day forced herself into his presence to solicit the honour of dedicating to him her poems. He had enough on his hands, so he wrote her a cheque and, with a courtesy which must have made Sappho quite desperate, put her out of the room. We forgot to say that the name of the new journal was ' The New World.' The new world is not quite so big as the universe, but then it is as large as all the other quarters of the globe together. The worst of this busiaess was, ' The Universe ' protested that the Duke of St. James, like a second Canning, had called this 'New World' into existence, which was too bad, because, in truth, he deprecated its discovery scarcely less than the Venetians. Having thus managed, in the course of a few weeks, to achieve the reputation of an unrivalled roue, our hero one night betook himself to Almack's, a place where his visits, this season, were both shorter and less fi-equent. Many an anxious mother gazed upon him, as he passed, with an eye which longed to pierce futurity ; many an agitated maiden looked exquisitely unembarrassed, while her fluttering memory feasted on the sweet thought that, at any rate, another had not captured this unrivalled prize. THE YOUNG DUKE. 135 Perhaps she might be the Anson to fall upon this galleon. It was worth a long cruise, and even a chance of shipwreck. He danced with Lady Aphrodite, because, since the affair of tbe Signora, he was most punctilious in his attentions to her, particularly in pubUo. That aflPair, of course, she passed over in silence, though it was bitter. She, however, had had sufficient experience of man to feel that remon- strance is a last resource, and usually an ineffectual one. It was- something that her rival ; not that her ladyship dignified the Bird by that title ; it was something that she was not her equal, that she was not one with whom she could be put in painful and constant collision. She tried to consider it a freak, to believe only half she heard, and to indulge the fancy that it was a toy which would soon tire. As for Sir Lucius, he saw nothing in this adventure, or indeed in the Alhambra system at all, which militated against his ulterior views. No one more constantly offi- ciated at the ducal orgies than himself, both because he was devoted to self-gratification, and because he Uked ever to have his protege in sight. He studiously prevented any other individual fi-om becoming the Petronius of the circle. His deep experience also taught him that, with a person of the young Duke's temper, the mode of life which he was now leading was exactly the one which not only would insure, but even hurry, the catastrophe his faithful friend so eagerly desired. His pleasures, as Sir Lucius knew, would soon pall ; for he easily perceived that the Duke was not heartless enough for a roue. When thorough satiety is felt, young men are in the cue for desperate deeds. Looking upon happiness as a dream, or a prize which, in Ufe's lottery, they have missed ; worn, hipped, dissatisfied, and desperate, they often hurry on a result which they dis- approve, merely to close a miserable career, or to brave the society with which they cannot sympathise. The Duke, however, was not yet sated. As after a feast, when we have despatched a quantity of wine, there some- times, as it were, arises a second appetite, unnatural to be sure, but very keen ; so, in a career of dissipation, when our passion for pleasure appears to be exhausted, the fatal 136 THE YOUNG DUKE. fancy of man, like a wearied hare, will take a new turn, throw off the hell-hounds of ennui, and course again with renewed vigour. And to-night the Duke of St. James was, as he had been for some weeks, all Ufe, and fire, and excitement ; and his eye was even now wandering round the room in quest of some consummate spirit whom he might summon to his Saracenic Paradise. A consummate spirit his eye lighted on. There stood May Dacre. He gasped for breath. He turned pale. It was only for a moment, and his emotion was unperceived. There she stood, beautiful as when she first glanced before liim ; there she stood, with all her imperial graces ; and all surrounding splendour seemed to fade away before her dazzling presence, like mournful spirits of a lower world before a radiant creature of the sky. She was speaking with her sunlight smile to a young man whose appearance attracted his notice. He was dressed entirely in black, rather short, but slenderly made ; sallow, but clear, with long black curls and a Mnrillo face, and looked altogether like a young Jesuit or a Venetian official by Giorgone or Titian. His countenance was re- served and his manner not easy ■- yet, on the whole, his face indicated intellect and his figure blood. The features haunted the Duke's memory. He had met this person before. There are some countenances which when once seen can never be forgotten, and the young man owned one of these. The Duke recalled him to his memory with a pang. Our hero ; let him still be ours, for he is rather desolate, and he requires the backing of his friends ; our hero be haved pretty well. He seized the first favourable oppor- tunity to catch Miss Dacre's eye, and was grateful for her bow. Emboldened, he accosted her, and asked after Mr. Dacre. She was courteous, but unembarrassed. Her calmness, however, piqued him sufficiently to allow him to rally. He was tolerably easy, and talked of calling. Their conversation lasted only for a few minutes, and was for- tunately terminated without his withdrawal, whicli would THE YOUNG DUKE. 137 have been awkward. The young man whom we ha^e noticed came up to claim h6r hand. ' Arundel Daore, or my eyes deceive me ? ' said the young Duke. ' I always consider an old Etonian a friend, and therefore I address you without ceremony.' The young man accepted, but not with readiness, the offered hand. He blushed and spoke, but in a hesitating and husky voice. Then he cleared his throat, and spoke again, but not much more to the purpose. Then lie looked to his partner, whose eyes were on the ground, and rose as he endeavoured to catch them. For a moment he was silent again ; then he bowed slightly to Miss Dacre and solemnly to the Duke, and then he carried off his cousin. ' Poor Dacre ! ' said the Duke ; ' he always had the worst manner in the world. Not in the least changed.' His Grace wandered into the tea-room. A knot of dan- dies were in deep converse. He heard his own name and that of the Duke of Burlington ; then came ' Donoaster beauty.' ' Don't you know ? ' ' Oh ! yes.' ' All quite mad,' &c., &c., &o. As he passed he was invited in different ways to join this coterie of his admirers, but he declined the honour, and passed them with that icy hauteur which he could assume, and which, judiciously used, contributed not a little to his popularity. He could not conquer his depression ; and, although it was scarcely past midnight, he determined to disappear. For- tunately his carriage was waiting. He was at a loss what to do with himself. He dreaded even to be alone. The Signora was at a private concert, and she was the last per- son whom, at this moment, he cared to see. His low spirits rapidly increased. He got terribly nervous, and felt miserable. At last he drove to White's. The House had just broken up, and the political members had just entered, and in clusters, some standing and some yawning, some stretching their arms and some stretching their legs, presented symptoms of an escape from boredom. Among others, round the fire, was a young man dressed in a rough great coat all cords and sables, with his hat bent aside, a shawl tied round his neck with boldness, and a 138 THE YOUNG DUKE. huge oaken staff clenched in his left hand. With the other he held the ' Courier,' and reviewed with a critical eye the report of the speech which he had made that afternoon. This was Lord Darrell. We have always considered the talents of younger brothers as an unanswerable argument in favour of a Pro- vidence. Lord Darrell was the younger son of the Earl of Darleyford, and had been educated for a diplomatist. A report some two years ago had been very current that his elder brother, then Lord DarreU, was, against the consent of his family, about to be favoured with the hand of Mrs. Dallington Vere. Certain it is he was a devoted admirer of that lady. Of that lady, however, a less favoured rival chose one day to say that which staggered the romance of the impassioned youth. In a moment of rashness, impelled by sacred feelings, it is reported, at least, for the whole is a mystery, he communicated what he had heard with horror to the mistress of his destinies. Whatever took place, cer- tain it is Lord Darrell challenged the indecorous speaker, and was .shot through the heart. The affair made a great sensation, and the Darleyfords and their connections said bitter things of Mrs. DaUington, and talked much of rash youth and subtle women of discreeter years, and passions shamefully inflamed and purposes wickedly egged on. We say nothing of all this ; nor will we dwell upon it. Mrs. Dallington Vere assuredly was no slight sufferer. But she conquered the cabal that was formed against her, for the dandies were her friends, and gallantly supported her through a trial under which some women would have sunk. As it was, at the end of the season she did travel, but all is now forgotten ; and Hill Street, Berkeley Square, again contains, at the moment of our story, its brightest orna- ment. The present Lord Darrell gave up all idea of being an ambassador, but he was clever ; and though he hurried to gratify a taste for pleasure which before had been too much ■nortified, he could not relinquish the ambitious prospects with which he had, during the greater part of his life, con- soled himsolf for his r.adetship. He piqued himself upon THE YOUNG DUKE. 139 being at the same time a dandy and a statesra.an. He spoke in the House, and not without effect. He was one of those who make themselves masters of great questions ; that is to say, who read a great many reviews and newspapers, and are full of others' thoughts without ever having thought themselves. He particularly prided himself upon having made his way into the Alhambra set. He was the only man of business among them. The Duke liked him, for it is agreeable to be courted by those who are them- selves considered. Lord Darrell was a favourite with women. They like a little intellect. He talked fluently on all subjects. He was what is called ' a talented young man.' Then he had mind, and soul, and all that. The miracles of creation have long agreed that body without soul will not do ; and even a coxcomb in these days must be original, or he is a bore. No longer is sUch a character the mere creation of his tailor and his perfumer. Lord Darrell was an avowed admirer of Lady Caroline St. Maurice, and a great favour- ite with her parents, who both considered him an oracle on the subjects which respectively interested them. Tou might dine at Pitz-pompey House and hear his name quoted at both ends of the table ; by the host upon the state of Europe, and by the hostess upon the state of the season. Had it not been for the young Duke, nothing would have given Lady Mtz-pompey greater pleasure than to have received him as a son-in-law ; but, as it was, he was only kept in store for the second string to Cupid's bow. Lord Darrell had just quitted the House in a costume which, though rough, was not less studied than the finished and elaborate toilet which, in the course of au hour, he will exhibit in the enchanted halls of Almack's. Thei-e he will figure to the last, the most active and the most remarked ; and though after these continued exertions he will not gain his couch perhaps till seven, our Lord of the Treasury, for he is one, will resume his oflElcial duties at an earlier hour than any functionary in the kingdom. Yet our friend is a little annoyed now. What is the I40 THE YOUNG DUKE. matter ? He dilates to his uncle, Lord Seymour Temple, a greyheaded placeman, on the profligacy of the press. What is this ? The Virgilian line our orator introduced so feKcitously is omitted. He panegyrizes the ' Mirror of Parliament,' where, he has no doubt, the missing verse will appear. The quotation was new, ' Timeo Dcmaos.' Lord Seymour Temple begins a long story about Fox and General Fitzpatrick. This is a signal for a general retreat; and the bore, as Sir Boyle Roche would say, like the last rose of summer, remains talking to himself. CHAPTER V. Arundel Dacee was the only child of Mr. Dacre's only and deceased brother, and the heir to the whole of the Dacte property. His father, a man of violent passions, had married early in hfe, against the approbation of his family, and had revolted from the CathoHc communion. The elder brother, however mortified by this great deed, which passion had prompted, and not conscience, had exerted his best ofiices to mollify their exasperated father, and to reconcile the sire to the son. But he had exerted them ineffectually; and, as is not unusual, found, after much harrowing anxiety and deep suffering, that he was not even recompensed for his exertions and his sympathy by the gratitude of his brother. The younger Daore was not one of those minds whose rashness and impetuosity are counterbalanced, or rather compensated, by a generous candour and an amiable remorse. He was headstrong, but he was obstinate : he was ardent, but he was sullen : he was unwary, but he was suspicious. Everyone who opposed him was his enemy: all who combined for his preservation were conspirators. His father, whose feelings he had outraged and never attempted to soothe, was a tyrant ; his brother, who was devoted to his interests, was a traitor. These were his living and his dying thoughts. Wliilo he existed, he was one of those men who, because they THE YOUNG DUKE. 141 have been imprudent, think themselves unfortunate, »n(i mistake their diseased mind for an implacable destiny, When he died, his deathbed was oonsoled by the reflec- tion that his persecutors might at last feel some com- punction ; and he quitted the world without a pang, because he flattered himself that his departure would cost them one. His father, who died before him, had left him no fortune, and even had not provided for his wife or child. His brother made another ineffectual attempt to accomplish a reconciliation ; but his proffers of love and fortune were alike scorned and himself insulted, and Arundel Dacre seemed to gloat on the idea that he was an outcast and a beggar. Tet even this strange being had his warm feelings. He adored his wife, particularly because his father had dis- owned her. He had a friend whom he idolised, and who, treating his occasional conduct as a species of insanity, had never deserted him. This Mend had been his college companion, and, in the odd chapter of circumstances, had become a powerful political characber. Dacre was a man of talent, and his friend took care that he should have an opportunity of displaying it. He was brought into Parliament, and animated by the desire, as he thought, of triumphing over his family, he exerted himself with success. But his infernal temper spoiled all. His active quarrels and his noisy brawls were even more endurable than his sullen suspicious, his dark hints, and his silent hate. He was always offended and always offending. Such a man could never succeed as a politician, a character who, of all others, must learn to endure, to forget, and to forgive. He was soon universally shunned ; but his first friend was faithful, though bitterly tried, and Dacre retired from public life on a pension. His wife had died, and during the latter years of his life almost his only companion was his son. He concentrated on this being all that ardent affection which, had he diffused among his fellow-creatures, might have ensured his happiness and his prosperity. Yet even sometimes he 142 THE YOUNG DUKE. would look in his child's face with an anxious air, as if lie read inoabating treason, and then press him to his bosom with unusua] fervour, as if he would stifle tlie idea, which alone was madness. This child was educated in an hereditary hate of the Dacre family. His uncle was daily painted as a tyrant, whom he classed in his young mind with Phalaris or Dio- nysius. There was nothing that he felt keener than his father's wrongs, and nothing which he believed more certain than his uncle's wickedness. He arrived at his thirteenth year when his father died, and he was to bo consigned to the care of that uncle. Arundel Dacre had left his son as a legacy to his friend ; but that friend was a man of the world ; and when the elder brother not only expressed his willingness to maintain the orphan, but even his desire to educate and adopt him as his son, he chperfuUy resigned all his claims to the for- lorn boy, and felt that, by consigning him to his uncle, he had most religiously discharged the tmst of his confiding friend. The nephew arrived at Castle Dacre with a heart equally divided between misery and hatred. It seemed to him that a fate more forlorn than his had seldom been awarded to mortal. Although he found his uncle diametrically opposite to all that his misled imagination had painted him, although he was treated with a kindness and indul- gence which tried to compensate for their too long estranged afiections, Arundel Dacre could never conquer the impres- sions of his boyhood ; and had it not been for his cousin, May, a creature of whom he had not heard, and of whom no distorted image had therefore haunted his disturbed imagination ; had it not been for this beautiful girl, who greeted him with affection which warmed and won his heart, so morbid were his feelings, that he would in all probability have pined away under the roof which he should have looked upon as his own. Has departure for Eton was a relief. As he grew up, although his knowledge of life and man had long taught him the fallacy of his early feelings, and although he now THE YOUNG DUKE. 143 yielded a teai' of pity, rather than of indignation, to the adored manes of his father, his peculiar temper and his first education never allowed him entirely to emancipate himself from his hereditary feelings. His character was combined of many and even of contrary qualities. His talents were great, but his want of confidence made them more doubtfal to himself than to the world ; yet, at times, in his solitary musings, he perhaps even exaggerated his powers. He was proud, and yet worldly. He never forgot that he was a Dacre ; but he desired to be the architect of his own fortune ; and his very love of independ- ence made him, at an early period, meditate on the means of managing mankind. He was reserved and cold, for his imagination required much ; yet he panted for a con- fidant and was one of those youths with whom friendship is a passion. To conclude, he was a Protestant among Catholics ; and although this circumstance, inasmuch as it assisted him in the views which he had early indulged, was not an ungracious one, he felt that, till he was distinguished, it had lessened his consideration, since he could not count upon the sympathy of hereditary connections and ancient party. Altogether, he was one who, with {he consciousness of ancient blood, the certainty of future fortune, fine talents, great accomplishments, and not slight personal advantages, was unhappy. Yet, although not of a sanguine temper, and occasionally delivered to the darkest spleen, his in- tense ambition sustained him, and he hved on the hope, and sometimes on the conviction, that a bright era would, some day, console him for the bitterness of his past and present life. At school and at college he equally distinguished himself, and was everywhere respected and often regarded ; yet he had never found that friend on whom his fancy had often busied itself, and which one whose alternations of feeling were so violent peremptorily required. His uncle and himself viewed each other with mutual respect and regard, but confidence did not exist between them. Mr. Dacre, in spite of his long and constant efibrts, despaired of raising ia the breast of his nephew the flame of filial love ; and had 144 THE YOUNG DUKE. it not been for his daughter, who was the only person in the world to whom Arundel ever opened his mind, and who could, consequently, throw some light upon his wants and wishes, it would not have been in his power to evince to his nephew that this disappointment had not affected hia uncle's feelings in his favour. When his education was completed, Mr. Dacre had wished him to take up his residence in Yorkshire, and, in every sense, to act as his son, as he was his successor. But Arundel declined this proposition. He obtained from his father's old political connection the appointment of attache to a foreign em.bassy, and he remained on the ContLuent, with the exception of a yearly visit to Torkshire, three or four years. But his views were not in the diplomatic line, and this appointment only served as a political school until he could enter Parliament. May Dacre had wormed from him his secret, and worked with energy in his cause. An opportunity appeared to offer itself, and, under the patron- age of a CathoKo nobleman, he was to appear as a candidate for an open borough. It was on this business that he had returned to England. CHAPTER VI. We will go and make a morning call. The garish light of day, that never suits a chamber, was broken by a muslin veil, which sent its softened twilight through a room of moderate dimensions but of princely decoration, and which opened into a conservatory. The choice saloon was hung with rose-coloured silk, which diffused a delicate tint over the inlaid and costly cabinets. It was crowded with tables covered with bijouterie. Apparently, however, a road had been cut through the furniture, by which you might wind your way up to the divinity of the temple. A ravishing perfume, which was ever changing, wandered through the apartment. Now a violet breeze made you poetical ; now a rosy gale called you to love. And ever and anon the strange but thrilling breath of some rare exotic summoned THE YOUNG DUKE. 145 you, lika an angel, to opening Eden. All was still and sweet, save that a fountain made you, as it were, more conscious of silence ; save that the song of birds made you, as it were, more sensible of sweetness. Upon a couch, her small head resting upon an anti covered with bracelets, which blazed like a Soldan's trea- sure, reclined Mrs. Dallington Vere. She is iu thought. Is her abstracted eye fixed in admi- ration upon that twinkling foot which, clothed in its Russian slipper, looks like a serpent's tongue, small, rod, and pointed ; or does a more serious feeling than self- admi- ration inspire this musing ? Ah ! a cloud courses over that pellucid brow. 'Tis gone, but it frowned like the harbinger of a storm. Again ! A small but blood-red blush rises into that clear cheek. It was momentary, but its deep colour indicated that it came from the heart. Her eye lights up with a wild and glittering fire, but the flash vanishes into darkness, and gloom follows the unnatural light. She clasps her hands ; she rises from an uneasy seat, though supported by a thousand piUows, and she paces the conservatory. A guest is announced. It is Sir Lucius Grafton. He salutes her with that studied courtesy which shows they are only friends, but which, when maintained between intimate acquaintance, sometimes makes wicked people suspect that they once perhaps were more. She resumes her seat, and he throws himself into an easy chair which is opposite. ' Tour note I this moment received. Bertha, and I am here. You perceive that my fidelity is as remarkable as ever.' ' We had a gay meeting last night.' 'Very much so. So Lady Araminta has at last shown mercy.' ' I cannot believe it.' ' I have just had a note from Challoner, preliminary, 1 suppose, to my trusteeship. You are not the only person who holds my talents for business in high esteem.' ' But BalUngford ; what will he say ? ' 146 THE YOUNG DUKE. ' That is his affair ; and as he never, to my kaowledge, spoke to the purpose, his remarks now, I suppose, are not fated to be much more apropos.' ' Tet he can say things. We all know ' ' Tes, yes, we all know ; but nobody beHeves. That is the motto of the present day ; and the only way to neutralise scandal, and to counteract publicity.' Mrs. Dallington was silent, and looked uneasy ; and her friend perceiving that, although she had sent to him so urgent a billet, she did not communicate, expressed a little surprise. ' But you wish to see me. Bertha ? ' ' I do very much, and to speak to you. For these many days I have intended it ; but I do not know how it is, I have postponed and postponed our interview. I begin to believe,' she added, looking up with a faint smile, ' I am half afraid to speak.' ' Good God ! ' said the Baronet, really alarmed, ' you are in no trouble ? ' ' Oh, no ! make yourself easy. Trouble, trouble ! No, no ! I am not exactly in trouble. I am not in debt ; I am not in a scrape ; but, but, but I am in something, something worse, perhaps : I am in love.' The Baronet looked puzzled. He did not for a moment suspect himself to be the hero ; yet, although their mutual confidence was illimitable, he did not exactly see why, in the present instance, there had been such urgency to impart an event not altogether either unnatural or mi- raculous. ' In love ! ' said Sir Lucius ; ' a very proper situation for the prettiest woman in London. Everybody is in love with you ; and I heartily rejoice that some one of our favoured sex is about to avenge our sufferings.' ' Point de moquerie, Lucy ! I am miserable.' ' Dear little pigeon, what is the matter ? ' ' Ah, me ! ' ' Speak, speak,' said he, in a gay tone ; ' yon were not made for sighs, but smiles. Begin ' ' WoU, then, the young Pulse .' THE YOUNG DUKE. U7 ' The deuce ! ' said Sir Lucius, aJarmed. ' Oh. ! no ! make yourself easy,' said Mrs. Dallington, smiling ; ' no counterplot, I assure you, although really you do not deserve to succeed.' ' Then who is it ? ' eagerly asked Sir Lucius. ' Tou will not let me speak. The young Duke ' ' Damn the Duke ! ' ' How impatient you are, Lucy ! I must begin with the beginning. Well, the young Duke has something to do with it.' ' Pray be expKcit.' ' In a word, then,' said Mrs. Dallington, in a low voice, but with an expression of earnestness which Sir Lucius had never before remarked, ' I am in love, desperately in love, with one whom hitherto, in accordance with your wishes, I have been driving into the arms of another. Our views, our interests are opposite ; but I wish to act fairly, if pos- sible ; I wish to reconcile them ; and it is for this purpose that I have summoned you this morning.' ' Anindel Dacre ! ' said Sir Lucius, quietly, and he rapped his cano on his boot. The blood-red spot again rose in his companion's cheek. There was silence for a moment. Sir Lucius would not disturb it, and Mrs. Dallington again spoke. ' St. James and the little Dacre have again met. Tou have my secret. I do not ask your good services with Arundel, which I might at another time ; but you cannot expect me to work against myself. Depend, then, no longer on my influence with May Dacre ; for to be explicit, as we have always been, most heartUy should I rejoice to see her a duchess.' ' The point. Bertha,' said Sir Lucius, very quietly, ' is not that I can no longer count upon you as an ally ; but I must, I perceive, reckon you an opponent.' ' Cannot we prevent this ? ' asked Mrs. Dallington with energy. ' I see no alternative,' said Sir Lucius, shaking his head with great unconcern. ' Time will prove who will have to congratulate the other.' 148 THE YOUNG DUKE. 'My friend,' said Mrs. Dallington, with briskness and decision, ' no affectation between us. Drop this assumed unconcern. Tou know, you know well, tbat no incident could occur to you at this moment more mortifying than the one I have communicated, which deranges your plans, and probably may destroy your views. You cannot mis- conceive my motives in making this not very agreeable communication. I might have pursued my object without your knowledge and permission. In a word, I might have betrayed you. But with me every consideration has yielded to friendship. I cannot forget how often, and how successfully, we have combined. I should grieve to see our ancient and glorious alliance annulled. I am yet in hopes that we may both obtain our objects through its medium.' ' I am not aware,' said Sir Lucius, with more feeling, ' that I have given you any cause to complain of my want of candour. We are in a difficult position. I have nothing to suggest, but I am ready to listen. Tou know how ready I am to adopt all your suggestions ; and I know how seldom you have wanted an expedient.' ' The little Dacre, then, must not marry her cousin ; but we cannot flatter ourselves that such a girl wUl not want to marry some one ; I have a conviction that this is her decisive season. She must be occupied. In a word, Lucy, some one must be found.' The Baronet started from his chair, and nearly knocked down a table. ' Confound your tables, Bertha,' said he, in a pettish tone ; ' I can never consult in a room full of tables.' He walked into the conservatory, and she followed him. He seemed plunged in thought. They were again silent. Suddenly he seized her hand and led her back to the sofa, on which they both sat down.. ' My dear friend,' he said, in a tone of agitated solemnity, ' I will conceal no longer from you what I have sometimeB endeavoured to conceal from myself: I love that girl to distraction.' 'Ton!' ' Yes ; to distraction. Ever since we first met her image THE YOUNG DUKE. 149 has haunted me. I endeavoured to crush a feeling which promised only to plunge me into anxiety, and to distract my attention from my important objects ; but in vain, in vain. Her unexpected appearance yesterday has revived my passion with triple fervour. I have passed a sleepless night, and rise with the determination to obtain her.' ' You know your own power, Lucius, better perhaps than I do, or the world. We rank it high ; none higher ; yet, nevertheless, I look upon this declaration as insanity.' He raised her hand to his lips, and pressed it with dehcate warmth, and summoned his most insinuating tone. ' With your aid. Bertha, I should not despair ! ' ' Lucy, I am your friend ; perhaps your best friend : but these Dacres. Would it were anyone but a Dacre ! No, no, this cannot be.' ' Bertha, you know me better than the world : I am a foue, and you are my friend ; but, believe me, I am not quite so vain as to indulge for a moment in the idea that May Dacre should be aught to me but what all might approve and all might honour. Yes, I intend her for my wife.' ' Your wife ! You are, indeed, premature.' ' Not quite so premature as you perhaps imagine. Know, then, that the great point is on the eve of achievement. Urged by the information which she thinks she uncon- sciously obtains from Lachen, and harrowed by the idea that I am about to tear her from England, she has appealed to the Duke in a manner to which they were both unused. Hitherto her docile temper has not permitted her to abuse her empire. Now she exerts her power with an energy to which he believed her a stranger. He is staggered by his situation. He at the same time repents having so ra.shly ongagod the feelings of a woman, and is flattered that he is so loved. They have more than once consulted upon th* expediency of an elopement.' ' This is good news.' ' O ! Bertha, you must feel like me before you can estimate it. Yes ! ' he clenched his fist with horrible energy, ' there is no hell like a detested wife ! ' I50 THE YOUNG DUKE. They were again silent ; but when she thought that his emotion had subsided, she again recalled their consideration to the object of their interview. ' Tou play a bold game, indeed ; but it shall not fail from any deficiency on my part. But how are we to pro- ceed at present ? Who is to interest the feehngs of the httle Dacre at once ? ' ' Who but her future husband ? What I want you to do is this : we shall call ; but prepare the house to receive us not only as acquaintances, but as desirable intimates. Ton know what to say. I have an idea that the divine creature entertains no very unfavourable opinion of yoiir obedient slave ; and with her temper I care not for what she will not probably hear, the passing opinion of a third person. I stand at present, thanks to Afy, very high with the public ; and you know, although my life has not the least altered, that my indiscretions have now a dash of discretion in them ; and a reformed rake, as all agree, • is the per- sonification of morality. Prepare my way with the Dacres, and all will go right. And as for this Arundel, I know him not ; but you have told me enough to make me con- sider him the most fortunate of men. As for love between cousins, I laugh at it. A glance from you will extinguish the feeble flame, as a sunbeam does a fire : and for the rest, the world does m.e the honour to believe that, if Lucius Grafton be remarkable for one thing more than another, it is for the influence he attains over young minds. I will get acquainted with this boy ; and, for once, let love be unattended by doubt.' Long was their counsel. The plans we have hinted at were analysed, canvassed, weighed, and finally matured. They parted, after a long morning, well aware of the diffi- culties which awaited their fulfilment, but also full of hope THE YOUNG DUKE. 151 CHAPTER Vn. Sdch able and congenial spirits as Mrs. DallingtoN Vere and Sir Lucius Grafton prosecuted their plans with the success which they had a right to anticipate. Lady Aphro- dite, who was proud of her previous acquaintance, however slight, with the most distinguished girl in London, and eager to improve it, unconsciously assisted their operations. Society is so constituted that it requires no little talent and no slight energy to repel the intimacy even of those whose acquaintance is evidently not desirable ; and there are many people in this world mixing, apparently, with great spirit and self-esteem in its concerns, who really owe their constant appearance and occasional influence in circles of consideration to no other qualities than their own callous impudence, and the indolence and the irreso- lution of their victims. They, who at the same time have no delicacy and no shame, count fearful odds ; and, much as is murmured about the false estimation of riches, there is little doubt that the parvenus as often owe their advance- ment in society to their perseverance as to their pelf. When, therefore, your intimacy is courted by those whose intimacy is an honour, and that, too, with an art which conceals its purpose, you often find that you have, and are, a devoted friend, really before you have felt suffi- cient gratitude for the opera-box which has been so often lent, the carriage which has been ever at hand, the brother who has received such civilities, or the father who has been requested to accept some of the unattainable tokay which he has charmed you by admiring at your own table. The manoeuvres and tactics of society are infinitely more numerous and infinitely finer than those of strategy. Woe betide the rash knight who dashes into the thick of the polished melee without some slight experience of his barb and his lance ! Let hhn look to his arms ! He will do well not to appear before his helm be plumed with some reputation, however slight. He may be very rich, or even very poor. We have seen that answer with a Belisarius- Kke air ; and more than one hero without an obolus has 152 THE YOUNG DUKE. stumbled apon a fortune merely from his contempt ol riches. If to fight, or write, or dress be above you, wby, then, you can ride, or dance, or even skate j but do not think, as many young gentlemen are apt to beKeve, that talldiig will serve your purpose. That is the quicksand of your young beginners. All can talk in a public assembly ; that is to say, all can give us exhortations which do not move, and arguments which do not convince ; but to con- verse in a private assembly is a different affair, and rare are the characters who can be endured if they exceed a whisper to their neighbours. But though mild and silent, be ever ready with the rapier of repartee, and be ever armed with the breastplate of good temper. You will infallibly gather laurels if you add to these the spear of sarcasm and the shield of nonchalance. The high style of conversation where eloquence and philosophy emulate each other, where principles are pro- foundly expounded and felicitously illustrated, all this has ceased. It ceased in this country with Johnson and Burke, and it requires a Johnson and a Burke for its maintenance. There is no mediocrity in such discourse, no intermediate character between the sage and the bore. The second style, where men, not things, are the staple, but where wit, and refinement, and sensibility invest even personal details with intellectual interest, does flourish at present, as it always must in a highly civilised society. S. is, or rather was, a fine specimen of this school, and M. and L. are his worthy rivals. This style is indeed, for the moment, very interesting. Then comes your conversation man, who, we confess, is our aversion. His talk is a thing apart, got up before he enters the company from whose conduct it should grow out. He sits in the middle of a large table, and, with a brazen voice, bawls out his anecdotes about Sir Thomas or Sir Humphry, Lord Blank, or my Lady Blue. He is incessant, yet not interesting ; ever varying, yet always monotonous. Even if we are amused, we are no more grateful for the entertainment than we are to the lamp over the table for the light which it universally sheds, and to jrield which it was obtained on purpose. We are moi'fl THE YOUNG DUKE. 153 gratified by the slight conversation of one who is often silent, but who speaks from his momentary feelings, than by all this hullaballoo. Yet this machine is generally a favourite piece of furniture with the hostess. Tou may catch her eye as he recounts some adventure of the morn- ing, which proves that he not only belongs to every club, but goes to them, light up with approbation ; and then, when the ladies withdraw, and the female senate deliver their criticism upon the late actors, she will observe, with a gratified smile, to her confidante, that the dinner went off well, and that Mr. Bellow was very strong to-day. All this is horrid, and the whole affair is a delusion. A variety of people are brought together, who all come as late as possible, and retire as soon, merely to show they have other engagements. A dinner is prepared for them, which is hurried over, in order that a certain number of dishes should be, not tasted, but seen : and provided that there is no moment that an absolute silence reigns; pro- vided that, besides the bustling of the servants, the clattering of the plates and knives, a stray anecdote is told, which, if good, has been heard before, and which, if new, is generally flat ; provided a certain number of certain names of people of consideration are introduced, by which some stranger, for whom the party is often secretly given, may learn the scale of civilisation of which he this moment forms a part ; provided the senators do not steal out too soon to the House, and then- wives to another party, the hostess is congratulated on the success of her entertain- ment. And this glare, and heat, and noise, this congeries of individuals without sympathy and dishes without flavour ; this is society ! What an effect without a cause ! A man must be green indeed to stand this for two seasons. One cannot help thinking that one consequence of the increased intelligence of the present day will be a great change li- the habits of our intercourse. To our tale ; we linger. Few who did not know toe much of Sir Lucius Grafton coald refrain from yielding him their regard when he chose to challenge it, and witu 154 THE YOUNG DUKE. the Dacres he was soon an acknowledged favourite. As a new M.P., and hitherto doubtful supporter of the Catholic cause, it was grateful to Mr. Dacre's feelings to find in bio. an ally, and flattering to Mr. Dacre's judgment when that ally ventured to consult him on his friendly operations. With Miss Dacre be was a mild, amiable man, who knew the world ; thoroughly good, but void of cant, and owner of a virtue not less to be depended on because his passions had once been strong, and he had once indulged them. His experience of life miade him value domestic felicity ; because he knew that there was no other source of happi- ness which was at once so pure and so permanent. But he was not one of those men who consider marriage as an extinguisher of all those feelings and accomplishments which throw a lustre on existence ; and he did not consider himself bound, because he had phghted his faith to a beau- tiful woman, immediately to terminate the very conduct which had induced her to join him in the sacred and eternal pledge. His gaiety still sparkled, his wit stOl flashed ; still he hastened to be foremost among the courteous ; and still his high and ready gallantry indicated that he was not prepared to yield the fitting ornament of his still blooming youth. A thousand unobtrusive and delicate attentions which the innocent now received from him vrithout a thought, save of Lady Aphrodite's good fortune; a thousand gay and sentimental axioms, which proved not only how agreeable he was, but how enchanting he must have been ; a thousand little deeds which struggled to shun the Ught, and which palpably demonstrated that the gaiety of his wit, the splendour of his accomphshments, and the tender- ness of his soul were only equalled by his unbounded generosity and unparalleled good temper ; all these com- bined had made Sir Lucius Grafton, to many, always a delightful, often a dangerous, and sometimes a fatal, com- panion. He was one of those whose candour is deadly. It was when he least endeavoured to conceal his character that its Lideousness least appeared. He confessed sometimes SQ much, that you yielded that pity which, ere the shrived culprit could receive, by some fatal alchemy was changed THE YOUNG DUKE. 155 into passion. His smile was a lure, his speoch was a spell ; but it was when he was silent, and almost gloomy, when you caught his serious eye, charged, as it were, with emo- tion, gazing on yours, that if you had a guardian sylph you should have invoked its aid ; and we pray, if ever you meet the man of whom we write, your invocation may not be forgotten, or be, what is more hiely, too late. The Dacres, this season, were the subject of general con- versation. She was the distinguished beauty, and the dandies all agreed that his dinner was worthy of his daughter. Lady Fitz-pompey was not behind the welcoming crowd. She was too politic a leader not to feel anxious to enlist under her colours a recruit who was so calculated to main- tain the reputation of her forces. Fitz-pompey House must not lose its character for assembling the most distinguished, the most agreeable, and the most refined, and May Dacre was a divinity who would summon many a crowd to her niche in this Pantheon of Fashion. K any difficulty were for a moment anticipated in bring- ing about this arrangement, a fortunate ciroumstance seemed sufficient to remove it. Lord St. Maurice and Arundel Dacre had been acquainted at Vienna, and, though the intimacy was slight, it was sweet. St. Maurice had received many favours from the attache, and, as he was a man of family and reputation, had been happy to greet him on his arrival in London. Before the Dacres made their appearance in town for the season Arundel had been initiated in the mysteries of Fitz-pompey House, and therefore a desire from that mansion to cultivate the good graces of his Yorkshire relation seemed not only not forced, but natui'al. So, the families met, and, to the surprise of each other, became even intimate, for May Dacre and Lady Caroline soon evinced a mutual regard for each other. Female friend- ships are of rapid growth, and in the present instance, when there was nothing on either side which was not lovable, it was quite miraculous, and the friendship, particularly on the part of Lady Caroline, shot up in one night, like a blooming aloe. Perhaps there is nothing more lovely than the love of 156 THE YOUNG DUKE. two beautiful women, who are not envious of each other's charms. How delightfully they impart to each other the pattern of a cap, or flounce, or frill ! how charmingly they entrust some slight, slender secret about tinting a flower or netting a purse ! Now, one leans over the other, and guides her inexpei'ienced hand, as it moves in the mysteries of some novel work, and then the other looks up with an eye beaming with devotion ; and then again the first leans down a little lower, and gently presses her aromatic lips upon her friend's pohshed forehead. These are sights which we quiet men, who, like ' small Jack Horner,' know where to take up a safe position, occasionally enjoy, but which your noisy fellows, who think that women never want to be alone, a sad mistake, and consequently must be always breaking or stringing a guitar, or cutting a pencil, or splitting a crowquill, or overturning the gold ink, or scribbHng over a pattern, or doing any other of the thousand acts of mischief, are debarred from. Kot that these bright flowers often bloomed alone ; a blossom not less brilliant generally shared with them the same parterre. Mrs. Dallington completed the bouquet, and Ai'undel Dacre was the butterfly, who, she was glad to perceive, was seldom absent when her presence added beauty to the beautiful. Indeed, she had good reason to feel confidence in her attractions. Independently of her charms, which assuredly were great, her fortune, which was even greater, possessed, she was well aware, no shght allarement to one who ever trembled when he thought of his dependence, and often glowed when he mused over his ambition. His slight but increasing notice was duly es- timated by one who was perfectly acquainted with his peculiar temper, and daily perceived how disregardful he was of all others, except her and his cousin. But a cousin ! She felt confidence in the theory of Sir Lucius Grafton. And the young Duke ; have we forgotten him ? Sooth to say, he was seldom with our heroine or heroines. He had called on Mr. Dacre, and had greeted him with marked cordiality, and he had sometimes met him and his daughter in society. But although invited, he had hitherto avoided THE YOUNG DUKE. 157 being their visitor ; and the comparatively secluded life which he now led prevented him from seeing them often at other houses. Mr. Dacre, who was unaware of what had passed between him and his daughter, thought his conduct inexplicable ; but his former guardian remembered that it was riot the first time that his behaviour had been unusual, and it was never the disposition of Mr. Dacre to promote explanations. Our hero felt annoyed at his own weakness. It would have been infinitely more worthy of so celebrated, so un- rivalled a personage as the Duke of St. James not to have given the woman who had rejected him this evidence of her power. According to etiquette, he should have called there daily and have dined there weekly, and yet never have given the former object of his adoration the slightest idea that he cared a breath for her presence. According to etiquette, he should never have addressed her but in a vein of persiflage, and with a smile which indicated his perfect heartease and her bad taste. According to etiquette, he should have flirted with every woman in her company, rode with her in the Park, walked with her in the Gardens, chatted with her at the Opera, and drank wine with her at a water party ; and finally, to prove how sincere he was in his former estimation of her judgment, have consulted her on the presents which he should make to some intimate friend of hers, whom he announces as his future bride. This is the way to manage a woman ; and the result may be conceived. She stares, she starts, she sighs, she weeps ; feels highly offended at her friend daring to accept him ; writes a letter of rejection herself to the aflBanced damsel, which she makes him sign, and then presents him with the hand which she always meant to be his. But this was above our hero. The truth is, whenever he thought of May Dacre his spirit sank. She had cowed him ; and her arrival in London had made him as dissatisfied with his present mode of life as he had been with his former career. They had met again, and under circum- stances apparently, to him, the most unfavourable. Although he was hopeless, yet he dreaded to think what she might IS8 THE YOUNG DUKE. hear of him. Her contempt was bitter ; her dislike would even be worse. Yet it seemed impossible to retrieve. He was plunged deeper than he imagined. Embarrassed, entangled, involved, he flew to Lady Afy, half in pique and half in misery. Passion had ceased to throw a glitter- ing veil around this idol ; but she was kind, and pure, and gentle, and devoted. It was consoling to be loved to one who was so wretched. It seemed to him that life must ever be a blank without the woman who, a few months ago, he had felt an encumbrance. The recollection of past happiness was bahn to one who was so forlorn. He shuddered at the thought of losing his only precious possession, and he was never more attached to his mistress than when the soul of friendship rose from the body of expired love. CHAPTER VIII. The Duke of St. James dines to-day with Mr. Annesley. Men and things should be our study ; and it is universally acknowledged that a dinner is the most important of affairs, and a dandy the most important of individuals. If we liked, we could give you a description of the fete which should make all your mouths water ; but everyone cooks now, and ekes out his page by robbing Jarrin and by rifling Ude. Charles Annesley was never seen to more advantage than when a host. Then his superciliousness would, if not vanish, at least subside. He was not less calm, but some- what less cold, like a summer lake. Therefore we will have an eye upon his party; because, to dine with dandies should be a prominent feature in your career, and must not be omitted in this sketch of the ' Life and Times ' of our young hero. The party was of that number which at once secures a variety of conversation and the impossibility of two persons speaking at the same time. The guests were his Grace, Lord Squib, and Lord Darrell. THE YOUNG DUKE. 159 TLe repast, like everything connected with Mr. Annesley, was refined and exquisite, rather slight than soHd, and more novel than various. There was no affectation of gour- ma/nddse, the vice of male dinners. Your imagination and your sight were not at the same time dazzled and confasod by an agglomeration of the peculiar luxuries of every clime and every season. As you mused over a warm and sunny flavour of a brown soup, your host did not dilate upon the milder and moonlight beauties of a white one. A gentle dallying with a whiting, that chicken of the ocean, was not a signal for a panegyric of the darker attraction of a matelotte a la royale. The disappearance of the first course did not herald a catalogue of discordant dainties. You were not recommended to neglect the croquettes because the houdins might claim attention ; and while you w6re crown- ing your important labours with a quail you were not reminded that the pate de Troyes, unlike the less reasonable human race, would feel offended if it were not cut. Then the wines were few. Some sherry, with a pedigree like an Arabian, heightened the flavour of the dish, not interfered with it; as a toady keeps up the conversation which he does not distracf.. A goblet of Graffenburg, with a bouquet Jike woman's breath, made you, as you remembered some liquid which it had been your fate to fall upon, suppose that German wines, like German barons, required some discrimination, and that hock, like other titles, was not always the sign of the high nobility of its owner. A glass of claret was the third grace. But, if we had been there, we should have devoted ourselves to one of the sparkling sisters; for one wine, like one woman, is sufficient to in- terest one's feelings for four-and-twenty hours. Fickleness we abhor. ' I observed you riding to-day with the gentle Leonora, St. James,' said Mr. Annesley. ' No ! her sister.' ' Indeed ! Tbose girls are uncommonly alike. The fact is, now, that neither face nor figure depends upon nature.' ' No,' said Lord Squib ; ' all that the artists of the pre- sent day want is a model. Let a family provide one i6o THE YOUNG DUKE. handsome sister, and the hideonsness of the others will not prevent them, under good management, from being mis- taken, by tbe best judges, for the beauty, six times in the' same hour.' ' Ton are trying, I suppose, to account for your unfor- tunate error at Cleverley's, on Monday, Squib ? ' said Lord Darrell, laughing. ' Pooh ! all nonsense.' ' What was it ? ' said Mr. Annesley. ' Not a word true,' said Lord Squib, stifling curiosity. ' I believe it,' said the Duke, without having heard a syllable. ' Come, Darrell, out with it ! ' ' It really is nothing very particular, only it is whispered that Squib said something to Lady Cleverley which made her ring the bell, and that he excnsed himself to his Lord- ship by protesting that, from their similarity of dress and manner and strong family likeness, he had mistaken the Countess for her sister.' Omnes. ' Well done. Squib ! And were you introduced to the right person ? ' 'Why,' said his Lordship, 'fortunately I contrived ta fall out about the settlements, and so I escaped.' ' So the chaste Diana is to be the new patroness ? ' said Lord Darrell. ' So I understand,' rejoined Mr. Annesley. ' This is the age of unexpected appointments.' ' Oil dit that when it was notified to the party most interested, there was a rider to the bill, excluding my Lord's relations.' ' Ha, ha, ha,' faintly laughed Mr. Annesley. ' Wliat have they been doing so remarkable ? ' ' Nothing,' said Lord Squib. ' That is just their fault. They have every recommendation ; but when any member of that family is in a room, everybody feels so exceedingly eleepy that they all sink to the ground. That is the reason that there are so many ottomans at Heavyside House.' ' Is it true,' asked the Duke, ' that his Grace really has a dapper ? ' THE YOUNG DUKE. 161 'Unquestionably,' said Lord Squib. 