The Young Duke

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But love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easily
thrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving the
passion a new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surprising how
many adventures end in a convent. A dame, in her desperation, flies to
the grate, which never reopens; but in Protestant regions she has time
to cool, and that's the deuce; so, instead of taking the veil, she takes
a new lover.

Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young Duke to a step the
very mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. What an
enchanter is Passion! No wonder Ovid, who was a judge, made love so much
connected with his Metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty she had dared
to admit the idea of flying with his Grace; but when the idea was once
admitted, when she really had, once or twice, constantly dwelt on the
idea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about to
indulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and of
which she had been rifled; when, I say, all this occurred, and her hero
diplomatised, and, in short, kept back; why, she had advanced one step,
without knowing it, to running away with another man.

It was unlucky that De Whiskerburg stepped in. An Englishman would not
have done. She knew them well, and despised them all; but he was new
(dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they were
strange, she believed to be unhackneyed; and he was impassioned. We need
not go on.

So this star has dropped from out the heaven; so this precious pearl no
longer gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in a
foreign land, among strange faces and stranger customs, and, when she
thinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries to
persuade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country,
and blood, and opinion. And her father's face no longer shines with its
proud love, and her mother's voice no longer whispers to her with sweet
anxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the
radiancy of her budding sister's bloom.

Poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those who
set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite,
by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just remember
beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although
the beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we
don't know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these
circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.

But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yielded
to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it is
right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.

To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your
Penates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return,
no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone;
to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have your
children asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the
influenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard to
digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends
Mr. Ward or Mr. Bulwer.

CHAPTER XII.

_Kindly Words_

THE Duke had passed a stormy morning with his solicitor, who wished him
to sell the Pen Bronnock property, which, being parliamentary, would
command a price infinitely greater than might be expected from its
relative income. The very idea of stripping his coronet of this
brightest jewel, and thus sacrificing for wealth the ends of riches,
greatly disordered him, and he more and more felt the want of a
counsellor who could sympathise with his feelings as well as arrange his
fortunes. In this mood he suddenly seized a pen, and wrote the following
letter:--

'----House, Feb. 5, 182--.

'My dear Mr. Dacre,

'I keenly feel that you are the last person to whom I should apply for
the counsels or the consolation of friendship. I have long ago forfeited
all claims to your regard, and your esteem I never possessed. Yet,
if only because my career ought to end by my being an unsuccessful
suppliant to the individual whom both virtue and nature pointed out to
me as my best friend, and whose proffered and parental support I have so
wantonly, however thoughtlessly, rejected, I do not regret that this is
written. No feeling of false delicacy can prevent me from applying to
one to whom I have long ago incurred incalculable obligations, and no
feeling of false delicacy will, I hope, for a moment, prevent you from
refusing the application of one who has acknowledged those obligations
only by incalculable ingratitude.

'In a word, my affairs, are, I fear, inextricably involved. I will not
dwell upon the madness of my life; suffice that its consequences appall
me. I have really endeavoured to examine into all details, and am
prepared to meet the evil as becomes me; but, indeed, my head turns with
the complicated interests which solicit my consideration, and I tremble
lest, in the distraction of my mind, I may adopt measures which may
baffle the very results I would attain. For myself, I am ready to pay
the penalty of my silly profligacy; and if exile, or any other personal
infliction, can redeem the fortunes of the House that I have betrayed, I
shall cheerfully submit to my destiny. My career has been productive of
too little happiness to make me regret its termination.

'But I want advice: I want the counsel of one who can sympathise with
my distracted feelings, who will look as much, or rather more, to the
honour of my family than to the convenience of myself. I cannot obtain
this from what are called men of business, and, with a blush I confess,
I have no friend. In this situation my thoughts recur to one on whom,
believe me, they have often dwelt; and although I have no right to
appeal to your heart, for my father's sake you will perhaps pardon this
address. Whatever you may resolve, my dearest sir, rest assured that you
and your family will always command the liveliest gratitude of one who
regrets he may not subscribe himself

'Your obliged and devoted friend,

'St. James.

