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Benjamin Disraeli >> Tancred
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The new Duke of Bellamont had no experience of the world; but, though
long cowed by his father, he had a strong character. Though the circle
of his ideas was necessarily contracted, they were all clear and firm.
In his moody youth he had imbibed certain impressions and arrived at
certain conclusions, and they never quitted him. His mother was his
model of feminine perfection, and he had loved his cousin because she
bore a remarkable resemblance to her aunt. Again, he was of opinion
that the tie between the father and the son ought to be one of intimate
confidence and refined tenderness, and he resolved that, if Providence
favoured him with offspring, his child should ever find in him absolute
devotion of thought and feeling.
A variety of causes and circumstances had impressed him with a
conviction that what is called fashionable life was a compound of
frivolity and fraud, of folly and vice; and he resolved never to enter
it. To this he was, perhaps, in some degree unconsciously prompted by
his reserved disposition, and by his painful sense of inexperience, for
he looked forward to this world with almost as much of apprehension
as of dislike. To politics, in the vulgar sense of the word, he had an
equal repugnance. He had a lofty idea of his duty to his sovereign and
his country, and felt within him the energies that would respond to a
conjuncture. But he acceded to his title in a period of calmness, when
nothing was called in question, and no danger was apprehended; and as
for the fights of factions, the duke altogether held himself aloof from
them; he wanted nothing, not even the blue ribbon which he was soon
obliged to take. Next to his domestic hearth, all his being was
concentrated in his duties as a great proprietor of the soil. On
these he had long pondered, and these he attempted to fulfil. That
performance, indeed, was as much a source of delight to him as of
obligation. He loved the country and a country life. His reserve seemed
to melt away the moment he was on his own soil. Courteous he ever
was, but then he became gracious and hearty. He liked to assemble 'the
county' around him; to keep 'the county' together; 'the county' seemed
always his first thought; he was proud of 'the county,' where he reigned
supreme, not more from his vast possessions than from the influence of
his sweet yet stately character, which made those devoted to him who
otherwise were independent of his sway.
From straitened circumstances, and without having had a single fancy of
youth gratified, the Duke of Bellamont had been suddenly summoned to
the lordship of an estate scarcely inferior in size and revenue to
some continental principalities; to dwell in palaces and castles, to
be surrounded by a disciplined retinue, and to find every wish and want
gratified before they could be expressed or anticipated. Yet he showed
no elation, and acceded to his inheritance as serene as if he had never
felt a pang or proved a necessity. She whom in the hour of trial he had
selected for the future partner of his life, though a remarkable woman,
by a singular coincidence of feeling, for it was as much from her
original character as from sympathy with her husband, confirmed him in
all his moods.
Katherine, Duchess of Bellamont, was beautiful: small and delicate in
structure, with a dazzling complexion, and a smile which, though rare,
was of the most winning and brilliant character. Her rich brown hair
and her deep blue eye might have become a dryad; but her brow denoted
intellect of a high order, and her mouth spoke inexorable resolution.
She was a woman of fixed opinions, and of firm and compact prejudices.
Brought up in an austere circle, where on all matters irrevocable
judgment had been passed, which enjoyed the advantages of knowing
exactly what was true in dogma, what just in conduct, and what correct
in manners, she had early acquired the convenient habit of decision,
while her studious mind employed its considerable energies in mastering
every writer who favoured those opinions which she had previously
determined were the right ones.
The duchess was deep in the divinity of the seventeenth century. In the
controversies between the two churches, she could have perplexed St.
Omers or Maynooth. Chillingworth might be found her boudoir. Not that
her Grace's reading was confined to divinity; on the contrary, it was
various and extensive. Puritan in religion, she was precisian in morals;
but in both she was sincere. She was so in all things. Her nature was
frank and simple; if she were inflexible, she at least wished to be
just; and though very conscious of the greatness of her position, she
was so sensible of its duties that there was scarcely any exertion which
she would evade, or any humility from which she would shrink, if she
believed she were doing her duty to her God or to her neighbour.
It will be seen, therefore, that the Duke of Bellamont found no obstacle
in his wife, who otherwise much influenced his conduct, to the plans
which he had pre-conceived for the conduct of his life after marriage.
The duchess shrank, with a feeling of haughty terror from that world of
fashion which would have so willingly greeted her. During the greater
part of the year, therefore, the Bellamonts resided in their magnificent
castle, in their distant county, occupied with all the business and
the pleasures of the provinces. While the duke, at the head of the
magistracy, in the management of his estates, and in the sports of which
he was fond, found ample occupation, his wife gave an impulse to the
charity of the county, founded schools, endowed churches, received
their neighbours, read her books, and amused herself in the creation of
beautiful gardens, for which she had a passion.