'The otber day I was announced, and his attendant was absent. He had left his instrument on a sofa. I immediately took it up, and touched my Lord upon his hump. I never knew him more entertaining. He really was quite lively.' ' But Diana is a favourite goddess of mine,' said Annesley ; ' taste that hock.' ' Superb ! Where did you get it ? ' ' A present from poor Rafienburg.' ' Ah ! where is he now ? ' ' At Paris, I believe.' ' Paris ! and where is she ? ' ' I liked Raffenburg,' said Lord Squib ; ' he always re- minded me of a country innkeeper who supplies you with pipes and tobacco gratis, provided that you will dine with him.' ' He had unrivalled meerschaums,' said Mr. Annesley, ' and he was most liberal. There are two. You know I never use them, but they are handsome furniture.' ' Those Dalmaines are fine girls,' said the Duke of St. James. ' Very pretty creatures ! Do you know, Duke,' said Annesley, ' I think the youngest one something hke Miss Dacre.' ' Indeed ! I cannot say the resemblance struck me.' ' I see old mother Dalmaine dresses her as much like the Doncaster belle as she possibly can.' ' Yes, and spoils her,' said Lord Squib ; ' but old mother Dalmaine, with all her fuss, was ever a bad cook, and overdid everything.' ' Young Dalmaine, they say,' observed Lord Darrell, ' is in a sort of a scrape.' ' Ah ! what ? ' ' Oh ! some confusion at head-quarters. A great tallow- chandler's son got into the regiment, and committed some heresy at mess.' ' I do not know the brother,' said the Duke. ' You are fortunate, then. He is unendurable. To give you an idea of him, suppose you met him here (which yon 1 62 THE YOUNG DUKE. never will), he would write to you the next day, " My dear St. James." ' ' My tailor presented me his best compliments, the other morning,' said the Duke. ' The world is growing familiar,' said Mr. Annesley. ' There must be some remedy,' said Lord Darrell. ' Tes ! ' said Lord Squib, with indignation. ' Tradesmen now-a-days console them.selves for not getting their bills paid by asking their customers to dinner.' ' It is shocking,' said Mr. Annesley, with a forlorn air. ' Do you know, I never enter society now without taking as many preliminary precautions as if the plague raged in all our chambers. In vain have I hitherto prided myself on my existence being unknown to the million. I never now stand stiU in a street, lest my portrait bo caught for a hthograph ; I never venture to a strange dinner, lest I should stumblo upon a fashionable noveUst ; and even with all this vigilance, and all this denial, I have an intimate friend whom I cannot cut, and who, they say, writes for the Court Journal.' ' But why cannot you cut him ? ' asked Lord Darrell. ' He is my brother ; and, you know, I pride myself upon my domestic feelings.' ' Tes ! ' said Lord Squib, ' to judge from what the world says, one would think, Annesley, you were a Brummell ! ' ' Squib, not even in jest couple my name with one whom I will not call a savage, merely because he is un- fortunate.' ' What did you think of little Eugenie, Annesley, last night ? ' asked the Duke. ' Well, very well, indeed ; something like Brocard's worst.' ' I was a little disappointed in her debut, and much in- terested in her success. She was rather a favourite of mine at Paris, so I invited her to the Alhambra yesterday, with Claudius Piggott and some more. I had half a mind to pull yon in, but I know you do not much admire Piggott.' ' On the contrary, I have been in Piggott' s company wnthout being much offended.' THE YOUNG DUKE. 163 ' I think Piggott improves,' said Lord Darrell. ' It was those waistcoats which excited such a prejudice against him when he first came over.' ' What ! a prejudice against Peacock Piggott ! ' said Lord Squib ; ' pretty Peacock Piggott ! Tell it not in Gath, whisper it not in Ascalon ; and, above all, insinuate it not to Lady de Courcy.' ' There is not nauch danger of my insinuating anything to her,' said Mr. Annesley. ' Tour compact, I hope, is religiously observed,' said the Duke. ' Yes, very well. There was a shght infraction once, but I sent Charles Fitzroy as an ambassador, and war was not declared.' ' Do you mean,' asked Lord Squib, ' when your cabriolet broke down before her door, and she sent out to request that you would make yourself quite at home ? ' ' I mean that fatal day,' replied Mr. Annesley. ' I after- wards discovered she had bribed my tiger.' ' Do yoa know Eugenie's sister, St. James ?' asked Lord Darrell. ' Yea : she is very clever ; very popular at Paris. But I like Eagenie, because she is so good-natured. Her laugh is so huarty.' ' So it is,' said Lord Squib. ' Do you remember that girl at Madrid, Annesley, who used to laugh so ? ' ' What, Isidora ? She is coming over.' ' But I thought it was high treason to plunder the rrandees' dovecotes?' ^ ' Why, all our regular oificial negotiations have failed. She is not permitted to treat with a foreign manager ; but the new Ambassador has a secretary, and that secretary has some diplomatic ability, and so, Isidora is to be smuggled over.' ' In a red box, I suppose,' said Lord Squib. ' I rather admire our Adele,' said the Duke of St. James. ' I really think she dances with more aplonib than any of them.' ' Oh ! certainly ; she is a favourite of mine.' u 2 i64 THE YOUNG DUKE. ' But I like that wild little Ducis,' said Lord Squib. ' She pats me in mind of a wild eat.' ' And Mamnia of a Bengal tiger,' said his Gtrace. ' She is a fine woman, though,' said Lord Darrell. ' I think your cousin, St. James,' said Lord Squib, ' will get into a scrape with Marunia. I remember Chetwynd telling me, and he was not apt to complain on that score, that he never should have broken up if it had not been for her.' ' But he was an extravagant fellow,' said Mr. Annesley : ' he called me in at his bouleversement for advice, as I have the reputation of a good economist. I do not know how it is, though I see these things perpetually happen ; but why men, and men of small fortunes, should commit such follies, really exceeds my comprehension. Ten thousand pounds for trinkets, and nearly as much for old furni- ture ! ' ' Chetwynd kept it up a good- many years, though, I think,' said Lord Darrell. ' I remember going to see his rooms when I first came over. Tou recollect his pearl fountain of Cologne water ? ' ' Millecolonnes fitted up his place, I think ? ' asked the young Duke ; ' but it was before my time!' ' Oh ! yes ; little Bijou,' said Annesley. ' He has done you justice, Duke. I think the Alhambra much the prettiest thing in town.' ' I was attacked the other day most vigorously by Mrs. Dalliugton to obtain a sight,' said Lord Squib. ' I re- ferred her to Lucy Grrafton. Do you know, St. James, I have half a strange idea that there is a renewal in that quarter ? ' 'So they say,' said the Duke; 'if so, I confess I am surprised.' But they remembered Lord Darrell, and the conversation turned. ' Those are clever horses of Lincoln Graves,' said Mr. Annesley. ' Neat cattle, as Bagshot says,' observed Lord Squib. ' Ts it true that Bag is going to mariy one of the Wrekins ? ' asked the Duke. THE YOUNG DUKE: 165 ' Which ? ' asked Lord Squib ; ' not Sophy, snvely ? I thought she was to be your cousin. I dare say,' he added, ' a false report. I suppose, to use a Bagshotism, his governor -wants it ; but I should think Lord Cub -would not yet be taken in. By-the-bye, he says you have promised to propose him at White's, St. James.' ' Oppose him, I said,' rejoined the Duke. ' Bag really never understands English. However, I think it as probable that he will lounge there as on the Treasury bench. That was his "governor's" last shrewd plan.' ' Darrell,' said Lord Squib, ' is there any chance of my being a Commissioner for anything? It struck me last night that I had never been in office.' ' I do not think, Squib, that you ever wUl be in office, if evei* you be appointed.' ' On the contraiy, my good fellow, my punctuality should surprise you. I should like very much to be a lay lord, becaivse I cannot affijrd to keep a yacht, and theirs, they say, are not sufficiently used, for the Admirals think it spooney, and the land-lubbers are always sick.' ' I think myself of having a yacht this summer,' said the Duke of St. James. ' Be my captain, Squib.' ' K you be serious I will commence my duties to- morrow.' ' I am serious. 1 think it will be amusing. I give you full authority to do exactly what you like, provided, in two months' time, I have the crack vessel in the club.' ' I begin to press. Aunesley, your dinner is so good that you shall be purser ; and Darrell, you are a man of business, you shall be his clerk. For the rest, I think St. Maurice may claim a place, and ' ' Peacock Piggott, by all means,' said the Duke. 'A gay sailor is quite the thing.' ' And Charles Fitzroy,' said Aunesley, ' because I am under obligations to him, and promised to have him in my eye.' ' And Bagshot for a butt,' said the Duke. ' And Backbite for a buffoon,' said Mr. Annesley. ' And for the rest,' said the young Duke, ' the rebt of r66; THE YOUNG DUKE: the crew, I vote, shall be women. The Dalmaiiies will just do.' ' And the little Trevors,' said Lord Darrell. ' And Long Harrington,' said Lord Squib. ' She is my beauty.' ' And the young Ducie,' said Annesley. ' And Mrs. Dallington of course, and Caroline St. Maurice, and Char- lotte Bloomerly ; really, she was dressed most prettily last night ; and, above all, the Queen Bee of the hive, May Dacre, eh ! St. James ? And I have another proposition,' said Annesley, with unusual animation. ' May Dacre won the St. Leger, and ruled the course ; and May Dacre shall win the cup, and rule the waves. Our yacht shall be christened by the Lady Bird of Yorkshire.' ' What a delightful thing it would be,' said the Duke of St. James, ' if, throughout life, we might always choose onr crew ; cull the beauties, and banish the bores.' ' But that is impossible,' said Lord Darrell. ' Every ornament of society is counterbalanced by some accom- panying blur. I have invariably observed that the ugliness of a chaperon is exactly in proportion to the charms of her charge ; and that if a man be distinguished for his wit, his appearance, his style, or any other good quaUly, he is sure to be saddled with some family or connection, who require all his popularity to gain them a passport into the crowd.' ' One might collect an unexceptionable coterie from our present crowd,' said Mr. Annesley. ' It would be curious to assemble all the pet lambs of the flock.' ' Is it impossible ? ' asked the Duke. ' Burlington is the only man who dare try,' said Lord Darrell. ' 1 doubt whether any individual would have sufiioient pluck,' said Lord Squib. ' Yes,' said the Duke, ' it must, I think, be a joint- stock company to share the glory and the odium Let us doit!' There was a start, and a silence, broken by Annesley in a low voice. THE YOUNG DUKE. I67 By Heavens it would be sublime, if practicable ; but the difficulty does indeed seem insurmountable.' ' Why, we would not do it,' said the young Duke, ' if it were not difficult. The first thing is to get a frame for our picture, to hit upon some happy pretence for as- sembling in an impromptu style the young and gay. Our purpose must not be too obvious. It must be something to which aU. expect to be asked, and where the presence of all is impossible ; so that, in fixing upon a particular member of a family, we may seem influenced by the wish that no circle should be neglected. Then, too, it should be some- thing Kke a water-party or a fete champetre, where colds abound and fits are always caught, so that a consideration for the old and the infirm may authorise us not to invite them ; then, too ' Omnes. ' Bravo ! bravo ! St. James. It shall be ! it shall be!' ' It must be a fete champetre,' said Annesley, decidedly, 'and as far from town as possible.' ' Twickenham is at your service,' said the Duke. ' Just the place, and just the distance. The only objec- tion is, that, by being yours, it will saddle the enterprise too much upon you. We must all bear our share in the uproar, for, trust me, there will be one ; but there are a thousand ways by which our responsibility may be insisted upon. For instance, let us make a list of all our guests, and then let one of us act as secretary, and sign the invita- tions, which shall be like tickets. No other name need appear, and the hosts wUl indicate themselves at the place of rendezvous.' ' My Lords,' said Lord Squib, ' I rise to propose the health of Mr. Secretary Annesley, and I think if anyone carry the business through, it will be he.' ' I accept the trust. At present be silent as night ; for we have much to mature, and our succeii? depends upon our secrecy.' 1 6^ THE YOUNG DUKE. CHAPTER IX. Arundel Dacee, though little apt to cultivate an ac- quaintance with anyone, called on the young Duke tht morning after their meeting. The truth is, his imagina- tion -was touched by our hero's appearance. His Grace possessed all that accomplished manner of which Arundel painfully felt the want, and to which he eagerly yielded his admiration. He earnestly desired the Duke's friendship, but, with his usual mammaise hmite, their meeting did not advance his wishes. He was as shy and constrained as usual, and being really desirous of appearing to advantage, and leaving an impression in his favour, his manner was even divested of that somewhat imposing coldness which was not altogether ineffective. In short, ho was rather disagreeable. The Duke was courteous, as he usually was, and ever to the Dacres, but he was not cordial. He dis- liked Arundel Dacre ; in a word, he looked upon him as his favoured rival. The two young men occasionally met, but did not grow more intimate. Studiously polite the young Duke ever was both to him and to his lovely cousin, for his pride concealed his pique, and he was always afraid lest his manner should betray his mind. In the meantime Sir Lucius Grraftou apparently was mnning his usual course of triumph. It is fortunate that those who will watch and wonder about everything are easily satisfied with a reason, and are ever quick in de- tecting a cause ; so Mrs. DaUington Vere was the fact that duly accounted for the Baronet's intimacy with the Dacres. All was right again between them. It was unusual, to be sure, these rifacvmentos ; still she was a charming woman ; and it was well known that Lucius had spent twenty thousand on the county. Where was that to come from, they should like to know, but from old DaUington Vere's Yorkshire estates, which he had so wisely left to his pretty wife by the pink paper codicil ? And this lady of so many loves, how felt she ? Most THE YOUNG DUKE. J69 agreeably, as all dames do wto dote upon a passion which they feel convinced will be returned, but which stiU waits for a response. Arundel Dacre would yield her a smile from a face more worn by thought than joy ; and Arundel Dacre, who was wont to muse alone, was now ever ready to join his cousin and her friends in the ride or the promenade. Miss Dacre, too, had noticed to her a kindly change in her cousin's conduct to her father. He was more cordial to his uncle, sought to pay him deference, and seemed more de- sirous of gaining his good- will. The experienced eye, too, of this pretty woman allowed her often to observe that her hero's presence was not particularly occasioned, or par- ticularly inspired, by his cousin. In a word, it was to herself that his remarks were addressed, Ms attentions devoted, and often she caught his dark and liquid eye fixed upon her beaming and refulgent brow. Sir Lucius Grafton proceeded with that strange mixture of craft and passion which characterised him. Each day his heart yearned more for the being on whom his thoughts should never have pondered. Now exulting in her increased confidence, she seemed already his victim ; now awed by her majestic spirit, he despaired even of her being his bride. Now melted by her unsophisticated innocence, he cursed even the least unhallowed of his purposes ; and now en- chanted by her consummate loveliness, he forgot all but her beauty and his own passion. Often had he dilated to her, with the skill of an arch deceiver, on the blessings of domestic joy ; often, in her presence, had his eye sparkled, when he watched the infan- tile graces of some playful children. Then he would embrace them with a soft care and gushing fondness, enough to melt the heart of any mother whom he was desirous to seduce, and then, with a half-murmured sigh, he regretted, in broken accents, that he, too, was not a father. In due time he proceeded even further. Dark hints of domestic infelicity broke unintentionally from his ungo- vemed lips. Miss Dacre stared. He quelled the tumult of his thoughts, struggled with his outbreaking feehngs, and triumphed ; yet not without a tear, which forced its way 170 THE YOUNG DUKE. down a face not formed for grief, and quivered upon his fair and downy cheek. Sir Lucius Grafton was well aware of the magic of his beauty, and used his charms to betray, as if he were a woman. Miss Dacre, whose soul was sympathy, felt in silence for this excellent, this injured, this unhappy, this agreeable man. HI could even her practised manner check the current of her mind, or conceal from Lady Aphrodite that she possessed her dishke. As for the young Duke, he fell into the lowest abyss of her opinions, and was looked upon as alike frivolous, heartless, and irreclaimable. But how are the friends with whom we dined yesterday ? Frequent were the meetings, deep the consultations, infini te the suggestions, innumerable the expedients. In the morn- ing they met and breakfasted with Annesley ; in the after- noon they met and lunched with Lord Squib; in the evening they met and dined with Lord Darrell ; and at night they met and supped at the Alhambra. Each council only the more convinced them that the scheme was feasible, and must be glorious. At last their ideas were matured, and Annesley took steps to break a great event to the world, who were on the eve of being astonished. He repaired to Lady Bloomerly. The world sometimes talked of her Ladyship and Mr. Annesley ; the world were quite wrong, as they often are on this subject. Mr. Annesley knew the value of a female friend. By Lady Bloomerly's advice, the plan was entrusted in confidence to about a dozen dames equally influential. Then a few of the most considered male friends heard a strange report. Lord Darrell droppei^ a rumour at the Treasury ; but with his finger on the mouth, and leaving himself out of the list, proceeded to give his favourable opinion of the project, merely as a disinterested and expected guest Then the Duke promised Peacock Piggott one night at the Alhambra, but swore him to solemn secrecy over a vase of sherbet. Then Squib told his tailor, in consideration that his bill should not be sent in ; and finally, the Bird of Paradise betrayed the whole affair to the musical world, who were, of course, all agog. Then, when rumour began to wa^ its THE YOUNG DUKE. iyi hundred tongues, the twelve peeresses found themselves bound in honour to step into the breach, yielded the plan their decided approbation, and their avowed patronage puzzled the grumblers, silenced the weak, and sneered down the obstinate. The invitations began to issue, and the outcry against them burst forth. A fronde was formed, but they wanted a De Retz ; and many kept back, with the hope of being bribed from joining it. The four cavaliers soon found themselves at the head of a strong party, and then, Hke a faction who have successfully struggled for toleration, they now openly maintained their supremacy. It was too late to cabal. The uninvited could only console themselves hy a passive sulk or an active sneer ; but this would not do, and their bihous countenances betrayed their chagrin. The difficulty now was, not to keep the bores away, but to obtain a few of the beauties, who hesitated. A chaperon must be found for one ; another must be added on to a party, like a star to the cluster of a constellation. Among those whose presence was most ardently desired, but seemed most doubtful, was Miss Dacre. An invitation had been sent to her father ; but he was out of town, and she did not like to join so peculiar a party without him : but it was unanimously agreed that, without her, the affair would be a failure ; and Charles Annesley was sent, envoy extra- ordinary, to arrange. With the good aid of his friend Mrs. Dallington all was at length settled; and fervid prayers that the important day might be ushered in by a smiling sun were offered up during the next fortnight, at half-past six every morning, by all civilised society, who then hurried to their night's rest. CHAPTER X. The fete at 'the Pavilion,' such was the title of the Twickenham Villa, though the subject of universal interest, was anticipated by no one with more eager anxiety than by Sir Lucius Grafton ; for that day, he determined, should 172 THE YOUNG DUKE. decide the fate of the Duke of St. James. He was sanguine as to the result, nor without reason. For the last month he had, by bis dark machinery, played desperately upon the feelings of La^y Aphrodite ; and more than once had she dispatched rapid notes to her admirer for counsel and for consolation. The Duke was more skilful in soothing her griefs than in devising expedients for their removal. He treated the threatened as a distant evil ! and vnped away her tears in a manner which is almost an encouragement to weep. At last the eventful mom arrived, and a scorching sun made those exult to whom the barge and the awning pro- mised a progress equally calm and cool. Woe to the dusty britzska ! woe to the molten furnace of the crimson cabriolet ! They came, as the stars come out from the heavens, what time the sun is in his first repose : now a single hero, brilliant as a planet ; now a splendid party, clustering Hke a constellation. Music is on the waters and perfume on the land; each moment a barque ghdes up with its cymbals, each moment a calvacade bright with bouquets ! Ah, gathering of brightness ! ah, meeting of lustre ! why, why are you to be celebrated by one so obscure and dull as I am ? Te Lady Carolines and ye Lady Fran- ceses, ye Lady Barbaras and ye Lady Blanches, -is it my fault ? O, graceful Lord Francis, why, why have you left us ; why, why have you exchanged your Ionian lyre for an Irish harp ? You were not made for pohtics ; leave them to clerks. Fly, fly back to pleasure, to frolic, and fun ! Confess, now, that yOu sometimes do feel a little queer. We say nothuig of the difference between May Fair and Donnybrook. And thou, too, Luttrell, gayest bard that ever threw off a triplet amid the clattering of cabs and the chattering of clubs, art thou, too, mute ? Where, where dost thou Hnger ? Is our Druid among the oaks of Ampthill ; or, like a tniant Etonian, is he lurking among the beeches of Burn- liam P What ! has the immortal letter, unlike all other THE YOUNG DUKE. 173 good advioo, absolutely not been thrown away ? or is the jade incorrigible ? Whichever be the case, yon need not be silent. There is yet enough to do, and yet enough to instruct. Teach ns that wealth is not elegance ; that pro- fusion is not magnificence ; and that splendour is not beauty. Teach us that taste is a talisman which can do greater wonders than the millions of the loanmonger. Teach us that to Tie is not to rival, and to imitate not to invent. Teach us that pretension is a bore. Teach us that wit is excessively good-natured, and, like champagne, not only sparkles, but is sweet. Teach us the vulgarity of malignity. Teach us that envy spoils our complexions, and that anxiety destroys our figure. Catch the fleeting colours of that sly chameleon. Cant, and show what excessive trouble we are ever taking to make ourselves miserable and silly. Teach us all this, and Aglaia shall stop a crow in its course and present you with a pen, Thalia hold the golden fluid in a Sevres vase, and Euphrosyne support the violet-coloured scroll. The four hosts greeted the arrivals and assisted the disembarkations, like the famous four sons of Aymon. They were all dressed alike, and their costume excited great attention. At first it was to have been very plain, black and white and a single rose ; but it was settled that simplicity had been overdone, and, like a country girl after her first season, had turned into a most afiected baggage, so they agreed to be regal ; and fancy uniforms, worthy of the court of Oberon, were the order of the day. We shall not describe them, for the description of costume is the most inventive province of our historical novelists, and we never like to be unfair, or trench upon our neigh- bour's lands or rights ; but the Alhambra button indicated a mystical confederacy, and made the women quite frantic with curiosity. The guests wandered through the gardens, always various, and now a paradise of novelty. There were four brothers, fresh from the wildest recesses of the Carpathian Mount, who threw out such woodnotes wUd that all the irtists stared; and it waf! universally agreed that, had 174 "J^HE YOUNG DUKE. they not been Prenoli ohorus-singers, they would have been qnite a miracle. But the Lapland sisters were the true prodigy, who danced the Mazurka in the national style. There was also a fire-eater ; but some said he would never set the river in flames, though he had an antidote against all poisons ! But then our Mithridates always tried its virtues on a stuffed poodle, whose bark evinced its vitality. There also was a giant in the wildest part of the shrubbery, and a dwarf, on whom the ladies showered their sugar- plums, and who, in return, offered them tobacco. But it was not true that the giant sported stilts, or that the dwarf was a sucking-babe. Some people are so suspicious. Then a bell rang, and assembled them in the concert- room ; and the Bird of Paradise who to-day was con- signed to the cavaliership of Peacock Piggott, condescended to favour them with a new song, which no one had ever heard, and which, consequently, made them feel more in- tensely all the subhmity of exclusiveness. Shall we forget the panniers of shoes which Meluotte had placed in every quarter of the gardens ? We will say nothing of Maradan's cases of caps, because, for this incident, Lord Bagshot is our authority. On a sudden, it seemed that a thousand bugles broke the blue air, and they were summoned to a dejeuner in four crimson tents worthy of Sardanapalus. Over each waved the scutcheon of the president. Glittering were the glories of the hundred quarterings of the house of Darrell. ' Si iwn e vera e ben trovato,' was the motto. Lord Darrell's grandfather had been a successful lawyer. Lord Squib's emblazonry was a satire on its owner. ' Holdfast ' was the motto of a man who had let loose. Annesley's simple shield spoke of the Conquest ; but all paled before the banner of the house of Hauteville, for it indicated an alliance with royalty. The attendants of each pavilion wore the livery of its lord. Shall we attempt to describe the delicacy of this ban- quet, where imagination had been racked for novel luxury ? Through the centre of each table ran a rivulet of rose- 'vater, and gold and silver fish glanced in its unrivalled THE YOUNG DUKE. 175 coarse. The bouquets were exchanged every half-hour; and music soft and subdued, but constant and thrilling, wound them up by exquisite gradations to that pitch of refined excitement which is so strange a union of delicacy and voluptuousness, when the soul, as it were, becomes sensual, and the body, as it were, dissolves into spirit. And in this choice assembly, where all was youth, and elegance, and beauty, was it not right that every sound should be melody, every sight a sight of lovehness, and every thought a thought of pleasure ? They arose and re-assembled on the lawn, where they found, to their surprise, had arisen in their absence a Dutch Pair. Numerous were the booths, innumerable were the contents. The first artists had arranged the picture and the costumes ; the first artists had made the trinkets and the toys. And what a very agreeable fair, where all might suit their fancy without the permission of that sulky tyrant, a purse ! All were in excellent humour, and no false shame prevented them from plundering the stalls. The noble proprietors set the example. Annesley offered a bouquet of precious stones to Charlotte Bloomerly, and it was accepted, and the Duke of St. James showered a sack of whimsical breloques among a scrambling crowd of laughing beauties. Among them was Miss Dacre. He had not observed her. Their eyes met, and she smiled. It seemed that he had never felt happi ness before. Ere the humours of the fair could be exhausted they were summoned to the margiu of the river, where four painted and gilded galleys, which might have sailed down the Cydnus, and each owning its peculiar chief, prepared to struggle for pre-eminence in speed. AU betted ; and the Duke, encouraged by the smile, hastened to Miss Dacre to try to win back some of his Doncaster losses, but Arundel Dacre had her arm in his, and she was evidently delighted with his discourse. His Grace's blood turned, and he walked away. It was sunset when they returned to the lawn, and then the ball-room presented itself ; but the twilight was long, and the night was warm ; there were no hateful dews, 176 THE YOUNG DUKE. no odious mista, and therefore a great number danced on tlie lawn. The fair was illuminated, and aU the little marohandes and their lusty porters walked about in their costume. The Duke again rallied his courage, and seeing Arundel Dacre with Mrs. Dallington Vere, he absolutely asked Miss Dacre to dance. She was engaged. He doubted, and walked into the house disconsolate ; yet, if he had waited one moment, he would have seen Sir Lucius Grafton rejoin her, and lead her to the cotillon that was forming on the turf. The Duke sauntered to Lady Aphrodite, but she would not dance; yet she did not yield his arm, and proposed a stroll. They wandered away to the extremity of the grounds. Painter and fainter grew the bursts of the revellers, yet neither of them spoke much, for both were dull. Tet at length her Ladyship did speak, and amply made up for her previous silence. All former scenes, to this, were but as the preface to the book. All she knew and all she dreaded, all her suspicions, all her certainties, all her fears, were poured forth in painful profusion. This night was to decide her fate. She threw herself on his mercy, if he had forgotten his love. Out dashed all those argu- ments, all those appeals, all those assertions, which they say are usual under these circumstances. She was a woman ; he was a man. She had staked her happiness on this venture ; he had a thousand cards to play. Love, and first love, with her, as with all women, was everything ; he and all men, at the worst, had a thousand resources. He might plunge into pohtics, he might game, he might fight, he might ruin himself in innumerable ways, but she could only ruin herself in one. Miserable woman ! Miserable sex ! She had given him her all. She knew it was little : would she had more ! She knew she. was unworthy of him : would she were not ! She did not ask him to sa- crifice himself to her : she could not expect it ; she did not even desire it. Only, she thought he ought to know axaotly the state of afiairs and of consequences, and that certainly if they were parted, which assuredly they would THE YOUNG DUKB. 177 be, most decidedly she would droop, and fade, and die. She wept, she sobbed ; his entreaties alone seemed io prevent hysterics. These scenes are painful at all times, and even the callous, they say, have a twinge ; but when the actress is really beautifal and pure, as this lady was, and the actor young and inexperienced and amiable, as this actor was, the consequences are more serious than is usual. The Duke of St. James was unhappy, he was discontented, he was dissatisfied with himself. He did not love this lady, if love were the passion which he entertained for Miss Dacre, but she loved him. He knew that she was beautiful, and he was convinced that she was excellent. The world is malicious, but the world had agreed that Lady Aphrodite was an unblemished pearl :- yet this jewel was reserved for him! Intense gratitude almost amounted to love. In short, he had no idea at this moment that feelings are not in our power. His were captive, even if entrapped. It was a great responsibility to desert this creature, the only one from whom he had experienced devotion. To con- clude : a season of extraordinary dissipation, to use no harsher phrase, had somewhat exhausted the nervous powers of our hero ; his energies were deserting him ; he had not heart or heartlessness enough to extricate himself from this dilemma. It seemed that, if this being to whom he was indebted for so much joy were miserable, he must be unhappy ; that if she died, life ought to have, could have, no charms for him. He kissed away her tears, he pledged his faith, and Lady Aphrodite Grafton was his betrothed ! She wonderfully recovered. Her deep but silent joy seemed to repay him even for this bitter sacrifice. Com- pared with the late racking of his feelings, the present calm, which was merely the result of suspense being destroyed, seemed happiness. His conscience whispered approbation, and he felt that, for once, he had sacrificed himself to another. They re-entered the villa, and he took the first opportu- nity of wandering alone to the least frequented parts of ■ 1.78 THE YOUNG DUKE. the grounds : his mind demanded solitude, and his seal required soliloquy. ' So the game is up ! truly a most lame and impotent conclusion ! And this, then, is the result of all my high fancies and indefinite aspirations ! Verily, I am a very distinguished hero, and have not abused my unrivalled advantages in the least. What ! am I bitter on myself ? There will be enough to sing my praises without myself joining in this chorus of congratxdation. ! fool ! fool ! Now I know what folly is. But barely fifteen months since I stepped upon these shores, full of hope and full of pride ; and now I leave them ; how ? ! my dishonoured fathers ! Even my posterity, which God grant I may not have, will look on my memory with hatred, and on hers with scorn ! ' Well, I suppose we must live for ourselves. We both of us know the world ; and Heaven can bear witness that we should not be haunted by any uneasy hankering after what has brought us such a heartache. If it were for love, if it were for ; but away ! I will not profane her name ; if it were for her that I was thus sacrificing myself, I could bear it, I could welcome it. I can imagine perfect and everlasting bliss ia the sole society of one single being, but she is not that being. Let me not conceal it ; let me wrestle with this bitter conviction ! ' And am I, indeed, bound to close my career thus ; to throw away all hope, all chance of felicity, at my age, for a point of honour ? No, no ; it is not that. After all, I have experienced that with her, and from her, which I have with no other woman ; and she is so good, so gentle, and, all agree, so lovely ! How infinitely worse would her situa- tion be if deserted, than mine is as her perpetual com- panion ! The very thought makes my heart bleed. Yes ! amiable, devoted, dearest Afy, I throw aside these morbid feelings ; you shall never repent having placed your trust in me. I will be proud and happy of such a friend, and you shall be mine for ever ! ' A shriek broke on the air : he started, it was near : he haeteiiQd after the sound. He e^teyed into a amftll grcep THE YOUNG DUKE. I79 glade surrormded by slirubs, where had been erected a fancifiil hermitage. There he found Sir Lucius Grafton on his knees, grasping the hand of the indignant but terrified Miss Dacre. The Duke rushed forward ; Miss Dacre ran to meet him ; Sir Lucius rose. ' This lady, Sir Lucius Grafton, is under my protection,' said the young Duke, with a flashing eye but a calm voice. She clung to his arm ; he bore her away. The whole was the affair of an instant. The Duke and his companion proceeded in silence. She tried to hasten, but he felt her limbs shake upon his arm. He stopped : no one, not even a servant, was near. He could not leave her for an instant. There she stood trem- bling, her head bent down, and one hand clasping the other, which rested on his arm. Terrible was her struggle, but she would not faint, and at length succeeded in re- pressing her emotions. They were yet a considerable way from the house. She motioned with her left hand to advance; but still she did not speak. On they walked, though more slowly, for she was exhausted, and occasionally stopped for breath or strength. At length she said, in a faint voice, ' I cannot join the party. I must go home directly. How can it be done ? ' ' Your companions ? ' said the Duke. ' Are of course engaged, or not to be found ; but surely somebody I know is departing. Manage it : say I am iU.' ' 0, Miss Dacre ! if you knew the agony of my mind ! ' ' Do not speak ; for Heaven's sake, do not speak I ' He turned off from the la'mi, and approached by a small circuit the gate of the ground. Suddenly he perceived a carriage on the point of going off. It was the Duchess of Shropshire's. ' There is the Duchess of Shropshire ! You know her •, but not a minute is to be lost. There is such a noise, they will not hear. Are you afraid to stop here one instant- by yourself? I shall not be out of sight, and not away a second, I run very quick.' H 3 i8o THE YOUNG DUKE. ' No, no, I am not afraid. Go, go ! ' Away rushed tte Duke of St. James as if his life were on his speed. He stopped the carriage, spoke, and was back in an instant. ' Lean, lean on me with all your strength. I have told everjrthing necessary to Lady Shropshire. Nobody will speak a word, because they believe you have a terrible headache. I will say everything necessary to Mrs. Dal- lington and your cousin. Do not give yourself a mo- ment's uneasiness. And, oh ! Miss Dacre ! if I might say one word ! ' She did not stop him. ' If,' continued he, ' it be yotir wish that the outrage of to-night should be known only to myself and him, I pledge my word it shall be so ; though willingly, if I were au- thorised, I would act a dififerent part in this affair.' ' It ia my wish.' She spoke in a low voice, with her eyes still upon the ground. ' And I thank you for this, and for all.' They had now joined the Shropshires ; but it was now discovered Miss Dacre had no shawl : and sundry other articles were wanting, to the evident dismay of the Ladies Wrekin. They offered theirs, but their visitor refused, and would not allow the Duke to fetch her own. Off they drove ; but when they had proceeded above half a mile, a continued shout on the road, which the fat coachman for a long time would not hear, stopped them, and up came the Duke of St. James, covered with dust, and panting like a racer, with Miss Dacre's shawl. CHAPTER XI. So much time was occupied by this adventure of the shawl, and by making requisite explanations to Mrs. Dallington Vere, that almost the whole of the guests had retired, when the Duke found himself again in the saloon. His brother-hosts, too, were off with various parties, to THE YOUNG DUKE. i8t whicli they had attached themselves. He found the Fitz- pompeys and a few still lingering for their carriages, and Arundel Dacre and his fair admirer. His Grace had promised to return with Lady Afy, and was devising some scheme by which he might free himself from this, now not very suitable, engagement, when she claimed his arm. She was leaning on it, and talking to Lady Fitz-pompey, when Sir Lucius approached, and, with his usual tone, put a note into the Duke'a hand, saying at the same time, ' This appears to belong to you. I shall go to town with Piggott ;' and then he walked away. With the wife leaning on his arm, the young Duke had the pleasure of reading the following lines, written with the pencil of the husband : — ' After what has just occurred, only one more meeting can take place between us, and the sooner that takes place the better for all parties. This is no time for etiquette. I shall be in Kensington Gardens, in the grove on the right side of the summer-house, at half-past six to-morrow morn- ing, and shall doubtless find you there.' Sir Lucius was not out of sight when the Duke had finished reading his cartel. Making some confused excuse to Lady Aly, which was not expected, he ran after the Baronet, and soon reached him. ' Grafton, I shall be. punctual : but there is one point on which I wish to epeak to you at once. The cause of this meeting may be kept, I hope, a secret ? ' ' So far as I am concerned, an inviolable one,' bowed the Baronet, stiiHy ; and they parted. The Duke returned satisfied, for Sir Lucius Grafton ever observed his word, to say nothing of the great interest which he surely had this time in maintaining his pledge. Our hero thought that he never should reach London. The journey seemed a day; and the efibrt to amuse Lady Afy, and to prevent her from suspecting, by his conduct, that anything had occurred, was most painful. Silent, however, he at last became ; but her mind, too, was en- 1 82 THE YOUNG DUKE. gaged, and she supposed that her admirer was quiet only because, like herself, he was happy. At length they reached her house, but he excused himself from entering, and drove on immediately to Annesley. He was at Lady Bloomerly's. Lord Darrell had not returned, and his servant did not expect him. Lord Squib was never to be found. The Duke put on a great coat over his uniform and drove to White's ; it was really a wilderness. Never had he seen fewer men there in his life, and there were none of his set. The only young-looking man was old Colonel Carlisle, who, with his skilfully enamelled cheek, flowing auburn locks, shining teeth, and tinted whiskers, might have been mistaken for gay twenty-seven, instead of grey seventy-two ; but the Colonel had the gout, to say no- thing of any other objections. The Duke took up the ' Courier ' and read three or four advertisements of quack medicines, but nobody entered. It was nearly midnight : he got nervous. Somebody came in ; Lord Hounslow for his rubber. Even his favoured child, Bagshot, would be better than nobody. The Duke protested that the next acquaintance who entered shoxdd be his second, old or young. His vow had scarcely been registered when Arundel Dacre came in alone. He was the last man to whom the Duke wished to address himself, b'ut Fate seemed to have decided it, and the Duke walked up to him. ' Mr. Dacre, I am about to ask of you a favour to which I have no claim.' Mr. Dacre looked a little confased, and murmured his willingness to do anything. ' To be explicit, I am engaged in an aflair of honour of an urgent nature. Will you be my friend ? ' ' WilUugly.' He spoke with more ease. ' May I ask the name of the other party, the — the cause of the meet- ing?' ' The other party is Sir Lucius