'I beg that you will not answer this, if your determination be what I
anticipate and what I deserve. 'Dacre Dacre, Esq., &c, &c, &c.'

It was signed, sealed, and sent. He repented its transmission when it
was gone. He almost resolved to send a courier to stop the post. He
continued walking up and down his room for the rest of the day; he
could not eat, or read, or talk. He was plunged in a nervous reverie.
He passed the next day in the same state. Unable to leave his house, and
unseen by visitors, he retired to his bed feverish and dispirited. The
morning came, and he woke from his hot and broken sleep at an early
hour; yet he had not energy to rise. At last the post arrived, and his
letters were brought up to him. With a trembling hand and sinking breath
he read these lines:--

'Castle Dacre, February 6, 182--.

'My dear young Friend,

'Not only for your father's sake, but your own, are my services ever at
your command. I have long been sensible of your amiable disposition, and
there are circumstances which will ever make me your debtor.

'The announcement of the embarrassed state of your affairs fills me with
sorrow and anxiety, yet I will hope the best. Young men, unconsciously,
exaggerate adversity as well as prosperity. If you are not an habitual
gamester, and I hope you have not been even an occasional one, unbounded
extravagance could scarcely in two years have permanently injured your
resources. However, bring down with you all papers, and be careful to
make no arrangement, even of the slightest nature, until we meet.

'We expect you hourly. May desires her kindest regards, and begs me to
express the great pleasure which she will feel at again finding you our
guest. It is unnecessary for me to repeat how very sincerely

'I am your friend,

'Dacre Dacre.'

He read the letter three times to be sure he did not mistake the
delightful import. Then he rang the bell with a vivacity which had not
characterised him for many a month.

'Luigi! prepare to leave town to-morrow morning for an indefinite
period. I shall only take you. I must dress immediately, and order
breakfast and my horses.'

The Duke of St. James had communicated the state of his affairs to Lord
Fitz-pompey, who was very shocked, offered his best services, and also
asked him to dinner, to meet the Marquess of Marylebone. The young
Duke had also announced to his relatives, and to some of his particular
friends, that he intended to travel for some time, and he well knew that
their charitable experience would understand the rest. They understood
everything. The Marquess's party daily increased, and 'The Universe' and
'The New World' announced that the young Duke was 'done up.'

There was one person to whom our hero would pay a farewell visit before
he left London. This was Lady Caroline St. Maurice. He had called at
Fitz-pompey House one or two mornings in the hope of finding her alone,
and to-day he determined to be more successful. As he stopped his horse
for the last time before his uncle's mansion, he could not help calling
to mind the first visit which he had paid after his arrival. But the
door opens, he enters, he is announced, and finds Lady Caroline alone.

Ten minutes passed away, as if the morning ride or evening ball were
again to bring them together. The young Duke was still gay and still
amusing. At last he said with a smile,

'Do you know, Caroline, this is a farewell visit, and to you?'

She did not speak, but bent her head as if she were intent upon some
work, and so seated herself that her countenance was almost hid.

'You have heard from my uncle,' continued he, laughing; 'and if you
have not heard from him, you have heard from somebody else, of my little
scrape. A fool and his money, you know, Caroline, and a short reign and
a merry one. When we get prudent we are wondrous fond of proverbs. My
reign has certainly been brief enough; with regard to the merriment,
that is not quite so certain. I have little to regret except your
society, sweet coz!'

'Dear George, how can you talk so of such serious affairs! If you knew
how unhappy, how miserable I am, when I hear the cold, callous world
speak of such things with indifference, you would at least not imitate
their heartlessness.'

'Dear Caroline!' said he, seating himself at her side.

'I cannot help thinking,' she continued, 'that you have not sufficiently
exerted yourself about these embarrassments. You are, of course, too
harassed, too much annoyed, too little accustomed to the energy and the
detail of business, to interfere with any effect; but surely a friend
might. You will not speak to my father, and perhaps you have your
reasons; but is there no one else? St. Maurice, I know, has no head. Ah!
George, I often feel that if your relations had been different people,
your fate might have been different. We are the fault.'