After Easter, Parliament requiring their presence, the courtyard of one
of the few palaces in London opened, and the world learnt that the Duke
and Duchess of Bellamont had arrived at Bellamont House, from Montacute
Castle. During their stay in town, which they made as brief as they
well could, and which never exceeded three months, they gave a series
of great dinners, principally attended by noble relations and those
families of the county who were so fortunate as to have also a residence
in London. Regularly every year, also, there was a grand banquet
given to some members of the royal family by the Duke and Duchess of
Bellamont, and regularly every year the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont
had the honour of dining at the palace. Except at a ball or concert
under the royal roof, the duke and duchess were never seen anywhere
in the evening. The great ladies indeed, the Lady St. Julians and the
Marchionesses of Deloraine, always sent them invitations, though they
were ever declined. But the Bellamonts maintained a sort of
traditional acquaintance with a few great houses, either by the ties
of relationship, which, among the aristocracy, are very ramified, or
by occasionally receiving travelling magnificoes at their hospitable
castle.
To the great body, however, of what is called 'the world,' the world
that lives in St. James' Street and Pall Mall, that looks out of a club
window, and surveys mankind as Lucretius from his philosophic tower; the
world of the Georges and the Jemmys; of Mr. Cassilis and Mr. Melton; of
the Milfords and the Fitz-Herons, the Berners and the Egertons, the Mr.
Ormsbys and the Alfred Mountchesneys, the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont
were absolutely unknown.
All that the world knew was, that there was a great peer who was called
Duke of Bellamont; that there was a great house in London, with a
courtyard, which bore his name; that he had a castle in the country,
which was one of the boasts of England; and that this great duke had a
duchess; but they never met them anywhere, nor did their wives and their
sisters, and the ladies whom they admired, or who admired them,
either at ball or at breakfast, either at morning dances or at evening
dejeuners. It was clear, therefore, that the Bellamonts might be very
great people, but they were not in 'society.'
It must have been some organic law, or some fate which uses structure
for its fulfilment, but again it seemed that the continuance of the
great house of Montacute should depend upon the life of a single being.
The duke, like his father and his grandfather, was favoured only with
one child, but that child was again a son. From the moment of his birth,
the very existence of his parents seemed identified with his welfare.
The duke and his wife mutually assumed to each other a secondary
position, in comparison with that occupied by their offspring. From the
hour of his birth to the moment when this history opens, and when he was
about to complete his majority, never had such solicitude been lavished
on human being as had been continuously devoted to the life of the young
Lord Montacute. During his earlier education he scarcely quitted
home. He had, indeed, once been shown to Eton, surrounded by faithful
domestics, and accompanied by a private tutor, whose vigilance would
not have disgraced a superintendent of police; but the scarlet fever
happened to break out during his first half, and Lord Montacute was
instantly snatched away from the scene of danger, where he was never
again to appear. At eighteen he went to Christ-church. His mother, who
had nursed him herself, wrote to him every day; but this was not found
sufficient, and the duke hired a residence in the neighourhood of the
university, in order that they might occasionally see their son during
term.
CHAPTER III.
_A Discussion about Money_
'SAW Eskdale just now,' said Mr. Cassilis, at White's, 'going down to
the Duke of Bellamont's. Great doings there: son comes of age at Easter.
Wonder what sort of fellow he is? Anybody know anything about him?'
'I wonder what his father's rent-roll is?' said Mr. Ormsby.
'They say it is quite clear,' said Lord Fitz-Heron. 'Safe for that,'
said Lord Milford; 'and plenty of ready money, too, I should think, for
one never heard of the present duke doing anything.'
'He does a good deal in his county,' said Lord Valentine.
'I don't call that anything,' said Lord Milford; 'but I mean to say he
never played, was never seen at Newmarket, or did anything which anybody
can remember. In fact, he is a person whose name you never by any chance
hear mentioned.'
'He is a sort of cousin of mine,' said Lord Valentine; 'and we are all
going down to the coming of age: that is, we are asked.' 'Then you can
tell us what sort of fellow the son is.'
'I never saw him,' said Lord Valentine; 'but I know the duchess told
my mother last year, that Montacute, throughout his life, had never
occasioned her a single moment's pain.'
Here there was a general laugh.