Grafton.' ' Hum ! ' said Arundel Dacre, as if he were no longer curious about the cause. ' When do you meet ? ' ' At half-past six, in Kensington Gardens, to-morrow ; 1 believe I should say this morning.' THE YOUNG DUKE. 183 ' Tfonr Grace must be wearied,' said Arundel, with un- usual ease and animation. ' Now, follow my advice. Go home at once and get some rest. Give yourself no trouble about preparations ; leave everything to me. I will call upon you at half-past five precisely, with a chaise and post-horses, which will divert suspicion. Now, good night ! ' ' But really, your rest must be considered ; and then all this trouble ! ' ' Oh ! I have been in the habit of sitting up all night. Do not think of me ; nor am I quite inexperienced in these matters, in too many of which I have unfortunately been engaged in Germany.' The young men shook hands, and the Duke hastened home. Fortunately the Bird of Paradise was at her own esta- blishment in Baker Street, a bureau where her secretary, in her behalf, transacted business with the various courts of Europe and the numerous cities of Great Britain. Here many a negotiation was carried on for opera engage- ments at Vienna, or Paris, or Berlin, or St. Petersburg. Here many a diplomatic correspondence conducted the fate of the musical festivals of York, or Norwich, or Exeter. CHAPTER Xn. Let us return to Sir Lucius Grafton. He is as mad as any man must be who feels that the imprudence of a moment has dashed to the ground all the plans, and all the hopes, and all the great results, over which he had so often pon- dered. The great day from which he had expected so much had passed, nor was it possible for four-and-twenty hours more completely to have reversed all his feelings and all his prospects. Miss Dacre had shared the innocent but unusual and excessive gaiety which had properly become a scene of festivity at once so agreeable, so various, and so novel. Sir Lucius Grafton had not been insensible to the excitement. On the contrary hia impetuous cassionB 1 84 THE YOUNG DUKE. seemed to recall tie former and more fervent days of his career, and his voluptuous mind dangerously sympathised with the beautiful and luxurious scene. He was elated, too, with the thought that his freedom would perhaps be sealed this evening, and stiU more by his almost constant attend- ance on his fascinating companion. As the particular friend of the Dacre family, and as the secret ally of Mrs. Dallington Vere, he in some manner contrived always to be at Miss Dacre's side. With the laughing but insidioua pretence that he was now almost too grave and staid a personage for such scenes, he conversed with few others, and humorously maintaining that his ' dancing days were over,' danced with none but her. Even when her attention was engaged by a third person, he lingered about, and with his consummate knowledge of the world, easy wit, and con- stant resources, generally succeeded in not only sliding into the conversation, but engrossing it. Arundel Dacre, too, although that young gentleman had not departed from his usual coldness in favour of Sir Lucius Grafton, the Baronet would most provokLagly consider as his particular friend; never seemed to be conscious that his reserved companion was most punctilious in his address to him; but on the contrary, called him in return 'Dacre,' and some times ' Arundel.' In vain young Dacre struggled to main- tain his position. His manner was no match for that of Sir Lucius Grafton. Annoyed with himself, he felt confused, and often quitted his cousin that he might be free of his friend. Thus Sir Lucius Grafton contrived never to permit Miss Dacre to be alone with Arundel, and to her he was so courteous, so agreeable, and so useful, that his absence seemed always a blank, or a period in which something ever went wrong. The triumphant day rolled on, and each moment Sit Lucius felt more sanguine and more excited. We wUl not dwell upon the advancing confidence of his desperate mind. Hope expanded into certainty, certainty burst into impa- tience. Li a desperate moment he breathed his passion. May Dacre was the last girl to feel at a loss in such a situation. No one would have rung him out of a salooo THE YOUNG DUKE. 185 with an air of more contenaptuous majesty. But the shock, the solitary strangeness of the sceiae, the fear, for the first time, that none were near, and perhaps, also, her exhausted energy, frightened her, and she shrieked. One only had heard that shriek, yet that one was legion. Sooner might the whole world know the worst than this person suspect the least. Sir Lucius was left silent with rage, mad with passion, desperate with hate. He gasped for breath. Now his brow burnt, now the cold dew ran off his countenance in streams. He clenched his fist, he stanaped with agony, he found at length his voice, and he blasphemed to the unconscious woods. His quick brain flew to the results like lightning. The Duke had escaped from his mesh ; his madness had done more to win this boy Miss Dacre's heart than an age of courtship. He had lost the idol of his passion; he was fixed for ever with the creature of his hate. He loathed the idea. He tottered into the hermitage, and buried his face in his hands. Something must be done. Some monstrous act of energy must repair this fatal blunder. He appealed to the mind which had never deserted him. The oracle was mute. Yet vengeance might even slightly redeem the bitterness of despair. This fellow should die ; and his girl, for already he hated Miss Dacre, should not triumph in her minion. He tore a leaf from his tablets, and wrote the lines we have already read. The young Duke reached home. Tou expect, of course, that he sat up all night making his will and answering letters. By no means. The first object that caught his eye was an enormous ottoman. He threw himself upon it without undressing, and without speaking a word to Luigi, and in a moment was fast asleep. He was fairly exhausted. Luigi stared, and called Spiridion to consult. They agreed that they dare not go to bed, ■ and must not leave their lord ; so they played e carte, till at last they quarrelled and fought with the candles over the table. But even this did not wake their unreasonable master ; so Spiridion threw down a few chairs by accident ; bat all in vain. At half- 1 85- THE YOUNG DUKE. past five there was a knoddng at the gate, and they hm-riod away. Arundel Dacre entered with them, woke the Duke, and praised him for his punctuality. His Grrace thought that he had only dozed a few minutes ; but time pressed ; five minutes arranged his toilet, and they were first on the field. In a moment Sir Lucius and Mr. Piggott appeared. Arundel Dacre, on the way, had anxiously enquired as to the probability of reconciliation, but was told at once it was impossible, so now he measured the ground and loaded the pistols with a calmness which was admirable. They fired at once; the Duke in the air, and the Baronet ia his friend's side. When Sir Lucius saw his Grace fall his hate vanished. He ran up with real anxiety and unfeipjned anguish. ' Have I hit you, by h— 11 ! ' His Grace was magnanimous, but the case was urgent. A surgeon gave a favourable report, and extracted the ball on the spot. The Duke was carried back to his chaise, and in an hour was in the state bed, not of the Alhambra, but of his neglected mansion. Arundel Dacre retired when he had seen his friend home, but gave urgent commands that he should be kept quiet. No sooner was the second out of sight than the principal ordered the room to be cleared, with the exception of Spi- ridion, and then, rising in his bed, wrote this note, which the page- was secretly to deliver. ' House, , 182-. ' Dear Miss Dacke, ' A very unimportant but somewhat disagreeable inci- dent has occurred. I have been obliged to meet Sir Lucius Grafton, and our meeting has fortunately terminated without any serious consequences. Yet I wish that you should hear of this first from me, lest you might imagine that I had not redeemed my pledge of last night, and that T had placed for a moment my own feelings in competition (vith yours. This is not the case, and never shall be dear THE YOUNG. DUUB, 187 Miss Daore, with one whose greatest pride is to subscribe himseli" ' Your most obedient and faithful servant, ' St. Jambs.' CHAPTER XIII. The world talked of nothing but the duel between the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius Grafton. It was a thunderbolt; and the phenomenon was accounted for by every cause but the right one. Yet even those who most confidently solved the riddle were the most eagerly em- ployed in investigating its true meaning. The seconds were of oourge-applied to. Arundel Dacre was proverbially un- pumpable ; but Peacock Piggott, whose communicative temper was an adage, how came he on a sudden so diplo- matic ? Not a syllable oozed from a mouth which was ever open ; not a hint from a countenance which never could conceal its mind. He was not even mysterious, but really looked just as astonished and was just as curious as themselves. Fine times these fbr ' The Universe' and ' The New World ! ' All came out about Lady Afy ; and they made up for their long and previous ignorance, or, as they now boldly blustered, their long and considerate forbearance. Sheets given away gratis, edition on Saturday night for the country, and woodcuts of the Pavilion fete : the when, the how, and the wherefore. A. The summer-house, and Lady Aphrodite meeting the young Duke. B. The hedge behind which Sir Lucius Grafton was concealed. 0. Kensington Gardens, and a cloudy morning ; and so on. Gruikshank did wonders. But let us endeavour to ascertain the feelings of the principal agents in this odd affair. Sir Lucius now was cool, and, the mischief being done, took a calm review of the late mad hours. As was his custom, he began to enquire whether any good could be elicited from all this evil. He owed his late adversary sundry moneys, which he had never contemplated the possibility of repaying to the 1 88 THE YOUNG DUKE. person wlio had eloped witli his wife. Had he shot his creditor the account would equally have heen cleared ; and this consideration, although it did not prompt, had not dissuaded, the late desperate deed. As it was, he now appeared still to enjoy the possession both of his wife and his debts, and had lost his friend. Bad generalship, Sir Lucy ! Reconciliation was out of the question. The Duke's position was a good one. Strongly entrenched vrith a flesh wound, he had all the sympathy of society on his side ; and, after having been confined for a few weeks, he could go to Paris for a few months, and then return, as if the Graftons had never crossed his eye, rid of a trouble- some mistress and a troublesome friend. His position was certainly a good one ; but Sir Lucius was astute, and he de- termined to turn this Shumla of his Grace. The quarrel-' must have been about her Ladyship. Who could assign any other cause for it ? And the Duke must now be weak with loss of blood and anxiety, and totally unable to resist any appeal, particularly a personal one, to his feelings. He determined, therefore, to drive Lady Afy into his Grace's arms. K he could only get her into the house for an hour, the business would be settled. These cunning plans were, however, nearly being crossed by a very simple incident. Annoyed at finding that her feelings could be consulted only by sacrificing those of another woman. Miss Dacre, quite confident that, as Lady Aphrodite was innocent in the present instance, she must be immaculate, told everything to her father, and, stifling her tears, begged him to make all public ; but Mr. Daore, after due consideration, enjoined silence. In the meantime the young- Duke was not in so calm a mood as Sir Lucius. Rapidly the late extraordinary events dashed through his mind, and already those feelings which had prompted his sohloquy in the garden were no longer his. All forms, all images, aU ideas, all memory, melted into Miss Dacre. He felt that he loved her with a perfect love : that she was to him what no other woman had been, even in the factitious delirium of early passion. A thought of her seemed to bring an entirely novel train of feelings, THS YOUNG DUKE. 189 impressions, -wislies, hopes. The world with her must be a totally different system, and his existence in her society a new and another life. Her very pnrity refined the pas- sion which raged even in his exhausted mind. Gleams of virtue, morning streaks of duty, broke upon the horizon of his hitherto clouded soul ; an obscure suspicion of the Qtter worthlessness of his life whispered in his hollow ear ; he darkly felt that happiness was too philosophical a sys- tem to be the result or the reward of impulse, however unbounded, and that principle alone could create and could support that bliss which is our being's end and aim. But when he turned to himself, he viewed his situation with horror, and yielded almost to despair. What, what could she think of the impure libertine who dared to adore her ? If ever time could bleach his own soul and conciliate hers, what, what was to become of Aphrodite ? Was his new career to commence by a new crime ? Was he to desert this creature of his affections, and break a heart which beat only for him ? It seemed that the only com- pensation he could offer for a life which had achieved no good would be to establish the felicity of the only being whose happiness seemed in his power. Tet what a pros- pect ! If before he had trembled, now But his harrowed mind and exhausted body no longer allowed him even anxiety. Weak, yet excited, his senses fled ; and when Arundel Dacre returned in the evening he found bis friend delirious. He sat by his bed for hours. Suddenly the Duke speaks. Arundel Dacre rises : he leans over the sufferer's couch. Ah ! why turns the face of the listener so pale, and why gleam those eyes with terrible fire ? The perspiration courses down his clear but sallow cheek : he throws his dark and clustering curls aside, and passes his hand over his damp brow, as if to ask whether he, too, had lost his senses from this fray. The Duke is agitated. He waves his arm in the air, and calls out in a tone of defiance and of hate. His voice sinks : it seems that he breathes a milder language, and sneaks to some softer being. Tlier<» is no sound, save the igo THE YOUNG DUKE. long-drawn breatii of one on wliose countenance is stamped infinite amazement. Arundel Dacre walks the room dis- turbed ; often he pauses, plunged in. deep thought. 'Tis an hour past midnight, and he quits the bedside of the young Duke. He pauses at the threshold, and seems to respire even the noisome air of the metropolis as if it were Eden. Aa he proceeds down HUl Street he stops, and gazes for a moment on the opposite house. What passes in his mind we know not. Perhaps he is reminded that in that man- sion dwell beauty, wealth, and influence, and that all might be his. Perhaps love prompts that gaze, perhaps ambition. Is it passion, or is it power ? or does one struggle with the other ? As he gazes the door opens, but without servants ; and a man, deeply shrouded in. his cloak, comes out. It was night, and the individual was disguised ; but there are eyes which can pierce at all seasons and through all conceal- ments, and Arundel Dacre marked with astonishment Sir Lucius Grafton. CHAPTER XIV. When it was understood that the Duke of St. James had been delirious, pubho feeling reached what is called its height ; that is to say, the curiosity and the ignorance of the world were about equal. Everybody was indignant, not so much because the young Duke had been shot, but because they did not know why. If the sympathy of the women could have consoled him, our hero might have been reconciled to his fate. Among these, no one appeared more anxious as to the result, and more ignorant as to the cause, than Mrs. DaUington Vere. Arundel Dacre caUed on hor the morning ensuing his midnight observation, but under- stood that she had not seen Sir Lucius Grafton, who, they said, had quitted London, which she thought probable. Nevertheless Arundel thought proper to walk down liiU THE YOUNG DUKE. igi Street at the salne hour, and, if not at the same minute, yet in due course of time, he discovered the absent man. In two or three days the young Duke was declared out of immediate danger, though his attendants must say he remained exceedingly restless, and by no means in a satis- factory state ; yet, with their aid, they had a right to hope the best. At any rate, if he were to go off, his friends would have the satisfaction of remembering that all had been done that could be ; so saying. Dr. X. took his fee, and Surgeons T. and Z. prevented his conduct from being singular. Now began the operations on the Grafton side. A letter from Lady Aphrodite fall of distraction. She was fairly mystified. What could have induced Lucy suddenly to act so, puzzled her, as well it might. Her despair, and yet her confidence in his Grace, seemed equally great. Some talk there was of going off to Oleve at once. Her husband, on the whole, maintained a rigid silence and studied coolness. Yet he had talked of Vienna and Florence, and even mur- mured something about pubho disgrace and public ridicule. In short, the poor lady was fairly worn out, and wished to terminate her harassing career at once by cutting the Gordian knot. In a word, she proposed coming on to her admirer and, as she supposed, her victim, and having the satisfaction of giving him his cooling draughts and arrang- ing his bandages. If the meeting between the young Duke and Sir Lucius Grafton had been occasioned by any other cause than the real one, it is difficult to say what might have been the fate of this proposition. Our own opinion is, that this work would have been only in two volumes ; for the requisite morality would have made out the present one ; but, as it was, the image of Miss Dacre hovered above our hero as his guardian genius. He despaired of ever obtaining her ; but yet he determined not wilfully to crush all hope. Some great effort must be made to right his position. Lady Aphrodite must not be deserted : the very thought increased his fever. He wrote, to gain time ; but another billet, in immediate Rjigwer, only painted increased terrors, and described the 192 THE YOUNG DUKE. growing uigency of her persecuted situation. He was driven into a corner, but even a stag at bay is awful : what, then, must be a young Duke, the most noble animal it existence ? HI as he was, he wrote these lines, not to Lady Aphrodite, but to her husband : — ' My Dear Geapton, ' You wiU be surprised at hearing from me. Is it neces- sary for me to assure you that my interference on a late occa- sion was accidental ? And can you, for a moment, maintain that, under the circumstances, I could have acted in a different manner ? I regret the whole business ; but most I regret that we were placed in collision. ' I am ready to cast all memory of it into oblivion ; and, as I unintentionally offended, I indulge the hope that, in this conduct, you will bear me company. ' Surely, men like us are not to be dissuaded from fol- lowing our inclinations by any fear of the opinion of the world. The whole affair is, at present, a mystery ; and I think, with our united fancies, some explanation may be hit upon which will render the mystery quite impenetrable, while it professes to offer a satisfactory solution. ' I do not know whether this letter expresses my meaning, for my mind is somewhat agitated and my head not very clear ; but, if you be incUned to understand it in the right spirit, it is sufficiently lucid. At any rate, my dear Grafton, I have once more the pleasure of subscribing myself, faith- fully yours, ' St. James.' This letter was marked 'immediate,' consigned to the custody of Luigi, with positive orders to deliver it person- ally to Sir Lucius ; and, if not at home, to follow till he found him. He was not at home, and he was found at 's Club- house. Sullen, dissatisfied with himself, doubtful as to the result of his fresh manoeuvres, and brooding over his infernal debts, Sir Lucius had stepped into , and passed the whole morning playing desperately with Lord Hounalow THE YOUNG DUKE. 193 and Baron de Berghem. Never had he experienced such a smashing morning. He had long far exceeded his re- sources, and was proceeding with a vague idea that he should find money somehow or other, when this note was put into his hand, as it seemed to him by Providence The signature of Semiramis could not have imparted more exquisite delight to a collector of autographs. Were his long views, his complicated objects, and doubtful results to be put in competition a moment with so decided, so simple, and so certain a benefit ? certainly not, by a gamester. He rose from the table, and with strange elation wrote these lines : — ' Mt Dearest Peiend, ' You forgive me, but can I forgive myself ? 1 am plunged in overwhelming grief. Shall I come on ? Your mad but devoted friend, ' Lucius Geafton. ' The Duke of St. James.' They met the same day. After a long consultation, it was settled that Peacock Piggott should be entrusted, iu confidence, with the secret of the affair: merely a drunken squabble, ' growing out ' of the Bird of Paradise. Wine, jealousy, an artful woman, and headstrong youth will account for anything ; they accounted for the present afiair. The story was believed, because the world were always puzzled at Lady Aphrodite being the cause. The Baronet proceeded with promptitude to make the version pass current : he indicted ' The Universe ' and ' The New World ; ' he prosecuted the caricaturists ; and was seen everywhere with his wife. ' The Universe ' and ' The New World ' revenged themselves on the Signora ; and then she indicted them. They could not now even libel an opera singer with impuoity ; where was the boasted liberty of the Press ? In the meantime the young Duke, once more easy in his mind, wonderfully recovered ; and on the eighth day after the Ball of Beauty he returned to the Pavilion, which liud now resumed its usual calm character, for fre.sh air and soothing quiet. 194 THE YOUNG DUKE. CHAPTER XV. On the morning of the young Duke's departure for Twicken- ham, as Miss Dacre and Lady Caroline St. Maurice were sitting together at the house of the former, and moralising over the last night's ball, Mr. Arundel Dacre was an- nounced. ' Tou have just arrived in time to offer your congratula- tions, Arundel, on an agreeable event,' said Miss Dacre. ' Lord St. Maurice is about to lead to the hymeneal altar ' ' Lady Sophy Wrekin ; I know it.' ' How extremely diplomatic ! The attaohe in your very air. I thought, of course, I was to surprise you ; but future ambassadors have such extraordinary sources of informal tion.' 'Mine is a simple one. The Duchess, imagining, I suppose, that my attentions were directed to the wrong lady, warned me some weeks past. However, my congratulations shall be duly paid. Lady Caroline St. Maurice, allow me to express ' ' All that you ought to feel,' said Miss Dacre. ' But men at the present day pride themselves on insensibility.' ' Do you think I am insensible. Lady Caroline ? ' asked Arundel. ' I must protest against unfair questions,' said her Lady- ship. ' But it is not unfair. Tou are a person who have now seen me more than once, and therefore, according to May, you ought to have a perfect knowledge of my character. Moreover, you do not share the prejudices of my family. I ask you, then, do you think I am so heartless as May would insinuate ? '. ' Does she insinuate so much ? ' ' Does she not call me insensible, because I am not in raptures that your brother is about to marry a young lady who, for aught she knows, may be the object of my secret adoration ? ' THE YOUNG DUKE. 195 • Arundel, you are perverse,' said Miss Dacre. ' No, May ; I am logical.' ' I have always heard that logic is much worse than wilfulness,' said Lady Caroline. ' But Arundel always was both,' said Miss Dacre. ' He is not only unreasonable, but he will always prove that he is right. Here is your purse, sir ! ' she added, with a smile, presenting him with the result of her week's labour. ' This is the way she always bribes me. Lady Caroline. Do you approve of this corruption ? ' ' I must confess, I have a slight though secret kindness for a little bribery. Mamma is now on her way to Mor- timer's, on a corrupt embassy. The nov/uelle mwriee, you know, must be reconciled to her change of lot by quite a new set of playthings. I can give you no idea of the necklace that our magnificent cousin, in spite of his wound, has sent Sopby.' ' But then such a cousin ! ' said Miss Dacre. ' A young Duke, like the young lady in the fairy tale, should scarcely ever speak without producing brilliants.' ' Sophy is highly sensible of the attention. As she amusingly observed, except himself marrying her, he could scarcely do more. I hear the carriage. Adieu, love ! Good morning, Mr. Dacre.' ' Allow me to see you to your carriage. I am to dine at Fitz-pompey House to-day, I beheve.' Arundel Dacre returned to his cousin, and, seating him- self at the table, took up a book, and began reading it the wrong side upwards ; then he threw down a ball of silk, then he cracked a knitting-needle, and then with a husky sort of voice and a half blush, and altogether an air of infinite confusion, he said, ' This has been an odd aifair, May, of the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius Grafton ? ' ' A very distressing affair, Arundel.' How singular that I should have been his second, May?' ' Could he have found anyone more fit for that office, Arundel ? ' ' I think he might. I must say this : that, had 1 known o 2 196 THE YOUNG DUKE. at the time the cause of the fray, I should have refused to accompany him..' She was silent, and he resumed : ' An opera singer, at the best ! Sir Lucius Grafton showed more discrimination. Peacock Piggott was just the character for his place, and I think my principal, too, might have found a more congenial sprite. What do yon think, May ? ' ' Really, Arundel, this is a subject of which I know nothing.' ' Indeed ! Well, it is odd. May ; but do you know I have a queer suspicion that you know more about it than any- body else.' ' I ! Arundel ? ' she exclaimed, with marked confusion. ' Tes, you, May,' he repeated with firmness, and looked her in the face with a glance which would read her soul. 'Ay! I am sure you do.' ' Who says so ?' ' Oh ! do not fear that yon have been betrayed. No one says it ; but I know it. We future ambassadors, you know, liave such extraordinary sources of information.' ' You jest, Arundel, on a grave subject.' ' Grave ! yes, it is grave, May Dacre. It is grave that there should be secrets between us ; it is grave that our house should have been insulted ; it is grave that you, of all others, should have been outraged ; but oh ! it is much more grave, it is bitter, that any other arm than this should have avenged the wrong.' He rose from his chair, he paced the room in agitation, and gnashed his teeth with a vindictive expression that he tried not to suppress. ' O ! my cousin, my dear, dear cousin ! spare me ! ' She hid her face in her hands, yet she continued speaking in a broken voice : ' I did it for the best. It was to suppress strife, to prevent bloodshed. I knew your temper, and I feared for your life ; yet I told my father ; I told him all : and it was by his advice that I have maintained throughout the silence which I, perhaps too hastily, at first adopted.' ' My own dear May ! spare me ! T nannot mark a leaf THE YOUNG DJJKE. 197 from you without a pang. How I came to know this you wonder. It was the delirium of that person who should not have played so proud a part in tliia affair, and who is yet our friend ; it was his delirium that betrayed all. In the madness of his excited brain he reacted the frightful scene, declared the outrage, and again avenged it. Yet, believe me, I am not tempted by any petty feeling of show- ing I am not ignorant of what is considered a secret to declare all this. I know, I feel your silence was for the best ; that it was prompted by sweet and holy feelings for my sake. Believe me, my dear cousin, if anything could increase the infinite affection with which I love you, it would be the consciousness that at all times, whenever tny image crosses your mind, it is to muse for my benefit, or to extenuate my errors. ' Dear May, you, who know me better than the world, enow well my heart is not a mass of ice ; and you, who are ever so ready to find a good- reason even for my most wilful conduct, and an excuse for my most irrational, will easily credit that, in interfering in an affair in which you are concerned, I am not influenced by an unworthy, an officious, or a meddling spirit. No, dear May ! it is because I think it better for you that we should speak upon this subject that I have ventured to treat upon it. Perhaps I broke it in a crude, but, credit me, not in an unkind, spirit. I am well conscious I have a somewhat ungracious manner ; but you, who have pardoned it so often, will excuse it now. To be brief, it is of your companion to that accursed fete that I would speak.' ' Mrs. Dallington ? ' ' Surely she. Avoid her. May. I do not like that woman, you know I seldom speak at hazard ; if I do not speak more distinctly now, it is because I will never magnify suspicions into certainties, which we must do even if we mention them. But I suspect, greatly suspect. An open rupture would be disagreeable, would be unwarrantable, would be impolitic. The season draws to a close. Quit tovin somewhat earlier than usual, and, in the meantime, receive her, if necessary ; but, if, possible, never alone. You 1 98 THE YOUNG DUKE. have many friends ; and, if no other, Lady Caroline St Maurice is worthy of your society.' He bent down his head and kissed her forehead : she pressed his faithful hand. ' And now, dear May, let me speak of a less important object, of myself. I find this borough a mere delusion. Every day new difficulties arise ; and every day my chance seems weaker. I am wasting precious time for one who should be in action. I think, then, of returning to Vienna, and at once. I have some chance of being appointed Secre- tary of Embassy, and I then shall have achieved what was the great object of my life, independence.' ' This is always a sorrowful subject to me, Arundel. You have cherished such strange, do not be offended if I say such erroneous, ideas on the subject of what yon call iudependence, that I feel that upon it we can consult neither with profit to you nor satisfaction to myself. In- dependence ! Who is independent, if the heir of Dacre bow to anyone ? Independence ! Who can be independent, if the future head of one of the first families in this great country will condescend to be the secretary even of a King?' ' We have often talked of this. May, and perhaps I have carried a morbid feeling to some excess ; but my paternal blood flows in these veins, and it is too late to change. I know not how it is, but I seem misplaced in life. My existence is a long blunder.' ' Too late to change, dearest Arundel ! Oh ! thank you for those words. Can it, can it ever be too late to acknow- ledge error ? Particularly if, by that very acknowledgment, we not only secure our own happiness, but that of those we love and those who love us.' ' Dear May ! when I talk with you, I talk with my good genius ; but I am in closer and more constant converse with another mind, and of that I am the r-lave. It is my own. I will not conceal from you, from whom I have concealed Qothing, that doubts and dark misgivings of the truth and wisdom of my past feelings and my past career will ever and anon flit across my fancy, and obtsu-da themselves upod THE YOUNG DUKE. 199 my consciousness. Your father — — yes ! I feel that 1 have not been to him what nature intended, and what he deserved.' ' O Arundel ! ' she said, with streaming eyes, ' he loves you like a son. Yet, yet be one ! ' He seated himself on the sofa by her side, and took her small hand and bathed it with his kisses. ' My sweet and faithful friend, my very sister. I am overpowered with feelings to which I have hitherto been a stranger. There is a cause for all this contest of my pas- sions. It must out. My being has changed. The scales have fallen from my sealed eyes, and the fountain of my heart o'erflows. Life seems to have a new purpose, and existence a new cause. Listen to me, listen ; and if you can, May, comfort me 1 ' CHAPTEE XVL At Twickenham the young Duke recovered rapidly. Not altogether displeased with his recent conduct, his self-com- placency assisted his convalescence. Sir Lucius Grafton visited him daily. Regularly, about four or five o'clock, he galloped down to the Pavilion with the last on dit : some gay message from White's, a mot of Lord Squib, or a trait of Charles Annesley. But while he studied to amuse the wearisome hours of his imprisoned friend, in the midst of all his gaiety an interesting contrition was ever breaking forth, not so much by words as looks. It was evident that Sir Lucius, although he dissembled his afHiotion, was seri- ously afiected by the consequence of his rash passion ; and his amiable victim, whose magnanimous mind was incapable of harbouring an inimical feeling, and ever respondent to a soft and generous sentiment, felt actually more aggrieved for his unhappy friend than for himself. Of Arundel Dacre the Duke had not seen much. That gentleman never par- ticularly sympathised with Sir Lucius Grafton, and now ho scarcely endeavoured to conceal the little oleas^ire v, hich he 2od THE YOUNG DUKE. received from the Baronet's society. Sir Lucius was the last man not to detect this mood ; but, as he was confident that the Duke had not betrayed him, he could only suppose that Miss Dacre had confided the afiair to her family, and therefore, under all circumstances, he thought it best to be unconscious of any alteration in Arundel Daore's intercourse with him. Civil, therefore, they were when they met ; the Baronet was even courteoiis ; but they both mutually avoided each other. At the end of three weeks the Duke of St. James re- turned to town in perfect condition, and received the congratulations of his friends. Mr. Dacre had been of the few who had been permitted to visit him at Twickenham. Nothing had then passed between them on the cause of his illness; but his Grace could not but observe that the manner of his valued friend was more than commonly cordial. And Miss Dacre, with her father, was among the first to hail his return to health and the metropolis. The Bird of Paradise, who, since the incident, had beek several times in hysterics, and had written various notes, of three or four lines each, of enquiries and entreaties to join her noble friend, had been kept ofl^ from Twickenham by the masterly tactics of Lord Squib. She, however, would drive to the Duke's house the day after his arrival in town, and was with him when sundry loud knocks, in quick succession, announced an approaching levee. He locked her up in his private room, and hastened to receive the compliments of his visitors. In the same apartment, among many others, he had the pleasure of meeting, for the first time, Lady Aphrodite Grafton, Lady Caroline St. Maurice, and Miss Dacre, all women whom he had either promised, intended, or offered to marry. A curious situa- tion this ! And really, when our hero looked upon them once more, and viewed them, in delightful rivalry, ad- vancing with their congratulations, he was not surprised at the feelings with which they had inspired him. Far, far exceeding the honlwmie of Macheath, the Duke could not resist remembering that, had it been his fortune to have lived in the land in which his historiographer will soon be THE YOUNG DUKE. 201 waadei-ing; in short, to have been a pacha instead of a peer, he might have married all three. A prettier fellow and three prettier women had never met since the immortal incident of Ida. It required the thorough breeding of Lady Afy to conceal the anxiety of her passion ; Miss Caere's eyes showered triple sunshine, as she extended a hand not too often offered ; but Lady Caroline was a cousin, and consanguinity, there- fore, authorised as well as accounted for the warmth of her greeting. CHAPTER XVII. A VKity few days after his return the Duke of St. James dined with Mr. Dacre. It was the first time that he had dined with him during the season. The Fitz-pompeys were there ; and, among others, his Grace had the pleasure of again meeting a few of his Yorkshire friends. Once more he found himself at the right hand of Miss Dacre. All his career, since his arrival in England, flitted across his mind. Doncaster, dear Doncaster, where he had first seen her, teemed only with delightful remi- niscences to a man whose favourite had bolted. Such is the magic of love ! Then came Castle Dacre and the orange terrace, and their airy romps, and the delightful party to Hauteville ; and then Dacre Abbey. An involun- tary shudder seemed to damp all the ardour of his soul ; but when he turned and looked upon her beaming face, he could not feel miserable. He thought that he had never been at so agreeable a party in his life : yet it was chiefly composed of the very beings whom he daily execrated for their powers of bore- dom. And he himself was not very entertaining. He was certainly more silent than loquacious, and found him- self often gazing with mute admiration on the little mouth, every word breathed forth from which seemed inspiration. Yet he was happy. Oh ! what happiness is his who dotes apon a woman ! Few could observe from his conduct what 202 THE YOUNG DUKE. waH passing in his mind ; yet the quivering of his softened tones and the mild lustre of his mellowed gaze ; hia subdued and quiet manner; his unperceived yet infinite attentions ; his memory of little incidents that all but lovers would have forgotten ; the total absence of all com- pliment, and gallantry, and repartee ; all these, to a fine observer, might have been gentlfe indications of a strong passion; and to her to whom they were addressed suffi- ciently intimated that no change had taken place in his feehngs since the warm hour in which he first whispered liis o'erpowering love. The ladies retired, and the Duke of St. James fell into a reverie. A political discourse of elaborate genius now arose. Lord Fitz-pompey got parliamentary. Young Faulcon made his escape, having previously whispered to another youth, not unheard by the Duke of St. James, that his mother was about to depart, and he was convoy. His Grace, too, had heard Lady Fitz-pompey say that she was going early to the Opera. Shortly afterwards parties evidently retired. But the debate still raged. Lord Fitz- pompey had caught a stout Yorkshire squire, and was de- lightedly astounding with ofi&cial graces hia stem opponent. A sudden thought occurred to the Duke ; he stole out of the room, and gained the saloon. He found it almost empty. With sincere pleasure be bid Lady Balmont, who was on the point of departure, farewell, and promised to look in at her box. He seated himself by Lady Greville Nugent, and dexterously made her follow Lady Balmont's example. She withdrew with the conviction that his Grace would not be a moment behind her. There was only old Mrs. Hungerford and her rich daughter remaining. They were in such raptures with Miss Dacre's singing that his Grace was quite in despair ; but chance favoured him. Even old Mrs. Hun- gerford this night broke through her rule of not going to more than one house, and she drove off to Lady de Oourcy's. They were alone. It is sometimes an awful thing to bo alone with those we love. THE YOVXG DCKE. 103 " Sit.i; th&t again I ' asked iLc Dake, inifilorirs-jy. ' It is 3i_. E&rooiite air; it alwajs rtT:m;ds me ci Dacre." bntr^ Si;: J. she oeased : she saiig with beantj, and ahs ceise_ with grace; bat all mmoiic-el by the ..■.iiz^niOis 5-; :i- 01 ;;er ajcrir-g gnest. His xLoaa'ti.s wise int0[it upon a gTzGieT otreot. The oppomrriTr was sTrtct: and yet those ::isi.er:Tis wassaDers, tiev nn^lii spoil alL ■ Do Tou know that this is the first lime that I have seen juTiT -rc-^TLS lit up : ' said die Thike. ' Is :i possiiie ! I hope ther gain iLe approbation of sc oisins'cisLfd a judge.' • I adrnrre liera esoeeiin^lT. BT-tie-bve, I se« a new cabinei in the iieit room. Swatr told mp^ the othra- dax. liai T-ca were one of his hdj-painme^es. I wish -rem ^c z- i show n mcL I am "^err cijiotLs in cabinets.' Sre rose^ and xhej adranced to the end of anoihe? and a logger rocBn. • This Is i beaati&l saloon,' said ihe Dnke. ' How Icej: is i: 5 * ' I reaify do edt know ; bnt I think bRween lorrr and fiSy f—i." " Oa ! TDH must be Tcisi^ierL Forrr or fifty feet ! I am an exodlent jndge of distiiiic-es. I will try. Forty or fifrr fee: '. Al. ." the next room hicluded. Let :is walk to the eai of ihe nest rccizi. Each of my races shall be one toot and a haiil' They had now- azrived at die end of the thiid rc'ria. ' Let t:ie sei.' T-est^tiied the Dtie : ' yo::; I»Te a small room to the rij-ht. Oh! did I not hear ihaT ycz had made a c<:irs.eTTat.; ry ': I s;-r- I see ii : lit np, too ! Lei cs go in. I want :.;■ 2Sm s-jme rints ah-C'iit London coiEserra- ^onSu^ . It W3,; not esacth- a eonserratory ■ bni a lalc-ory of larj-e dh-_£ns:oiis had beoi fitted op en each side willi ooloiiied srlass. and was ot-en to the g-a^ens. It was a ridi night of frac~atit June. The mc-on and stars were as rrirht as if ihey "na er the same part, and the variety never varies ; how dull, how weary, how in- finitely flat, is such a world to that man who requires from its converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant excitement ! Pen Bronnock was a new object. At this moment in his Kfe, novelty was indeed a treasure. If he could cater for a month, no expense should be grudged ; as for the fature, he thrust it from his mind. By taking up his residence, too, at Pen Bronnock, he escaped from all invitations ; and so, in a word, the worthy K-night received orders to make all preparations at the palace for the reception of a large party in the course of three weeks. Sir Carte, as usual, did wonders. There was, fortunately for his employer, no time to build or paint, but some dingy rooms were hung with scarlet cloth ; cart-loads of new furniture were sent down ; the theatre was re-burnished ; the stables put in order ; and, what was of infinitely more importance in the estimation of aU Englishmen, the neglected pile was ' well aired.' CHAPTER II. Wi are in the country, and such a country, that even in Italy we think of thee, native Hesperia ! Here, myrtles grow, and fear no blasting north, or blighting east. Here, the south wind blows with that soft breath which brings the bloom to flesh. Here, the land breaks in gentle undu- lations ; and here, blue waters kiss a verdant shore. Hail ! THE YOUNG DUKE. 221 to thy thousand bays, and deep-red earth, thy marble qnarries, and thy silver veins ! Hail ! to thy far-extending landscape, whose sparkling villages and streaky fields no clime can match ! Some gales we owe to thee of balmy breath, some gentle honrs when life had fewest charms. And we are grateftil for all this, to say nothing of yonr cider and your junkets. The Dnke arrived just as the setting sun crowned the proud palace with his gleamy rays. It was a pile which the immortal Inigo had raised in sympathy with the taste of a noble employer, who had passed his earliest years in Lombardy. Of stone, and sometimes even of marble, with pediments and balustrades, and ornamental windows, and richly-chased keystones, and flights of steps, and here and there a statue, the structure was quite Palladian, though a little dingy, and, on the whole, very imposing. There were suites of rooms which had no end, and stair- cases which had no beginning. In this vast pile, nothing was more natural than to lose your way, an agreeable amusement on a rainy morning. There was a collection of pictures, very various, by which phrase we understand not select. Tet they were amusing ; and the Canalettis were unrivalled. There was a regular ball-room, and a theatre ; so resources were at hand. The scenes, though dusty, were numerous ; and the Duke had provided new dresses. The park was not a park ; by which we mean, that it was rather a chase than the highly-finished enclosure which we asso- ciate with the first title. In fact. Pen Bronnock Chase was the right name of the settlement ; but some monarch travelling, having been seized with a spasm, recruited his strength under the roof of his loyal subject, then the chief seat of the House of Haute ville, and having in his urgency been obliged to hold a privy council there, the supreme title of palace was assumed by right. The domain was bounded on one side by the sea ; and here a yacht and some slight craft rode at anchor in a small green bay, and offered an opportunity for the adven- turous, and a refuge for the wearied. When you have been 222 THB YOUNG DUKE. bored for an hour or two on earth, it sometimes is a change to be bored, for an hour or two on water. The house was soon full, and soon gay. The guests, and the means of amusing them, were equally numerous. But this was no common villeggiatura, no visit to a family with their regular pursuits and matured avocations. The host was as much a guest as any other. The young Duke ap- pointed Lord Squib master of the oei'emonies, and gave orders for nothing but constant excitement. Constant excitement his Lordship managed to maintain, for he was experienced, clever, careless and gay, and, for once in his life, had the command of unbounded resources. He ordered, he invented, he prepared, and he expended. They acted, they danced, they sported, they sailed, they feasted, they masqueraded ; and when they began to get a little wearied of themselves, and their own powers of diversion gradually vanished, then a public ball was given twice a-week at the palace, and all the West of England invited. 