The Young Duke

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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
disordered 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
at the feet of the clustered columns, and, covering his face with his
hands, he wept.

They were the first tears that he had shed since childhood, 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 fathers hearth for the first time; bitter is
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, vengeance unwreaked, and
prize-money kept back. Bitter are a failing 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 embezzled. Bitter is
a trade too full, and bitterer still a trade that has worn out. Bitter
is a bore!

It is bitter to lose one's hair or teeth. It is bitter to find 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 horse. Bitter the public hiss, the private
sneer. Bitter are old age without respect, manhood without wealth, youth
without fame. Bitter is the east wind's blast; bitter a stepdame's kiss.
It is bitter to mark 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 waking from our
first delusion! For then we first feel the nothingness 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 estimable wretch than himself, but just
now a hero. 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 moment, 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! O
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! I am miserable!' He arose and hastened to the
house. He gave orders to Luigi and his people to follow him to Rosemount
with all 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 gates of
Dacre.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

_'If She Be Not Fair For Me.'_

THE day after the arrival of the Duke of St. James at Cleve Park,
his host, Sir Lucius Grafton, received the following note from Mrs.
Dallington Vere:

'Castle Dacre,-------, 182--.

'My dear Baronet,

'Your pigeon has flown, otherwise I 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 exceeded 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
anticipate even beginning to give 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 little Dacre, who is a most unmanageable heroine.
However, with the good assistance of a person who in a French tragedy
would figure as my confidante, and who is the sister of your Lachen,
something was learnt from Monsieur le valet, 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. I hear he sulked the night at
Rosemount.

'Now, my good Lucy, listen to me. Lose no time about the great object.
If possible, let this autumn be distinguished. You have an idea that our
friend is a very manageable 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 knowledge 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 present 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.

'You 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. You 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 excellent _locale_ for the _scena_. We might drive them over to
Dieppe: only do not put off your visit too long, or else there will be
no steamers.

'The Duke of Shropshire has had a fit, but rallied. He vows he was only
picking up a letter, or tying his shoestring, or something of that kind;
but Ruthven says he dined off _boudins 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 kind feeling. I am glad about this.

'Felix Crawlegh, or Crawl_ey_, 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 an 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 should think,
all talk. Most probably a report set about by her Ladyship. Lord Flame
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-correspondent for our
money; provided always that she does not _cross_.

Our Duke--in spite of his disgrace, he still is ours, and yours too, I
hope, gentlest reader--our Duke found himself at Cleve 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 dissipation 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 turfs delights or their neighbour's
cash, but to sport their splendid liveries and to disport their showy
selves.

The house was full of men, whose talk was full of bets. The women were
not as bad, but they were not plentiful. Some lords and signors were
there without their dames. Lord Bloomerly, for instance, alone, or
rather with his eldest son, Lord Bloom, just of age, and already a
knowing 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. Lady Afy shone in unapproached perfection. A dull Marchioness,
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 conversation, just
to vary, 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 business. 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 collected, 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 to 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 Grafton was the winner. The
Duke sympathised with his friend's 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
Newmarket not so disagreeable. In a word, our friend was in an entirely
new scene, which was exactly the thing 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 Club, 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 even Chuck Farthing,
the gentleman jockey, with a cock-eye and a knowing shake of his head,
squeaked out, in a sporting 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 with his recent situation. The
constant consideration of all around him, the affectionate cordiality of
Sir Lucius, and the unobtrusive devotion of Lady Afy, melted his soul.
These agreeable circumstances graciously whispered to him each hour that
he could scarcely be the desolate and despicable 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 feelings, 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 exquisite 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
determined 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.

_Fresh Entanglements_

HIS Grace completed his stud, and became one of the most distinguished
votaries of the turf. Sir Lucius was the inspiring 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 capital 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 if the form of May
Dacre ever flitted before his vision for an instant, he clouded it
over directly by the apparition of a bet, or thrust it away with that
desperate recklessness with which 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 bore. Lady Afy,
too, was rather _exigeante_. It destroys one's nerves to be amiable
every day to the same human being. She was the best creature in the
world; but Cambridgeshire 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 Graftons were to follow him in
a fortnight, still even 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 _novus homo_ 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 ambition. His wife, too, at this moment, was an important
personage. 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 Aphrodite 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, his wife's attractions, and his own talents, Sir Lucy
succeeded, and by the time Parliament had assembled he was 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
Duke liked Brighton much. Without the bore of an establishment, he found
himself among many agreeable friends, living in an unostentatious and
impromptu, though refined and luxurious, style. One day a new face,
another day a new dish, another day a new dance, successively interested
his feelings, 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 Rottindean, the
flavours 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 dine with the
Premier, and to move the Address.

CHAPTER III.

_A New Star Rises_

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 delight. To his surprise, he viewed its
arrival without emotion; if with 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 completely 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 his life, then, been one
long triumph? Who had not offered their admiration? Who had not paid
homage to his all-acknowledged empire? Yet, even this career, however
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 first
season had not passed over without his feeling lone in the crowded
saloon, or starting at the supernatural finger in the banqueting-hall.
Yet then he was the creature of excitement, who pursued an end which
was as indefinite as it seemed to be splendid. All had now happened that
could happen. He drooped. He required the impulse which we derive from
an object unattained.

Yet, 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 satisfaction 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 pursue 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. Yet
he did not resign his exalted position in the world of fashion; but,
on the contrary, adopted a course of conduct which even increased
his consideration. 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. Yet in that mansion, which had
been acquired with such energy and at such cost, its lord was almost as
strange, and certainly not as pleased, an inmate as the guests, who felt
their presence in his chambers a confirmation, or a creation, of their
claims to the world's homage. The Alhambra was finished, and there
the Duke of St. James entirely resided; but its regal splendour was
concealed from the prying eye of public curiosity with a proud reserve,
a studied secrecy, and stately haughtiness 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 wildness of the incidents which
daily were afloat respecting the fantastic profusion and scientific
dissipation of the youthful sultan and his envied viziers.

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