'Well, I have no doubt he will make up for lost time,' said Mr. Ormsby,
demurely.
'Nothing like mamma's darling for upsetting a coach,' said Lord Milford.
'You ought to bring your cousin here, Valentine; we would assist the
development of his unsophisticated intelligence.'
'If I go down, I will propose it to him.'
'Why if?' said Mr. Cassilis; 'sort of thing I should like to see once
uncommonly: oxen roasted alive, old armour, and the girls of the village
all running about as if they were behind the scenes.'
'Is that the way you did it at your majority, George?' said Lord
Fitz-Heron.
'Egad! I kept my arrival at years of discretion at Brighton. I believe
it was the last fun there ever was at the Pavilion. The poor dear king,
God bless him! proposed my health, and made the devil's own speech; we
all began to pipe. He was Regent then. Your father was there, Valentine;
ask him if he remembers it. That was a scene! I won't say how it ended;
but the best joke is, I got a letter from my governor a few days after,
with an account of what they had all been doing at Brandingham, and
rowing me for not coming down, and I found out I had kept my coming of
age the wrong day.'
'Did you tell them?'
'Not a word: I was afraid we might have had to go through it over
again.'
'I suppose old Bellamont is the devil's own screw,' said Lord Milford.
'Rich governors, who have never been hard up, always are.'
'No: I believe he is a very good sort of fellow,' said Lord Valentine;
'at least my people always say so. I do not know much about him, for
they never go anywhere.'
'They have got Leander down at Montacute,'said Mr. Cassilis. 'Had
not such a thing as a cook in the whole county. They say Lord Eskdale
arranged the cuisine for them; so you will feed well, Valentine.'
'That is something: and one can eat before Easter; but when the balls
begin----'
'Oh! as for that, you will have dancing enough at Montacute; it is
expected on these occasions: Sir Roger de Coverley, tenants' daughters,
and all that sort of thing. Deuced funny, but I must say, if I am to
have a lark, I like Vauxhall.'
'I never met the Bellamonts,' said Lord Milford, musingly. 'Are there
any daughters?'
'None.'
'That is a bore. A single daughter, even if there be a son, may be made
something of; because, in nine cases out of ten, there is a round sum in
the settlements for the younger children, and she takes it all.'
'That is the case of Lady Blanche Bickerstaffe,' said Lord Fitz-Heron.
'She will have a hundred thousand pounds.'
'You don't mean that!' said Lord Valentine; 'and she is a very nice
girl, too.'
'You are quite wrong about the hundred thousand, Fitz,' said Lord
Milford; 'for I made it my business to inquire most particularly into
the affair: it is only fifty.'
'In these cases, the best rule is only to believe half,' said Mr.
Ormsby.
'Then you have only got twenty thousand a-year, Ormsby,' said Lord
Milford, laughing, 'because the world gives you forty.'
'Well, we must do the best we can in these hard times,' said Mr. Ormsby,
with an air of mock resignation. 'With your Dukes of Bellamont and all
these grandees on the stage, we little men shall be scarcely able to
hold up our heads.'
'Come, Ormsby,' said Lord Milford; 'tell us the amount of your income
tax.'
'They say Sir Robert quite blushed when he saw the figure at which you
were sacked, and declared it was downright spoliation.'
'You young men are always talking about money,' said Mr. Ormsby, shaking
his head; 'you should think of higher things.'
'I wonder what young Montacute will be thinking of this time next year,'
said Lord Fitz-Heron.
'There will be plenty of people thinking of him,' said Mr. Cassilis.
'Egad! you gentlemen must stir yourselves, if you mean to be turned off.
You will have rivals.'
'He will be no rival to me,' said Lord Milford; 'for I am an avowed
fortune-hunter, and that you say he does not care for, at least, at
present.'
'And I marry only for love,' said Lord Valentine, laughing; 'and so we
shall not clash.'
'Ay, ay; but if he will not go to the heiresses, the heiresses will go
to him,' said Mr. Ormsby. 'I have seen a good deal of these things, and
I generally observe the eldest son of a duke takes a fortune out of the
market. Why, there is Beaumanoir, he is like Valentine; I suppose
he intends to marry for love, as he is always in that way; but the
heiresses never leave him alone, and in the long run you cannot
withstand it; it is like a bribe; a man is indignant at the bare
thought, refuses the first offer, and pockets the second.'
'It is very immoral, and very unfair,' said Lord Milford, 'that any man
should marry for tin who does not want it.'
CHAPTER IV.