'New faces brought new ideas ; new figures brought new fancies. All were delighted with the young Duke, and flattery from novel quarters will for a moment whet even the appetite of the satiated. Simplicity, too, can interest. There were some Misses Grayweather who got unearthed, who never had been in London, though nature had given them sparkling eyes and springing persons. This tyranny was too bad. Papa was quizzed, mamma flattered, and the daughters' simplicity amused these young lordlings. Rebellion was whispered in the small ears of the Gayweathers. The Kttle heads, too, of the Gayweathers were turned. They were the constant butt, and the constant resource, of every lounging dandy. The Bird of Paradise also arranged her professional engagements so as to account with all possible propriety for her professional visit at Pen Bronnock. The musical meeting at Exeter over, she made her iippearance, and some concerts were given, which electrified all Cornwall. Count Frill was very strong here; though, to be sure, he also danced, and acted, in all varieties. He was the soul, loo, of a masqned ball; but when complimented on his THE YOUNG DUKE. 323 accomplishments, and thanked for his exertions, he mo- destly depreciated his worth, and panegyrised the dancing- dogs. As for the Prince, on the whole, he maintained his silence ; but it was at length discovered by the fair sex that he was not stupid, but sentimental. When this was made known he rather lost ground with the dark sex, who, before thinking him thick, had vowed that he was a de- vilish good fellow ; but now, being really envious, had their tale and hint, their sneer and sly joke. M. de Whiskerburg had one active accomphshment ; this was his dancing. His gallopade was declared to be divine: he absolutely sailed in air. His waltz, at his will, either melted his partner into a dream, or whirled her into a frenzy ! Dangerous M. de Wbiskerburg ! CHAPTER m. '^^T is said that the conduct of refined society, in a literary point of view, is, on the whole, productive but of slight interest ; that all we can aspire to is, to trace a brilliant picture of brilliant manners ; and that when the dance and the festival have been duly inspired by the repartee and the sarcasm, and the gem, the robe, and the plume adroitly lighted up by the lamp and the lustre, our cunning is exhausted. And so your novelist generally twists this golden thread with some substantial silken cord, for use, and works up, with the light dance, and with the heavy dinner, some secret marriage, and some shrouded murder. And thus, by English plots and German mysteries, the page trots on, or jolts, tUl, in the end. Justice will have her way, and the three volumes are completed. A plan both good, antique, and popular, but not our way. We prefer trusting to the slender incidents which spring from out our common intercourse. There is no doubt that that great pumice-stone. Society, smooths down the edges of your thoughts and manners. Bodies of men who pursue the same object must ever resemble each other : the life of 224 ^^B YOUNG DUKE. the majority must ever be imitation. Thought is a laboai to which few are competent ; and truth requires for its developmant as much courage as acuteness. So conduct becomes conventional, and opinion ia a legend ; and thus all men act and think alike. But this is not peculiar to what is called fashionable hfe, it is peculiar to civilisation, which gives the passions less to work upon. Mankind are not more heartless because they are clothed in ermine ; it is that their costume attracts ua to their characters, and we stare because we find the prince or the peeress neither a conqueror nor a heroine. The great majority of human beings in a country like England glide through existence in perfect ignorance of their na- tures, so complicated and so controlling is the machinery of our social life ! Few can break the bonds that tie them down, and struggle for self-knowledge ; fewer, when the talisman is gained, can direct their illuminated energies to the purposes with which they sympathise. A mode of Ufe which encloses in its circle all the dark and deep results of unbounded indulgence, however it may appear to some who glance over the sparkHng surface, does not exactly seem to us one either insipid or uninteresting to the moral speculator ; and, indeed, we have long been induced to suspect that the seeds of true sublimity lurk in a life which, like this book, is half fashion and half passion. We know not how it was, but about this time an un- accountable, almost an imperceptible, coolness seemed to spring up between our hero and the Lady Aphrodite. If we were to puzzle our brains for ever, we could not give you the reason. Nothing happened, nothing had been said or done, which could indicate its origin. Perhaps this was the origin ; perhaps the Duke's conduct had become, though unexceptionable, too negative. But here we only throw up a straw. Perhaps, if we must go on suggesting, anxiety ends in callousness. His Grace had thought so much of her feelings, that lie had quite forgotten his own, or worn them out. Her Lady sbip, too, was perhaps a little disappointed at the unax THE YOUNG DUKE. 225 pected reconciliation. When we have screwed our courage ap to the sticking point, we like not to be baulked. Both, too, perhaps ; we go on perhapsing ; both, too, we repeat, perhaps, could not help mutually viewing each other as the cause of much mutual care and mutual anxiousness. Both, too, perhaps, were a little tired, but without knowing it. The most curious thing, and which would have augured worst to a calm judge, was, that they silently seemed to agree not to understand that any alteration had really taken place between them, which, we think, was a bad sign : because a lover's quarrel, we all know, like a storm in summer, portends a renewal of warm weather or ardent feelings ; and a lady is never so well seated in her admirer's heart as when those letters are interchanged which express so much, and those explanations entered upon which ex- plain so little. And here we would dilate on greater things than som.e imagine ; but, unfortunately, we are engaged. For New- market calls Sir Lucius and his friends. We will not join them, having lost enough. His Grace half promised to be one of the party ; but when the day came, just remembered the Shropshires were expected, and so was very sorry, and the rest. Lady Aphrodite and himself parted with wEirmth which remarkably contrasted with their late inter- course, and which neither of them could decide whether it were reviving affection or factitious effort. M. de Whiskorburg and Count Frill departed with Sir Lucius, being extremely desirous to be initiated in the mysteries of the turf, and, above all, to see a real English jockey. CHAPTER TV. The newspapers continued to announce the departures of new visitors to the Duke of St. James, and to dilate upon the protracted and princely festivity of Pen Bronnock. But while thousands were envying his lot, and hundreds 226 THE YOUNG DUKE. aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of oiu hero ? A month or two had rolled on, and if he had not abso- lutely tasted enjoyment, at least he had thrown off re- flection ; but as the autumn wore away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the repetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, he could no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and those feelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one who was receiving the homage of an admiring world. In a word, the Duke of St. James was the most miserable wretch that ever lived. ' Where is this to end ? ' he asked himself. ' Is this year to close, to bring only a repetition of the past ? Well, I have had it all, and what is it? My restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetites are at length ex- hausted. I have known this mighty world, and where am I? Once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the tremulous and panting lust with which I sighed for it. Have I been deceived ? Have I been dis- appointed ? Is it different from what I expected ? Has it fallen short of my fancy ? Has the dexterity of my musings deserted me ? Have I under-acted the hero of my re- veries ? Have I, in short, mismanaged my debut ? Have I blundered ? No, no, no ! Far, far has it gone beyond even my imagination, and my life has, if no other, realised its ideas ! ' Who laughs at me ? Who does not burn incense before my shrine ? What appetite have I not gratified ? What gratification has proved bitter ? My vanity ! Has it been, for an instant, mortified ? Am I not acknowledged the most brilliant hero of the most brilhant society in Europe ? Intense as is my self-love, has it not been gorged? Luxury and splendour were my youthful dreams, and have I not realised the very romance of indulgence and magnificence ? My career has been one long triumph. My palaces, and my gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my fiimiture, my equipages, my horses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when I could only meditate ; and THE YOUNG DUKE. 227 have my determinations proved a delusion ? Ask the ad- miring worid. ' And now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which all this was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight, to honour. Woman ! Oh ! when I first dared, among the fields of Eton, to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fancy, that some day my existence might perhaps be rendered more intense, by the admiration of these maddening but then mysterious creatures ; could, could I have dreamt of what has happened ? Is not this the very point in which my career has most out-topped my lofty hopes ? ' I have read, and sometimes heard, of satiety. It must then be satiety that I feel ; for I do feel more like a doomed man, than a young noble fall of blood and youth. And yet, satiety ; it is a word. What then ? A word is breath, and am I wiser ? Satiety ! Satiety ! Satiety ! Oh ! give me happiness ! Oh ! give me love ! ' Ay ! there it is, I feel it now. Too well I feel that happiness must spring from purer fountains than self-love. We are not born merely for • ourselves, and they who, full of pride, make the trial, as I have done, and think that the world is made for them, and not for mankind, must come to as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate ; for, by Heavens ! I am half tempted at this moment to fling my- self from off this cliff, and so end all. ' Wby should I live ? For virtue, and for duty ; to com- pensate for all my folly, and to achieve some slight good end with my abused and unparalleled means. Ay ! it is all vastly rational, and vastly sublime, but it is too late. I feel the exertion above me. I am a lost man. ' We cannot work without a purpose and an aim. I had mine, although it was a false one, and I succeeded. Had I one now I might succeed again, but my heart is a dxdl void. And Caroline, that gentle girl, will not give me what I want ; and to offer her but half a heart may break hers, and I would not bruise that delicate bosom to save my dukedom. Those sad, silly parents of hers have already done mischief enough ; but I will see DarreU, and will at a 3 228 THE YOUNG DUKE. least arrange that. I like him, and will make him my friend for her sake. God ! God ! why am I not loved '. A word from her, and all would change. I feel a sometliing in me which could put all right. I have the will, and she could give the power. ' Now see what a farce life is ! I shall go on. Heaven knows how ! I cannot Uve long. Men like me soon bloom and fade. What I may come to, I dread to think. There is a dangerous facility in my temper ; I know it well, for I know more of myself than people think ; there is a dan- gerous facility which, with May Dacre, might 'be the best guarantee of virtue ; but with all others, for all others are at the best weak things, will as certainly render me de- spicable, perhaps degraded. I hear the busy devil whispering even now. It is my demon. Now, I say, see what a farce life is ! I shall die like a dog, as I have lived like a fool ; and then my epitaph wiU be in everybody's mouth. Here are the consequences of self-indulgence : here is a fellow, forsooth, who thought only of the gratification of his vile appetites ; and by the living Heaven, am I not standing here among my hereditary rocks, and sighing to the ocean, to be virtuous ! ' She knew me well : she read me in a minute, and spoke more truth at that last meeting than is in a thousand sermons. It is oat of our power to redeem ourselves. Our whole existence is a false, foul state, totally inimical to love and purity, and domestic gentleness, and calm delight. Yet are we envied ! Oh ! could these fools see us at any other time except surrounded by our glitter, and hear of us at any other moment save in the first bloom of youth, which is, even then, often wasted ; could they but mark our manhood, and view our hollow marriages, and disappointed passions ; could they but see the traitors that we have for sons, the daughters that own no duty; could they but watch us even to our grave, tottering after some fresh bauble, some vain delusion, which, to the last, we hope may prove a substitute for what we have never found through hfe, a contented mind, they would do something else but envy us. THE YOUNG DUKB. 229 ' But I stand prating when I am wanted. I must home. Home ! O sacred word ! and then comes night ! Horrible night ! Horrible day ! It seems to me I am upon the eve of some monstrous folly, too ridiculous to be a crime, and yet as fatal. I have half a mind to go and marry the Bird of Paradise, out of pure pique with myself, and with the world.' CHAPTER V. SouTHET, that virtuous man, whom Wisdom calls her omtu, somewhere thanks God that he was not bom to a great estate. We quite agree with the seer of Keswick ; it is a bore. Provided a man can enjoy every personal luxury, what profits it that your flag waves on castles you never visit, and that you count rents which you never receive ? And yet there are some things which your miserable, mo- derate incomes cannot command, and which one might like to have ; for instance, a band, A complete, a consummate band, in uniforms of uncut white velvet, with a highly- wrought gold button, just tipped with a single pink topaz, seems to me the to KaXdv. When we die, ' Band ' will be found impressed upon our heart, h'ke ' Frigate ' on the core of Nelson. The negroes should have their noses bored, as well as their ears, and hung with rings of rubies. The kettle-drums should be of silver. And with .regard to a great estate, no doubt it brings great cares ; or, to get free of them, the estate must be neg- lected, and then it is even worse. Elections come on, and all your members are thrown out ; so much for neglected influence. Agricultural distress prevails, and all your farms are thrown up ; so much for neglected tenants. Harassed by leases, renewals, railroads, fines, and mines, you are determined that life shall not be worn out by these con- tinual and petty cares. Thinking it somewhat hard, that, because you have two hundred thousand a-year, you have neither ease nor enjoyment, you find a remarkably clever man, who manages everything for you. Enchanted with 230 THE YOUNG DUKE. his energy, Ms aouteness, and his foresight fascinated by your increasing rent-roll, and the total disappearance of arrears, yon dub him your right hand, introduce him to all your friends, and put him into Parliament ; and then, fired by the ambition of rivalling his patron, he disburses, em- bezzles, and decamps. But where is our hero H Is he forgotten ? Never ! But in the dumps, blue devils, and so on. A little bilious, it may be, and dull. He scarcely would amuse you at this moment. So we come forward with a graceful bow ; the Jack Pudding of our doctor, who is behind. In short, that is to say, in long ; for what is the use of this affected brevity ? When this tale is done, what have you got? So let us make it last. We quite repent of having intimated so much : ia future, it is our intention to develop more, and to describe, and to delineate, and to de- fine, and, in short, to bore. You know the model of this kind of writing, Richardson, whom we shall revive. In future, we shall, as a novelist, take Clarendon's Rebellion for our guide, and write our hero's notes, or heroine's letters, like a state paper, or a broken treaty. The Duke, and the young Duke ; oh ! to be a Duke, and to be young, it is too much ; was seldom seen by the gay crowd who feasted in his hall. His mornings now were lonely, and if, at night, his eye still sparkled, and his step still sprang, why, between us, vrine gave him beauty, and wine gave him grace. It was the dreary end of dull Novemberj and the last company were breaking off. The Bird of Paradise, accord- ing to her desire, had gone to Brighton, where his Grace had presented her with a tenement, neat, light, and finished; and though situated amid the wilds of Kemp Town, not more than one hysena on a night ventured to come down from the adjacent heights. He had half promised to join her, because he thought he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited a fresh supply of visitors from town, or rather from the country. As he was hesi- tating about what he should do, he received a letter from his bankers, which made him stare. He sent for the groom THE YOUNG DUKE. 231 of the chambers, and was informed the house was clear, save that some single men still lingered, as is their wont. They never take a hint. His Grace ordered his carriage ; and, more ahve than he had been for the last two months, dashed off to town. CHAPTER VI. Thb letter from his bankers informed the Duke of St. James that not only was the half-milKon exhausted, but, in pur- suance of their powers, they had sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, had advanced even beyond it. They were ready to accommodate him in every possible way, and to advance as much more as he could desire, at five per cent. ! Sweet five per cent. ! Oh I magical five per cent. ! Lucky the rogue now who gets three. Never- theless, they thought it but proper to call his Grace's atten- tion to the circumstance, and to put him in possession of the facts. Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth. The Duke of St. James had never affected to be a man of business ; still, he had taken it for granted that pe- cuniary embarrassment was not ever to be counted among his annoyances. He wanted something to do, and deter- mined to look into his affairs, merely to amuse himself The bankers were most polite. They brought their books, also several packets of papers neatly tied up, and were I'eady to give every information. The Duke asked for results. He found that the turf, the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in purchasing the lease and famiture of his mansion, and the rest, had, with his expenditure, exhausted his first year's income ; but he reconciled himself to this, because he chose to consider them extraordinary ex- penses. Then the festivities of Pen Bronnock counter- balanced the economy of his more scrambling life the preceding year ; yet he had not exceeded his income much. Then he came to Sir Carte's account. He hos^n 232 THE YOUNG. DUKE. to get a little frightened. Two hundred and fifty thousand had been swallowed by Hanteville Castle : one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville House. Ninety-six thousand had been paid for furniture. There were also some awk- ward miscellanies which, in addition, exceeded the half- million. Tins was smashing work ; .but castles and palaces, par- ticularly of the correctest style of architecture, are not to be had for nothing. The Duke had always devoted the half-million to this object ; but he had intended that sum to be suflBcient. What puzzled and what annoyed him was a queer suspicion that his resources had been exhausted without his result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, who gave every inforraation, and assured him that, had he had the least idea that a limit was an object, he would have made his arrangements accordingly. As it was, he assured the young Duke that he would be the Lord of the most sumptuous and accurate castle, and of the most gorgeous and tasteful palace, in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of words, when his employer cat him short by a peremptory demand of the exact sum requisite for the completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, and requested time. The estimates should be sent in as quickly as possible. The clerks should sit up all night and even his own rest should not be an object, any more than the Duke's purse. So they parted. The Duke determined to run down to Brighton for change of scene. He promised his bankers to examine everything on his return ; in the meantime, they were to make all necessary advances, and honour his drafts to any amount. He found the city of chalk and shingles not quite so agreeable as last year. He discovered that it had no trees. There was there, also, just everybody that he did not wish to see. It was one great St. James' Street, and seemed only an anticipation of that very season which he dreaded. He was half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not fix upon any spot. London might be agreeable, as it was empty ; but then those confounded accounts awaited hinj. THE YOUNG DUKE. 233 The Bird of Paradise was a sad bore. He really began to suspect tbat sbe was little better tban an idiot : then, she ute so much, and he hated your eating women. He gladly shuffled her off on that fool Count Prill, who daily brought his guitar to Kemp Town. They just suited each other. What a madman he had been, to have embarrassed himself with this creature ! It would cost him a pretty ransom now before he could obtain his freedom. How we change ! Already the Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, shillings, and pence. A year ago, so long as he could ex- tricate himself from a scrape by force of cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow. The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily expected. He reaUy could not stand them. As for Lady Afy, he execrated the greenhomism which had made him feign a passion, and then get caught where he meant to capture. As for Sir Lucius, he wished to Heaven he would just take it into his head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent liim at that confounded election, to say nothing of anything else. Then there was Burhngton, with his old loves and his new dances. He wondered how the deuce that fellow could be amused with such frivolity, and always look so serene and calm. Then there was Squib : that man never knew when to leave off joking ; and Annesley, with his false refinement ; and Barrel], with his petty ambition. He felt quite sick, and took- a solitary ride : but he flew from Scylla to Oharybdis. Mrs. Montfort could not forget their many delightful canters last season to Rottingdean, and, lo ! she was at his side. He wished her down the cliff. In this fit of the spleen he went to the theatre : there were eleven people in the boxes. He listened to the ' School for Scandal.' Never was slander more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry when it was over, but was consoled by the devils of ' Der Freischutz.' How sincerely, how ardently did he long to sell himself to the demon ! It was eleven o'clock, and he dreaded the play to be over as if he were a child. What to do with himself, or where to 234 THE YOUNG DUKE. go, he was equally at a loss. The door of the box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must be an acquaintance, this cub was better than any of his refined and lately cherished companions. ' Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?' ' Oh ! I don't know ; just looking in for a lark. Any game ? ' ' On my honour, I can't say.' ' What's that girl ? Oh ! I see ; that's little Wilkins. There's Moll Otway. Nothing new. I shall go and rattle the bones a little ; eh ! my boy ? ' ' Rattle the bones ? what is that ? ' ' Don't you know ? ' and here this promising young peer manually explained his meaning. ' What do you play at ? ' asked the Duke. ' Hazard, for my money ; but what you like.' ' Where ? ' 'We meet at De Berghem's. There is a jolly set of us. AU crack men. When my governor is here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose there must be only one game- ster in the family ; eh ! my covey ? ' Lord Bagshot, excited by the unusual affability of the young Duke, grew quite famihar. ' I have half a mind to look in with you,' said his Grace, with a careless air. ' Oh ! come along, by all means. They'll be devilish glad to see you. De Berghem was saying the other day what a nice fellow you were, and how he should like to know you. You don't know De Berghem, do you ? ' ' 1 have seen him. I know enough of him.' They quitted the theatre together, and, under the guid- ance of Lord Bagshot, stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There they found collected a numerous party, but all persons of consideration. The Baron, who had once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and now lived in England, by choice, on his pension and private fortune, received them with marked courtesy. Proud of his com- panion. Lord Bagshot's hoarse, coarse, idiot voice seemed ever bi'aying. His frequent introductions of the Duke of THE YOUNG DUKE. 235 St. James were exoruoiating, and it required all the freezing of a finished manner to pass through this fiery ordeal. His Grace was acquainted with most of the guests by sight, and to some he even bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, with the exception of two or three young peers like himself. There was the Earl of Castlefort, plump and luxurious, with a youthful wig, who, though a sexagenarian, liked no companion better than a minor. His Lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky ; but the first was his merit, and the second was not his fault. There was the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done his brothers out of their miserable 5,000Z. patrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinkle that had already rufSed his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and his con- vulsive lip, had been thrown, we suppose, into the bargain, and, in our opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had run through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though only thirty, one thing alone remained to be lost, what he called his honour, which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Oogit, who, when he was drunk, swore that he had had a father ; but this was deemed the only exception to in vino Veritas, Who he was, the Goddess of Chance alone could decide ; and we have often thought that he might bear the same relation to her as .^neas to the Goddess of Beauty. His age was as great a mystery as anything else. He dressed stiU like a boy, yet some vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had, and yet he contrived to live ; connection he was not born with, yet he was upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer going. He did the honours of a rouge et noi/r table to a miracle; and looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a gold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced apres. Lord Castlefort had few secrets from him : he was the jackal to these prowHng beasts of prey ; looked out for pigeons, got up httle parties to Richmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make a noise, and yet desired a httle life, 236 THE YOUNG DUKE. and perhaps could cog a die, arrange a looidng-glass, or mix a tumbler. Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place is to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerous follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous, sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted by the desire of gain, or, as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life which stultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and mortifies all our beautiful aspira- tions. We know that we are broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and which some wiU protest against, when we declare our belief that no person, whatever his apparent wealth, ever yet gamed except from the prospect of imme- diate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, of ennui, of satiety ; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sort of substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a more intense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too anxious, too complicated, too troublesome ; in a word, too sensible an afiair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinite distraction. The fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible, clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting ; no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the afiair at all. It is the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre-supposes in its votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its train are the most mean, the most common- place, and the most annoying of daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them except the great object which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gaming- table in a paroxysm. The first visit requires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stake will make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and the stoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter of calculation and management, even in games of chance THE YOUNG DUKE. "237 ffight after night will men play at rouge et noir, upon what they call a system, and for hours their attention never ceases, any more than it would if they were in the shop or on the wharf. No manual labour is more fatiguing, and more degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Eyery gamester feels ashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace, moralists daily inform us, man can never escape, is just the one from which the majority of men most completely, and most often, emancipate them- selves. Infinite are the men who have lost thousands in their youth, and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, offcener than any other, leads man to self- knowledge. Appalled by the absolute destruction on the verge of which he finds his early youth just stepping ; aghast at the shadowy crimes which, under the influence of this life, seem, as it were, to rise upon his soul. ; often he hurries to emancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and with a ruined fortune, and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is still white, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweet air of heaven. And our young Duke, we must confess, gamed, as all other men have gamed, for money. His satiety had fled the moment that his afiairs were embarrassed. The thought suddenly came into his head while Bagshot was speaking. He determined to make an efibrt to recover ; and so com- pletely was it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned that, in the present state of his affairs, a few thousands more would not signify ; that these few thou- sands might lead to vast results, and that, if they did, he would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same coolness with which he had saluted it. Yet he felt a little odd when he first ' rattled the bones ; ' and his affected nonchalance made him constrained. He fancied every one was watching him ; while, on the con- trary, all were too much interested in their own different parties. This feeling, however, wore off. According to every novelist, and the moralists ' our betters,' the Duke of St. James should have been fortunate at least to-night. You always win at first, you know. If 238 THB YOUNG DUKE. so, V, e advise said children of fancy and of fact to pocket their gains, and not play again. The young Duke had not the opportunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred pounds, and at half-past five he quitted the Baron's. Hot, bilious, with a confounded twang in his mouth, and a cracking pain in his head, he stood one moment and snifiiad in the salt sea breeze. The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and her cool, beneficent light reminded him, with disgust, of the hot, burning glare of the Baron's saloon. He thought of May Dacre, but clenched his fist, and drove her image from his mind. CHAPTER Vn. He rose late, and as he was lounging over his breakfast, entered Lord Bagshot and the Baron. Already the young Duke began to experience one of the gamester's curses, the intrusive society of those of whom you are ashamed. Bight-and-forty hours ago. Lord Bagshot would no more have dared to call on the Duke of St. James than to call at the Pavilion ; and now, with that reckless want of tact which marks the innately vulgar, he seemed to triumph in their unhallowed intimacy, and lounging into his Grace's apartment with that half-shuffling, half-swaggering air in- dicative of the ' cove,' hat cocked, and thumbs in his great coat pockets, cast his complacent eye around, and praised his Grace's ' rooms.' Lord Bagshot, who for the occasional notice of the Duke of St. James had been so long a ready and patient butt, now appeared to assume a higher cha- racter, and addressed his friend in a tone and manner which were authorised by the equality of their rank and the sym- pathy of their tastes. If this change had taken place in the conduct of the Viscount, it was not a singular one. The Duke also, to his surprise, found himself addressing his former butt in a very different style from that which he had assumed in the baU-room of Doncaster. In vain hp THE YOUNG DUKE. 239 tried to rally, in vain he tried to snub. It was indeed in vain. He no longer possessed any right to express his contempt of his companion. That contempt, indeed, he still felt. He despised Lord Bagshot still, but he also despised himself. The soft and silky Baron was a diflFerent sort of person- age ; but there was something sinister in all his elaborate courtesy and highly artificial manner, which did not touch the feelings of the Duke, whose courtesy was but the ex- pression of his noble feelings, and whose grace was only the impulse of his rich and costly blood. Baron de Berghem was too attentive, and too deferential. He smiled and bowed too much. He made no allusion to the last night's scene, nor did his tutored companion, but spoke of different and lighter subjects, in a manner which at once proved his experience of society, the liveliness of his talents, and the cultivation of his taste. He told many stories, aU short and poignant, and always about princes and princesses. Whatever was broached, he always had his apropos of Vienna, and altogether seemed an experienced, mild, tolerant man of the world, not bigoted to any particular opinions upon any subject, but of a truly liberal and philo- sophic mind. When they had sat chatting for half-an-hour, the Baron developed the object of his visit, which was to endeavour to' obtain the pleasure of his Grace's company at dinner, to taste some wild boar and try some tokay. The Duke, who longed again for action, accepted the invitation ; and then they parted. Our hero was quite surprised at the feverish anxiety with which he awaited the hour of union. He thought that seven o'clock would never come. He had no appetite at breakfast, and after that he rode, but luncheon was a blank. In the midst of the operation, he found himself in a brown study, calculating chances. All day long his imagination had been playing hazard, or rouge et noir. Once he thought that he had discovered an infallible way of winning at the latter. On the long run, he was con- vinced it must answer, and he panted to prove it. Seven o'clock at last arrived, and he departed to Bmns- 240 THE YOUNG DUKE. wick Terrace. There was a brilKant party to meet him ; the same set as last night, but select. He was faint, and did justice to the cuisine of his host, which was indeed remarkable. When we are drinking a man's good wine, it is dif&cult to dislike him. Prejudice decreases with every draught. His Grace began to think the Baron as good- hearted as agreeable. He was grateful for the continued attentions of old Castlefort, who, he now found out, had been very well acquainted with his father, and once even made a trip to Spa with him. Lord Dice he could not manage to endure, though that worthy was, for him, re- markably courteous, and grinned with his parchment face, like a good-humoured ghoul. Temple Grace and the Duke became almost intimate. There was an amiable candour in that gentleman's address, a softness in his tones, and an unstudied and extremely interesting delicacy in his manner, which in this society was remarkable. Tom Oogit never presumed to come near the young Dnke, but paid him constant attention. He sat at the bottom of the table, and was ever sending a servant with some choice wine, or recommending him, through some third person, some choice dish. It is pleasant to be ' made much of,' as Shakspeare says, even by scoundrels. To be king of your company is a poor ambition, yet homage is homage, and smoke is smoke, whether it come out of the chimney of a palace or of a workhouse. The banquet was not hurried. Though all wished it finished, no one liked to appear urgent. It was over at last, and they walked up-stairs, where the tables were arranged for all parties, and all play. Tom Cogit went up a few minutes before them, like the lady of the mansion, to review the lights, and arrange the cards. Feminine Tom Oogit ! The events of to-night were much the same as of the preceding one. The Duke was a loser, but his losses were not considerable. He retired about the same hour, with a head not so hot, or heavy : and he never looked at tho moon, or thought of May Dacre. The only wish that reigned in his soul was a longiTiy for another opportunity, TH& YOUNG DUKE. 241 and lie had agreed to dine witt the Baron, before he left Brunswick Terrace. Thus passed a week, one night the Duke of St. James redeeming himself, another falling back to his old position, now pushing on to Madrid, now re-crossing the Tagns. On the whole, he had lost four or five thousand pounds, a mere trifle to what, as he had heard, had been lost and gained by many of his companions during only the present season. On the whole, he was one of the most moderate of these speculators, generally played at the large table, and never joined any of those private coteries, some of which he had observed, and of some of which he had heard. Yet this was from no pmdential resolve or temperate reso- lution. The young Duke was heartily tired of the slight results of all his anxiety, hopes, and plans, and ardently wished for some opportunity of coming to closer and more decided action. The Baron also had resolved that an end should be put to this skirmishing ; but he was a calm head, and never hurried anything. ' I hope your Grace has been lucky to-night ! ' said the Baron one evening, strolling up to the Duke : ' as for myself, really, if Dice goes on playing, I shall give up banking. That fellow must have a talisman. I think he has broken more banks than any man living. The best thing he did of that kind, was the Roulette story at Paris. You have heard of that ? ' ' Was that Lord Dice ? ' ' Oh yes ! he does everything. He must have cleared his hundred thousand last year. I have suffered a good deal since I have been in England. Castlefort has pulled in a great deal of my money. I wonder to whom he will leave his property ? ' ' You think him rich ? ' ' Oh ! he will cut up large ! ' said the Baron, elevating his eyebrows. ' A pleasant man too ! I do not know any man that I would sooner play with than Castlefort ; no ona who loses his money with better temper.' ' Or wins it,' said his Grace. ' That we all do,' said the Baron, faintly laughing. 242 THE YOUNG DVKE. ' Your Grace Las lost, and you do not seem particularly dull. Ton win have your revenge. Those who lose at first are always the children of fortune. I always dread a man who loses at first. All I beg is, that you will not break my bank.' ' Why ! you see I am not playing now.' ' I am not surprised. There is too much heat and noise here,' said he. ' We will have a quiet dinner some day, and play at our ease. Come to-morrow, and I will ask Castlefort and Dice. I should uncommonly like, entre nous, to win some of their money. I will take care that nobody shall be here whom you would not like to meet. By-the-bye, whom were you riding with this morning ? Fine woman ! ' CHAPTER Vin. The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself. Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace assembled in Bruns- wick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk ; yet everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. Tom Oogit was the man for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he made of it ! Cayenne and Burgundy and limes were ingre- dients, but there was a magic in the incantation with which he alone was acquainted. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which per- mitted his presence : never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, 'Take this to the Duke;' THE YOUNG DUKE. 243 or asking the attendant, ' whether his Grace would try the Hermitage ? ' After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied m compounding some wonderful liqidd for the future refreshment, they sat down to ecarte. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron's elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could under- stand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room. Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite ; that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands ; for at present his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring great trouble ; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured : we use the word ad- visedly, as fools say in the House of Commons : he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter. They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but shghtly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but .snuflf the candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and oacOf 244 THE YOUNG DUKE. sionally malce a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two ; but nevertheless, at ten o'clock, owed everyone something. No one oflfered to give over ; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets and went down- stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again. They played till dinner-time without intermission ; and though the Duke made some desperate elBfbrts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Tet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all depressed ; be- cause the more he lost, the more his courage and his re- sources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten thousand ; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand ; then thirty thousand was the ultimatum ; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything. At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Afiairs now began to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, ho walked about tho room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over : there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings ; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible. On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious. Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of uoking a toilet or airing the room. The atmosphere was THE YOUNG DUKE. 245 hot, to be sure, but it well became such a HeU. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everytbing but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Oogit, who could have told yon the name of the town in which they were living. There tbey sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes whicb showed their total inabiUty to sympathise with their fellow-beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff- box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch ; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table : a false tooth had got un- hinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by ligbtning ; and bis deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyasna's. The Baron was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat. On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with diificulty. The rest walked about. While they were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds. Lnmense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let us say, at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. As be looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him. not on his couch ; great had been the 246 THE YOUNG DUKE. exhaustion that he had often experienced ; haggard had sometimes even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care ? when had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble ? What ! was it possible ? it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Daore, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing ; his dukedom would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet air. He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Oogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Oastlefort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft ; at the same time recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge. The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit ; and when Lord Oastlefort again repeated, ' Pay us when we meet again,' he said, ' I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. 1 THE YOUNG DUKE. 247 had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgust- Lag ; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion.' He reached his house. The Bird was out. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed ; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the tor- ture of an excited brain and an exhausted body ? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire ; his ears rung with supernatural roaring ; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose ; in vain, in vain he had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearfal society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace ; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Bach hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose, ana paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor ; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept. CHAPTER IX. 0, TE immortal Gods ! ye are still immortal, although no longer ye hover o'er Olympus. The Crescent glitters on your mountain's base, and Crosses spring from out its top- pling crags. But in vain the Mufti, and the Patriarch, and the Pope flout at your past traditions. They are married to man's memory by the sweetest chain that ever Fancy wove for Love. The poet is a priest, who does not doubt the inspiration of his oracles ; and your shrines are still served by a faithiul band, who love the beautiful and adore the glorious ! In vain, in vain they tell us your divinity is a dream. Prom the cradle to the grave, our thoughts and feelings take their colour from you ! ! wSlgiochus, the birch has oiien proved thou art still a thunderer; and, 248 THE YOUNG DUKE. although thy twanging bow murmur no longer through the avenging air, many an apple twig still vindicates thy out- raged dignity, pulcher Apollo. O, ye immortal Gods ! nothing so difficult as to begin a chapter, and therefore have we flown to you. In literature, as in life, it is the first step ; you know the rest. After a paragraph or so our blood is up, and even our jaded hack- neys scud along, and warm up into friskiness. The Duke awoke : another day of his eventful life is now to run its course. He found that the Bird of Paradise had not returned from an excursion to a neighbouring park : he left a note for her, apprising her of his departure to London, and he despatched an afiectionate letter to Lady Aphrodite, which was the least that ho could do, con- sidering that he perhaps quitted Brighton the day of her arrival. And having done all this, he ordered his horses, and before noon was on his first stage. It was his birthday. He had completed his twenty-third year. This was sufficient, even if he had no other induce- ment, to make him indulge in some slight reflection. These annual summings up are awkward things, even to the pro- sperous and the happy, but to those who are the reverse, who are discontented with themselves, and find that youth melting away which they believe can alone achieve any- thing, I think a birthday is about the most gloomy four- and-twenty hours that ever flap their damp dull wings over melancholy man. Yet the Duke of St. James was rather thoughtful than melancholy. His life had been too active of late to allow him to indulge much in that passive mood. ' I may never know what happiness is,' thought his Grace, as he leaned back in his whirling britzska, ' but I think I know what happiness is not. It is not the career which I have hitherto pursued. All this excitement which they talk of so much wears out the mind, and, I begin to believe, even the body, for certainly my energies seem deserting me. But two years, two miserable years, four-and-twenty months, eight- and-forty times the hours, the few hours, that I have been worse than wasting here, and I am shipwrecked, fairly THE YOUNG DUKB. 24s bulged. Yet I have done everything, tried everything, and my career has been an eminent career. Woe to the wretch who trusts to his pampered senses for felicity ! Woe to the wretch who flies from the bright goddess Sjraapathy, to sacrifice before the dark idol Self-love ! Ah ! I see too late, we were made for each other. Too late, I discover the beautiful results of this great principle of creation. Oh ! the blunders of an unformed character ! Oh ! the torture ot an ill-regulated mind ! ' Give me a life with no fierce alternations of rapture and anguish, no impossible hopes, no mad depression. Free me from the delusions which succeed each other like scent- less roses, that are ever blooming. Save me from the ex- citement which brings exhaustion, and from the passion that procreates remorse. Give me the luminous mind, where recognised and paramount duty dispels the harassing, ascer- tains the doubtful, confirms the wavering, sweetens the bitter. Grive me content. Oh ! give me love ! 