The Young Duke
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Benjamin Disraeli >> The Young Duke
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CHAPTER XV.
_Arundel's Warning_
IN THE morning of the young Duke's departure for Twickenham, 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 announced.
'You have just arrived in time to offer your congratulations, 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 _attache_ in your very air. I thought,
of course, I was to surprise you; but future ambassadors have such
extraordinary sources of information.'
'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 Ladyship.
'But it is not unfair. You 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?'
'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 Mortimer's, on a corrupt embassy.
The _nouvelle mariee_, 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 Sophy.'
'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 believe.'
Arundel Dacre returned to his cousin, and, seating himself 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 affair, 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 I known 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 spirit.
What do you 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 anybody else.'
'I! Arundel?' she exclaimed, with marked confusion.
'Yes, 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 you have been betrayed. No one says it; but I know
it. We future ambassadors, you know, have 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! I cannot mark a tear 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 this 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 showing 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 my 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, know 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 town somewhat earlier than usual, and, in the
meantime, receive her, if necessary; but, if possible, never alone. You
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 Secretary 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 you call independence, that I feel that upon it we
can consult neither with profit to you nor satisfaction to myself.
Independence! 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 acknowledge 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 slave. It is my own. I will not conceal from you, from whom I have
concealed nothing, 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 obtrude themselves upon my consciousness. Your
father--yes! I feel that I 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 passions. 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!'
CHAPTER XVI.
_Three Graces_
AT TWICKENHAM the young Duke recovered rapidly. Not altogether
displeased with his recent conduct, his self-complacency 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 affliction,
was seriously affected 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
particularly sympathised with Sir Lucius Grafton, and now he scarcely
endeavoured to conceal the little pleasure which he 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 affair to her family, and
therefore, under all circumstances, he thought it best to be unconscious
of any alteration in Arundel Dacre's intercourse with him. Civil,
therefore, they were when they met; the Baronet was even courteous; but
they both mutually avoided each other.
At the end of three weeks the Duke of St. James returned 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 been 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 off
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
situation this! And really, when our hero looked upon them once
more, and viewed them, in delightful rivalry, advancing with their
congratulations, he was not surprised at the feelings with which they
had inspired him. Far, far exceeding the _bonhomie_ 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 wandering;
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 Dacre's eyes showered triple sunshine, as she extended
a hand not too often offered; but Lady Caroline was a cousin, and
consanguinity, therefore, authorised as well as accounted for the warmth
of her greeting.
CHAPTER XVII.
_A Second Refusal_
A VERY 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 Don-caster, where he had first seen her, teemed only
with delightful reminiscences 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 involuntary 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 boredom. And he himself was not very entertaining.
He was certainly more silent than loquacious, and found himself 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 upon a woman! Few could observe from his
conduct what was passing in his mind; yet the quivering of his softened
tones and the mild lustre of his mellowed gaze; his subdued and quiet
manner; his un-perceived yet infinite attentions; his memory of little
incidents that all but lovers would have forgotten; the total absence
of all compliment, and gallantry, and repartee; all these, to a fine
observer, might have been gentle indications of a strong passion; and
to her to whom they were addressed sufficiently intimated that no change
had taken place in his feelings since the warm hour in which he first
whispered his 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
delightedly astounding with official graces his stern 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 he 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 were 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. Hungerford this night broke through
her rule of not going to more than one house, and she drove off to Lady
de Courcy's.
They were alone. It is sometimes an awful thing to be alone with those
we love.
'Sing that again!' asked the Duke, imploringly. 'It is my favourite air;
it always reminds me of Dacre.'
She sang, she ceased; she sang with beauty, and she ceased with grace;
but all unnoticed by the tumultuous soul of her adoring guest. His
thoughts were intent upon a greater object. The opportunity was sweet;
and yet those boisterous wassailers, they might spoil all.
'Do you know that this is the first time that I have seen your rooms lit
up?' said the Duke.
'Is it possible! I hope they gain the approbation of so distinguished a
judge.'
'I admire them exceedingly. By-the-bye, I see a new cabinet in the
next room. Swaby told me, the other day, that you were one of his
lady-patronesses. I wish you would show it me. I am very curious in
cabinets.'
She rose, and they advanced to the end of another and a longer room.
'This is a beautiful saloon,' said the Duke. 'How long is it?'
'I really do not know; but I think between forty and fifty feet.'
'Oh! you must be mistaken. Forty or fifty feet! I am an excellent
judge of distances. I will try. Forty or fifty feet! Ah! the next room
included. Let us walk to the end of the next room. Each of my paces
shall be one foot and a half.'
They had now arrived at the end of the third room.
'Let me see,' resumed the Duke; 'you have a small room to the right. Oh!
did I not hear that you had made a conservatory? I see, I see it;
lit up, too! Let us go in. I want to gain some hints about London
conservatories.'
