The Young Duke

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Immense 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 he 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
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 Dacre, 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 Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort,
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 Castlefort 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. I had
heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; 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 torture 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 fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace;
each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each 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, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed
him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and
he slept.

CHAPTER IX.

_A Duke Without A Friend_

O YE 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 toppling 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 faithful band, who love the beautiful
and adore the glorious! In vain, in vain they tell us your divinity is
a dream. From the cradle to the grave, our thoughts and feelings take
their colour from you! O! AEgiochus, the birch has often proved thou
art still a thunderer; and, although thy twanging bow murmur no longer
through the avenging air, many an apple twig still vindicates thy
outraged 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 hackneys 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 affectionate letter to
Lady Aphrodite, which was the least that he could do, considering 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 inducement, to make him indulge in
some slight reflection. These annual summings up are awkward things,
even to the prosperous 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 anything, 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 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 Sympathy,
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 of 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 scentless roses, that are ever blooming. Save me
from the excitement which brings exhaustion, and from the passion that
procreates remorse. Give me the luminous mind, where recognised and
paramount duty dispels the harassing, ascertains the doubtful, confirms
the wavering, sweetens the bitter. Give 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 relief, 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, society! I owe thee much; and perhaps in working 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 table was a packet from Sir Carte
Blanche. He opened it eagerly, stared, started, nearly shrieked. It
fell from his hands. He was fortunately alone. The estimates for the
completion of his works, and the purchase of the rest of the furniture,
exactly equalled the sum already expended. Sir Carte 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 Grace 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. Five-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 town 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 had 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 communicated to his
late ward in an urgent and important paper, which his Grace 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 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 that 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 more 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. O, idiot! you will be the butt of everyone!
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 betrayed. 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 be cut down. The
only thing I can do now is, not to spare myself. I am the cause, and
let me meet the consequences. Well, then, perhaps twenty thousand a-year
remain to keep Hauteville Castle and Hauteville House; to maintain 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, in 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 treasonable. 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 exile! 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 instructions. 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 coldblooded. He has no heart.
There is Squib; he is a good fellow, and has heart enough; and I
suppose, if I wanted to pension off a mistress, or compound with a few
rascally tradesmen, he would manage the affair to a miracle. There is
Darrell; but he will be so fussy, and confidential, and official. Every
meeting will be a cabinet council, every discussion a debate, every
memorandum a state paper. There is Burlington; he is experienced, and
clever, and kind-hearted, and, I really think, likes me; but, no, no, it
is too ridiculous. We who 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 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
important enough to commence a new chapter.

CHAPTER X.

_A New Star Rises_

WILLIAM HENRY, MARQUESS OF MARYLEBONE, completed his twenty-first year:
an event which created a greater sensation among the aristocracy of
England, even, than the majority 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 tusky mouth;
altogether not very unlike a terrier. His tastes were unknown: he had
not travelled, nor done anything very particular, except, with a
few congenial 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 hour rattling up Bond Street in a red drag, 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 Majesty's household troops. Lord Marylebone was the universal
subject of conversation. Pursuits which would have devoted 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 delightful young man. So unaffected! No super-refinement, no false
delicacy. Everyone, each sex, everything, 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 profligacy, some new instance of coarse profusion, tasteless
extravagance, 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 inundated 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
Marylebone wore, or bore, no other.'

In higher circles, it was much the same. Although the dandies would not
bate an inch, and certainly would not elect the young 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
greatcoats 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 patronised 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 successful rival.
Had he been, instead of one for whom he felt a sovereign contempt, a
being even more accomplished than himself, pity and not envy would have
been the sentiment 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-creatures, 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 qualities
were less concerned in the triumphs of his career than his splendid
person, his accomplished 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 will they think of me when they know all? What they will: I care
not. I would sooner live in a cottage with May Dacre, and work for our
daily bread, than be worshipped by all the beauty of this Babylon.'

Gloomy, yet sedate, he returned home. His letters announced two
extraordinary events. M. de Whiskerburg had galloped off with Lady
Aphrodite, and Count Frill had flown away with the Bird of Paradise.

CHAPTER XI.

_'Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly.'_

THE last piece of information was a relief; but the announcement of the
elopement cost him a pang. Both surprised, 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. Yet, 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 explosion. 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 fame and sullied lustre? To that animal who seems formed
only to betray woman. Her husband was a traitor in disguise. She found
herself betrayed; but like 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 conflict 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.

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