'How is it to end? What is to become of me? Can nothing rescue me ? Is there no mode of reKef, no place of succour, no quarter of refuge, no hope of salvation ? I cannot right myself, and there is an end of it. Society, society, tociety! I owe thee much; and perhaps in work- ing in thy service, those feelings might be developed which I am now convinced are the only source of happiness ; but I am plunged too deep in the quag. I have no impulse, no call. I know not how it is, but my energies, good and evil, seem alike vanishing. There stares that fellow at my carriage ! God ! willingly would I break the stones upon the road for a year, to clear my mind of all the past ! ' A carriage dashed by, and a lady bowed. It was Mrs. Dallington Vere. The Duke had appointed his banker to dine with him, as not a moment must be lost in preparing for the reception of his Brighton drafts. He was also to receive, this evening, a complete report of all his affairs. The first thing that struck his eye on his iable was a packet from Sir Carte Blanche. He opened it eagerly, stared, started, aearly shrieked. It feU from his hands. He was for- 250 THE YOUNG DUKE. tunately alone. The estimates for the completion cf Ms works, and the purchase of the rest of the furniture, exactly- equalled the sum already expended. Sir Oarte added, that the works might of course be stopped, but that there was no possible way of reducing them, with any deference to the original design, scale, and style ; that he had already given instructions not to proceed with the furniture until further notice, but regretted to observe that the orders were so advanced that he feared it was too late to make any sensible reduction. It might in some degree reconcile his Grraoe to this report when he concluded by observing that the advanced state of the works could permit him to guarantee that the present estimates would not be exceeded. The Duke had sufficiently recovered before the arrival of his confidential agent not to appear agitated, only serious. The awful catastrophe at Brighton was announced, and his report of affairs was received. It was a very gloomy one. Great agricultural distress prevailed, and the rents could not be got in. PJve-and-twenty per cent, was the least that must be taken off his income, and with no prospect of being speedily added on. There was a projected railroad which would entirely knock up his canal, and even if crushed must be expensively opposed. Coals were falling also, and the duties in to^wn increasing. There was sad confusion in the Irish estates. The missionaries, who were patronised on the neighbouring lands of one of the City Companies, had been exciting fatal confusion. Chapels were burnt, crops destroyed, stock butchered, and rents all in arrear. Mr. Dacre bad contrived with great prudence to repress the efforts of the new reformation, and had succeeded in preventing any great mischief. His plans for the pursual of his ideas and feelings upon this subject had been com- municated to his late ward in an urgent and important paper, which his Grrace had never seen, but one day, unread, pushed into a certain black cabinet, which perhaps the reader may remember. His Grace's miscellaneous debts had also been called in, and amounted to a greater sum than they had anticipated, which debts always do. One hundred and forty thousand pounds had crumbled away in THE YOUNG DUKE. 251 the most imperceptible manner. A great slice of this was the portion of the jeweller. His shield and his vases would at least be evidence to his posterity of the splendour and the taste of their imprudent ancestor ; but he observed the other items with less satisfaction. He discovered tliat in the course of two years he had given away one hundred and thirty-seven necklaces and bracelets ; and as for rings, they must be counted by the bushel. The result of this gloomy interview was, that the Duke had not only managed to get rid of the immortal half-million, but had incurred debts or engagements to the amount of nearly eight hundred thousand pounds, incumbrances which were to be borne by a decreased and perhaps decreasing income. His Grace was once TO.ore alone. ' Well ! my brain is not turned ; and yet I think it has been pretty well worked these last few days. It cannot be true : it must all be a dream. He never could have dined here, and said all this. Have I, indeed, been at Brighton ? No, no, no ; I have been sleeping after dinner. I have a good mind to ring and ask whether he really was here. It must be one great delusion. But no ! there are those cursed accounts. Well ! what does it signify? I was miserable before, and now I am only contemptible in addition. How the world will laugh ! They were made forsooth for my diversion. 0, idiot ! you will be the butt of every one ! Talk of Bagshot, indeed ! Why, he will scarcely speak to me ! ' Away with this ! Let me turn these things in my mind. Take it at one hundred and fifty thousand. It is more, it must be more, but we will take it at that. Now, suppose one hundred thousand is allotted every year to meet my debts ; I suppose, in nine or ten years I shall be free. Not that freedom will be worth much then ; but still I am thinking of the glory of the House I have be- trayed. Well, then, there is fifty thousand a-year left. Let me see ; twenty thousand have always been spent in Ireland, and ten at Pen Bronnock, and they must not bo cut down. The only thing I can do now is, not to spare myself. I am the cause, and let me meet the oonseqaenoes. 252 THE YOUNG DUKE. Well, then, perhaps twenty thoasand a-year remain to keep Hauteville Castle and Hanteville House; to main- tain the splendour of the' Duke of St. James. Why, my hereditary charities alone amount to a quarter of my income, to say nothing of incidental charges : I too, who should and who would wish to rebuild, at my own cost, every bridge that is swept away, and every steeple that is burnt, iu my county. ' And now for the great point. Shall I proceed with my buildings ? My own personal convenience whispers no ! But I have a strong conviction that the advice is treason- able. What ! the young Duke's folly for every gazer in town and country to sneer at ! Oh ! my fathers, am I indeed your child, or am I bastard? Never, never shall your shield be sullied while I bear it ! Never shall your proud banner veil while I am chieftain ! They shall be finished ; certainly, they shall be finished, if I die an exUe ! There can be no doubt about this ; I feel the deep propriety. ' This girl, too, something must be done for her. I must get Squib to run down to Brighton for me : and Afy, poor dear Afy, I think she will be sorry when she hears it all ! ' My head is weak : I want a counsellor. This man cannot enter into my feelings. Then there is my family lawyer ; if I ask him for advice, he will ask me for instruc- tions. Besides, this is not a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence ; it is an affair as much of sentiment as economy; it involves the honour of my family, and I want one to unburden myself to, who can sympathise with the tortured feelings of a Noble, of a Duke without a dukedom, for it has come to that. But I will leave sneers to the world. ' There is Annesley. He is clever, but so cold-blooded. He has no heart. There is Squib ; he is a good fellow, and has heart enough ; and I suppose, if I wanted to pension ofi' a mistress, or compound with a few rascally tradesmen, he would manage the affair to a miracle. There is Darrell ; but he wiU be so fussy, and confidential, and o£B.oial. Every meeting will be a cabinet council, every discussion a debate, every m.emorandum a state paper. There is Burlington ; he is experienced, and clever, and kind-hearted, and, 1 THE YOUNG DUKE. 253 really think, likes me ; but, no, no, it is too ridiculous We wlio have only met for enjoyment, whose countenance was a smile, and whose conversation was badinage ; we to meet, and meditate on my broken fortunes ! Impossible! Besides, what right have I to compel a man, the study of whose life is to banish care, to take all my anxieties on his back, or refuse the duty at the cost of my acquaintance and the trouble of his conscience. Ah I I once had a friend, the best, the wisest ; but no more of that. What is even the loss of fortune and of consideration to the loss of his, his daughter's, love ? ' His voice faltered, yet it was long before he retired ; and he rose on the morrow only to meditate over his harassing embarrassments. As if the cup of his misery were not o'erflowing, a new incident occurred about this time, which rendered his sense of them even keener. But this is im- portant enough to commence a new chapter. CHAPTER X. William Henet, Makqtjess of Maetlebone, completed his twenty-first year : an event which created a greater sensa- tion among the aristocracy of England, even, than the ma^ jority of George Augustus Frederick, Duke of St. James- The rent-roll of his Grace was great ; but that of his Lordship was incalculable. He had not indeed so many castles as our hero ; but then, in the metropolis, a whole parish owned him as Lord ; and it was whispered that, when a few miles of leases fell in, the very Civil List must give him the wall. Even in the duration of his minority, he had the superiority over the young Duke, for the Marquess was a posthumous son. Lord Marylebone was a short, thick, swarthy young gentleman, with wiry black hair, a nose somewhat flat, sharp eyes, and tnsky mouth ; altogether not very unlike a terrier. His tastes were unknown : he had not travelled, 254 THE YOUNG DUKE. nor done anything very particular, except, with a few con- genial spirits, beat the Guards in a rowing-match, a pretty diversion, and almost as conducive to a small white hand as almond-paste. But his Lordship was now of age, and might be seen every day at a certain hoiir rattling up Bond Street in a red dra,g, in which he drove four or five particular friends who lived at Stevens' Hotel, and therefore, we suppose, were the partners of his glory in his victory over his Ma- jesty's household troops. Lord Marylebone was the universal subject of conversation. Pursuits which would have de- voted a shabby Earl of twelve or fifteen thousand a year to universal reprobation, or, what is much worse, to universal sneers, assumed quite a different character when they constituted the course of life of this fortunate youth. He was a dehghtful young man. So unaffected ! No super- refinement, no false delicacy. Every one, every sex, every- thing, extended his, her, or its hand to this cub, who, quite puzzled, but too brutal to be confused, kept driving on the red van, and each day perpetrating some new act of profli- gacy, some new instance of coarse profusion, tasteless ex- travagance, and inelegant eccentricity. But, nevertheless, he was the hero of the town. He was the great point of interest in ' The Universe,' and ' The New World ' favoured the old one with weekly articles on his character and conduct. The young Duke was quite forgotten, if really young he could be longer called. Lord Marylebone was in the mouth of every tradesman, who authenticated his own vile inventions by foisting them on his Lordship. The most grotesque fashions suddenly inun- dated the metropolis ; and when the Duke of St. James ventured to express his disapprobation, he found his empire was over. ' They were sorry that it did not meet his Grace's taste, but really what his Grace had suggested was quite gone by. This was the only hat, or cane, or coat which any civilised being could be seen with. Lord Mary- lebone wore, or bore, no other.' In higher circles, it was much the same. Although the dandies would not bate nn inch, and certainly would not THE YOUNG DUKE. 255 elect the yoimg Marquess for their leader, they found, to their dismay, that the empire which they were meditating to defend, had already slipped away from their grasp. A new race of adventurous youths appeared upon the stage. Beards, and great-coats even rougher, bull-dogs instead of poodles, clubs instead of canes, cigars instead of perfumes, were the order of the day. There was no end to boat- racing ; Crockford's sneered at White's ; and there was even a talk of reviving the ring. Even the women patron- ised the young Marquess, and those who could not be blind to his real character, were sure, that, if well managed, he would not turn out ill. Assuredly our hero, though shelved, did not envy his successftd rival. Had he been, instead of one for whom he felt a sovereign contempt, a being even more accompKshed than himself, pity and not envy would have been the senti- ment he would have yielded to his ascendant star. But, nevertheless, he could not be insensible to the results of this incident ; and the advent of the young Marquess seemed like the sting in the epigram of his life. After all his ruinous magnificence, after all the profuse indulgence of his fantastic tastes, he had sometimes consoled himself, even in the bitterness of satiety, by reminding himself, that he at least commanded the admiration of his fellow-crea- tures, although it had been purchased at a costly price. Not insensible to the power of his wealth, the magic of his station, he had, however, ventured to indulge in the sweet belief that these quahties were less concerned in the triumphs of his career than his splendid person, his accom- plished mind, his amiable disposition, and his finished manner ; his beauty, his wit, his goodness, and his grace. Even from this delusion, too, was he to waken, and, for the first time in his life, he gauged the depth and strength of that popularity which had been so dear to him, and which he now found to be so shallow and so weak. ' What wiU they think of me when they know all ? What they wUl : I care not. I would sooner live in a cottage with May Dacre, and work for our daily bread, than be worshipped by aU the beauty of this ^bylou.' 256 THE YOUNG DUKE. Gloomy, yet sedate, he returned home. His letters an- nounced two extraordinary events. M. de Whiskerburg had galloped off with Lady Aphrodite, and Count FriU had flown away with the Bird of Paradiise. CHAPTER XI. The last piece of information was a relief ; hut the an- nouncement of the elopement cost him a pang. Both sur- prised, and the first shocked him. "We are unreasonable in love, and do not like to be anticipated even in neglect. An hour ago Lady Aphrodite Grafton was to him only an object of anxiety and a cause of embarrassment. She was now a being to whom he was indebted for some of the most pleasing hours of his existence, and who could no longer contribute to his felicity. Everybody appeared deserting him. He had neglected her, to be sure ; and they must have parted, it was certain. Tet, although the present event saved him from the most harrowing of scenes, he could not refrain shedding a tear. So good ! and so beautiful ! and was this her end ? He who knew all knew how bitter had been the lot of her life. It is certain that when one of your very virtuous women ventures to be a little indiscreet, we say it is certain, though we regret it, that sooner or later there is an explo- sion. And the reason is this, that they are always in a hurry to make up for lost time, and so love with them becomes a business instead of being a pleasure. Nature had intended Lady Aphrodite Grafton for a Psyche, so spiritual was her soul, so pure her blood ! Art, that is education, which at least should be an art, though it is not ; art had exquisitely sculptured the precious gem that Nature had developed, and all that was wanting was love to stamp an impression. Lady Aphrodite Grafton might have been as perfect a character as was ever the heroine of a novel. And to whose account shall we place her blighted THE YOUNG DUKE. 257 fame and sullied lustre? To that animal who seems formed only to betray woman. Her husbajid was a traitor in. disguise. She found herself betrayed ; but Uke a noble chieftain, when her capital was lost, maintained herself among the ruins of her happiness, in the citadel of her virtue. She surrendered, she thought, on terms ; and in yielding her heart to the young Duke, though never for a moment blind to her conduct, yet memory whispered extenuation, and love added all that was necessary. Our hero (we are for none of your perfect heroes) did not behave much better than her husband. The difference between them was, Sir Lucius Grafton's character was formed, and formed for evil ; while the Duke of St. James, when he became acquainted with Lady Aphrodite, possessed none. Gallantry was a habit, in which he had been brought up. To protest to woman what he did not believe, and to feign what he did not feel, were, as he supposed, parts in the character of an accomplished gentleman ; and as hitherto he had not found his career productive of any misery, we may perhaps view his conduct with less severity. But at length he approaches, not a mere woman of the world, who tries to delude him into the idea that he is the first hero of a romance that has been a hundred times repeated. He trembles at the responsibility which he has incurred by engaging the feelings of another. In the con- flict of his emotions, some rays of moral light break upon his darkened soul. Profligacy brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly that man is the subject of sympathy, and not the slave of self-love. This remorse protracts a connection which each day is productive of more painful feelings ; but the heart cannot be overstrung, and anxiety ends in callousness. Then come neglect, remonstrance, explanations, protestations, and, sooner or later, a catastrophe. But love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easily thrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving the passion a new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surprising how many adventures end in a convent. A dame, in her desperation, flies to the arate, 258 THE YOUNG DUKE. which never re-opens ; but in Protestant regiotiB she has time to cool, and that's the deuce ; so, instead of takinjf the veil, she takes a now lover. Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young Duke to a step the very mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. What an enchanter is Passion ! No wonder Ovid, who was a judge, made love so much connected with his Metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty she had dared to admit the idea of flying with his Grace ; but when the idea was once admitted, when she really had, once or twice, constantly dwelt on the idea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about to indulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and of which she had been rifled ; when, I say, all this occurred, and her hero diplomatised, and, in short, kept back ; why, she had advanced one step, without know- ing it, to running away with another man. It was unlucky that De Whisk erburg stepped in. An Englishman would not have done. She knew them well, and despised them all ; but he was new (dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they were strange, she believed to be unhackneyed ; and he was im- passioned. We need not go on. So this star has dropped from out the heaven ; so this precious pearl no longer gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in a foreign land, among strange faces and stranger custom.s, and, when she thinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries to per- suade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country, and blood, and opinion. And her father's face no longer shines with its proud love, and her mother's voice no longer whispers to her with sweet anxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the radiancy of her budding sister's bloom. Poor creature ! that is to say, wicked woman ! for we are not of those who set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite, by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just remember beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although the THE YOUNG DUKE. 259 beaiafciful, tho graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we don't know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer. But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yielded to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it is right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured. To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your Penates shivered at your feet ; to find no smiling face meet your return, no brow look gloomy when you leave your door ; to eat and sleep alone ; to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills ; to have your children asking after mam^ma ; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the influenza that rages in your house- hold : all this is doubtless hard to digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends Mr. Ward or Mr. Bnlwer. CHAPTER XII. The Duke had passed a stormy morning with his solicitor, Tfho wished him to sell the Pen Bronnock property, which being parliamentary, would command a price infinitely greater than might be expected from its relative income. The very idea of stripping his coronet of this brightest jewel, and thus sacrificing for wealth the ends of riches, greatly disordered him, and he more and more felt the want of a ooansellor who could sympathise with his feel- ings as well as arrange his fortunes. In this mood he suddenly seized a pen, and wrote the following letter : — ' House, Feb. 5, 182—. ' My dear Mr. Dacke, ' I keenly feel that you are the last person to whom I should apply for the counsels or the consolation of friend- ship. I have long ago forfeited all claims to your regard, and your esteem I never possessed. Tet, if only because my career ought to end by my being an unsuccessful sup- 82 26o THE YOUNG DUKE. pliant to the individual whom both virtue and uature pointed out to me as my best friend, and whose proffered and parental support I have so wantonly, however thought- lessly, rejected, I do not regret that this is written. No feeling of false delicacy can prevent me from applying to one to whom I have long ago incurred incalculable obliga- tions, and no feeling of false delicacy will, I hope, for a moment, prevent you from refusing the application of one who has acknowledged those obligations only by incalcu- lable ingratitude. ' In a word, my affaii^s are, I fear, inextricably involved. I will not dwell upon the madness of my life ; suffice that its consequences appal me. I have really endeavoured to examine into all details, and am prepared to meet the evil as becomes me ; but, indeed, my head turns with the com- plicated interests which solicit my considei'ation, and 1 tremble lest, in the distraction of my mind, I may adopt measures which may baffle the very results I would attaiu. For myself, I am ready to pay the penalty of my silly pro- fligacy ; and if exile, or any other personal infliction, can redeem the fortunes of the House that I have betrayed, I shall cheerfully submit to my destiny. My career has been productive of too little happiness to make me regret its termination. ' But I waut advice : I want the counsel of one who can sympathise with my distracted feelings, who will look as much, or rather more, to the honour of my family than to the convenience of myself I cannot obtain this from what are called men of business, and, with a blush I confess, I have no friend. In this situation my thoughts recur to one on whom, believe me, they have often dwelt ; and although I have no right to appeal to your heart,' for my father's sake you will perhaps pardon this address. What- ever you may resolve, my dearest sir, rest assured that you and your family will always command the hveliest gratitude of one who regrets he may not subscribe himself ' Your obliged and devoted friend, ' St. Jambs,' THE YOUNG DUKE. 261 ' I beg that you will not answer this, if your determinau- tion be what I anticipate and what I deserve. ' Daore Dacre, Esq., &o., &c., &c.' It was signed, sealed, and sent. He repented its traus- mission when it was gone. He almost resolved to send a courier to stop the post. He continued walking up and down his room for the rest of the day ; he could not eat, or read, or talk. He was plunged in a nervous reverie He passed the next day in the same state. IJnable i/ leave his house, and unseen by visitors, he retired to his bed feverish and dispirited. The morning came, and he woke from his hot and broken sleep at an early hour ; yet he had not energy to rise. At last the post arrived, and his letters were brought up to him. With a trembling hand and sink- ing breath he read these lines : — ' Oastle Dacre, February 6, 182 — . ' Mt dear toung Feibnd, ' Not only for your father's sake, but your own, are my services ever at your command. I have long been sensible of your amiable disposition, and there are circumstances which will ever make me your debtor. ' The announcement of the enabarrassed state of your affairs fills me with sorrow and anxiety, yet I will hope the best. Toung men, unconsciously, exaggerate adversity as well as prosperity. If you are not an habitual gamester, and I hope yon have not been even an occasional one, un- bounded extravagance could scarcely in two years have permanently injured your resources. However, bring down with you all papers, and be careful to make no arrangement, even of the slightest nature, until we meet. ' We expect you hourly. May desires her kindest re- gards, and begs me to express the great pleasure which she will feel at again finding you our guest. It is unnecessary for me to repeat how very sincerely I am your friend, ' Dackk Dacke. He read the letter three times to be sure he did not mid- Uke the delightful import. Then he rang the bell with a 262 THE YOUNG DUKE. vivacity which had not characterised him for many a mouth. ' Luigi ! prepare to leave town to-morrow morning for an indefinite period. I shall only take you. I must dress immediately, and order breakfast and my horses.' The Duke of St. James had communicated the state of his affairs to Lord Fitz-pompey, who was very shocked, offered his best services, and also asked liim to dinner, to meet the Marquess of Marylebone. The young Duke had also announced to his relatives, and to some of his particular friends, that he intended to travel for some time, and he well knew that their charitable experience would under- stand the rest. They understood everything. The Mar- quess' party daily increased, and ' The Universe ' and the ' New World ' announced that the young Duke was ' done up.' There was one person to whom our hero would pay a farewell visit before he left London. This was Lady Caro- liue St. Maurice. He had called at Fitz-pompey House one or two mornings in the hope of finding her alone, and to-day he determined to be more successful. As he stopped his horse for the last time before his uncle's m.ansion, he could not help oalUng to mind the first visit which he had paid after his arrival. But the door opens, he enters, he is announced, and finds Lady Caroline alone. Ten minutes passed away, as if the morning ride or evening ball were again to bring them together. The young Duke was stni gay and still amusing. At last he said with a smile, ' Do you know, Caroline, this is a farewell visit, and to you?' She did not speak, but bent her head as if she were in- tent upon some work, and so seated herself that her coun- tenance was alm.ost hid. ' Ton have heard from my uncle,' continued he, laugh- ing ; ' and if you have not heard from him, you have heard from somebody else, of my little scrape. A fool and hig money, you know, Caroline, and a short reign and a merry one. When we get prudent we are wondrous fond of pro- THE YOUNG DUKE. 263 verbs. My reign has certainly been brief enough ; with regaid to the mei-riment, that is not quite so certain. I have b'ttle to regret except your society, aweet coz ! ' ' Dear George, how can you talk so of such serious affairs ! If you knew how unhappy, liow miserable I am, when 1 hear the cold, callous world speak of such things with in- difference, you would at least not imitate their heartless- nftss.' ' Dear Caroline ! ' said he, seating himself at her side. ' I cannot help thinldng,' she continued, ' that you have not sufficiently exerted yourself about these embarrass- ments. You are, of couriie, too harassed, too much an- noyed, too littlo accustomed to the energy and the detail of business, to interfere with any effect ; but surely a friend might. You will not speak to my father, and perhaps you have your reasons ; but is there no one else ? St. Maurice, I know, has no head. Ah.! George, I often feel that if your relations had been differeiht people, your fate might have been different. We are the fault.' He kissed her hand. 'Among al] your intimates,' she continued, ' is there no one fit to be your counsellor, no one worthy of your con- fidence ? ' 'None,' said the Duke, bitterly, ' none, none. I have no friend among those intimates : there is not a man of them who cares to sorvo or is capable of serving me.' ' You have well considered ? ' asked Lady Caroline. ' Well, dear, well. I know them all by rote, head and heart. Ah ! my dear, dear Carry, if you were a man, what a nice little friend you would be ! ' ' You will always laugh, George. But I : I have no heart to laugh. This breaking up of your affairs, this exile, this losing you whom we all love, love so dearly, makes me quite miserable.' He kissed her hand again. ' I dare say,' she continued, ' you have thought me as heartless as the rest, because I never spoke. But I knew ; that is, I feared ; or, rather, hoped that a great part of what I hoard was false ; and so I thought notice wtis anne 264 THE YOUNG DUKE. ceesary, and might be painful. Yet, heaven knows, there are few subjects that have been ofleuer in my thoughts, or cost me more anxiety. Are you sure you have no friend ? ' ' I have you, Caroline. I did not say I had no friends : I said, I had none a^nong those intimates you talked of; that there was no man among them capable of the neces- sary interference, even if he were willing to undertake it. But I am not friendless, not quite forlorn, dear ! My fate has given me a friend that I but Uttle deserve : one whom, if I had prized better, I should not perhaps have been obhged to put his friendship to so severe a trial. To- morrow, Caroline, I depart for Castle Dacre ; there is my friend. Alas ! how little have I deserved such a boon ! ' ' Dacre ! ' exclaimed Lady Caroline, ' Mr. Dacre ! Oh ! you have made me so happy, George ! Mr. Dacre is the very, very person ; that is, the very best person you could possibly have applied to.' ' Grood-bye, Caroline,' said his Grace, rising. She burst into tears. Never, never had she looked so lovely : never, never had he loved her so entirely ! Tears ! tears shed for him ! Oh ! what, what is grief when a lovely woman remains to weep over our misfortunes ! Could he be miserable, could his career indeed be unfortunate, when this was reserved for him ? He was on the point of pledging his affection, but to leave her under such circumstances was impossible : to neglect Mr. Dacre was equally so. He determined to arrange his affairs with all possible promptitude, and then to hasten up, and entreat her to share his diminished fortunes. But he would not go without whispering hope, without leaving some soft thought to lighten her lonely hours. He caught her in his arms ; he covered her sweet small mouth with kisses, and whispered, in the midst of their pure embrace, ' Dearest Carry ! I shall soon return, and we will yet bf happy.' THE YOUNG DUKE. 265 BOOK V. CHAPTER I. Miss Dacre, although she was prepared to greet the Duka of St. James with cordiality, did not anticipate with equal pleasure the arrival of the page and the jiiger. Infinite had been the disturbances they had occasioned during their first visit, and endless the complaints of the steward and the houseteeper. The men-servants were initiated in the mysteries of dominoes, and the maid-servants in the tactics of flirtation. Karlstein was the hero of the under-butlers, and even the trusty guardian of the cellar himself was too often on the point of obtaining the German's opinion of his master's German wines. Gaming, and drunkenness, and love, the most productive of all the teeming causes of human sorrow, had in a week sadly disordered the well-regulated household of Castle Dacre, and nothing but the impetuosity of our hero would have saved his host's estabhshment from utter perdition. Miss Dacre was, therefore, not less pleased than surprised when the britzska of the Duke of St. James discharged on a fine afternoon, its noble master, attended only by the faithful Luigi, at the terrace of the Castle. A few country cousins, fresh from Cumberland, who knew nothing of the Duke of St. James except from a stray number of * The Universe,' which occasionally stole down to corrupt the pure waters of their lakes, were the only guests. Mr. Dacre grasped our hero's hand with a warmth and expression which were unusual with him, but which conveyed, better than words, the depth of his friend- ship ; and his daughter, who looked more beautiful than ever, advanced with a beaming face and joyous tone, which quite reconciled the Duke of St. James to being a ruined 266 THE YOUNG DUKE. The presence of strangers limited their conversation to subjects of general interest. At dinner, the Duke took care to be agreeable : he talked in an unaffected manner, and particularly to the cousins, who were all delighted with him, and found him ' quite a difierent person from what they had fancied.' The evening passed over, and even lightly, without the aid of ecarte, romances, or gallops. Mr. Dacre chatted with old Mr. Montingford, and old Mrs. Montingford sat still admiring her ' girls,' who stood still admiring May Dacre singing or talking, and occasionally reconciled us to their occasional silence, by a frequent and extremely hearty laugh ; that Cumberland laugh which never outlives a single season in London. And the Duke of St. James, what did he do ? It must be confessed that in some points he greatly i-esembled the Misses Montingford, for he was both silent and admiring; but he never laughed. Yet he was not dull, and was care- ful not to show that he had cares, which is vulgar. If a man be gloom.y, let him keep to himself. No one has a right to go croaking about society, or, what is worse, look- ing as if he stifled grief. These fellows should be put in the pound. We like a good broken heart or so now and then ; but then one should retire to the Sierra Morena mountains, and live upon locusts and wild honey, not ' dine out ' with our cracked cores, and, while we are meditating suicide, the Gazette, or the Chiltern Hundreds, damn a vintage or eulogise an entree. And as for cares, what are cares when a man is in love? Once more they had met ; once more he gazed upon that sunny and sparkling face ; once more he listened to that sweet and thrUling voice, which sounded like a bird-Eke burst of music upon a summer morning. She moved, and each attitude was fascination. She was still, and he re- gretted that she moved. Now her neck, now her hair, now her round arm, now her tapering waist, ravished his attention ; now he is in ecstasies with her twinkling foot, now he is dazzled with her glancing hand. Once more he was a Dacre ! How different was this meeting to their first ! Then, she was cold, almost cutting ; THE YOUNG DUKE. 267 tlieii she was disregardful, almost contemptuous ; but tlien be had hoped; ah! madman, he had more than hoped. Nfow she was warm, almost affectionate ; now she listenefl to him with readiness, ay ! almost courted his conversa- tion. And now hg' could only despair. As he stood alone before the fire, chewing this bitter cud, she approached him. ' How good you were to come directly ! ' she said with a smile, which melted his heart. ' I fear, however, you will not find us so merry as before. But you can make anything amusing. Come, then, and sing to these damsels. Do you know they are half afraid of you ? and I cannot persuade them that a terrible magician has not assumed, for the nonce, the air and appearance of a young gentleman of distinction.' He smiled, but could not speak. Repartee sadly deserts the lover ; yet smiles, under those circumstances, are eloquent ; and the eye, after all, speaks much more to the purpose than the tongue. Forgetting everything except the person who addressed him, he offered her his hand, and advanced to the group which surrounded the piano. CHAPTER II. The next morning was passed by the Duke of St. James in giving Mr. Dacre his report of the state of his affau's. His banker's accounts, his architect's estimates, his solicitor's statements, were aU brought forward and discussed. A ride generally with Miss Dacre and one of her young friends, diuner, and a short evening, and eleven o'clock, sent them all to repose. Thus glided on a fortnight. The mornings continued to be passed iu business. Affairs were moi-c complicated than his Grace had imagined, who had no idea of detail. He gave aU the information that he could, and made his friend master of his particular feelings. For the rest, Mr. Dacre was soon involved in much correspondence ; and although the young Duke could no longer assist him, he recommended and earnestly begged that he wudIiJ 268 THE YOUNG DUKE. remain ai Dsiere ; for he could perceive, better than his Gri-ace, that our hero was labouring under a great deal of excitement, and that his health was impaired. A regular course of life was therefore as necessary for his constitution as it was desirable for all other reasons. ' Behold, then, our hero domesticated at Dacre ; rising at nine, joining a family breakfast, taking a quiet ride, or moderate stroll, sometimes looking into a book, but he was no great reader ; sometimes fortunate enough in achieving a stray game at billiards, usually with a Miss Montingford, and retiring to rest about the time that in London his most active existence generally began. Was he dull ? was he wearied ? He was never lighter-hearted or more contented in his life. Happy he could not allow himself to be styled, because the very cause which breathed this calm over his existence seemed to portend a storm which could not be avoided. It was the thought, the presence, the smile, the voice of May Dacre that imparted this new interest to existence : that being who never could be his. He shuddered to think that all this must end ; but although he never indulged again in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed him to thrust away the future, and to par- ticipate in all the joys of the flowing hour. At the end of February the Montingfords departed, and now the Duke was 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 ihe preoent; but he did not want to ride with papa, and took THE YOUNG DUKE. 269 every opportunitj' to shirk ; all which Mr. Dacre set dowB 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 tliink 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. Ton must carry a basket though,' said she, turning to the Duke, ' suid run for the doctor if he be wanted, and, in short, do any odd message that turas up.' So Mr. Dacre departed alone, and shortly after his daughter and the Duke of St. James set out on their morn- ing ramble. Many were the cottages at which they called ; many the old dames after whose rhenmatisms, 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 house- keeper 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 wina. ' And is this your second sou. Dame Rishworth ? ' ' No ; that bees our fourth,' said the old woman, mater- nally arranging the urchin's thin, white, flat, straight, un- manageable hair. ' We are thinking what to do with him, Miss. He wants to go out to sarvioe. 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 Cnstle, was saying t'other day that perhaps he might 270 THE YOUNG DUKE. want a youiig hand. You haven't heard anything, I sup- pose, Miss ? ' ' And what is your name, sir ? ' asked Miss Dacre ' Bobby Rishworth, Miss ! ' ' Well, Bobby, 1 must consult Mr. Bradford.' ' We be in great trouble. Miss,' said the next cottagSJ'. ' We be in great trouble. Tom, poor Tom, was out lest 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 fathei-s 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. Daore 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 ? ' ' Yon are very good. No, I thank you ; not to-day.' ' Ye.i, 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 thg old Nurse. ' Are you ford of honey, sir ? Our honey is THE YOUNG DUKE. 271 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 weire a little girl (I knew tbis 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 •bhought 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. Ton remember the httle Duke ; do not you? This is the little Duke. Do you think he has grown ? ' ^ ' Now ! bless my life ! is it so indeed r 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, .Tideed ! 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? Ton was ever a trouble.iomo child. Often and often have I called George 272 THE YOUNG DUKE. George, Georgy, Georgy Porgy, and he never wonJd como near me, thougli lie 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 Dake. ' Ay ! sure enough ; I always said so. Often and often have I said, he will turn out well at last. Tou 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 con- firmed 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 sug- gestions, but made none ; he listened to her remarks with interest, but no longer bandied repartee. Delicately he im- pressed her with the absolute power which she might exer- cise 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,' THE YOUNG DUKE. 273 ' My follies,' said the Duke with a serious air, ' hare at least been produ.ctive 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 com- pliments from anyone. See ! there is Papa, and Arundel too : let us run up ! ' CHAPTER III. The Duke of St. James had, on his arrival at Diiore, soon observed that a constant correspondence was maintained between Miss Daore and her cousin. There was no attempt to conceal the fact from any of the guests, and, as that young gentleman was aow 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 cha- racter, 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 Catholir T 274 THE YOUNG DUKE. iaterest was strong, and on that, and the usual Whig in fluence, he ventured. His deeire 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 can- vasser 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 wel- comed with a frankness which he had never before expe- rienced from his friei.d. Excited by rapid travel and his present course of hfe, and not damped by the unexpected presence of any strangers, Arundel Dacre seemed qtiite 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 Csesar set upon in the Senate Hoiase, and get immense eheering 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 thi? liquid.' THE YOUNG DUKP.. 275 ' But will you get in ; but will you get in ? ' exclaimed hie ODUsin. ' '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 qaiite sure. But really I think that if the Protestant overseei's, 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 sup- ported, 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 aU 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 gaeped for breath, a cold dew covered his frame, his joints loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that sickening sensation when life appears uttei-ly worth- less, 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 i-uled 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 Ah-eady his weapon pierced that craven heart, and ripped T 2 276 THE YOUNG DUKE. open that breast wHcLi 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 scribbUng over a quire of paper, he threw the sheets to th6 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 Uqnid 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 httle 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. ' Tou are not well ! ' said Miss Dacre to him, in a Xoft voice. ' I believe I am,' answered he shortly. ' Tou do not seem quite so,' she replied, with an air of surprise. ' I believe I have got a headache,' he retorted with little more cordiahty. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed. CHAPTEK IV. 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 mate that ejdstenoe desirable : there is wild witchery in it, which -nre THE YOUNG DUKE. 277 doubt whether opium can reach, and are sure that winu cannot. And the Duke ! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserable speculations about the state of the poU, 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 BO on. His wounded pride, which had borne so nauch, 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 sensa- tion 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 looldng at her, dragged it along to the fire- place, 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 stand- ing 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 spofetx ' I am sure you are not well.' ' Perfectly, thank you.' 278 THE YOUNG DUKE. ' Something has happened, then,' she said, mther im- ploringly. ' What should have happened ?' he rejoined, pettishly. 'Ton sure very strange; very nulike what you always are.' ' What I always am is of no consequence to myself, or to anyone else ; and as for what 1 am now, I cannot always command my feelings, though I shall take care that they are not again observed.' ' I have offended you ? ' ' Then yon 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 ti'y. Yon 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 Kke 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 THE YOUNG DUKE. 279 Biuooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful and quivering like tlie tmlight, 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. The storm was jjast. 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 tlie Pitz-pompeys. However, he did not leave Dacre at the same time as Arundel, but lingered on. His affairs wore 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 wan 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-know. 28o THE YOUNG DUKE. ledge, and the performance of it consequently the develop- ment 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 not 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 untU he had carved out his own fortunes, or perhaps the uncle made his distinction the condition of his consent. Tet 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 tbonsand thoughts. THE YOUNG DUKE. CHAPTER VI. A-NOTHEB fortniglit 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, confase, mistake, assort ; pretend, like ChampoUion, to decipher illegible (ranks, 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, ex- claimed, 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 flanked 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 Kps 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 waa the previous member, who had accepted the Chiltern Hundreds in his favour. ' Ton 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_ 282 THE YOUNG DUKE. and Las no great ambition to take any active part in afiaira at present. T anticipated less difficulty with liim than witli his father. St. Maurice can comma,nd mc again when it suits him ; but, I confess to you, I have been surprised at my uncle's kindness in this aifair. I really have not done justice to his character before, and regret it. He has be- haved in the most kind-hearted and the most liberal manner, and put me under obHgations 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 afi'airs. 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 Bronnook 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 Haute ville !. 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 dispatch Barriugton, then,' said Mr. Dacre, ' and join you in ten minutes.' ' How good you are ! ' said Miss Dacre to the Diik& 'Hyw can we thank you enough ? What can we do f"' you ? ' THE YOUNG DUKE. 2S3 ' Yoii have thanked me enough. Wliat liave 1 done after all ? My opportunity to serve my friends is brief. Is it wonderful that I seize the opportunity ? ' ' Brief ! brief ! Why do yon always say so ? Why do y ju 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 Hanteville, 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 ai-rived, or rather the important messenger, who brought down, expi'ess, 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 frbm their birth, who have gone tlirough the regular process of gold medals, senior wraiiglerships, and double firsts, who have nightly sat down amid tumultuous cheering iia debating societies, and can harangue with unruffled forehead and unfaltering voice, from one end of a dinner-table to the other, who, on all occasions, have some- thing 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 M-e 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 liis false reputation. On the other hand, persons, whom the women have long deplored, and the men long pitied, as having ' no manner,' 284 THE YOUNG DUKE. who olush 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 falleat 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 over- whelmed those ponderous and unwieldy arguments which the producers announced as rocks, but which he proved to be porpoises. Never was there such a triumphant debut ; and a peroration of genuine eloquence, becailse of genuine feeling, concluded amid the long and renewed cheers of all The truth is. Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. Wken a mind is fuU, 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 acnteness, 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 re- sults, 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 i£ it were truth when it was first heard ; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic all the THE YOUNG DUKE. 285 actions of vitality, is not life. When a man is not speak, ing, or writing, from his own mind, he is as insipid com- pany as a looking-glass. Before a man can address a popular assembly with com- mand, 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 pondors over their re- sults. 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, aU 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 be- tween oratory and debating. Oratory seems an accom- plishment 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, Caesar, and every great orator of an- tiquity. Oratory is essentially the accomplishment of an- tiquity : 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 some- times to be stifled in the Gallery, or enjoy the easier privi- leges 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. 1 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 origiiial mind. To the last, he never got clear of ' Good 286 THE YOUNG DUKE. God, sir ! ' and all the other hackneyed ejaculations of his youthfal debating clubs. The most commanding speaker that I ever listened to is, I thiak. Sir Francis Burdett. I Qever heard him in the House ; but at an election. He was fall of music, grace, and dignity, even amid all the vulgar tumult ; and, unlike all mob orators, raisec^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 iiuent, and never weak. His thoughtfal and highly- cultivated mind maintains him under all circumstances ; and his breeding never deserts him. Sound sense comes recom- mended 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 ia said to have great powers of sarcasm. From what I have observed there, I should think very little ones would be quite sufScient. 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 con- vulsed with raillery which, in other society, would infallibly settle the ralUer 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 liis 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 nn- philosophical 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. Macanlay is to be returned. If ho speaks half as well as he writes, the House will be in fashion THE YOUNG DUKE. 287 igaiu I fear that he is one of those who, like the indi- vidual whom he has most studied, will ' give up to party what was meant for mankind.' At any rate, he must get rid of hia rabidity. He writes now on all subjects, as if he certainly intended to be a renegade, and was determined to make the contrast com- plete. 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 circum- stances and all disadvantages, and will. In the Lords, I admire the Duke. The readiness with which he haa adopted the air of a debater, shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky sort of a downright Montaignish naivete about him, which is quaint, unusual, and tells. You plainly perceive that he is determiaed 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 refaccim&iito of all the suppressed pas- sages 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 Bonaetimes 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, Pamdise Lost. 288 THE YOUNG DUKB. CHAPTER VII. N DTHiNG was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. Amndei 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 accord- ingly. The Duke, however, felt that he had acted at once magnanimously, generously, and wisely. The conscious- ness of a noble action is itself ennobhng. 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 remem- bered, 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 ia the Lords was at hand. ' Lord Fanlconcourfc 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-mor- row ? Scarcely forty-eight hours and all will be over, and we shall be just where we were. You and your Mends 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 occa- sion, there should be no proxies. Personal attendance would indicate a keener interest in the result. Ah ! it I were Duke of St. James for one night ! ' Ah ! that you would be Duchess of St. James ! ' thoneht rUE YOUNG DUKE. ,289 the Duke ; but a despairing lover Las no heart for jokes, and so he did not give utterance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and caught Mary Dacre's eye. She smiled, and slightly blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness 'of her reniaik, 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 uf St. Jnmes stole out of Castle Dacre, leaving a note for his host, accounting for his sudden depai'ture by urgent business at Hauteville, and promising a return in a day or tw;o. 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, vras 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 Tork Mail. He had two companions : the first, because apparently the most im- portant, was a hard-featured, grey-headed gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air of acute- ness and conceit ; the other was a humble-looking widow- in her weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons h&tl recently roused themselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and BOW, after their welcome meal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds. 'Well! now we arc off,' said the gentleman 'Very n 290 THE YOUNG DUKE. neat, cleanly little house this, ma'am,' continued he to his companion. ' What is the sign V ' 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 V ' I have reason to believe so,' said the Duke. 'I suppose this is his park, eh ? Hem ! going to London, sirf ' 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 wiU, 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 gay ; but we have got beyond all that. Have you read this, sir 1 This article on the aristocracy in " The Screw and Lever Review 1" ' ' 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 it last' THE YOUNG DUKE. 291 ' I should think,* said his Grace, ' that the follies of tlie man who has 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 com- panion, 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 son.1,' 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.' ' Tou appear to have heard much of this young noble- man,' 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. Tou have not the least idea, sir, how this fellow has Uved. 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 systenij the infernal system. If that man had to work for his brojul, c 2 292 THE YOUNG DUKE. like everybody else, do you think lie would dino 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 ':f 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 Mrst 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 Tiibonian 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 aU 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 ? ' ■ THE YOUNG DUK&. 293 ' Outside or in ? ' ' Out, to be sure.' ' Room inside only.' 'Well! in then.' The door opened, and a singularly quamt-Iooking per- sonage presented himself. He was very stiflp and prim in his appearance ; dressed in a blue coat and scarlet waist- coat, with a rich bandana 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.' 294 THE YOUNQ DUKE. ' A very useless person, then.' ' What do you mean ? ' ' I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly edn- Bated, such an amphibious corps would never have been formed, and some of the most atrocious sinecures ever tole- rated 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 had, 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 m.arine, very courteously. ' At Bhurtpore, up by Pcrshy, and thereabouts ; the lake of Cashmere, wliere all the shawls come from. Maybe you have heard of Cashmere, ma'am ? ' ' Who has not heard of the lake 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, hum.ouring 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, " Tou 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 Captaiu Jones, of the 58th. I vjcent with him : I give you his name : go and ask Captain THE YOUNG DUKE. 295 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. K I ayn't speaking the truth, I am not going to Selby. Maybe you'd like to know why I am goiag 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'l eat a bit of victuals till I come back, I'll be sworn ; not a 2g6 The young duke. bit, I'll be boand to say that ; and myself, although 1 am ar. old soldier and served my king and country for five-and- twenty years, and so got knocked about, and used to any- thing, 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 T am away from her, everything feels dry in the throat.' ' Tou 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. ' All J you don't know my wife, ma'am. Are you mar- ried, 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 yoTing 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. Bumet,' 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 aU 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.' THE YOUNG DUKE. 297 ' What yon please, sir. May I have tho pleasure of helping you, ma'am ? ' After dinner the Duke took advantage of a vacant out- side place. Tom Ravelins 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 tlie 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 elegani 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 Macmorrogli, senior, a wi-iter at Edin- burgh, and, of course, the fatber 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 pohce report in the Publican's Journal. Young Duncan Maomorrogh 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 Mao- morrogh cut up the Creation, and got a name. His attack upon mountains was most violent, and proved, by its per- sonality, that he had come from the Lowlands. He demon- strated tbe inutility of all elevation, and declared that the Andes were tbe aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he rather patronised ; but . flowers ho 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, be 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 29* THE YOUNG DUKE. a Northumbrian village. Some friend had obtained for ber only child a clerkship in a public office, and for some time this idol of ber heart had gone on prospering ; but nn- fortunately, 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 aE, 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 (HiUoa, 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 soiry (Don't blush ; no mes- sage ?), I should be sorry to take two hundred pounds to pay it. No, I wouldn't take two hundred pounds, tliat I wouldn't (I say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith's).' THE YOUNG DUKE. 299 Kight 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 hght, 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 note-book. 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 pos- session before their parting, he resumed his place. The Scotchman now prepared for his night's repose. He pro- duced 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 pub- lic 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, shght as was his portion, had made him feverish, aftd he felt at once excited and exhausted. He was sad, too ; very depressed. Alone, and no longer Biirrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made aoHtude precious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling 30O. THE YOUNG DUKB. spirit. His energy vanislied. He repented his ra shness j and the impulse of the previous night, which had gathered fresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He felt alone, and without a fiiend, 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 iu her hands. They rattled into London, stopped in Lombard Street, reached Holborn, en- tered 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 VIIT. The return of morning had in some degree dissipated the gloom that had settled on the young Duke duiing 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 determina- tion 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 THE YOUNG DUKE. 3°! brain. Failure, misery, May Dacre, Tom Rawlias, 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 ex- perience. 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 behoved, at the Hummums. The Duke dressed, and to the Hum- mums 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 mississ, sir ? ' ' Do you mean me ? No, I have not seen your mississ ; ' and the Duke proceeded. ' Sir, su',' said the ostler, running after him, ' I think you said you had not seen mississ ? ' ' Tou 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 mississ 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 nie when a coach leaves this place to-morrow for Yorkshire.' ' Half-past six o'clock in the morning precisely,' said the ostler. 302 THB YOUNG DUKE. ' Well, my good fellow, I depend upon your securing me a place ; and that is for yourself,' added his Grace, throw- ing him a sovesreign, ' Now, mind ; I depend upon you.' The man stared as if he had been suddenly taken into partnership with mississ ; at length he found his tongue. ' Tour 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 at- tending 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 suf- ficient confidence in himself to behave 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 repeti- tion. 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 Pitz-pompey. ' I -will speak to you in the House,' said the Duke, passing ou, and bowing to Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh. .THE YOUNG DUKE. 303 Ho recalled his proxy from the Duke of Bui'lington, and accounted for his presence to many astonished fi-iends 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 coun- tries. It was the last compliment that he could pay his fature 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. Jamefi rose. He was extremely nervous, but he repeated to him- self the name of May Dacre for the hundredth time, and proceeded. He was nearly commencing ' May Dacre ' in- stead of ' My Lords,' but he escaped this blunder. For the first five or ten minutes he spoke in almost as cold and hfeless 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 wanned, and a courteous ' hear, hear,' frequently sounded ; the Duke be- came totally free from enabarrassment, and spoke with eloquence and energy. A cheer, a stranger in the House of Lords, rewarded and encouraged him. As an Irish land- lord, his sincerity could not be disbelieved when he ex- pressed 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 infiuence, 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 con- gratulated him upon his distinguished success. The debate took its course. At three o'clock the pro-Catholics found themselves Ln a minority, but a minority in which the 304 THE YOUNG DUKE. prescient might have well discovered the herald of ftituTe 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 congratu- lated 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 con- gratulations ; but he broke away from them to welcome the jian 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 discrimi- nation.' ' No, no,' said Dacre, gaily and easily ; ' all the congra- tulations 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 Arun- del. ' 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' THE YOUNG DUKE, 305 ' 1 shall see them in a day or Wo,' said the Duke. ' I pay Mr. Dacre one more visit before my departure from England.' 'Are you then indeed going?' asked Arundel, in a kind Toice. ' 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 bo 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 Uke 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 compH- ment to my honour or my simpKcity : I fear the last, and really I feel rather proud. But away with these feeUngs ! Have I not seen her in his arms ? Pah ! Thank God ! 1 X 3o6 THE YOUNG DUKE. spoke. At least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does not think me quite a fool. 0, May Daore, 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 beautifal, even in London. Joy came upon his heart, in spite of all his loneliness, and he was glad ana sanguine. He arrived just in time. The coach was about to start. The faithftil 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 Wobum, a despatch arrived with the news- papers. All parchased 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 distin- guished 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. ' Toung 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 com.mon 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 unafiected.' ' I can't bear an affected man,' said the second, without THE YOUNG DUKE. ^07 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 iudeed ? ' 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 House- hold,' 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 P ' 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 ihe 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 Na- tional 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, X i 3o8 THE YOUNG DUKE. and determined to stop. In half an hour he enjoyed that deep, dreamless slumber, with which no luxury can com- pete. One must have passed restless nights for years, to bo able to appreciate the value of sound sleep. CHAPTER IX. He rose early, and managed to reach Dacre at the break fast 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 intona- tions of the voice indicate the deep sympathy of the reader. She ceases. He hears the admiring exclamation of his host. He ralKes 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 con- gratulation, that rewarded him for all his exertion. Every- thing 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 hia love, and &r three hours felt the happiest of men. THE YOUNG DUKE. 309 At lengtli Mr. Dacre rose and looked at his watoh 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 yon 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 RawKns ? ' ' 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 smUe which before was on his face, va- nished. 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 1 I am pressed for time. When I come home. Remember.' He quitted the roona. 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 recoUection of Arundel's letter came over him, and his 3H» THE YOUNG DVKB: joy fled. WTien 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 iU.' ' 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 friend- ship 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 suc- ceeded 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 ; anec- dotes of Annesley and their friends, and other gossip, were offered for her amusement. But if she were amused, she was not Uvely, but singularly, unusually silent. There was only one point on which she seemed interested, and that w^as his speech. When he was cheered, and who particu- larly cheered ; who gathered round him, and what they said after the debate : on all these points she was most in- quisitive. They rambled on : Nurse was quite forgotten ; and at length they found themselves in the beautiful valley, ren- dered 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. THE YOUNG DUKE. Jtl They stood in silence before the holy pile with its vault- ing 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-know- ledge, and struggled to call order from out the chaos of his mind. Not two years, and yet what a change had come over hia 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 difierent might have been my lot ! ' A gentle but involuntary pressure reminded him of the companion whom, for once iu 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 312 THE YOUNG DUKE. 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 beautiM, the most enchanting and endear- ing 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 P ' She turned ; her arm fell over his shoulder ; she buried her head in his breast. CHAPTER X. Mr. Dacee 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 com- manded. Miss Daore also could not be found. No infor- mation 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 Uaore desired me to say, that she would not join us ai dinner.' THE YOUNG DUKE. 313 ' 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 wiU 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 wa/iit of a landlord. Tou will never guess : Lord MUdmay ! ' ' What did you say of Lord Mildmay, sir ? ' ' My dear fellow, your wits are wool-gathering ; I say 1 think I have let Rosemount.' ' Oh ! I have changed my mind about letting Rose- mount.' ' 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 314: TtlB YOUNG Dtfkn. 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 pre- ference.' ' 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 ? ' ' la it possible, my dear sir, that you have not long before detected the feelings I ventured to entertain for your daugh. ter ? 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. THE YOUNG DUKE. S'S CHAPTER XI. They come not : it 13 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 bHss ! 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. Tes, he has told all ! Mr. Dacre ap- proached, 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 Hfe, 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 fuU 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 novehst, Uke myself, has echoed all our superiors, the poets, teach us ! No doubt, thou rosy god of young Desire, thou art a most bewitching httle 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 3i6 THE YOUNG DUKE. love, -we are enamoured of otir own imaginations. Oni thongMs are Mgh, 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 beautifal 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 sweetsst flowers, and a more balmy breath brought on the universal promise of the opening year. THE YOUNG DUKE. 317 They wandered in tke 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. Prom 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 pui'e, and beautiful, and good. CHAPTER XII. 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 Am- bassador, and the second to a grey-headed stock-jobber, very rich, who, having no society, determined to make soli- tude amusing. The proceeds of these sales, together with sundry sums obtained by converting into cash the stud, the furniture, and the hijouterie, 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 3i8 THE YOUNG DUKE. the lerminarion of these undertakings, and to allow caci 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 do- creased 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 Bronnook. There remained to the Duke about thirty thousand per annum ; but then HauteviUe was to be kept up with this. Mr. Dacre pro- posed that the young people should reside at Rosemount, and that consequently they might form their establishment from the Castle, without reducing their Yorkshire appoint- ments, and avail themselves, without any obhgation, or even the opporttmity, of great expenses, of all the advan- tages afforded by the necessary expenditure. Finally, Mr. Dacre presented his son with his town mansion and furni- ture ; 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 condi- tion, and in answer received the following letter : — ' Fitz-pompey Hall, May, 18 — . ' Mt deae Geoegb, — Tour letter did not give us so much surprise as you expected ; but I assure you it gave us as much pleasure. Tou have shown your wisdom and your caste 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 THE YOUNG DUKE. 319 family, than the lady whom you are about to introduce to as as our niece. Believe me, my dear George, that the Qotifi nation 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 flatter- ing and most pleasing communication, it is my truly agree- able duty to inform you (and, believe me, you are the first person out of our immediate family to whom this intelli- gence is made known) that our CaroHne, in whose happi- ness we are well assured you take a lively uiterest, 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 ap- pear, in a mere worldly point of view, so desirable a con- nection 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 hberal 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 un- necessary 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 al), his connection with you, that we may finally succeed in having him called up to us. You are of course aware that tliere was once a barony in the family. ' Everybody talks of your speech. I assure you, although I ever gave you credit for nncommon talents, 1 was 320 THD YOUNG DUKn. Bstonisliod. So you are to have the vacant ribbon I Why did you not tell me? 1 learut it to-day, from Lord Bobble- shim. But we must not quarrel with men in love for not communicating. ' Tou ask me for news of all your old frionds. You of course saw the death of old Annosley. The new Lord took his seat yesterday ; he was introduoed by Lord Bloomorly. I was not surprised to hear in the evening that he was about to be married to Lady Charlotte, though Ujb world affect to be astonished. I should not forget to say that Lord Annesley asked most particularly after you. For hltn, 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 on odd person, you understand mn : 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 out him when they are mamed, and so ho is determined to give them an excuse. I understand she is a very fine woman. He talks of living at Rome and Florence for u year or two. ' Lord Darrell is about to marry Harriet Wrekin j and between ourselves (but don't lot this go any further at, present) I have very little doubt that young Pococuranto will shortly be united to Isabel. ConjiociLod as we are with the Shropshires, those excellent alliances are gratifyinir. ' I see very little of Lucius Grafton. Ifo sodrnH ill. J understand, for certain, that her Ladyship opfioses the divorce. On Ml, she has got hold of some lot tors, through the treachery of hoc soubrcUo, whom ho supposed (|iiiln his ofeature, and that your ini;u(\ is rather taken in. But I should not think this true. People talk very loosely. There was a gay party at Mrs, DalHngton'sthoothor nighf, who asked very kindly after you, ' I think I have now written yon a very long letter, I once more congratulate yon on your admirable «ele«tion, THE YOLW'O DUKE. 321 and wit!) tbe united nuoianbnauie ot oar cncle, pardcnlaH j Caroline, who wiD write periu^ by tiiis post to Mise Diicre, beKeve idb, dear Greorge, ycrar tmly affectionate nncJe, ' Fnz-POMPKT.' ' P.S.—Jjord Marylebonc is very nnpopolar, quite a timte. We all mjsB yon.' It is not to be sappoeed thai this letter conveyed the first intimation to tbe Dnke of St. James of tlie most inten^Ttrn^- event of wlrich it spoke. On the ccmtiary, he had long hiees aware of the whole afiair ; but we have been too much engaged with his own conduct to find time to let the reader inio the secret, whidi, like all secrets, it is to be hoped viHv DO secret. Next to gaining the affections of llay Dacre, it was intpoasible for any everit to occnr more de- li^itfid to OUT hero than the present. EQs heart bad ofien mi^iven liim when be had tkooght of Caroline. Now she was happy, and not only happy, but connected with him (or life, jnst as he wished. Amndel Thtere, too, of all men he most wished to like, and indeed nu»t liked. One fieeling alone had prevented them from being bosom friends, and thai feeling had long trinmphantlj vanished. May had been almost from the beginning the eonfidanU of her consin. In vain, however, had she beseeched him to entrust all to her &ther. Although he now repented his p;i^'-t feelings he conld not be induct to change ; and not tSi he had entered Parliament and succeeded atid gained a name, which wonld reflect honour on the family with whicli be wished to identify himself woald he impart to his ancle the setset of his he^i, and gain that support without which bis great ohjeet conld never have been achieved. The Dnke of St. James, by retunring him to Parliament, had been the unconscious cause of aU his happiness, and aidently did he pray that his generous friend might succeed in what he was well aware wax his secret aspiration, and that his be- loved consin might yield her hand to the only man whom A.rundel Dacre considered worthy of her. I 323 THE YOUNG DUKE. CHAPTER Xni. A.NOTHEE week brought another letter from the Earl of Fitz-pompey. The Earl of Pitz-pompet to the Duke of St. James. [Read this alone.] 'Mt dear George, '.I beg you will not be alarmed by the above memoran- dum, 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 fearfal suspense, I ,beg to recal your recollection to the rumour which I Qoticed 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 un- acquainted, called upon me by appointment, having pre- viously 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 whoni'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 neces- sary results vrithout 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 ex- pressed it, and I may be permitted to repeat, as one who.se experience in the management of diflBcult and delicate ne- gotiations was not altogether unknown, in order that 1 THE YOUNG DUKE. 323 oiight be put in possession of the facts of the case, advise and perhaps interfere for the conmion good. ' Under these circumstances, and taking into considera- tion 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 re- markably 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 re- mark 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 Lucixis 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 Imown 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, &e., and wished the letters to be given up, but Lord Waristot would not, consent to this, though he promised to kpep their T 2 324 THE YOUNG DUKE. couteuis 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 afiaxrs 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 Crrafton, and the late expose will not favour her interests. 'If anything farther 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 re- membrance to Mr. and Miss Dacre, ' Ever, my dear George, ' Tour very affectionate uncle, ' PiTZ-POMPET.' The youjig 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 neg- lected soul ! With what admiration did he not gaze upon the pure and beautiful being whose virtue and whose love- liness 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 agree- able discharge of all the important duties of his exalted station, and his present career is by I'ar 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 Gastle proceed in regulal THE YOUNG DUKE. 325 Bourse. These magnificent dwellings will nevei erase simple and delightful Rosemount from the grateful memory of the Dachess of St. James. Parliament, and in a degree society, invite the Duke and Duchess each year to the me- tropolis, and Mr. Daore is generally their guest. Their most intimate and beloved friends are Arundel and his wife, and as Lady Caroline now heads the establishment of Oastle Dacre, they are seldom separated. But among their most agreeable company is a young gentleman styled by courtesy Dacro, Marquess of Hauteville, and his young sister, wlio has not yet escaped from her beautiful mother's arms, and who beareth tl>e blooming title of the Lady Mftv. COUNT ALAECOS A TRAGEDY. ADVERTISEMENT TO COUNT ALARC08. As there is no historical authority for the evente ot the celebrated Ballad on which this Tragedy is founded, I have fixed upon the thirteenth century for the period of their occurrence. At that time the kingdom of Castille had recently obtained that supremacy in Spain which led, in a subsequent age, to the political integrity of the country. Burgos, its capital, was a magnificent city , and then also arose that masterpiece of Christian architecture, its famous Cathedral. This state of comparative refinement and civilisation permitted the introduction of more complicated motives than the rude manners of the Ballad would have autho- rised ; while the picturesque features of the Castillian middle ages still Hourished in full force; the factions of a powerful nobility, renowned for their turbulence, strong passions, enormous cjiu'es, profound superstitiou. A. Liihduk: May, 183U. VAaMA'IIS PERSONAi. The King of Castille. Count Alarcos, a Prince of the Blood. COUBT OF SiDONlA. Count of Leon. Pbiob of Burgos. Oean, a Moor. Ferdinand, a Page. Guzman Jaoa, a Bravo. Gbaus, the Keeper of a Posada. SoLiSA, Infanta of Castille, only child of the King Plorimonde, Countess Alarcos. Plix, a Hostess. Courtiers, Pages, Chamberlains, Bravos, aud Priests Time— the 13th Century. Suono — BurgOH, the capital ox Castilic, and its viciuit)' COUNT ALAECOS A TRAGEDY. ACT I. SCENE 1. A Street in Burgos; the Cathedral in the distance Enter Two Codbtiers. 1st Cock. Thr Pi'inoe of Hungary dismis.sed ? 2nd ConR. Indeed So mns the rumour. 1st Conn. Why the spousal note Still floats upon the air ! 2nd Cour. Myself this morn Beheld the Infanta's entrance, as she threw. Proud as some bitless barb, her haughty glance On our asaembied chiefs. 1st Codr. The Prince was there P 332 COUNT ALARCOS: 2nd Co0K. Most royally ; nor seemed a man more fit To claim a kingdom for a dower. He looked Our Gadian Hercales, as the advancing peers Their homage paid. I followed in the train Of Count Alarcos, with whose ancient house My fortunes long have mingled. 1st Coub. 'Tis the same, But just retui-ned ? 2nd Coub. Long banished from the Court : A.nd only favoured since the Queen's decease. His ancient foe. 1st Coub. A very potent JJord ? 2nd Coub. Near to the throne ; too near perchance for peace You're young at Burgos, or indeed 'twere vain To sing Alarcos' praise, the brightest knight That ever waved a iatice in Old Castille. 1st Coce. You followed in his train ? 2nd Cour. And as we passed, Alarcos bowing to the lowest earth, The Infanta swooned ; and pale as yon niched- saint Prom off the throned step, her scat of place, FcU in a wild and senseless agony. 1st Coub. Sancta Maria. ! and the King — 2nd Coub. ' Uprose And bore her from her maidens, then broke up The hurried Coui't ; indeed I know no moi-c ; A TRAGEDY. 333 For like a turning tide the crowd pressed on. And scarcely could I gain the grateful air. y^ot on the Prado's walk came smiling by The Bishop of Ossuna; as he passed He clutched my cloak, and whispered in my ear, ' The match is off.' (Enter Page.) 1st Uoue. Hush ! hush ! a passenger. Page. Most noble Cavaliers, I pray, inform me Where the great Count Alavcos holds his quarter 2nd Coue. In the chief square. His banner tells the roof ; Your pleasure with the Count, my gentle youth ': Page. I were a sorry messenger to tell My mission to the first who asks its aim. 2nd Cour. The Count Alarcos is my friend and chief. Page. Then better reason I should trusty bo. For you can be a witness to my trust. Ibt Cocr. A forward youth ! 2nd Coor. A page is ever pert Page. Ay ! ever pert is youth that baffles age. [Exit Paob Isr CoDR. The Count is married ? 334 COUNT ALARCOS : 2nd Cour. To a beauteous lady , And blessed wich a fair race. A happy man Indeed is Count Alarcos. l^A trwmpet soundf 1st Couk. Prithee, see : Passes he now P 2Nr) CO0K. Long since. Yon banner tells The Count Sidonia. Let us on, and view The passage of his pomp. His Moorish steeds, They say, are very choice. [Exeimt Two Court rsRS. SCENE 2. A Chamber in the Palace of Alarcos. The Countess .seated and worhimg at her tapestry; the Count pacing the Chamber. CoUN. You are disturbed, Alarcos ? Alar. 'Tis the stir And tumult of this mom. I am not used To Courts. CODN. I know not why, it is a name That makes me tremble. AliAE. Tremble, Morimondo, WTiy .sihould you tremble ? COUN. Sooth I cannot say. Methinks the Court but little suits my kind ; 1 love our quiet home. A TRAGEDY. 335 Alar. This is our home CoUM. When you are here. Alab. I will be always hero. Cora. Thou canst not, sweet Alarcos. Happy houra, When we were parted but to hear thy horn Soand in our native woods ! Alab. Why, this is humour ! We're courtiers now ; and we must smile and smirk CouN. Methinks your tongue is gayer than your glance. The King, I hope, was gracious ? Alak. Were he not. My frown's as prompt as his. He was most graciouf CouN. Something has chafed thee ? Alar. What should chafe me, child. And when shotdd hearts be light, if mine be dnll ? Is not mine exile over ? Is it nought To breathe in the same house where we were bom, And sleep where slept our fathers ? Should that chafe V CODN. Yet didst thou, leave my side this very mom, And with a vow this day should ever count Amid thy life most happy ; when we meet Thy brow is clouded. 336 COUNT ALARCOS: Alak. Joy is sometimes grave, And deepest when 'tis calm. And I am joyful If it be joy, this long forbidden hall Once more to pace, and feel each fearless step Tread on a baffled foe. COUN. Hast thou still foes ? Alae. I trust so ; I should not be what I am, Still less what I will be, if hate did not Pursue me as my shadow. Ah ! fair wife. Thou knowest not Burgos. Thou hast yet to fiiihoai The depths of thy new world. COUN. I do recoil As fi-om some unknown woe, from this same worli I thought we came for peace. Alab. Peace dwells within No lordly roof in Burgos. We have come For triumph. OotiN. So I share thy lot, Alai-cos, All feelings are the same. Alae. My Plorimonde, I took thee from a fair and pleasant home In a soft land, where, like the air they live in, Men's hearts are mild. This proud and fierce OaatJIlf Resembles not thy gentle Aquitaine, More than the eagle may a dove, and yet It is my country. Danger in its bounds Weighs more than foreign safety. But why speak Of what exists not ? A TRAGEDY. 337 Co™. A.ad I hopo may iicvor 1 Alar. And if it come, wliiit then ? This ohiinco shall find me Not unprepared. CouN. But why should there be danger ? And why should'st thou, the foremost prince of Spain, b'ear or make foes ? Thou standest in no light Would fall on other shoulders ; thon hast no height To climb, and nought to gain. Thon art complete ; The King alone above thee, and thy friend. Al.AR So I would deem. 1 did not speak of fear, COUN. Of danger ? AliAR. That's delight, when it may load To mighty ends. Ah, Florimonde ! thou art too piiro Uusoiled in the rough and miry paths Of this same trampling world ; unskilled in heats Of fierce and emulous spirits. There's a rapture In the strife of factions, that a woman's soal Can never reach. Men smiled on me to-day Would gladly dig my grave ; and yet I smiled, And gave them coin as ready as their own, And not loss base. CoUN. And can there bo such men. And canst thou live with them ? Alab. Ay ! and they saw Me ride this morning in my state agB-iri ; The people cried ' Alai'cos and Ca.stiIIe ! ' The shout will dull tlioir Ibasls. 338 COUNT ALARCOS: COUN. There was a time Thou didst look back as on a turbulent dream On this same life. Alab. I was an exile then. This stirring Burgos has revived my vein. Yea, as I glanced from ofif the Citadel This very mom, and at my feet outspread Its amphitheatre of solemn towers And groves of golden pinnacles, and marked Turrets of friends and foes ; or traced the range, Spread since my exile, of our city's walls Washed by the swift Arlanzon : all around The flash of lances, blaze of banners, rush Of hurrying horsemen, and the haughty blast Of the soul-stirring trumpet, I renounced My old philosophy, and gazed as gazes The falcon on his quarry ! CouiN. Jesu grant The lui'(, will bear no harm ! [4 Utmipet sounds Alar. Whose note is that P I hear the tramp of horsemen in the court ; We have some guests. COUN. Indeed ! Enter the CouNT. OF SiDONiA, aiid the CoDNT or Lbok Alae. My noble fi-iends. My Countess greets ye ! Si DO. And indeed we pay To her our homage. A TRAGEDY. 339 Leon. Proud our city boasts So fair a firesence. CoUN. Count Alarcos' friends Are ever welcome here. Alar. No common wife. Who welcomes with a smile her husband's friends Srco. Indeed a treasure ! When I marry, Count, I'll claim your counsel. CoUN. 'Tis not then your lot ? SlDO. Not yet, sweet dame ; tho' sooth to say, full often I dream sucli things may be. COUN. Tour friend is free ? Leon. And values freedom : with a rosy chaiji I still should feel a captive. SiDO. Noble Leon Is proof against the gentle passion, lady, And will ere long, my rapier for a gage, ■ Marry a scold. Leon. In Burgos now, methinks, Marriage is scarce the mode. Our princess frowns It seems, apon her suitors. SiDO. Is it true The match is off? 1 1 340 COUNT ALARCOS.- Leon. 'Tis said. CouN. The match is off . You did not tell me this strange news, Alarcos. SiDO. Did he not tell yon how — Alar. In truth, good sirs, My wife and I are somewhat strangers here, And things that are of moment to the minds That long have dwelt on them, to us are nought. (To the Countess.) There was a sort of scene to-day at Court ; The Princess fainted : we were all dismissed. Somewhat abruptly ; hut, in truth, I deem These rumours have no source but in the tongusF Of curious idlers. SiDO. Faith, I hold them true. Indeed they're very rife. Leon. Poor man, methiuks His is a lot forlorn, at once to lose A mistress and a crown ! Cons. Yet both may bring Sorrow and cares. But little joy, I ween. Dwells with a royal bride, too apt to claim The homage she should yield. SlDO. I would all wives Held with your Countess in this pleasing creed. A TRAGEDY. 341 Alar. She has her way : it is a cunning wench That knows to wheedle. Burgos still maiiitains Its fame for noble fabrics. Since my timo The city's spread. SiDO. Ah ! you're a traveller, Count. And yet we have not lagged. CoUN. The Infanta, flu's, Was it a kind of swoon ? Alar. Old Lara livos Still in his ancient quarter? Leon. With the rats That share his palace. You spoke, Madam ? CouN. She Has dainty health, perhaps ? Leon. All ladies have. And yet as little of the fainting mood As one could fix on — Alak. Mendola left treasure ? SiDO. Wedges of gold, a chamber of sequins Sealed up for ages, flocks of Barbary sheep Might ransom princes, tapestry so rare The King straight purchased, covering for the price Kach piece with pistoles. CouN. Is she very fair ? 342 COUNT ALARCOS : Lkon. As future queens must ever be, and yet Her face miglit charm uncrowned. COUN. It grieves me much To hear the Prince departs. 'Ti3 not the first Among her suitors ? Alar. Your good uncle lives — Nunez de Leon ? Leon. To my cost, Alarcos ; He owes me much. SiDO. Some promises his heir Would wish fulfilled. Coon. In Gascony, they said, Navarre had sought lier hand. Lkos. He loitered here But could not pluck the fruit : it was too high. Sido^ia threw him in a tilt one day. The Infanta has her fancies ; unhorsed knights Count not among them. Enter a Chambeelain who whispers Count Alabcos. Alak. Urgent, and me alone W"ill commune with ! A Page ! Kind guests, your pardon ['U find you here anou. My Florimonde, ' Our friends will not desert you, like your spouse. [Exit Alarcos. COUN. My liords, will see our gardens ? A TRAGEDY. 343 Stdo. We are favoured. We wait upon your steps. Leon. And feel that roses Will spring beneath them. CoUN. You are an adept, sir, In our gay science. Leon. Faith, I stole it, lady, From a loose Troubadour Sidonia keeps To write his sonnets. [Exeunt mmies SOBNB 3. A Ghaiiiher. Enter Alarcos and Paob. Page. Will you wait here, my Lord ? Alar. I will, sir Page. [Exit Page The Bishop of Ossuna ; what would he ? He scents the prosperous ever. Ay ! they'll cluster Round this new hive. But I'll not house them yet. Marry, I know them all ; but me they know, As mountains might the leaping stream that meets The ocean as a river. Time and exile Change our life's course, but is its flow less deep Because it is more calm ? I've seen to-day Might stir its pools. What if my phantom flung A shade on their bright path ? 'Tis closed to me Although the goal's a crown. She loved me once ; 344 COUNT ALARCOS: Now swoons, and now the match is off. She's true . But I have clipped the heart that once could soar High as her own ! Dreams, dreams ! And yet entranced. Unto the fair phantasma that is fled. My struggling fancy cUngs ; for there are hours When memory with her signet stamps the brain With an undying mint ; and these were such, When high Ambition and enraptured Love, Twin Genii of my daring destiny. Bore on my sweeping life with their full wing, Like an angelic host : [In the distance enter a ladij veiled. Is this their priest ? Burgos unchanged I see. \_Advancing towards her^ A needless veil To one prophetic of thy charms, fair lady. And yet they fall on an ungracious eye. [ Withdrawn the roil Solisa ! Sol. Yes ! Solisa ; once again say Solisa ! let that long lost voice Breathe with a name too faithful ! Alau. Oh ! what tones, What mazing sight is this ! The spell-bound forms Of my first youth rise up from the abyss Of opening time. I listen to a voice That bursts the sepulchre of buried hope Like an immortal trumpet. Sol. Thou hast gi-anted, Mary, my prayers ! ALAfi. Solisa, my Solisa ! Sol. Thiue, thine, Alarcos. But thou : whose art thou ? A TRAGEDY. 345 Alak. Within this chamber is my memory bound ; I have no thought, no consciousness beyond Tts precious walls Sol. Thus did he look, thus speak, When to my heart he clung, and I to him Breathed my first love and last. Alar. Alas ! alas ! Woe to thy Mother, maiden. Sol. She has found That which I oft have prayed for. Alab. But not found A doom more dark than ours. Sol. I sent for thee, To tell thee why I sent for thee ; yet why, Alas ! I know not. Was it but to look Alone upon the face that once was mine ? This morn it was so grave. ! was it woe, Or but indifference, that inspired that brow That seemed so cold and stately ? Was it hate ? ! tell me anything, but that to thee 1 am a thing of nothingness. Alab. O spare ! Spare me such words of torture. Sol. Could I feel Thou didst not hate me, that my image brought At least a gentle, if not tender thoughts, I'd be conteiit. I cannot live to think, 346 COUNT ALARCOS: After the T'ast, that wc should meet again A.nd change cold looks. We are not stranjrers. saj At least we are not strangers r Alar, Gentle Princess — Soi,. Call me Solisa ; tho' we meet no more Call me Solisa now. Al,AR. Thy happiness — Sol. O ! no, no, no, not happines.s, at least Not fi'om those lips. AXAB. Indeed it is a name That ill becomes them. Sol. Yet they say, thon'rt hajtpy, And bright with all prosperity, and I Pelt solace in that thought. Alar. Prosperity ! Men call them prosperous whom they deem enjoy That which they envy ; but there's no success Save in one master-wish fulfilled, and mine Is lost for ever. Sol. Why was it ? O, why Didst thou forget me ? Alar. Never, lady, never — But ah ! the past, the irrevocable past — We can but meet to mourn. A TRAGEDY. 347 Sol. No, not to mourn, 1 came to bless thee, came to tell to thee 1 hoped that thou wert happy. Alar. Come to mourn. rU find delight in my unbridled grief : Yes ! let me fling away at last this mask, And gaze upon my woe. Sol. 0, it was rash, . Indeed 'twas rash, Alarcos ; what, sweet sir, What, after all our vows, to hold me false, And place this bar between us ! I'll not think Thou ever lovcd'st me as thou did'st profess, And that's the bitter drop. Alar. Indeed, indeed — Sol. I could bear much, 1 could bear all, but this My faith In thy past love, it was so deep. So pure, so sacred, 'twas my only solace ; I fed upon it in my secret heart. And now e'en that is gone. Alar. Doubt not the paex. 'Tis sanctified. It is the gi-een fresh spot [n my life's desert. Sol. There is none to thee As I have been ? Speak, speak, Alarcos, tell me Is't true ?• Or, in this sliip wreck of my soul, Do I cUng ^wildly to some perishing hope That sinks like me ? 348 COUNT ALARCOS.- Alab. The May-burst of the heart Can bloom but once ; and mine has fled, not faded. That thought gave fancied solace, ah, 'twas fancy, For now I feel my doom. Sol. Thou hast no doom But what is splendid as thyself. Alas ! Weak woman, when she stakes her heart, must play Ever a fatal chance. It is her all, And when 'tis lost, she's bankrupt ; bui proud man Shuffles the cards again, and wins to-moiTOw What pays his present forfeit. Alau. But alas ! What have I won ? A wife ! Sol. A country and a wife. Alar. Sol. A wife, and very fair, they say. She should be fair, who could induce thee break Such vows as thine. O ! I am very weak. Why came I here ? Was it indeed to see If thou could'st look on me ? Alar. My own Solisa. Sol. Call me not thine ; why, what am I to thee That thou should'st call me thine ? Alar. Indeed, sweet lady, Thou lookest on a man as bruised in spirit, As broken-hearted, and subdued in «oul, A TRAGEDY. 