It was not exactly a conservatory; but a balcony of large dimensions
had been fitted up on each side with coloured glass, and was open to the
gardens. It was a rich night of fragrant June. The moon and stars
were as bright as if they had shone over the terrace of Dacre, and the
perfume of the flowers reminded him of his favourite orange-trees. The
mild, cool scene was such a contrast to the hot and noisy chamber they
had recently quitted, that for a moment they were silent.
'You are not afraid of this delicious air?' asked his Grace.
'Midsummer air,' said Miss Dacre, 'must surely be harmless.'
Again there was silence; and Miss Dacre, after having plucked a flower
and tended a plant, seemed to express an intention of withdrawing.
Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heartfelt words:
'Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to be offended, if I dare
to ask whether anything could induce you to view with more indulgence
one who sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you.'
'You are the last person whose feelings I should wish to hurt. Let us
not revive a conversation to which, I can assure you, neither of us
looks back with satisfaction.'
'Is there, then, no hope? Must I ever live with the consciousness of
being the object of your scorn?'
'Oh, no, no! As you will speak, let us understand each other. However I
may approve of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to repent the
manner in which it was conveyed. I cannot, without the most unfeigned
regret, I cannot for a moment remember that I have addressed a
bitter word to one to whom I am under the greatest obligations. If my
apologies----'
'Pray, pray be silent!'
'I must speak. If my apologies, my complete, my most humble apologies,
can be any compensation for treating with such lightness feelings which
I now respect, and offers by which I now consider myself honoured,
accept them!'
'O, Miss Dacre! that fatal word, respect!'
'We have warmer words in this house for you. You are now our friend.'
'I dare not urge a suit which may offend you; yet, if you could read my
heart, I sometimes think that we might be happy. Let me hope!'
'My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will not ever offend me,
because I am sure you will not ever wish to do it. There are few people
in this world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard than yourself.
I am convinced, I am conscious, that when we met I did sufficient
justice neither to your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible for
me to express with what satisfaction I now feel that you have resumed
that place in the affections of this family to which you have an
hereditary right. I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful, for all
that you feel with regard to me individually; and believe me, in again
expressing my regret that it is not in my power to view you in any other
light than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing that conduct
which will conduce as much to your happiness as my own.'
'My happiness, Miss Dacre!'
'Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again endeavour to depreciate
the feelings which you entertain for me, and by which, ever remember,
I feel honoured; but these very feelings prevent you from viewing their
object so dispassionately as I do.'
'I am at a loss for your meaning; at least, favour me by speaking
explicitly: you see I respect your sentiments, and do not presume to
urge that on which my very happiness depends.'
'To be brief, then, I will not affect to conceal that marriage is a
state which has often been the object of my meditations. I think it the
duty of all women that so important a change in their destiny should
be well considered. If I know anything of myself, I am convinced that I
should never survive an unhappy marriage.'
'But why dream of anything so utterly impossible?'
'So very probable, so very certain, you mean. Ay! I repeat my words, for
they are truth. If I ever marry, it is to devote every feeling and every
thought, each hour, each instant of existence, to a single being for
whom I alone live. Such devotion I expect in return; without it I should
die, or wish to die; but such devotion can never be returned by you.'
'You amaze me! I! who live only on your image.'
'Your education, the habits in which you are brought up, the maxims
which have been instilled into you from your infancy, the system which
each year of your life has more matured, the worldly levity with which
everything connected with woman is viewed by you and your companions;
whatever may be your natural dispositions, all this would prevent you,
all this would render it a perfect impossibility, all this will ever
make you utterly unconscious of the importance of the subject on which
we are now conversing. Pardon me for saying it, you know not of what you
speak. Yes! however sincere may be the expression of your feelings to me
this moment, I shudder to think on whom your memory dwelt even this hour
but yesterday. I never will peril my happiness on such a chance; but
there are others who do not think as I do.'
'Miss Dacre! save me! If you knew all, you would not doubt. This moment
is my destiny.'
'My dear Duke of St. James, save yourself. There is yet time. You have
my prayers.'
'Let me then hope----'
'Indeed, indeed, it cannot be. Here our conversation on this subject
ends for ever.'
'Yet we part friends!' He spoke in a broken voice.
'The best and truest!' She extended her arm; he pressed her hand to his
impassioned lips, and quitted the house, mad with love and misery.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_Joys of the Alhambra_
THE Duke threw himself into his carriage in that mood which fits us
for desperate deeds. What he intended to do, indeed, was doubtful,
but something very vigorous, very decided, perhaps very terrible. An
indefinite great effort danced, in misty magnificence, before the vision
of his mind. His whole being was to be changed, his life was to be
revolutionised. Such an alteration was to take place that even she could
not doubt the immense yet incredible result. Then despair whispered its
cold-blooded taunts, and her last hopeless words echoed in his ear. But
he was too agitated to be calmly miserable, and, in the poignancy of his
feelings, he even meditated death. One thing, however, he could obtain;
one instant relief was yet in his power, solitude. He panted for the
loneliness of his own chamber, broken only by his agitated musings.
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