_Montacute Castle_
THE forest of Montacute, in the north of England, is the name given to
an extensive district, which in many parts offers no evidence of the
propriety of its title. The land, especially during the last century,
has been effectively cleared, and presents, in general, a champaign
view; rich and rural, but far from picturesque. Over a wide expanse, the
eye ranges on cornfields and rich hedgerows, many a sparkling spire, and
many a merry windmill. In the extreme distance, on a clear day, may
be discerned the blue hills of the Border, and towards the north the
cultivated country ceases, and the dark form of the old forest spreads
into the landscape. The traveller, however, who may be tempted to
penetrate these sylvan recesses, will find much that is beautiful, and
little that is savage. He will be struck by the capital road that winds
among the groves of ancient oak, and the turfy and ferny wilderness
which extends on each side, whence the deer gaze on him with haughty
composure, as if conscious that he was an intruder into their kingdom of
whom they need have no fear. As he advances, he observes the number of
cross routes which branch off from the main road, and which, though of
less dimensions, are equally remarkable for their masterly structure and
compact condition.
Sometimes the land is cleared, and he finds himself by the homestead
of a forest farm, and remarks the buildings, distinguished not only by
their neatness, but the propriety of their rustic architecture. Still
advancing, the deer become rarer, and the road is formed by an avenue
of chestnuts; the forest, on each side, being now transformed into
vegetable gardens. The stir of the population is soon evident. Persons
are moving to and fro on the side path of the road. Horsemen and carts
seem returning from market; women with empty baskets, and then the rare
vision of a stage-coach. The postilion spurs his horses, cracks his
whip, and dashes at full gallop into the town of Montacute, the capital
of the forest.
It is the prettiest little town in the world, built entirely of hewn
stone, the well-paved and well-lighted streets as neat as a Dutch
village. There are two churches: one of great antiquity, the other
raised by the present duke, but in the best style of Christian
architecture. The bridge that spans the little but rapid river Belle,
is perhaps a trifle too vast and Roman for its site; but it was built
by the first duke of the second dynasty, who was always afraid of
underbuilding his position. The town was also indebted to him for their
hall, a Palladian palace. Montacute is a corporate town, and, under
the old system, returned two members to Parliament. The amount of
its population, according to the rule generally observed, might have
preserved it from disfranchisement, but, as every house belonged to
the duke, and as he was what, in the confused phraseology of the
revolutionary war, was called a Tory, the Whigs took care to put
Montacute in Schedule A.
The town-hall, the market-place, a literary institution, and the new
church, form, with some good houses of recent erection, a handsome
square, in which there is a fountain, a gift to the town from the
present duchess.
At the extremity of the town, the ground rises, and on a woody steep,
which is in fact the termination of a long range of tableland, may be
seen the towers of the outer court of Montacute Castle. The principal
building, which is vast and of various ages, from the Plantagenets to
the Guelphs, rises on a terrace, from which, on the side opposite to the
town, you descend into a well-timbered inclosure, called the Home Park.
Further on, the forest again appears; the deer again crouch in their
fern, or glance along the vistas; nor does this green domain terminate
till it touches the vast and purple moors that divide the kingdoms of
Great Britain.
It was on an early day of April that the duke was sitting in his private
room, a pen in one hand, and looking up with a face of pleasurable
emotion at his wife, who stood by his side, her right arm sometimes on
the back of his chair, and sometimes on his shoulder, while with her
other hand, between the intervals of speech, she pressed a handkerchief
to her eyes, bedewed with the expression of an affectionate excitement.
'It is too much,' said her Grace.
'And done in such a handsome manner!' said the duke.
'I would not tell our dear child of it at this moment,' said the
duchess; 'he has so much to go through!'
'You are right, Kate. It will keep till the celebration is over. How
delighted he will be!'
'My dear George, I sometimes think we are too happy.'
'You are not half as happy as you deserve to be,' replied her husband,
looking up with a smile of affection; and then he finished his reply to
the letter of Mr. Hungerford, one of the county members, informing
the duke, that now Lord Montacute was of age, he intended at once to
withdraw from Parliament, having for a long time fixed on the majority
of the heir of the house of Bellamont as the signal for that event. 'I
accepted the post,' said Mr. Hungerford, 'much against my will. Your
Grace behaved to me at the time in the handsomest manner, and, indeed,
ever since, with respect to this subject. But a Marquis of Montacute is,
in my opinion, and, I believe I may add, in that of the whole county,
our proper representative; besides, we want young blood in the House.'
'It certainly is done in the handsomest manner,' said the duke.