349 ks sjiy breathing wretch that deems the day Can bring no darker morrow. Pity me ! A.nd if kind words may not subdue those lips So soomful in their beauty, be they touched At least by Mercy's accents ! Was't a crime, I could not dare believe that royal heart Retained an exile's image ? that forlorn, Harassed, worn out, surrounded by strange aspects And stranger manners, in those formal ties Custom points out, I sought some refuge, found At least companionship, and, grant 'twas weak. Shrunk from the sharp endurance of the doom That waits on exile, utter loneliness ! Sol. His utter loneliness ! Alar. And met thy name, Most beauteous lady, prithee think of this, Only to hear the princes of the world Wore thy hot suitors, and that one would soon Be happier than Alaroos. Sol. False, most false. They told thee false. Alak. At least, then, pity me, Solisa ! Sol. Ah ! Solisa, that sweet voice. Why should I pity thee ? 'Tis not my office. Go, go to her that cheered thy loneliness, Thy utter loneliness. And had I none ? Had I no pangs of solitude ? Exile ! ! there were moments I'd have gladly givet My crown for banishment. A wounded heart Boats freer in a desert ; 'tis the air Of palaces that chokes it. 35° COUNT ALARCOS .■ Alar. Fate has crossed, Not falsehood, our sweet loves. Oitr lofty passioo Is tainted with no vUeness. Memory bears Convulsion, not contempt ; no palling sting That waits on base affections. It is something To have loved thee ; and in that thought I find My sense exalted ; wretched though 1 be. Sol. Is he so wretched ? Yet he is less forlorn Than when he sought, what I would never seek, A partner in his woe ! I'U ne'er believe it ; Thou art not wretched. Why, thou hast a friend, A sweet companion in thy grief to soothe Thy lonehness, and feed on thy bright smiles. Thrill with thine accents, with impassioned reverence Enclasp thine hand, and with enchained eyes Graze on thy glorious presence. 0, Alarcos ! Art thou not worshipped now ? What, can it be, That there is one, who walks in Paradise, Nor feels the air immortal ? Alar. Let my curse Descend upon the hour I left thy walls, My father's town ! Sol. My blessing on thy curse ! Thou hast returned, thou hast returned, Alarcos P Alar. To despair. Sol. Yet 'tis not the hour he quitted Our city's wall, it is the tie that binds him Within those walls, my Ups would more denonucri, But ah, that tie is dear ! A TRAGEDY. 351 Alak. Accursed be rhe wiles tliat parted us ; accursed bo The ties that sever us ! Sol. Thou'rt mine. Alae. For ever. Thou unpolluted passion of my youth, My first, my only, my enduring love ! (They embrace.) Enter Ferdinand, tlie Page. Fee. Lady, a message from thy royal father ; Ho comes — Sol. (Springing from the arms of Alaecos.) My father ! word of fear ! Why now To cloud my light ? I had forgotten fate ; But he recalls it. my bright Alarcos ! My love must fly. Nay, not one word of care ; Love only from those h'ps. Yet, ere we part, Seal our sweet faith renewed. Alak. And never broken. [TSxit Alarcos Sol. Why has ho gone ? Why did I bid him go ? And let this jewel I so daring plucked Slip in the, waves again ? I'm sure there's time To call him back, and say fareweU once more. I'll say fareweU no more ; it was a word Ever harsh music when the morrow brought Welcomes renewed of love No more farewells when will he be mine ! I cannot wait, i cannot tarry, now I know he loves me ; 35 s COUNT ALARCOS: i'Jach hour, each instant that I see him not, Is usarpation of my right. O joy ! Am I the same Solisa, that this mora Breathed forth her orison with humbler spirit Than the surrounding acolytes ? Thou'st smiled, Sweet Virgin, on my prayers. Twice fifty tapers Shall burn before thy shrine. Gruard over me O ! mother of my soul, and let me prosper In my great enterprise ! O hope ! love ! sharp remembrance of long baffled joy ! Inspire me now. SCENE 4. The King ; the Infanta. King. I see my daughter ? Sol. Sir, your duteous oliild. King. Art thou indeed my child ? I had some doubt I was a father. Sol. These are bitter words. Kino. Even as thy conduct. Sol. Then it would appear My conduct and my life are but the same. King. I thought thou wert the Infanta of Castille, Heir to our realm,, the paragon of Spain ; The Princess for whose smiles crowned Ghristeivdorr. Sends forth its sceptred rivals. Is that bitter ? A TRAGEDY. 353 Or bitter is it with such privilege, And standing on life's vantage ground, to cross A nation's hope, that on thy nice career Has gaged its heart ? Sol. Have I no heart to gage ? A sacrificial virgin, must I bind My life to the altar, to redeem a state, Or heal some doomed people ? King. Is it so ? Is this an office alien to thy sex ? Or what thy youth repudiates ? We but ask What nature sanctions. Sol. Nature sanctions Love ; Your charter is more liberal. Let that pass. I am no stranger to my duty, sir, And read it thus. The blood that shares my sceptre Should be august as mine. A woman loses In love what she may gain in rank, who tops Her husband's place; though throned, Iwould exchange An equal glance. His name should be a spell To rally soldiers. Politic he sliould be ; And skilled in climes and tongues ;that stranger knights Should bruit our high Castillian courtesies. Such chief might please a state ? King. Fortunate realm ! Sol. And shall I own less niceness than my realm ? No ! I would have him handsome as a god ; Hyperion in his splendour, or the mien • Of conquering Bacchus, one whose very step Should guide a limner, and whose common words Are caught by Troubadours to frame their songs ' A A 35-4 COUNT ALARCOS: And 0, my father, what if this bright prince Should have a heart as tendisr as his soul Was high and peeriess ? If with this same heart He loved thy daughter ? King. Close the airy page Of thy romance ; such princes are not found Except in lays and legends ! yet a man Who would become a throne, I found thee, girl ; The princely Hungary. Sol. A more princely fate, Than an unwilling wife, he did deserve. King. Yet wherefore didst thou pledge thy troth to him r Sol. And wherefore do I smile when I should sigh ? And wherefore do I feed when I would fast ? And wherefore do I dance when I should pray? And wherefore do I live when I should die ? Canst answer that, good Sir ? O there are women The world deem mad, or worse, whose life but aeemi One vile caprice, a freakish thing of whims And restless nothingness ; yet if we pierce The soul, may be we'll touch some cause pLofound For what seems causeless. Early love despised. Or baflied, which is worse ; a faith betrayed, For vanity or lucre ; chill regards. Where to gain constant glances we have paid Some fearfiil forfeit : here are many springs. Unmarked by shallow eyes, and some, or all Of these, or none, may prompt my conduct now — But I'll not have thy prince. King. My gentle chQd — A TRAGEDY. 355 Sol. I am not gentle. I might have been once ; But gentle thoughts and I have parted long ; The cause of such partition thou shouldst knov/ If memories were just. Kino. Harp not, I pray, On an old sorrow. Sol. Old ! he calls it old ! The wound is green, and staunch it, or I dio. King. Have I the skill ? Sol, Why ! art thou not a King r WTierein consists the magic of a crown But in the bold achievement of a deed Would scare a clown to dream ? King. I'd read thy thought Sol. Then have it ; I would marry. King. It is well : It is my wish. Sol. And unto such a prince As I've described withal. For though a prino' Of Fancy's realm alone, as thou dost deem. Yet doth he live indeed. King. To me unknown. 4A. 3 356 COUNT ALARCOSf Sol. ! father mine, before thy reverend knees Ere this we twain have knelt. King. Forbear, my ohUd ; Or can it be my daughter doth not know He is no longer free ? Sol. The power that bonnd him, That bondage might dissolve ? To holy church Thou hast given great alms ? King. There's more to gain thy wish, If more would gain it ; but it cannot be, Even were he content. Sol. He is content. King. Hah! Sol. For he loves me still. King. I would do much To please thee. I'm prepared to bear the brunt Of Hungary's ire ; but do not urge, Solise Beyond capacity of suiferance My temper's proof. Sol. Alarcos is my husband, Or shall the sceptre from our line depart. Listen, ye saints of Spain, I'll have his hand. Or by our faith, my fated womb shall be As barren as thy love, proud king. King. Thou'rt aiad ! Thou'rt mad ' . A TRAGEDY. i 357- Sol. Is he not mine ? Thy very hand, Did it not consecrate our vows ? What claim So' sacred as my own ? King. He did conspire — Sol. 'Tis false, thou know'st 'tis false : against themselves Men do not plot ; I would as soon believe My hand could hatch a treason 'gainst my sight, As that Alarcos would conspire to seize A diadem I would myself have placed Upon his brow. King (taking her hand). Nay, calmness. Say 'tis true He was not guilty, say perchance he was not — Sol. Perchance, ! vile perchance. Thou know'st full well, Because he did reject her loose desires And wanton overtures — King. Hush, hush, hush ! Sol. The woman called my mother — King. Spare me, spare — Sol. Who spared me ? Did not I kneel, and vouch his faith, and bathe Thy hand with my quick tears, and clutch thy robe With frantic grasp ? Spare, spare indeed ? In faitb Thou hast taught me to be merciful, thou hast, — Thou and my mother ! 35? COUNT ALARCOS: King. Ah ! no more, no more ! A crowned King cannot recall the past, And yet may glad the future. She thou namest. She was at least thy mother ; but to me, Whate'er her deeds, for truly, there were times Some spirit did possess her, such as gleams Now in her daughter's eye, she was a passion, A witching form that did inflame my life By a breath or glance. Thou art our child ; the link That binds me to my race ; thou hast her place Within my shrined heart, where thou'rt the priest And others are unhallowed ; for, indeed, Passion and time have so dried up my soul, And drained its generous juices, that I own No sympathy with man, and all his hopes To me are mockeries. Sol. Ah I I see, my father. That thou will'st aid me ! King. Thou canst aid thyself. Is there a law to let him from thy presence ? His voice may reach thine ear ; thy gracious glanct May meet his graceful offices. Go to. Shall Hungary frown, if his right royal spouse Smile on the equal of her blood and state, Her gentle cousin ? Sol. And is this thine aid ! King. WTiat word has roughed the bi-ow, but now confiding In a fond father's love ? Sol. Alas ! what word ? What have I said? whatdone? thatthoushoold'atdeem , A TRAGEDY. < 3S9 I could do this, this, this, that is so foul, My baffled tongue deserts me. Thou should'st knowme, Thou liast set spies on me. What ! have they told thee I am a wanton ? I do love this man As fits a virgin's heart. Heaven sent such thoughts To be our solace. But to act a toy For his loose hours, or worse, to find him one Procured for mine, grateful for opportunities Contrived with decency, spared skilfully Prom claims more urgent ; not to dare to show Before the world my homage; when he's ill To be away, and only share his gay And lusty pillow ; to be shut out from all That multitude of cares and charms that waits But on companionship ; and then to feel These joys another shares, another hand These delicate rites performs, and thou'rt remembered. [n the serener heaven of his bliss. Bat as the transient flash : this is not love ; This is pollution. King. Daughter, I were pleased My cousin could a nearer claim prefer To my regard. Ay, girl, 'twould please me well He were my son, thy husband ; but what then? My pleasure and his conduct jar ; his fate Baulks our desire. He's married and has heirs. Sol. Heirs, didst thou say heirs ? King. What ails thee ? Sol. Heirs, heirs? King. Thou art very pale ! Sol. The faintness of the morn Clings to me stiU ; I pray thee, father, grant Thy child one easy boon. 36p'. CO UNT A LARCOS ; King. , _ She has to. speak Bat what she wills. SQL. : ,Wliy, then, she would I'cnounoe Her heritage; yes, ,place our ancient crown On brows it may become. A veil more suits This feminine brain ■; in Huelgas' cloistered shades I'll find oblivion. • King. ' Woe is mcj The doom ' Falls on our house. I had this daughter left To lavish all my weajltH oil and my might. I've treasured for her ; for her I have slain My thousands, conquered provinces, betrayed, Renewed, and broken. faith. She was my joy ; She has her mother'? eyfes, and when sbe speaks Her voice is like Bnlnhalda's. Cursed hour. That a wild fancy touched her brain to croBR A.11 my great hopes ! Sol. My father, my dear father, Thou call'dst me fondly, but some moments past. Thy gentle child. I call my saint to witness I would be such. To say I love this man Is shallow phrasing. Since man's image first Flung its wild shadow on my virgin soul. It has borne no other reflex. I know well Thou deemest he was forgotten ; this day's passion Passed as unused con&ontment, and so transient As it was turbulent. No, no, full oft, When thinking on him, I have been the same. Fruitless or barren, this same form is his. Or it is God's. My father, my .dear fether. Remember he was mine, and thou didst, pour Thy blessing on our heads ! O God, God ! Whcji I recall the passaerea of l^ve: : A TRAGEDY: j jSi That have ensued between me and this man, And with thy sanction, and then just bethink He is another's, it makes me mad. Talk not to me of soeptres : can she rule Whose mind is anarchy ? Kin^ of Oastille, Give me the heart that thou didst rob me of! The penal hour's at hand. Thou didst destroy/ My love, and I will eid thy line — thy line That is thy life. King. Solisa, I will do all A father can, — a father and a King. Sol. ' '■ Give me Alarcos ! King. Hush, disturb me not I'm in the throes of some imaginings A human voice miErht scare. END OF THE- FIRST ACT. 362 COUNT ALARCOS: ACT n. SCENE I. A Street i/ii Burgos. Enter Ihe C/OONT of Sidonu wiid the Count ot Lkos Siuo. 1b she not fair? Leon. What then ? She but falfils Her oflBco as a woman. For to be A woman and not fair, is, in my creed, To be a thing unsexed. SiDO. Happy Alarcos ! They say she was of Aquitaine, a daughter Of the De Foix. 1 would I had been banished, Leon. Go and plot then. They cannot take your licad, For that is gone. SiDO. But banishment from Burgos Were worse than fifty deaths. 0, my good Leoii, Didst ever see, didst ever dream could be. Such dazzling beauty ? Leon. Dream ! I never dream ; Save when I've revelled over late, and then My visions are most villanous ; but yon, You dream when you're awake. A TRAGEDY. 363 SiDO. Wert ever, Leon, In pleasant Aquitaine ? Leon. talk of Burgos ; It is my only subject — matchless town, Wliere all I ask are patriarchal years To feel satiety like my sad friend. SiBO. 'Tis not satiety now makes me sad ; So check thy mocking tongue, or cure my liares Leon. Absence cures love. Be oflF to Aquitaine SiDO. I chose a jester for my friend, and fcei His value now. Leon. You share the lover's lot When you desire and you despair. What then ? You know right well that woman is but one, Though she take many forms, and can confound The young with subtle aspects. Vanity Is her sole being. Make the myriad vows That passionate fancy prompts. At the next touriio) Maintain her colours 'gainst the two Castilles And Aragon to boot. You'll have her i SiDO. Why! This was the way I woo'd the haughty Lara, But I'll not hold such passages approach The gentle lady of this morn. Leon. Well, then, Try silence, only sighs and hasty glances 364 COUNT ALARCOS: Withdrawn as soon as met. Conld'st thon but blnsh ; But there's no hope. In time onr sighs become A sort of plaintive hint what hopeless rogues Our stars have made ns. "Would we had but met Earlier, yet still we hope she'll spare a tear To one she met too late. Trust me she'll spare it ; She'll save this sinner who reveres a saint. Pity or admiration gains them all. Youll have her ! SiDO. Well, whate'er the course purpued, Be thou a prophet ! Enter Orak. Stand , Senors, Oean. in God's name. Well, what do you want ? Leon. Or the devil's. Most principal. A.nd that Oean. Many things,, Su)0. 's — Oran A friend. but 0U6 IjBON. Yon 're righi To seek one in the street, he'll prove as true As any that you're fostered with. Oram. In brief, I'm as you see a Moor; and I have slain One of our princes. Peace exists between ■' A TRAGEDY. .365 Our kiugdom and Castille ; they track my steps. You're young, yon should be brave, generous you may be. 1 shall be impaled. Save me ! Leon. Frankly spoken. Will you turn Christian ? Okan. Show me Christian acts, And they may prompt to Christian thoughts. SiDO. Although The slain's an infidel, thou art the same. The cause of this rash deed ? Oran. I am a soldier, And my sword's notched, sirs. This said Emir strack me Before the people too, in the great square Of our chief place, Grxanada, and forsooth. Because I would not yield the way at mosque. His life has soothed my honour : if I die, I die content ; but with your gracious aid I would live happy. Leon. You love Hfe ? Oean. Most dearly. Leon. Sensible Moor, although he be impaled For mobbing in a mosque. I like this fellow ; His bearing suits my humour. He shall live To do more murders. Come, bold infidel. Follow to the Leon Palace ; and, sir, prithee Don't stab us in the back. IJiaiewU (mines 366 COUNT ALARCOS: SCENE 2. Ghemiber in the Palace of Count Alaecos. At the back of the Scene the Curtains of a large Jalousie withdraum. Enter Count Alaecos. Alab. 'Tis circumstance makes conduct ; life's a ship, The sport of every wind. And yet men tack Against the adverse blast. How shall I steer, Who am the pilot of Necessity ? But whether it be fair or foul, I know not ; Sunny or terrible. Why let her wed him ? What care I if the pageant's weight may fall On Hungary's ermined shoulders, if the spring Of all her life be mine ? The tiar'd brow Alone makes not a king. Would that my wife Confessed a worldlier mood ! Her recluse fancy Haunts still our castled bowers. Thou civic air Inflame her thoughts ! Teach her to vie and revei, Find sport in peerless robes, the pomp of feasts And ambling of a genet — [.4 serenade is heard Hah ! that voice Should not be strange. A tribute to her charms. 'Tis music sweeter to a spouse's ear Than gallants dream of. Ay, she'll find adorers. Or Burgos is right changed. [JSmte- the CocrNTUss Listen, child. [Again the serenade is heard. CoUN. Tis very sweet. Alae. It is inspired by thee. OocM. AlarcoB ! A TRAGEDY. 367 Alar. Wliy dost look so grave ? Nay, now, There's not a dame in Burgos would not give Her jewels for such, songs. Conn. Inspired by me ! Alab. And who so fit to fire a lover's breast ? He's clearly captive. CODN. ! thou knowest I love not Such jests, Alarcos. Alab. Jest ! I do not jest. I am right proud the partner of my state Should count the chief of our OastiUian knights Among her train. CouN. I pray thee let me close These blinds. Alar. Poh, poh ! what, baulk a serenade 'Twould be an outrage to the courtesies Of this great city. Faith ! his voice is sweet. CouN. Would that he had not sung ! It is a sport In which I find no pastime. Alab. Marry, come, Ij gives me great delight. 'Tis well for thee, On thy first entrance to our world to find So high a follower. Coira. Wherefore should I need His following ? 368 COUNT ALARCOS: Alae. Nought's more excellent for woman, Than, to be fixed on as the cynosure Of one whom all do gaze on. "Tis a stamp Whose currency, not wealth, rank, blood, can match ; These are raw ingotg, till they are impressed With fashion's picture. Conn. Would I were once more Within our castle ! Alab. Nursery days ! The world Is now our home, and we must worldly be, Like its bold stirrers. I sup with the King. There is no feast, and yet to do me honour, Some chiefs will meet. I stand right well at Court, A.nd with thine aid will stand e'en better. CouN. Mine! I have no joy but in thy joy, no thought But for thy honour, and yet, how to aid Thee in these plans or hopes, indeed, Alaroos, Indeed, I am perplexed. Alar. Art not my wife ? Is not this Burgos ? And this pile, the palace Of my great fathers ? They did raise these halls To be the symbols of their high estate. The fit and haught metropolis of all Their force and faction. Fill them, fill f hem, wife, With those who'll serve me well. Make this the centre Of all that's great in Burgos. Let it be The eye of the town, whereby we may perceive What passes in his heart : the clustering point Of all cenvergence. Here be troops of Mends And ready instruments. Wear that sweet smile, That wins a partisan quicker than power ; A TRAGEDY. 369 Speak in that tone gives each a special share In thy regard, and what is general Let all deem private. ! thou'lt play it rarely. OouN. I would do all that may become thy wife. Alar. I know it, I know it. Thou art a treasure, Plorimonde And this same, singer — thou hast not asked his name. Didst guess it ? Ah ! upon thy gentle cheek I see a smile. ConN. My lord — indeed — Alak. Thou play est Thy game less like a novice than I deemed. Thou canst not say thou didst not catch the voice Of the Sidonia ? ' Co ON. My good lord, indeed His voice to me is as unknown as mine Must be to him. .: Alar. Whose should the voice but his. WTiose stricken sight left not thy fece an instant. But gazed as if some new-born star had risen To light his way to paradise ?. I tell thee, Among my strict confederates I would coulit This same young noble. He is .a paramoipit chief ; Perchance his vassals might outnumber mine, Conjoined we're adamant. No monarch's breath Makes me again 'an exile. Floriikionde, Smile on him ; smiles cost nothing; should he judge They mean more than they say, why.sinile again ;. And what he deems affection', registered. Is but chaste niockery. I must to the citadel. ' ' Sweet wife, good-night. ' [JSxit AlAbcos B S 370 COUNT ALARCOS: CoCN. ! misery, misery, misery ! Must we do this ? I fear there's need we must. For he is wise in all things, and well learned In this same world that to my simple sense Seems very fearfal. Why should men rejoice, They can escape from the pure breath of heaven And the sweet franchise of their natural will, To such a prison-house ? To be confined In body and in soul ; to breathe the air Of dark close streets, and never use one's tongue But for some measured phrase that hath its bent Well ganged and chartered ; to find ready smiles When one is sorrowful, or looks demure When one would laugh outright. Never to be Exact but when dissembling. Is this life ? I dread this city. As I passed its gates My litter stumbled, and the children shrieked And clung unto my bosom. Pretty babes ! I'll go to them. O ! there is innocence Even in Burgos, [Exit COUNTESo SCENE 3. i Chamber in the Eoyal Palace. The Infanta Solisa alori' Sol. I can but think my father will be just And see us righted. O 'tis only honest. The hand that did this wrong should now supply The sovereign remedy, and balm the wound Itself inflicted. He is with him now ; Would I were there, unseen, yet seeing all ! But ah ! no cunning arras could conceal This throbbing heart. I've sent my little Page, To mingle with the minions of the Court, A;id get me news. How he doth look, how eat A TRAGEDY. 371 What says he and what does, and ajl the haps Of this same night, that yet to me may bring A cloudless morrow. See, even now he comes. [Enter the Pacie Prithee what news ? Now tell me all, my child ; When thou'rt a knight, will I not work the scarf For thy first tourney ! Prithee tell me all. Page. lady mine, the royal Seneschal He was so crabbed, I did scarcely deem 1 could have entered. Sol. Cross-grained Seneschal ! He shall repent of this, my pretty Page ; But thou didst enter? Page. I did so contrive. Sol. Rare imp ! And then ? Page. Well, as you told me, then I mingled with the Pages of the King. They're not so very tall ; I might have passed I think for one upon a holida^^ Sol. thou shalt pass for better than a Page ; But tell me, child, didst see my gallant Count Page. On the right hand — Sol. Upon the King's right hand ? Page. Upon the King's right hand, and there were also — Sol. Mind not the rest ; thou'rt sure on tke right hand i" 372 COUNT ALARCOS: Page. Most, sure ; and on the left — Sol. Ne'er mind the left. Speak only of the i-ight. How did he seem ? Did there pass words between him and the King r Often or scant ? Did he seem gay or grave ? Or was his aspect of a middle tint, As if he deemed that there were other joys Not found within that chamber ? Page. Sooth to say, He did seein what he is, a gallant knight. Would I were such ! For talking with the King, He spoke, yet not so much but he could spare Words to the other lords. He often smiled. Yet not so often, that a limner might Describe his mien as jovial. Sol. Tis himself! What next ? Will they sit long ? Page. I should not like Myself to quit such company. In truth, The Count of Leon is a merry lord. There were some tilting jests, I warrant you, Between him and your knight. Sol. O tell it me ! Page. The Count Alarcos, as I chanced to hear. For tiptoe even would not let me see. And that same Pedro, who has lately come To Court, ttie Senor of MontUla's son. He is so rough, and says a lady's page Should only be where there are petticoats, A TRAGEDY. 373 Sol. Is lie so rough ? He shall be soundly whipped. But tell me, child, the Count Alarcos — Page. "Well, The Count Alarcos — ^but indeed, sweet lady, I do not wish that Pedro should be whipped. Sol. He shall not then be whipped — speak of the Count. Page. The Count was showing how your Saracen Doth take your lion captive, thus and thus: And fashioned with his scarf a dexterous noose Made of a tiger's skin: your unicorn. They say, is just as good. Sol. Well, then Sir Leon — Page. Why then your Count of Leon — but just then Sancho, the Viscount of Toledo's son. The King's chief Page, takes me his handkerchiot And binds it on my eyes, he whispering round Unto his fellows, here you see I've caught A most ferocious cub. Whereat they kicked. And pinched, and cuffed me till I nearly roared As fierce as any lion, you be sure. Sol. Rude Sancho, he shall sure be sent from Court ! My little Ferdinand — ^thou hast incurred Great perils for thy mistress. Go again And show this signet to the Seneschal, And tell him that no greater courtesy Be shown to any guest than to my Page. This from myself — or I perchance will send, Shall school their pranks. Away, my faithful imp, And tell me how the Count Alarcos seems. 37* COUNT ALARCOS: Page. 1 go, sweet lady, but I humbly beg Sancho may not be sent from Court this time. Sol. Sancho shall stay. [Exit Page. I hope, ere long, sweet child, Thou too shalt be a page unto a king. I'm glad Alarcos smiled not overmuch ; Tour smilers please me not. I love a face Pensive, not sad ; for where the mood is thoughtful, The passion is most deep and most refined. Gay tempers bear light hearts— are soonest gained And soonest lost ; but he who meditates On his own nature, will as deeply scan The mind he meets, and when he loves, he casts His anchor deep. [Be-enter Page. Give me the news. Page. The news ! ] could not see the Seneschal, but gave Your message to the Pages. Whereupon Sancho, the Viscount of Toledo's son, Pedro, the Senor of Montilla's son. The young Count of Almcira, and — Sol. My child, What ails thee? Page. the Viscount of Jodar, I think he was the very worst of all ; But Sancho of Toledo was the first. Sol. What did they ? A TRAGEDY. 375 Page. 'Las, no sooner did I say All that you told me, than he gives the word, ' A guest, a guest, a very potent guest,' Takes me a goblet brimflil of strong wine And hands it to me, mocking, on his knee. This I decline, when on his back they lay Tour faithful Page, nor set me on my legs Till they had drenched me with this fiery stuff, That I could scarcely see, or real my way Back to your presence. Sol. Marry, 'tis too much E'en for a page's license. Ne'er you mind, They shall to prison by to-morrow's dawn. I'll bind this kerchief round your brow, its scent Will much revive you. Go, child, lie you down On yonder couch. Page. I'm sure I ne'er can sleep If Sancho of Toledo shall be sent To-morrow's dawn to prison. Sol. Well, he's pardoned Page. Also the Senor ofMontilla's son Sol. He shall be pardoned too. Now prithee sleep. Page. The young Count of Almeix-a — Sol. ! no more. They all arc pardoned. 376: COUNT ALARCOS: Page. I do humbly pray The Viscount of Jodai- be pardoned top. lExit SousA. SCENE 4. A Banquet; the King seated; on Ids Wj7i.< Alabcos. Sidonia, Leon, the Admieal of Castille, amd other Lords. Groupt of Pages, Chambbklains, and Seeving-men. The King. Would'st match them, cousin, 'gainst our barbs ? Alae. Against Our barbs, Sir I ' ' ' , King. Eh, Lord Leon, yx)n can scan A courser's points ? Leon. O, Sir, your travellers N eed fleeter steeds than -we poor shambling folks Who stay at home. To my unskilful sense. Speed for the chase and vigour for the tilt, Meseems. enough. , ■ Alae. If riders be as prompt. Leon. Our tourney is put oflF, or please your Grace, I'd try conclusions with this marvellous boast. This Pegasus, this courser of the sun. That is to blind us all vith his bright rays And cloud our chivalry. King. My Lord Sidonia, You're a famed judge: try me this Cyprus wine; An English prince did give it me, returning From tb« holy sepulchre. A TRAGEDY. 377 SiDO. Most rare, my lieg«, And glitters like a gem ! King. It doth comtent Me much, your Cyprus wine. Lord Admiral, Hast heard the news ? The Saracens have fled Before the Italian galleys. The Admiral of Castille. No one guides A galley liie your Pisan. Alae. The great Dogo Of Venice, sooth, would barely veil his flag To Pisa. Adm. Tout Venetian hath his craft. This Saracenic rout will surely touch Our turbaned neighbours ? King. To the very core, Granada's all a-mourning. Good, my Lords, One goblet more. We'll give our cousin's health. Here's to the Count Alarcos. Omnbs. To the Count Alarcos. (The Guests rise, pay their homage to the King, and are retiring.) King. Good night. Lord Admiral ; my Lord of Leon, My Lord Sidonia, and my Lord of Lara, Gentle adieus : to you, my Lord, and you, To all and each. Cousin, good night — and je* 378" COUNT ALARCOS: A moment rest awhile ; since your return I've looked on you in crowds, it may become us To say farewell alone. [The King wwves his hcmd to the Seneschal — tlie Ghamher is cleared. Alar. Most gracious Sire; You honour your poor servant. King. Prithee, sit. This scattering of the Saracen, methinks, Will hold the Moor to his truce ? Alab. It would appear To have that import. King. Should he pass the mountains, We can receive him. Alak. Where's the crowu in Spain More prompt and more prepared ? King. Cousin, you're righl. We flourish. By St. James, I feel a glow Of the heart to see you here once more, my cousin ; I'm low in the vale of years, and yet I think I could defend my crown with such a knight On my right hand. Alae. Sucli Uege and land would raise Our lances high. King. We carry all before us. Leon reduced, the crescent paled in Cordova ; Why, if she gain Valencia, Aragon Must kick the beam. And shall she gain Valencia Y A TRAGEDY. 379 It cheers my blood to find thee by my side ; Old days, old days return, when thou to me Wert as the apple of mine eye. Alar. My liege, This is indeed most gracious. King. Gentle cousin. Thou shalt have cause to say that T am gracious ! I did ever love thee ; and for that Some passages occurred between us once. That touch my memory to the quick ; I would Even pray thee to forget them, and to hold 1 was most vilely practised on, my mind Poisoned, and from a fountain, that to deem Tainted were frenzy. Alar. (FalUng on his hnee, and taking the King's hand.) My most gracious liege. This morn to thee I did my fealty pledge. Believe me. Sire, I did so with clear breast. And with no thought to thee and to thy line But fit devotion. King. 0, I know it well, I know thou art right true. Mine eyes are moist To see thee hero again. Alas. It is my post, Nor could I seek another. King. Thou dost know That Hungai-y loaves us ? Alak. T was grieved to lear There were some crosses. 38o COUNT ALARCOS: King. Truth, 1 am not grievei^. Is it such joy this fair CastiUian realm, This glowing flower of Spain, be rudely plucked By a strange hand ? To see our chambers filled With foreign losels ; our rich fiefs and abbeys The prey of each bold scatterling, that finds No heirship in his country ? Have I lived And laboured for this end, to swell the sails Of alien fortunes ? my gentle cousin, There was a time we had far other hopes ' I suffer for my deeds. Alab. We must forget. We must forget, my liege. King. Is't then so easy ? Thou hast no daughter. Ah ! thou canst not tell What 'tis to feel a father's policy Hath dimmed a child's career. A child so peerless Our race, though ever comely, vailed to her. A palm tree in its pride of sunny youth Mates not her symmetry ; her step was noticed As strangely stately by her nurse. Dost know, T ever deemed that winning smile of hers Mournful, with all its mirth ? But ah ! no mort- A father gossips ; nay, my weakness 'tis not. 'Tis not with all that I would prattle thus ; But you, my cousin, know Solisa well. And once you loved her. Alab. (^rismg). Once ! God ! Such passions are eternity. King (advcmemg). What then, Shall this excelling creature, on a throne A TRAGEDY. 381 A a high as her deserts, shall she become A spoil for strangers ? Have I cause to grieve That Hungary quit us ? that I could find Some noble of our land might dare to tth't His equal blood with our Castillian seed ! Art thou more learned in our pedigrees ? Hast thou no friend, no kinsman ? Must this realm Fall to the spoiler, and a foreign graft Be nourished by our sap ? Alae. Alas ! alas ! King. Four crowns ; our paramount Castille, and Leon, SevigUa, Cordova, the future hope Of Murcia, and the inevitable doom That waits the Saracen ; all, all, all ; And with my daughter ! Alae. Ah ! ye should have blasted My homeward path, ye lightnings ! King. Such a son Should grudge his sire no days. I would not live To whet ambition's appetite. I'm old ; And .fit for little else than hermit thoughts. The day that gives my daughter, gives my crown : A cell's my home. Alar. 0, life, I will not curse thee ! Let bald and shaven crowns denotince thee vair. ; To me thou wert no shade ! I loved thy stir And panting struggle. Power, and pomp, and beauty Cities and courts, the palace and the fane, The chace, the revel, and the battle-field, Man's fiery glance, and woman's thrilling sntile, I loved ye all. I curse not thee, O life ! But on my stars confusion. May they fail 382 COUNT ALARCOS: Prum out their spheres, and blast our earth no mort With their malignant rays, that mocking placed All the delights of life within my reach. And chained me from fruition. Kino. Gentle cousin, Thou art disturbed ; I fear these words of mine. Chance words ere I did say to thee good night, For 0, 'twas joy to see thee here again, Who art my kinsman, and my only one. Have touched on some old cares for both of us. And yet the world has many charms for thee ; Thou'rt not like us, and thy unhappy child The world esteems so favoared. AliAB. Ah, the world 111 estimates the truth of any lot. Their speculation is too far and reaches Only externals, they are ever fair. There are vile cankers in your gaudiest flowers. But you must pluck and peer within the leaves To catch the pest. KmG. Alas ! my gentle cousin. To hear thou hast thy sorrows too, like us. It pains me much, and yet I'll not beUeve it ; For with so fair a wife Alar. Torture me not, Although thou art a King. Kejg. My gentle cousin I spoke to solace thee. We all do hear Thou art most favoured in a right fair wife. We do desire to see her ; can she find A friend becomes her better than our child t A TRAGEDY. 383 A.LAB. My (rife ? would she were not ! King. I say 30 too, Would she were not ! Alab. Ah. me ! why did I many ? King. Truth, it was very rash. Alab. Who made mo rash ? Who drove me from my hearth, and sent mo forth On the unkiudred earth ? With the dark spleen Goading injustice, that 'tis vain to quell, Entails on restless spirits. Yes, I married. As men do oft, from very wantonness ; To tam^per with a destiny that's cross, To spite my fate, to put the seal upon A balked career, in high and proud defiance Of hopes that yet might mock me, to beat down False expectation and its damned lures. And fix a bar betwixt me and defeat. King. These bitter words would rob me of my hope. That thou at least wert happy. Alar. Would I slept With my grey fathers ! King. And my daughter too ! moat unhajipy pair ! Alab. There is a way. To cure sach woes, one only. 384 COUNT ALARCOS: King. 'Tis my thoughtj Alar. * No cloister shall entomb this life ; the grave Shall be my refuge. King. Yet to die were witlesSj WTien Death, who with his fatal finger taps At princely doors, as freely as he gives His summons to the serf, may at this instant Have sealed the only life that throws a shade Between ns and the sun. Alae. She's very young. King. And may live long, as I do hope she will ; Yet have I known as blooming as she die. And that most suddenly. The air of cities To unaccu,stomed lungs is very fatal ; Perchance the absence of her accustomed sports. The presence of strange faces, and a longing For those she has been bred among : I've known This most pernicious : she might droop and pine : And when they fail, they sink most rapidly. God grant she may not; yet I do remind thee Of this wild chance, when speaking of thy lot. In truth 'tis sharp, and yet I would not die When Time, the great enchanter, my change all. By bringing somewhat earlier to thy gate A doom that must arrive. Alae. Would it were there ! Kme. 'Twould be the day thy hand should clasp my daughter's. That thou hast loved so long ; 'twould- be the day A TRAGEDY. 385 My crown, the crown of all my realms, Alarcos, Should bind thy royal brow. Is this the morn Breaks in our chamber ? Why, I did but mean To say good night unto my gentle cousin So long unseen. 0, we have gossipped, coz, 80 cheering dreams ! \ExeuTii. BVD OP THE SECOND ACT. C 386: COUNT ALARCOS; ACT m. SCENE 1. Interior of the Gathcd/ral of Burgos. The High Alta/r ill/wmi- nated ; in the distance, various Chapels lighted, amd in each of which Mass is celehratimg : in all directions groups of kneeUiig Worshippers. Before the High Alta/r the Prior of Bv/rgos officiates, attended hy his Sacerdotal Betirme. In the front of the Stage, opposite to the Audience, a Con- fessional. The chamtimy of a solemn Mass here commences; as it ceases, Enter Alaecos. Alae. Would it were done ! and yet I dare not say It stould be done. 0, that some natural cause, Or superhuman agent, would step in. And saye me from its practice ! Will no pest Descend upon her blood ? Must thousands die Daily, and her charmed life be spared ? As young Are hourly plucked from out their hearths. A life ! Why, what's a life ? A loan that must return To a capricious creditor ; recalled Often as soon as lent. I'd wager mine To-morrow like the dioe, were my blood pricked. Yet now. When all that endows Ufe with all its price, Hanga on some flickering breath I could puff out, I stand agape. I'll dream 'tis done : what then ? Mercy remains ? For over, not for ever I charge my soul ? Will no contrition ransom, Or expiatory torments compensate A TRAGEDY. 387 The awfal penalty? Ye kneeling worshippers, That gaze in silent ecstaoy before Yon flaming altar, you come here to bow Before a God of mercy. Is't not so ? [AiiAECOS walks towards the High Altar omd kneels. A Procession advances from the bach of the Scene, singi/ny a solemn Mass, and preceding the Prior of Bwrgos, who seats himself in the Oomfessional, his Train filing off on each side of the Scene: the lights of the High Altar are ex- tinguished, hut the Chapels remain ilbwminated. The Peioe. Within this chair I sit, and hold the keys That open realm* no conqueror can subdue, And where the monarchs of the earth mast fain Solicit to be subjects : Heaven and Hades, Lands of Immortal light and shores of gloom. Eternal as the chorus of their wail. And the dim isthmus of that middle space. Where the compassioned soul may purge its sins In pious expiation. Then advance Ye children of all sorrows, and all sms, Doubts that perplex, and hopes that tantahze. All the wild forms the fiend Temptation takes To tamper with the soul ! Come with the care That eats your daily life ; come with the thought That is conceived in the noon of night. And makes us stare around us though alone ; Come with the engendering sin, and with the crime That is fall- born. To counsel and to soothe, 1 ait within this chair. [Alarcos admam^es and kneels by the Confessional. Alar. O, holy father My soul is burthened with a crime. Prior. My son. The church awaits thy sin. 2 COUNT A LARGOS: Alar. It is a sin Most black and terrible. Prepare thine ear For what must make it tremble. Pbiok. Thou dost speak To Power above all passion, not to man. Alar. There was a lady, father, whom I loved, And with a holy love, and she loved me As ho lily. Our vows were blessed, if favour Hang on a father's benediction. Prior. Her Mother ? Alar. She had a mother, if to bear Children be all that makes a mother : one Who looked on me, about to be her child, With eyes of lust. Pbioe. And thou ? Alar. 0, if to trace But with the memory's too veracious aid This tale be anguish, what must be its life And terrible action ? Father, I abjured This lewd she- wolf. But ah ! her fatal vengeance Struck to my heart. A banished scatterling I wandered on the earth. Prior. Thou didst return ? Alar. And found the being that I loved, and found Her faithful stiU. A TRAGEDY. 389 Prior. And thou, my son, wert happy? Alar. Alas ! I was no longer free. Strange ties Had bound a hopeless exile. But she I had loved. And never ceased to love, for in the form, Not in the spirit was her faith more pure. She looked upon me with a glance that told Her death but in my love. I struggled, nay, 'Twas not a struggle, 'twas an agony. Her aged sire, her dark impending doom. And the o'erwhelming passion of my soul : My wife died suddenly. Prior. And by a life That should have shielded hers ? Alak. Is there hope of mercy ; Can prayers, can penances, can they avail ? What consecration of my wealth, for I'm rich. Can aid me ? Can it aid me ? Can endowments ? Nay, set no bounds to thy unlimited schemes Of saving charity. Can shrines, can ohauntries Monastic piles, can they avail ? What if I raise a temple not less proud than this. Enriched with all my wealth, with all, with all ? Will endless masses, will eternal prayers. Redeem me from perdition ? Prior. What, would gold Kedeem the sin it prompted? Alar. No, by Heaven ! No, Pate had dowered me with wealth might feed All but a royal hunger. 39° COUNT ALARCOS: Prioe. And along Thy fatal passion urged thee ? Alar. Hah! Prior. Probe deep Thy wounded soul. Alab. 'Tis torture : fathomloss 1 feel the fell incision. Prior. There is a lure Thou dost not own, and yet its awful shade Lowers in the back-ground of thy soul : thy tongue Trifles the church's ear. Beware, my son, And tamper not with Paradise. Alab. A breath, A shadow, essence subtler far than love : And yet I loved her, and for love had dared All that I ventured for this twin-bom lure Cradled with love, for which I soiled my soul. O, father, it was Power. Prior. And this dominion Purchased by thy soul's mortgage, still is't thinoP Alar. Yea, thousands bow to him, who bows to thoe. Prior. Thine is a fearfril deed. Alae. 0, is there mercy r Prior. Say, is there penitence 'i* A TRAGEDY. 39' Alar. How shall I gauge it ? What temper of contrition might the church Require from such a sinner ? Prioe. Is't thy wish, Nay, search the very caverns of thy thought, Is it thy wish this deed were now undone ? Alak. Undone, undone ! It is ; 0, say it were, And what am I ? 0, father, wer't not done, I should not be less tortured than I'm now; My life less like a dream of haunting thoughts Tempting to unknown enormities. The sun Would rise as beamless on my darkened days, Night proffer the same torments. Food would fly My lips the same, and the same restless blood Quicken my harassed limbs. Undone ! undone ! I have no metaphysic faculty To deem this deed undone. Prior. Thou must repent This terrible deed. Look through thy heart. Thy witV There was a time thou lov'dst her ? Alar. I'll not think There was a time. Prior. And was she fair ? Alar. A form Dazzling all eyes but mine. Prior. And pure ? Alau. No saint More chaste than she. Her consecrated shape 392 COUNT ALARCOS: She kept as 'twere a shrine, and just as full Of holy thoughts ; her very breath was incense And all her gestures sacred as the forms Of priestly offices ! Peioe. I'U save thy soul. Thou mast repent that one so fair and pure, And loving thee so well Alae. Father, in vain. There is a bar betwixt me and repentance. And yet Peiob. Ay, yet Alab. The day may come, I'll kneel In such a mood, and might there then be hope ? Peioe. We hold the keys that bind and loosen all : But penitence alone is mercy's portal. The obdurate soul is doomed. Remorseful tears Are sinners' sole ablution. 0, my son, Bethink thee yet, to die in sin like thine ; Eternal masses profit not thy soul. Thy consecrated wealth will but upraise The monument of thy despair. Once more, Ere yet the vesper lights shall fade away, I do adjure thee, on the church's bosom Pour forth thy contrite heart. Alar. A contrite heart ! A stainless hand would coxmt for more. I see No drops on mine. My head is weak, my heart A. wilderness of passion. Prayers, thy prayers ! [Alarcos rises suddenly, and exit. SCENE 2. Chamber mi the Boyal Palaw. The Infanta seated m despondency; the King standmg by her side. Kino Indeed, 'tis noticed. Sol. Solitude is all [ ask ; and is it then so great a boon ¥ KraG. Nay, solitude's no princely appanage. Our state's a pedestal, wHoh men have luisad That they may gaze on greatness. Sol. A false idol. And weaker than its worshippers. I've lived To feel my station's vanity. 0, Death, Thou endest all ! King. Thou art too young to die, And yet may be too happy. Moody youth Toys in its talk with the dark thought of death. As if to die were but to change a robe. It is their present refuge for all cares And each disaster. When the sere has touched Their flowing locks, they prattle less of death, Perchance think more of it. Sol. Why, what is greatness ? Wiirt give me love, or faith, or tranquil thoughts ? No. uo, not even justice. King. 'Tis thyself 394 COUNT ALARCOS: That does thyself injustice. Let the world Have other speculation than the breach Of our unfilled vows. They bear too neai' And fine affinity to what we would, Ay, what we will. I would not choose this moment, Men brood too curiously upon the cause Of the late rupture, for the cause detected May bar the consequence. Sol. A day, an hour Sufficed to crush me. Weeks and weeks pass on Since I was promised right. King. Take thon my sceptre And do thyself this right. Is't, then, so easy ? Sol. Let him who did the wrong, contrive the means Of his atonement. King. All a father can, I have performed. Sol. Ah ! then there is no hope. The Bishop of Ossuna, yon did say He was the learncdest clerk of Christendom, And you would speak to him ? King. What says Alarcos ? Sol. 1 spoko not to him since I first received His princely pledge. King. Call on him to fulfil it. Sol. Can he do more than kings ? A TRAGEDY. 395 King, Yes, he alone ; Alone it rests with him. This learu fi-om lue. There is no other let. Sol. I learn from thee What other lips should tell me. King. Girl, art sure Of this same lover ? Sol. ! I'll never doubt him. King. And yet may be deceived. Sol. He is as true As talismanic steel. King. Why, then thou art, At least thou should'st be, happy. Smile, Holiao, ; For since the Count is true, there is no bar. Why dost not smile ? Sol. 1 marvel that AJarcoa Hath been so mute on this. King. But thou art sure He is most true. Sol. Why should I deem him tnie V Have I found truth in any ? Woe is me, I feel as one quite doomed. I know not why I ever was ill-omened. 396 COUNT ALARCOS: Kisa. Listen, girl ; Probe this same lover to the core ; 'tmay be. I think he is, most true ; he should be so If there be faith in vows, and men ne'er break The pledge its profits them to keep. And yet • Sol. And what ?_ King. To be his Sovereign's cherished friend. And smiled on by the daughter of his King, Why that might profit him, and please so much, His wife's iU humour might be borne withal. Sol. You think him false ? , King. I think he might be true : But when a mans well placed, he loves not change. ( Enter at the bach of the Scene Oount Alabcos disguised He admcmces, dropping his Hat and Oloah.) Ah, gentlo cousin, all our thoughts were thine. Alae. 1 marvel men should think. Lady, I'll hope Thy thoughts are like thyself, most fair. King. Her thoughts Are like her fortunes, lofty, but around The peaks cling vapours. Alab. Eagles live in clouds, And they draw royal breath. King. I'd have her quit Thifci scrange seclusion, cousin. Give thine aid To festive purpogea. A TRAGEDY. 397 Alab. A root, an egg, Why there's a feast with a holy mind. King. If ever I find my seat within a hermitage, I'll think the same. Ar,AR. Y ou have built shrines, sweet lady ? Sol. What, then, my lord ? Alak. Why then you might be worshipped^ If your image were in front ; I'd bow down To anything so fair. King. Dost know, my cousin. Who waits me now ? The deputies from Murcia. The realm is ours, (whispers him) is thine. Alak. The church has realms Wider than both Castilles But which of them Will be our lot ; that's it. King. Mine own Solisa, They wait me in my cabinet ; (aside to her) Bethink thee With whom all rests. [Exit the King. Sol. Ton had sport to-day, my lord ? The King was at the chace. Alak. X breathed my barb. 398 COUNT ALARCOS: Sol. They say tlie chace hatli charm to cheer the spirit Alab. 'Tis better than prayers. Sol. Indeed, I think I'll hunt. You and my father seem so passing gay. Alae. Why this is no confessional, no shrine Haunted with presaged gloom. I should be gay To look at thee and listen to thy voice ; For if fair pictures and sweet sounds enchant The soul of man, that are but artifice, How then am I entranced, this living picture Bright by my side, and listening to this music That nature gave thee. What's eternal life To this inspired mortality! Let priests And pontiffs thunder, still I feel that here Is all my joy. Sol. Ah ! why not say thy woe ? Who stands between thee and thy rights but me ? Who stands between thee and thine ease but me ? WIio bars thy progress, brings thee cares, but me ? Lures thee to impossible contracts, goads thy faith To mad performance, welcomes thee with sighs, And parts from thee with tears ? Is this joy ? No ! I am thine evil genius. Alas. Say my star Of inspiration. This reality Baffles their mystic threats. Who talks of cares ? Why, what's a Prince, if his imperial will Be bitted by a priest ! There's nought impossible Thy sighs are sighs of love, and all thy tears But affluent tenderness. A TRAGEDY. 399 Sol. You sing as sweet As did the syrens ; is it from the heart, O from the lips, that voice ? Alas. Solisa ! Sol. Ay! _ My ear can catch a treacherous tone ; 'tis trained To perfidy. My Lord Alarcos, look me Straight in the face. He quails not. Alab. O my soul, Is this the being for whose love I've pledged Even thy forfeit ! Sol. Alarcos, dear Alarcos, Look not so stem ! I'm mad ; yes, yes, my life Upon thy truth ; I know thou'rt true : he said It rested but with thee ; I said it not, Nor thought it. Alab. Lady! Sol. Not that voice ! Alak. I'll know Thy thought ; the King hath spoken ? Sol. Words of joj And madness. With thyself alone he says It rests. Alar. Nor said he more ? 400 COUNT ALARCOS: Sol. It had found me deaf, For he touched hearings quick. Alar. Thy faith in me Hath gone. Sol. I'll doubt our shrined miracles Before I doubt Alarcos. Alak. He'll believe thee, For at this moment he has much to endnro, And that he could not. Sol. And yet I must choosp This time to vex thee. 0, I am the curse And blight of the existence, which to bless Is all my thought ! Alarcos, dear Alarcos, I pray thee pardon me. I am so wretched : This fell suspense is like a frightful dream Wherein we fall from heights, yet never reach The bottomless abyss. It wastes my spirit, Wears down my life, gnaws ever at my heart. Makes my brain quick when others are asleep, And dull when theirs is active. O, Alarcos, I could lie down and die. Alae. {Admcmcing in soliloquyJ) Asleep, awake. In dreams, and in the musing m.oods that wait On unfalfilled purposes, I've done it ; And thought upon it afterwards, nor shrunk Prom the fell retrospect. Sol. He's wrapped in thought Indeed his glance was wild when first he entered And his speech lackeid completeness. •. A TRAGEDY. 4°i Alar. How ia it than, The body that should be the viler part, A.ad made for servile uses, should rebel 'Gainst the mind's mandate, and should hold its aid Aloof from our adventure ? Why the sin Is in the thought, not in the deed ; 'tis not The body pays the penalty, the soul Must clear that awful scot. What palls my arm ? It is not pity; trumpet-tongfued ambition Stifles her plaintive voice ; it is not love, For that inspires the blow ! Art thou Solisa ? Sol. I am that luckless maiden whom you lovo. Alar. You could He down and die. Who speaks of death ' There is no absolution for self-murder. Why 'tis the greater sin of the two. There is More peril in't. What, sleep upon your post Because you are wearied ? No, we must spy on And watch occasions. Even now they are ripe. I feel a turbulent throbbing at my heart Will end in action: for these spiritual tumults Herald great deeds. Sol. It is the church's scheme Ever to lengthen suits. Alar. The church ? Sol. Ossuna Leans much to Rome. Alar. And how concerns us that ? Sol. His Grace spoke to the Bishop, you must know 1 D I) 402 , COUNT AL.j^cOS.- AlarI Ah, yes ! his Grace, the chlpcii^ jt {g our friend. And truly should be so. Ijgave our griefs, And it should bear their, balm sotr Hast pardoned me That I was querulous ? l-jut lovers crossed Wrangle with those that loye them, as it were, To spite affection. Alab. We are bound together As the twin powers of the storm. Very love Now makes me callous. The great bond is sealed ; Look bright ; if gloomy, mortgage future bliss For present comfort. Trust me 'tis good 'suranoe. I'll to the King. \_Blxeunt hnih SCENE 3. A Street m Bwgos. i Enter the Count of Leon, followed thy Oban. Leon. ■ He has been sighing like a Sybarite \ These six weeks past, and now he sends to me To hire my bravo. Well, that smacks of manhood. He'll pierce at least one heart, if not the rigiit one. Murder and marriage ! which the greater Crime A schoolman may decide. All arts exhang:^ed His death alone remains. A clumsy course. I care not. Truth, I hate this saale Alaroos • I think it is the colour of his eygs, But I do hate him ; and the .jsbyal ear Lists coldly to me since tltis same return. The King leans wholly ^n him. Sirrah Moor All is oreoared ? A TRAGEDY. 403 OlUN. And prompt. Leon. 'Tis well ; no boggling ; Let it be cleanly done. Oean. A stab or two, And the Arlanzon's wave shall know the rest. Leon. I'll have to kibo his heels at Court, if you fail. Okan. There is no fear. We have the choicest spirits in Burgos. Leon. Goodly gentlemen ! you wait Their presence ? Oran. Here anon. Leon. Good night, dusk infidel, They'll take me for an Alguazil. At home Yonr news will reach me. [Eadt Leon. Oean. And were all your throats cut, I would not weep. 0, Allah, let them spend Their blood upon themselves ! My life he shielded. And now exacts one at my hands ; we're quits When this is closed. That thought will grace a deed Otherwise graceless. I would break the chain That binds me to this man. His callous eye Repels devotion, while his reckless vein Demands prompt sacrifice. Now is't wise this ? Methinks 'twere wise to touch the humblest heart Of those that serve us ? In maturest plans D D 2 404 CO UNT A LARCOS .- There lacks that finish, which alone can flow From zealous instruments. But here are some That have no hearts to touch. {Enter Fowr Beatos.) How now, good senors,— I cannot call them comrades ; you're exact, As doubtless ye are brave. You know your duty ? 1st Beavo. And will perform it, or my name is changed, And I'm not Guzman Jaca. Oean. Tou well know The arm you cross is potent? 2nd Beavo. All the steel Of Oalatrava's knights shall not protect it. 3ed Beavo. And all the knights to boot. 4th Beavo. A river business. Oean. The safest sepulchre. 4th Beavo. A burial ground Of which we are the priests, and take our fees ; I never cross a stream, but I do feel A sense of property. Oean. Yon. know the signal l And when I boast I've friends, they may appeal To prove I am no braggart. 1st Beavo. To our posts It shall be cleanly done, and brief. A TRAGEDY. 405 2nd Beavo. No oaths, No swagger. 3ed Beato. Not a word ; but all as pleasant A.S we were nobles like himself. 4th Beavo. "Tis true, sir ; YoTi deal with gentlemen. [Exeimt Bravos Enter Count Alakcos. Alae. The moon's a sluggard, I think, to-night. How now, the Moor that dodged My steps at vespers. Hem ! I like not this. BViends beneath cloaks ; they're wanted. Save you, sir F Oean. And you, sir ? Alae. Not the first time we have met, Or I've no eye for lurkers. Oeas. I have tasted Our common heritage, the air, to-day. And if the selfsame beam warmed both our bloods, Wbat then ? Alak. Why nothing ; but the sun has set, And honest men should seek their hearths. Oeau. I wait My friends. {The Bkavos rush in, and assault Count Alaegos, who. 4o6 COUNT ALARCOS: dropping his Cloak, shows his Sword al/ready drawn, a/iid keeps them at hay.) Alar. So, so ! who plays with princes' blood ? No sport for varlets. Thus and thus, I'll teach ye To know your station. 1st Bravo. Ah! 2nd Bravo. Away! 3rd Bravo. Fly, fly! 4th Bravo. No place for quiet men. ITJie Bravos nm off. Alar. A little breath Is all they have coat me, tho' their blood has stained My damask blade. And stUl the Moor I What ho ! Why fliest not like thy mates ? Oran. Because I wait To fight. Alar. Rash caitiff ! knowest thou who I am ? Oran. One whom I heard was brave, and now has proved it Alar. Am I thy foe ? Oran. No more than all thy race. Alar. Gk», save thy Ufe. A TRAGEDY. A°l Oran. liook to ttine own, proud lord. Alab. Perdition catch thy base-bom insolence, {JShey fight: after a long and severe encounter, Alarcos disarms Oean, who falls wounded.) Oran. Be brief, dispatch me. Alau. ■ Not a word for raovoy? Oran. Why should'st thou give it ? Alar. 'Tis not merited. Yet might be gained. Who set thee on to this ? My sword is at thy throat. Give me his name, And thine shall Uve. Orah. I cannot. Alar. What, is life So light a boon ? It hangs upon this point. Bold Moor, is't then thy love to him who fees thee Makes thee so faithful ? Oran. No ; I hate him. Alar. Wliat Restrains thee, then ? Oran. The feeling that restrained My arm from joining stabbers — ^Honour. 4o8 COUNT ALARCOS: Alae. Humph ! A.U overseer of stabbers for some ducats. And is that honour ? Oran. Once he screened my life. And this was my return. Alar. What if I spare Thy life even now ? Wilt thou accord to mo The same devotion ? Oran. Tea ; the life thou givest Thou shouldst command. Alar. If I, too, have a foe Crossing my path and blighting all my life ? Oean. This Bword shoald strive to reach him. Alae. Him ! thy bond Shall know no sex or nation. Ijimitless Shall be thy pledge. I'll claim from thee a life For that I spare. How now, wilt live ? Oean. To pay A life for that now spared. Alae. Swear to thy truth ; Swear by Mahouud, and swear by all thy gods, If thou hast any; swear it by the stars, In which we all believe ; and by thy hopes . A TliAUliUY. 409 Of thy false paradise ; swear it by thy soni, And by thy sword ! 9RiN. I swear. A.LAF. Ajdfie and live. TUB BND OF TUB THHll) AOT, 4IO COUNT ALARCOS: ACT TV. SCENE 1. Interior of a Posada frequented by Bravos, m. an ohsewre quarter of Burgos. Flk at the fire, frying eggs. Mm seated at smull tables d/rmking ; others lying on benches. At the side, but in the front of the Scene, some Begga/rs squatted on the gruund, thnmiming a Mandolin ; a Gipsy Girl dancing. A Beavo. Come, motlier, dost take us for Saracens ? I say -wp are trae Christians, and so mnst drink wine. Another Beavo. Mother Flix is sour to-night. Keep the evil eye from the oUa ! A 3rd Bravo {advancing to her). Thou beauty of Burgos, what are dimples unless seen ? Smile ! wench. Flix. A frying egg will not wait for the King of Coriluva. 1st Bravo. Will have her way. Graus kr.ows a pretty wile's worth. A handsome hostess is bad for the guest's purse. A Bravo (rising). Good companions make good company. Graus, Graus, another flagon. Another Beavo. Of the right Catalan. 3rd Bravo. Nay, for my omelette. A TRAGEDY. 4" Fle. Hungry men think the cook lazy. Enter Gbaus with a Flagon of Wine. 1st Bravo. 'Tis mine. 2nd Bravo. No, mine. 1st Beavo. We'll share. 2nd Bbavo. No, each man his own beaker ; he who shares has the worst half. 3ed Bravo (to Flix, who bri/rigs the omelette'). An egg and to bed. Geaus. Who drinks, first chinks. 1st Bravo. The debtor is stoned every day. There will be water- work to-morrow, and that will wash it out. Tou knowme ? Graus. In a long jonmey and a small inn, one knows one's company. 2nd Bravo. Come, I'll give, but I won't share. Fill up. Graus. That's liberal ; my way; full measure but prompt pezos; I loathe your niggards. 1st Bravo. As the Kttle tailor of Campillo said, who worked for nothing, and found thread. (To the other Bravo.) Nay, I'll not refase ; we know each other 412 COUNT ALARCOS: 2nt> Bravo. We've seen the stars together. An Old Man. , Burgos is not what it was. A 5th Beavo (waking). Sleep ends and supper begins. The oUa, the olla, Mother Plix {shaking a purse) ; there's the dinner bell. 2nd Bravo. That will bring courses. 1st Bravo. An ass covered with gold has more respect than a horse with a pack-saddle. 5th Bbavo. How for that ass ? 2nd Beavo. Nay, the sheep should have his belly full who quarrels with his mate. 5th Beavo. But how for that ass ? AFeiab (ad/voMcing). Peace be with ye, brethren ! A meal in God's name. 5th Beavo. Who asks in God's name, asks for two. But how for that ass ? Plk (bringing the olla). Nay, an ye must brawl, go fight the Moors. 'Tis a peaceable house, and we sleep quiet o' nights. 5th Bravo Am I an ass? Flix. He is an ass who talks when he rciight eat. 5th Beavo. A Secadon sausage ! Come, mother, I'm all peace ; thon'rt a rare hand. As in thy teeth, comrade, and no more on't. A TRAGEDY. 4^3 1st Beayo. Wlien I will not, two cannot quarrel. Old Man. Erory thing is changed for the worse. Fkiak. For the love of St. Jago, senors ; for the love of St. Jagrol 5th Bravo. When it pleases not God, the saint can do little. 2nd Beavo. Nay, supper for all, and drink's tte best meat. Some have sung for it, some danced. There is no fishing for trout in dry breeches. Ton shall preach. Peue. Benedicite, brethren — 1st Beavo. Nay, no Latin, for the devil's not here 2nd Bravo. And prithee let it be as fail of meat aia an egg; for we who do many deeds, \ove not many v/ords. Fkiar. Thou shalt not steal. 1st Bravo He blasphemes. Peue. But what is theft f 2nd Beavo. Ay! there it is. Peiae. The tailor he steals the cloth, and the miller he steals the meal ; is either a thief ? 'tis the way of trade. But what if our trade be to steal ? Why then our work is to cut purses ; to cut purses is to follow our business ; and to follow our business is to obey the King ; and so thieving is no tbeft. And that's probatum, and so, amen. 414 COUNT ALARCOS: 5th Bbavo. Shall put thy spoon in the oUa for that. 2nd Beavo. And drink this health to our honest fraternity. Old Man. I have heard sermons by tho hour ; this is brief ; every- thing falls off. E/hier a Pkrsonagb mashed ami cloaked. 1st Bkavo {to his Oom/pam,ions). See'st yon mask ? 2nd Bbato. 'Tis strange. Graos {to Flix). Who is this ? Flix. The fool wonders, the wise man asks. Must have no masks here. Geahs. An obedient wife commands her husband. Business with a stranger, title enough. {Advcmm/ng and ad- dressing the Mask.) Most noble Senor Mask. The Unknown. Well, fellow ! GltAUS. Hem; as it maybe. D'ye see, most noble Senor Mask, that 'tis an orderly house this, frequented by certain honest gentlemen, that take their siesta, and eat a fried egg after their day's work, and so are not ashamed to show their faces. Ahem ! The Unknown. As in truth I am in such villanous company. Geabs. Wheugh ! but 'tis not the first ill word that b rings a A TRAGEDY. 415 blow. Woald'st sup indifferently well here at a moderate rate, we are thy servants. My Plix hath reputation at the frying-pan, and my wine hath made lips smack ; but here, senor, faces must be uncovered. The Unknown. Poh ! poh ! GEAns. Nay, then, I will send some to you shall gain softorwords 1st Bravo. Why, what's this ? 2nd Bbavo. Our host is au honest man, and has friends. 5th Bravo. Let me finish my oUa, and I will discourse with him. The Unknown. Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke. I como here on business, and with you all. 1st Bravo. Oarraho ! and who's this ? The Unknown. One who knows you, though you know not him. One whom yon have never seen, yet all fear. And who walks at night, and where he likes. 2nd Bravo The devil himself ! The Unknown. It may be so. 2nd Bravo. Sit by me, Friar, and speak Latin. The Unknown. There is a man missing in Burgos, and I will knoyi where he is. 4i8 COUNT ALARCOS ■ The Unknown. Honest fellow! there's gold for you. Tou know nothing of Oran ? 1st Bravo. Maybe he has crawled to some place wounded. The Unknown. To die like a bird. Look after him. If I wish more, I know where to find you. What ho, Master Host ! I cannot wait to try your mistress's art to-night ; but here's my scot for our next supper. [Exit the Unknown SCENE 2. A Chamber in the Palace of Alarcos. The CoaNTESs and Sidonia. SiDO. Lady, you're moveS : nay, 'twas an idle word. COUN. But was it true ? SiDO. And yet might little mean. CouN. That I should Uve to doubt ! SiDO. But do not doubt ; Forget it, lady. You should know him well ; Nay, do not credit it. CouN. He's very changed. I would not own, no, not believe that change I've given it every gloss that might confirm A TRAGEDY. 419 My sinking heart. Time and your tale agree ; Alas ! 'tis true. SiDO. I hope not ; still believe It is not true. Would that I had not spoken ! It was unguarded nrate. OouN. You have done me service Condemned, the headsman is no enemy, But closes suffering. SiDO. Tet a bitter doom To torture those you'd bless. I have a thought. What if this eve you visit this same spot, That shrouds these meetings ? If he's wanting then The rest might prove as false. CoTJN. He will be there, I feel he will be there. SiDO. We should not think so, Until our eyes defeat our hopes. COUN. Burgos, My heart misgave me when I saw thy walls ! To doubt is madness, yet 'tis not despair, And that my be my lot. SiDO. The palace gardens Are closed, except to master-keys. Here's one ; My office gives it me, and it can count Few brethren. You will be alone. CouN. Alas! I dare not hope so. ■ ■ if! 420 COUNT ALARCOS: SiDO. Well, well, think of tliis ; Yet take the key. Coim. that it would unlock The heart now closed to me ! To watch his ways Was once my being. Shall I prove the spy Of joys I may not share ? I will not take That fatal key. SiDO. 'Tis well; I pray you, pardon My ill-timed zeal. Comj. Indeed, I should be grateful That one should wish to serve me. Can it be ? 'Tis not two months, two little, little months, You crossed this threshold first ; Ah ! gentle sir, And we were all so gay ! What have I done ? What is all this ? so sudden and so strange ? It is not true, I feel it is not true ; 'Tis factious care that clouds his brow, and calls For all this timed absence. His brain's busy With the State. Is't not so ? I prithee speak, And say you think it. SiDO. You should know him well ; And if you deem it so, why I should deem The inference just. CouN. Yet if he were not there, How happy I should sleep ! there is no peril ; The garden's near ; and is there shame ? 'Tis love Makes me a lawfiil spy. He'll not be there. And then there is no prying. SiDO. Near at hand. A TRAGEDY. 421 OrosBing the way that bounds your palace court, There is a private portal. Couw. If I go, He will not miss me. Ah, I would he might ! So very near ; no, no ; I cannot go ; And yet I'U take the key. [Tahes the hey. "Would thou could'st speak. Thou little instrument, and tell me all The secrets of thy office ! My heart heats •. 'Tis my first enterprise ; I would it were To do him service. No, I cannot go ; Farewell, kind sir ; indeed I am so troubled, I must retire. [Exit Countess SiBO. Thy virtue makes me vile ; And what should move my heart inflames my soul. O marvellous world, wherein I play the villain From very love of excellence ! Bat for him, I'd be the rival of her stainless thoughts And mate her purity. Hah ! Enter Okas. Oban. My noble lord ! The Moor ! SiDO. Oran. Vour servant. SiDO. Here ! 'tia passing strange How's this ? Oban. The accident of war, my lord. I am a prisoner. 422- COUNT ALARCOS: SiDO. But at large, it seems, Yoa have betrayed me ? Oean. Had I chosen that, I had been free and you not here. I fought, And fell in single fight. Why spared I know not, But that the lion's generous. SiDO. Will you prove Your faith ? Okan. Nay, doubt it not. SiDO. You still can aid me. Oean. I am no traitor, and my friends shall find I am not wanting. SiDO. Quit these liberal walls Where you're not watched. In brief, I've coined a tale Has touched the Countess to the quick. She seeks. Alone or scantly tended, even now. The palace gardens ; eager to discover A faithless husband, where she'll chance to find One more devout. My steeds and servants wait At the right post ; my distant castle soon Shall hold this peerless wife. Your resolute spirit May aid me much. How say you, is it well That we have met ? Oean. Right well. I will embark Most heartUy in this. SiDO. With mo at once. A TRAGEDY. 423 Oran. At once ? SiDO. No faltering. Ton have learned and know Too much to spare you from my sight, good Oran. With me at once. Oean. 'Tis urgent ; well at once, . And I will do good service, or I'll die. For what is life unless to aid the life Has aided thine ? SiDO. On then ; with me no eye Will look with jealousy upon thy step. [Exevnt both SOEITB 3. A retired spot in the Ga/rdens of the Palaei Enter the Countess. CODN. Is't guilt, that I thus tremble ? Why should I Peel like a sinner ? I'll not dare to meet His flashing eye. 0, with what scorn, wha^ hat« His lightning glance will wither me. Away, I will away. I care not whom he meets. What if he love me not, he shall not loathe The form he once embraced. I'll be content To live upon the past, and dream again It may return. Alas ! were I the false one, I could not feel more humbled. Ah, he comes ! I'll lie, I'll vow I'm vile, that I came here To meet another, anything but that [ dared to doubt him. What, my Lord Sidonia ! [Enter Sidonia 424 COUNT ALARCOS: SiDO. Thy servant and thy Mend. Ah ! gentle lady, I deemed this unused scene and ill-tinied horn- Might render solace welcome. He'll not come; He crossed the mountains, ere the set of sun, Towards Briviesoa. OOTJN. Holy Virgin, thanks ! Home, home ! SiDO. And can a hearth neglected cause Such raptures ? OouN. I, and only I, neglect it ; My cheek is fire, that I should ever dare To do this stealthy deed. SiDO. And yet I feel I could do one asrsecret and more hold. A moment, lady; do not turn away With that cold look. Coiw. My children wait me, sir ; Yet T would thank you, for you meant me kindness SiDO. And mean it yet. Ah ! beauteous Plorimonde, It is the twilight hour, when hearts are soft, And mine is like the quivering light of eve ; I love thee ! OotJN. And for this I'm here, and he, Ele is not false ! O happiness ! SiDO. Sweet lady A TRAGEDY. 425 OOUN. My Lord Sidonia, I can pardon thee, I am so joyfal. SiDO. Nay, then. CouN. Unhand me, sir ! SiDO. But to embrace this delicate waist. Thou art mine : I've sighed and thou hast spurned. WLat is not yielded In war we capture. Ere a flying hour. Thy hated Burgos vanishes. That voice ; What, must I stifle it, who fain would listen For ever to its song ? In vain thy cry, For none are here but mine. Enter Oean. Oean. Turn, robber, turn SiDO. All ! treason in the camp ! Thus to thy heart. [27(67/ fight. Oean heats off Sidonia, they leave the scent fighting ; the Countess swoons. Enter a procession with lighted torches, arftend/i/ng the Infanta SoLiSA /roTO Mass. 1st Usn. A woman ! 2nd Ush. Does she live ? Sol. What stops our course ? [The Train rwngmg themselves en each side, the Infanta approaches the Countess. 426 COUNT ALARCOS: Sol. Most strange and lovely vision ! Does she breathe ? I'll not believe 'tis death. Her hand is cold, And her brow damp ; Griselda, Julia, maidens Hither, and yet stand off ; give her free air. Hov7 shall we bear her home ? Now, good Lorenzo, Toil, and Sir Miguel, raise her ; gently, gently. Still gently, sirs. By heavens, the fairest face I yet did gaze on ! Some one here should know hei 'Tis one that must be known. That's weUj relieve That kerchief from her neck ; mind not our state ; I'll by her side ; a swoon, methinks ; no more, Let's hope and pray ! [They raise the body of the Countess, and bear her away. Enter Oo^mt of Leon. Leon. I'll fathom this same mystery, If there be wit in Burgos. I have heard, Before I knew the Court, old Nunez Leon Whisper strange things — and what if they prove tme f It is not exile twice would cure that soar. I'U reach him yet. 'Tis likely he may pass This way ; 'tis lonely, and well suits a step Would not be noticed. Ha ! a man approaches ; I'U stand awhile aside. Be-enter Okan. Oean. Gone, is she gone ! Tet safe I feel. O Allah ! thou art great ! The arm she bound, and tended with that glance Of sweet solicitude, has saved her Kfe, And more than Ufa. The dark and reckless villains ! ! I could curse them, but my heart is soft With holy triumph. I'm no more an outcast. And when she calls me, I'd not change my lot To be an Emir. In their hall to-night There will be joy, and Oran will have smiles A TRAGEDY. 427 This house has knit me to their fat« by ties Stronger than gyves of iron. Leon. Do I see The man I seek ? Oran ! [Oran tm/rns, and recogrdmig Leon, rushes mid seizes him Oban. Incarnate fiend, Give her me, give her me ! Leon. Off, ruffian, off! Okan. I have thee and I'll hold thee. If I spare Thy damned hfe, and do not dash thee down. And trample on thee, fiend, it is because Thou art the gaoler of a pearl of price I cannot gain without thee. Now, where is she ? Now by thy life ! Leon. Why, thou outrageous Moor, Hast broken thy false prophet's rule, and so Fell into unused drink, that thus thou darest To flout me with thy cloudy menaces ? What mean'st thou, sir ? And what have I withheld Prom thy vile touch ? By heavens, I pass my days In seeking thy dusk corpse, I deemed well drilled Ere this, but it awaits my vengeance. Okan. Boy! Licentious boy ! Where is she ? Now, by Allah ! This poniard to thy heart, unless thou tell'st me. Leon. Whom dost thou mean ? Oban. Thy comrade and thy crew 428 COUNT ALARCOS: They all have fled. I left the Countess here. She's gone. Thou fill'st her place. Leon. What Countess ? Speak Orah. The Count Alaroos' wife. Leon. The Count Alarcos ! I'd be right glad to see him ; but his wife Concerns the Lord Sidonia. If he have played Some pranks here 'tis a fool, and he has marred More than he'll ever make. My tune's worth gems ; My knightly word, dusk Moor, I tell thee truth. I will forget these jests, but we must meet This night at my palace. Oris. I'll see her first. [^Exit Oban. LT30N. Is it the Carnival ? What mummery's this ? What have I heard ? One thing alone is clea We must be rid of Oran. SCENE 4. A Ohamber in tlie Palace. The Countess AilAKCOS lyvng on a Oouch, the Infanta kneelmg at her side ; Maidens growped arovmd. A Physician and the Page. Sol. Didst ever see so fair a skin ? Her bodice Should still be loosened. Bring the Moorish water, Griselda, you. They are the longest lashes ! They hang upon her cheek. Doctor, there's warmth ; The blood returns ? A TRAGEDY. 429 Pinf. But slowly. Sol. Beauteous creature ! She seems an angel fallen from some star. 'Twas ■well we passed. Untie that kerchief, Julia ; Teresa, wave the fan. There seems a glow Upon her cheek, what but a moment since Was like a sculptured saint's. Pht. She breathes. Sol. Hush, hush ! OOUN. A.nd what is this ? where am T ? Sol. With thy friends. COUN. It is not home. Sol. If kindness make a home, Beheve it such. [The Physician signifies silence Nay lady, not a word. Those lips must now be closed. I've seen such eyes In pictures, girls. Pht. Methinks she'U sleep. Sol. 'Tis well. Maidens, away. I'U be her nurse ; and, doctor. Remain within. \Ilxefimt Physician oMd Maidens Know you this beauteous dame ? 43° COUNT ALARCOS: Page. I have heard minstrels tell that fays are found In lonely places. Sol. Well, she's magical. She draws me charm-like to her. Vanish, imp. And see our chamber still. ■ ^Eidt Page It is the hour Alarcos should be here. Ah ! happy hour, That custom only makes more strangely sweet ! His brow has lost its cloud. TheJbar's removed To our felicity ; time makes amends To patient sufferers. [Enter CoOTiT Alarcos Hush, my own love, hush ! [SoLlSA takes Ms hand and leads him aside So strange an incident ! the feirest lady ! Pound in our gardens ; it would seem a swoon ; Myself then passing ; hither we have brought her ; She is so beautifal, you'll almost deem She bears some charmed life. You know that fays Are found in lonely places. Alae. In thy garden ! Indeed 'tis strange ! The Virgin guard thee, love I am right glad I'm here. Alone to tend her, 'Tis scarcely wise. Sol. I think when she recovers. She'll wave her wings and fly. Alae. Nay, for one glance '. [n truth yon paint her bright. Sol. E'en now she sleeps. Tread lightly, love ; I'll lead you. [SoLiSA coMtiousVy leads Alarcos to the couch; as they ap- proach it, the Countess opens her eyes and shrieks. ■A TRAGEDY. 431 COUN. Ah ! 'tis true, A.larcos ! [relapses into a swoon Alar. Florimonde ! Sol. Who is this lady ? Alar. It is my wife. Sol. (flings away his arms and rushes forward.) Not mad ! Virgin and Saints be merciful ; not mad ! spare my brain one moment ; 'tis his wife. I'm lost : she is too fair. The secret's out Of sick delays. He's feigned ; he has but feigned. [Ihishing to Alarcos Is that thy wife ? and I ? and what am I ? A trifled toy, a humoured instrument ? To guide with glozing words, vilely cajole ' With petty perjuries ? Is that thy v/ife ? Thou said'st she was not fair, thou did'st not love her Thou lied'st. 0, anguish, anguish! Alar. By the cross, My soul is pure to thee. I'm wildered quite. How came she here ? Sot. As she shall ne'er return. Now, Count Alaroos, by the cross thou swearest Thy faith is true to me. Alar. Ay, by the cross Sol. Give me thy dagger 432 COUNT ALARCOS.- Alas. Not that hand or mine. Sol. [s this thy passion ! [^Tai;es his dagger Thus I gain the heart I should despise. [^Rushes to the eoueh CouN. What's this I see ? Alab. (seizing the Infcmta's upraised arm). A dream ; A )iOTrid dream, yet but a dream. THE BND OP THlt FOURTH AOT. A TRAGEDY. 433 ACT V. SCENE 1. Exterior of the Oastle of Alarcos m the valley of Arlcmzotk. Enter the Countess. CouN. 1 would recall the days gone by, and live A moment in the past ; if but to fly The dreary present pressing on my brain. Woe's omened harbinger. In exiled love The scene he drew so fair ! Te castled crags, The sunbeam plays on your embattled cliffs, And softens your stern visage, as his love Softened our early sorrows. Bat my sun Has set for ever ! Once we talked of cares And deemed that we were sad. Men fancy sorrows Until time brings the substance of despair. And then their griefs are shadows. Give me exile ! It brought me love. Ah ! days of gentle joy, When pastime only parted us, and he Returned with tales to make our children stare ; Or called my lute, while, round my waist entwined, His hand kept chorus to my lay. No more ! O, we were happier than the happy birds ; And sweeter were our lives than the sweet flowers ; The stars were not more tranquil in their course, Tet not more bright ! The fountains in their play Did most resemble us, that as they flow Still sparkle ! [Enter Oban Oran, I am very sad F F 434 COUNT ALARCOS: Oran. Cheer up, sweet lady, for the God of all Will guard the innocent. CouN. Think you he'll come To visit ns ? Methinks lic'll never come. Oram. He's but four leagues away. This vicinage Argues a frequent presence. Comi. But three nights Have only three nights past ? It is an epoch Distant and dim with passion. There are seasons Feelings crowd on so, time not flies but staggers ; And memory poises on her burthened plumes To gloat upon her prey. Spoke he of coming ? Oran. His words were scant and wild, and yet he murmarcs That I should see him. CouN. I've not seen him since That fatal night, yet even that glance of terror — I'd hail it now. 0, Oran, Oran, think you He ever more will love me ? Can I do Aught to regain his love ? They say your people Are learned in these questions. Once I thought There was no spell like duty — that devotion Would bulwark love for ever. Now, I'd distil Philtres, converse with moonlit hags, defile My soul with talismans, bow down to spirits, And frequent accursed places, all, yea all — I'd forfeit all but to regain his love. Oban. There is a cloud now rising in the west, In shape a hand, and scarcely would its grasp Exceed mine own, it is so small ; a spot. . A TRAGEDY. 435 A. speck ; see now again its colour flits ! A lurid tint ; they caQ it on our coast ' The hand of God ; ' for when its finger rises Prom out the horizon, there are storms abroad And awful judgments. Coot. Ah ! it beckons me. Oran. Lady ! COUN. Yes, yes, see now the finger moves And points to me. I feel it on my spirit. Oban. Methinks it points to me — CouN. To both of us. It may be so. And what would it portend ? My heart's grown strangely calm. If there be chance Of storms, my children should be safe. Let's home. SCENE 2. An illimnvnated Sail in the Boyal Palace at Burgos ; iv tlu background Dancers. Groups o/'GuESTS passing. 1st Guest. Radiant ! 2nd Guest. Recalls old days. 3ed Guest. The Queen herself Ne'er reyeUed it so high ' 436 COUNT ALARCOSt 4th Guest. The Infanta beams Like some bright star ! 5th Gdbbt. And brighter for the cloud A moment screened her. 6th Guest. Is it true 'tis over Between the Count Sidonia and the Lara ? 1st Guest. A musty tale. The fair Alarcos wins him. Where's she to-night ? 2nd Guest. All on the watch to view Fler entrance to our -world. 3rd Guest. The Count is here. 4th Guest. Where? 3rd Guest. With the King ; at least a moment since. 2nd Guest. They say she's ravishing. 4fl:H Guest. Beyond beUof ! 3ed Guest. The King affbcts him much. 5th Guest. He's aU in all 6th Guest. Yon Knight of Oalatrava, who is he P A TRAGEDY. 437 1st Gdest. Young Mendola. 2nd Guest. Wliat lie so rich ? 1st Guest. Thu same 2nd Guest. The L.ara smiles on him. 1st Guest. No worthier quarry ' 3ed Guest. Who has the vacant Mastership ? 4th Guest. I'll back The Count of Leon. 3kd Guest. Likely ; he stands well With the Lord Admiral. [They move away {The OounU o/Sidonia and Leon come forward. Leon. Doubt as you like, Credulity will come, and in good season. SiDO. She is not here that would confirm your tale. Leon. 'Tis history, my Sidonia. Strange events Have happened, stranger come. SiDO. I'll not believe it. And favoured by the King ! What can it moan ? Leon. What DO one aares to saj . 438 COUNT ALARCOS: SiDO. A clear divorce. that accursed garden ! But for that — Leon. 'Twas not my counsel. Now I'd give a purse To wash good Oran in Arlanzon's wave ; The dusk dog needs a cleansing. SiDO. Hush ! here comes Alarcos and the King. {They retire: the King omJ Coont Alarcos adwance.) King. Solisa looks A Queen. Alae. The mirror of her earliest youth Ne'er shadowed her so fair ! King. I am young again, Myself to-night. It quickens my old Wood To see my nobles round me. This goes well. 'Tis Courts hke these that make a King feel proud. Thy fature subjects, cousin. Alar. Gracious Sire, I would be one. King. Our past seclusion lends A lustre to this revel. {The King approaches the Count of Leon ; Solisa advances to Alarcos.) Sol. Why art thou grave P [ came to bid thee sin.ile. In truth, to-night A TRAGEDY. 439 I feel a lightness of the heart to me Hath long been strange. Alae. 'Tis passion makes me giave I muse upon thy beauty. Thus I'd read My oppressed spirit, for in truth these sounds Jar on my humour. Sol. Now my brain is vivid With wild and blissful images. Canst guess What laughing thought unbidden, but resistless, Plays o'er my mind to-night ? Thou canst not guess : Meseems it is our bridal night. AliAR. Thy fancy Outruns the truth but scantly. Sol. Not a breath. Our long-vexed destinies — even now their streams Blend in one tide. It is the hour, Alarcos : There is a spirit whispering in my ear, The hour is come. I would I were a man But for a rapid hour. Should I rest here, Prattling with gladsome revellers, when time, Steered by my hand, might bring me to a port I long had sighed to enter ? But, a;las 1 These are a woman's thoughts. Alar. And yet 1 share them. Sol. Why not to-nighfr P Now, when our hearts are high. Our fancies glowing, pulses fit for kings. And the whole frame and spirit of the man Prepared for daring deeds P Alae. And were it done — Why then 'twere not to do. 44° COUNT ALARCOS: Sol. The mind grows dull, Dwelling on mettod of its deeds too long. Onr soLiemes should brood as gradual as the storm ; Their acting should be lightning. How far is't ? Alar. An hour. Sol. Why it wants two to midnight yet. O could I see thee but re-enter here, Ere yet the midnight clock strikes on my heart The languish of new hours — I'd not ask thee Wly I had missed the mien, that draws to it ever My constant glance. There'd need no speech betwoen xm ; For I should meet my husband. Alae. 'Tis the burthen Of this unfilled doom weighs on my spirit. Why am I here ? My heart and &ce but mar This festive hall. To-night, why not to-night ? The night will soon have past : then 'twill be done. We'll meet again to-night. [Exit Alabcos, SCENE 3. A Hall in the Castle of Alarcos ; in the back of the Scene a door leadmg to another Apartment. Oean. Reveal the future, lightnings ! Then I'd hail That arrowy flash. darker than the storm Cowed as the beasts now crouching in their caves. Is my sad soul. Impending o'er this house, I feel some bursting fate, my doomed arm _ In vain would ward A TRAGEDY. 4^1 [Enter a Man at Arms. How now, hast left thy post ? Man. O worthy Castellan, the lightnings play Upon our turrets, that no human step Can keep the watch. Each forky flash seems missionod To scathe our roof, and the whole platform flows With a blue sea of flame. Oran. It is thy post. j."^o peril clears desertion. To thy post. Mark me, my step will be as prompt as thine ; T wiU relieve thee. [Emit Man at Arms Let the mischievous fire Wither this head. AUah ! grant no fate More dire awaits me. [Enter the Count Alaecos Hah ! the Count ! My lord, In such a night ! Alar. A night that's not so wild As this tempestuous breast. How is she, Oran ? Oran. Well. Alar. Ever well. Oran. The children — Alar. Wine, I'm wearied The lightning scared my horse ; he's galled my arm. Get me some wine. [Exit Oran The storm was not to stop me. The mind intent construes each natural act To a personal bias, and so catches judgments 442 COUNT ALARCOS: lu e\ ery common course. In truth tte flash, Though it seemed opening hell, was not so dreadful As that wild glaring hall. [Be-enter Oean with a goblet amdjlagnn Ah ! this re-mans me ! I think the storm has lulled. Another cup. Go see, good Oran, how the tempest speeds. [^Exit OEiN An hour ago I did not dare to think I'd drink wine more. Be-enter Oran. Oean. The storm iadeed has lulled As hy a miracle ; the sky is clear. There's not a breath of air ; and from the turret I heard the bell of Huelgas. Alae. Then 'twas nothing. My spirit vaults ! Oran, thou dost remember The night that we first met-? Okan. 'Tis graven deep Upon my heart. Alar. I think thou lov'st mo, Oran ? Oean. And all thy bouse. Alar. Nay, thou shalt love but me ['11 no divisions in the hearts that are mine. Oean. I have no love but tiat which knits me to thee W^ith deeper love. Alar. r found thee, Oran, wliat — A TRAGEDY. 443 I will not say. And now thou art, good Oran, A Prince's Castellan. Okan. I feel thy bounty. Alab. Thou shalt be more. But serve me as 1 would, And thou shalt name thy meed. Oean. To serve my lord Is my sufficient meed. Alar. Come hither, Oran, Were there a life between me and my life, And all that makes that life a thing to cling to. Love, Honour, Power, ay, what I will not name Nor thou canst image — yet enough to stir Ambition in the dead 1 think, good Oran, Thou would'st not see me foiled ? Oban. Than life to me. Thy glory's deai-ei Alae. I knew it, I knew it. Thou shalt share all ; thy alien blood shall be No bar to thy preferment. Hast thou brothers ? I'll send for them. An aged sire, perchance ? Here's gold for him. Count it thyself. Contrive All means of self-enjoyment. To the full They shall lap up fruition. Thou hast, all have, Some master wish which still eludes thy grasp. And still's the secret idol of thy soul ; 'Tis gained. And only if thou dost, good Oran, What love and duty prompt. Oran. ' Count on my faith, I stand prepared to prove it. 444 COUNT ALARCOS: Alab. Good, good, Oran. It is an hour to midnight ? Oban. The moon is not Within her midnight hower, yet near. Alab. So late ! The Countess sleeps? Oban. She has long retired. Alab. She sleeps. O, she must wake no more ! Obam. Thy wife ! Alab. It mast Be done, ere yet the Castle chime shall tell Night wanes. Okan. Thy wife ! God of my fathers ! none Can do this deed ! Alab. Upon thy hand it rests. The deed must fall on thee. Oban. I will not do it. Alab. Thine oath, thine oath ! Hast thou forgot thine oath ? Thou owest me a life, and now I claim it. What, hast thon trifled with me ? Hast thou fooled With one whose point was at thy throat ? Beware ! A TRAGEDY. 445 Thou art my slave, and I have branded thee With this infernal ransom ! Oean. I am thy slave, And I will be thy slave, and all my days Devoted to perdition. Not for gold Or worldly worth ; to cheer no aged parent, Though I have one, a mother ; not to bask My seed within thy beams ; to feed no passions And gorge no craving vanity ; but because Thou gavest me life, and led to that which made That life for once delicious. 0, great sir, The Being's thy foe ? Surrounded by his guards I would waylay him. Hast thou some fierce rival t I'll pluck his heart out. Tea ! there is no peril I'd not confront, no rack I'll not endure, No great offence commit, to do thee service — So thou wilt spare me this, and spare thy soul This unmatched sin. Alae. I had exhausted suffering Ere I could speak to theo. I claim thine oath. Oban. One moment, yet one moment. This is sudden As it is terrible. Alae. The womb is ripe, Ajid thou art but the midwife of the birth I have engendered. Oeam. Think how fair she is, How gracious, how devoted ! AliAE, Need I thee To tell me what she is ! Okan. Thy children's mother. 446 COUNT ALARCOS: Alab. Would she were not ! Auother breast should bear My children. Oean. Thou inhuman bloody man — It shall not be, it cannot, cannot be. I tell thee, tyrant, there's a power abroad E'en now that crushes thee. The storm that raged Blows from a mystic quarter. 'Tis the hand Of Allah guides the tempest of this night. Alab. Thine oath, thine oath ! Oran. Accursed be the hour Thou sparedst my life I Alak. Thine oath, I claim thine oath Nay, Moor, what is it ? 'Tis a life, and thou Hast learnt to rate existence at its worth. A Kfe, a woman's Hfe ! Why, sack a town. And thousands die like her. My faithful Oran, Come let me love thee, let me find a friend When friends can prove themselves. It's not an oath Vowed in our sunshine ease, that shows a friend , 'Tis the tempestuous mood Uke this, that calls For faithful service. Oean. Hah ! the Emir's blood Cries for this judgment. It was sacred, seed. Alae. It flowed to clear thine honour. Art thou he That honour loved so dearly, that he scorned Betrayal of a foe, although that foe Had changed him to a bravo ? Okan. Let me kiss Thy garment's hem, and grovel at thy feei — I pray, I suppHcate — my lord, my lord — AbsolTe me &om that oath ! A TRAGEDY. 447 Alar. I had not thougM To claim it twice. It seems I lacked some judgment In man, to deem that honour might be found In hired stabbers. Oean. Hah ! I vowed to thee A life for that which thou didst spare — 'tis well. The debt is paid. [Stabs himself aiid falU Enter the Codntess from the irmer Chamber. Comi. 1 cnnot sleep — my dreams are full of woe ! Alarcos ! my Alarcos ! Hah ! dread sight ! Oran ! Oran. O, spare her ; 'tis no sacrifice If she be spared. CODN. Wild words ! Thou dost not speak. 0, speak, Alarcos ! speak ! Okan. His voice is death. CouN. Ye Saints uphold me now, for I ara weak And lost. What means this ? Oran dying ! Nay — Alarcos ! I'm a woman. Aid me, aid me. Why's Oran thus ? O, save him, my Alarcos ! Blood ! And why shed ? Why, let us staunch his wounds. Why are there wounds ? He will not speak. Alarcos, A word, a single word ! Unhappy Moor ! Where is thy hurt ? [Kneels by Okan. Okan. That hand ' This is not death ; 'Tis Paradise. [Bies. 448 COUNT ALARCOS: AliAR. (^advancing in soliloqwy). He sets me great examples. 'Tis easier than I deemed ; a single blow And his bold sotiI has fled. His lavish life Enlists me in quick service. Quit that dark corpse ; He died as did become a perjured traitor. CODU. To whom, my lord ? AlAE. To all CastiUe perchance. Come hither, wife. Before the morning breaks A lengthened journey waits thee. Art prepared ? OoUN. (springing to Alarcos). I will not go. Alarcos, dear Alarcos, Thy look is terrible ! Wliat mean these words ? Why should'st thou spare me ? Why should Oran die F The veil that clouds thy mind — I'll rend it. Tell me— Yea ! I'll know all. A power supports me now — Defies even thee. Alab. A traitor's troubled tongue Disturbs thy mind. I tell thee, thou must leave This castle promptly. CouN. Not to Burgos — say But that. I will not go. That fatal woman — Her shadow's on thy soul. Alae. No, not to Burgos, 'Tis not to Burgos that thy journey tends. The children sleep ? COXJN. Spite of the storm Alak. Go — KiBB them. A TRAGEDY. 449 Thou canst not take them with thee. To thy chamber — Quick to thy chamber. '[The OotTNTESS as if ahout to speak, hut Alakcos sto'ps her Nay, tim.e presses, wife. [The Countess slowly re-enters her Ohamher. Alar. I am alone — with Death. And will she look Serene as tliis ? The visage of a hero Stamped with a martyred end ! Thou noble Moor ! What if thy fate were mine ! Thou art at rest : No dark fulfilment waits o'er thee. The tomb Hath many charms. {The Countess calls.) Alarcos ! Alak. Ay, anon. Why did she tell me that she lived ? Methought It was all past. I came to confront death ; And we have met. This sacrificial blood — What, bears it no atonement ? 'Twas an offering Pit for the Gods. [r/ie mMmglit hell She waits me now ; her hand Extends a diadem ; my achieveless arm Would wither at her scorn. 'Tis thus, Solisa, I gain thy heart and realm ! [Alaecos moves hastily to the Ohamher, which he enters; the stage for some seconds is empty ; a shrieh is then heard Alaecos re-appears, very pale, and slowly advances to the front of the stage. 'Tis over and I live. I heard a sound , Was't Oran's spirit ? I'll not rest here, and yet I dare not back. The bodies? Nay, 'tis done— I'll not shrink now. I have seen death before. But is this death? Mcthinks a deeper mystery. Well, 'tis done a Q 450 CO UNT A LARCOS . There'll be no hour so dark as this. I wotild I had not caught her eye. [4 t/rwnvpet smmdt The Warder's note ! Shall I meet life again ? \_Another tru/nypet sownds * Enter the Seneschal. Sen. Horsemen from Court. AxAB. The Court! I'm sick at heart. Perchance she's eager, Ajad cannot wait my coming. {Bnier two Coubtiers Well, good sirs! 1st Coukt. Alas, my lord. Alae. 1 live upon thy words. What now ? 1st Coukt. We have rode post, my lord. Alar. Bad newe Flies ever. 'Tis the King? 1st Court. Alas! Alar. She's ill. M.y horse, my horse there! 1st Court. Nay, my lord, not so Alar. Why then I care for nought. A TRAGEDY. 45' Isr CocniT. Dnhcard-of horror ' rho storm, tlie storm Alak. I rode in it. 1st Court. Metliougbt Eac)i flash would fire the Citadel ; the flame Wreathed round its pinnacles, and poured in streams Adown the pallid battlements. Our revellers Forgot their festival, and stopped to gaze On the portentous vision. When behold i The curtained clouds re-opened, and a bolt Came winged from the startling blue of heaven, And struck the Infanta! Alar. There's a God of Vengeance 1st Couet. She fell a blighted corpse. Amid the shrieks Of women, prayers of hurrying multitudes. The panic and the stir — we sought for thee ; The Bang's overwhelmed. Alae. My wife's at least a Queen , She reigns in Heaven. The King's o'erwhelmed — poor man ! 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