'But then you know, George, you behaved to him in the handsomest manner;
he says so, as you do indeed to everybody; and this is your reward.'
'I should be very sorry, indeed, if Hungerford did not withdraw with
perfect satisfaction to himself, and his family too,' urged the duke;
'they are most respectable people, one of the most respectable families
in the county; I should be quite grieved if this step were taken without
their entire and hearty concurrence.'
'Of course it is,' said the duchess, 'with the entire and hearty
concurrence of every one. Mr. Hungerford says so. And I must say that,
though few things could have gratified me more, I quite agree with Mr.
Hungerford that a Lord Montacute is the natural member for the county;
and I have no doubt that if Mr. Hungerford, or any one else in his
position, had not resigned, they never could have met our child without
feeling the greatest embarrassment.'
'A man though, and a man of Hungerford's position, an old family in
the county, does not like to figure as a warming-pan,' said the duke,
thoughtfully. 'I think it has been done in a very handsome manner.'
'And we will show our sense of it,' said the duchess. 'The Hungerfords
shall feel, when they come here on Thursday, that they are among our
best friends.'
'That is my own Kate! Here is a letter from your brother. They will be
here to-morrow. Eskdale cannot come over till Wednesday. He is at home,
but detained by a meeting about his new harbour.'
'I am delighted that they will be here to-morrow,' said the duchess. 'I
am so anxious that he should see Kate before the castle is full, when he
will have a thousand calls upon his time! I feel persuaded that he will
love her at first sight. And as for their being cousins, why, we were
cousins, and that did not hinder us from loving each other.'
'If she resemble you as much as you resembled your aunt ----' said the
duke, looking up.
'She is my perfect image, my very self, Harriet says, in disposition, as
well as face and form.'
'Then our son has a good chance of being a very happy man,' said the
duke.
'That he should come of age, enter Parliament, and marry in the same
year! We ought to be very thankful. What a happy year!'
'But not one of these events has yet occurred,' said the duke, smiling.
'But they all will,' said the duchess, 'under Providence.'
'I would not precipitate marriage.'
'Certainly not; nor should I wish him to think of it before the autumn.
I should like him to be married on our wedding-day.'
CHAPTER V.
_The Heir Comes of Age_
THE sun shone brightly, there was a triumphal arch at every road;
the market-place and the town-hall were caparisoned like steeds for a
tournament, every house had its garland; the flags were flying on every
tower and steeple. There was such a peal of bells you could scarcely
hear your neighbour's voice; then came discharges of artillery, and then
bursts of music from various bands, all playing different tunes. The
country people came trooping in, some on horseback, some in carts, some
in procession. The Temperance band made an immense noise, and the
Odd Fellows were loudly cheered. Every now and then one of the duke's
yeomanry galloped through the town in his regimentals of green and
silver, with his dark flowing plume and clattering sabre, and with an
air of business-like desperation, as if he were carrying a message from
the commander-in-chief in the thickest of the fight.
Before the eventful day of which this, merry morn was the harbinger, the
arrivals of guests at the castle had been numerous and important. First
came the brother of the duchess, with his countess, and their fair
daughter the Lady Katherine, whose fate, unconsciously to herself, had
already been sealed by her noble relatives. She was destined to be the
third Katherine of Bellamont that her fortunate house had furnished to
these illustrious walls. Nor, if unaware of her high lot, did she seem
unworthy of it. Her mien was prophetic of the state assigned to her.
This was her first visit to Montacute since her early childhood, and she
had not encountered her cousin since their nursery days. The day after
them, Lord Eskdale came over from his principal seat in the contiguous
county, of which he was lord-lieutenant. He was the first cousin of the
duke, his father and the second Duke of Bellamont having married two
sisters, and of course intimately related to the duchess and her family.
Lord Eskdale exercised a great influence over the house of Montacute,
though quite unsought for by him. He was the only man of the world
whom they knew, and they never decided upon anything out of the limited
circle of their immediate experience without consulting him. Lord
Eskdale had been the cause of their son going to Eton; Lord Eskdale had
recommended them to send him to Christ-church. The duke had begged his
cousin to be his trustee when he married; he had made him his executor,
and had intended him as the guardian of his son. Although, from the
difference of their habits, little thrown together in their earlier
youth, Lord Eskdale had shown, even then, kind consideration for his
relative; he had even proposed that they should travel together, but
the old duke would not consent to this. After his death, however, being
neighbours as well as relatives, Lord Eskdale had become the natural
friend and counsellor of his Grace.
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