He kissed her hand.

'Among all your intimates,' she continued, 'is there no one fit to be
your counsellor, no one worthy of your confidence?'

'None,' said the Duke, bitterly, 'none, none. I have no friend among
those intimates: there is not a man of them who cares to serve or is
capable of serving me.'

'You have well considered?' asked Lady Caroline.

'Well, dear, well. I know them all by rote, head and heart. Ah! my dear,
dear Carry, if you were a man, what a nice little friend you would be!'

'You will always laugh, George. But I--I have no heart to laugh. This
breaking up of your affairs, this exile, this losing you whom we all
love, love so dearly, makes me quite miserable.'

He kissed her hand again.

'I dare say,' she continued, 'you have thought me as heartless as the
rest, because I never spoke. But I knew; that is, I feared; or, rather,
hoped that a great part of what I heard was false; and so I thought
notice was unnecessary, and might be painful. Yet, heaven knows, there
are few subjects that have been oftener in my thoughts, or cost me more
anxiety. Are you sure you have no friend?'

'I have you, Caroline. I did not say I had no friends: I said I had none
among those intimates you talked of; that there was no man among them
capable of the necessary interference, even if he were willing to
undertake it. But I am not friendless, not quite forlorn, dear! My fate
has given me a friend that I but little deserve: one whom, if I had
prized better, I should not perhaps have been obliged to put his
friendship to so severe a trial. To-morrow, Caroline, I depart for
Castle Dacre; there is my friend. Alas! how little have I deserved such
a boon!'

'Dacre!' exclaimed Lady Caroline, 'Mr. Dacre! Oh! you have made me so
happy, George! Mr. Dacre is the very, very person; that is, the very
best person you could possibly have applied to.'

'Good-bye, Caroline,' said his Grace, rising.

She burst into tears.

Never, never had she looked so lovely: never, never had he loved her
so entirely! Tears! tears shed for him! Oh! what, what is grief when
a lovely woman remains to weep over our misfortunes! Could he be
miserable, could his career indeed be unfortunate, when this was
reserved for him? He was on the point of pledging his affection, but to
leave her under such circumstances was impossible: to neglect Mr. Dacre
was equally so. He determined to arrange his affairs with all possible
promptitude, and then to hasten up, and entreat her to share his
diminished fortunes. But he would not go without whispering hope,
without leaving some soft thought to lighten her lonely hours. He caught
her in his arms; he covered her sweet small mouth with kisses, and
whispered, in the midst of their pure embrace,

'Dearest Carry! I shall soon return, and we will yet be happy.'

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

_Once More at Dacre_

MISS DACRE, although she was prepared to greet the Duke of St. James
with cordiality, did not anticipate with equal pleasure the arrival
of the page and the jaeger. Infinite had been the disturbances they had
occasioned during their first visit, and endless the complaints of the
steward and the housekeeper. The men-servants were initiated in
the mysteries of dominoes, and the maid-servants in the tactics of
flirtation. Karlstein was the hero of the under-butlers, and even the
trusty guardian of the cellar himself was too often on the point of
obtaining the German's opinion of his master's German wines. Gaming, and
drunkenness, and love, the most productive of all the teeming causes
of human sorrow, had in a week sadly disordered the well-regulated
household of Castle Dacre, and nothing but the impetuosity of our hero
would have saved his host's establishment from utter perdition. Miss
Dacre was, therefore, not less pleased than surprised when the britzska
of the Duke of St. James discharged on a fine afternoon, its noble
master, attended only by the faithful Luigi, at the terrace of the
Castle.

A few country cousins, fresh from Cumberland, who knew nothing of the
Duke of St. James except from a stray number of 'The Universe,' which
occasionally stole down to corrupt the pure waters of their lakes, were
the only guests. Mr. Dacre grasped our hero's hand with a warmth and
expression which were unusual with him, but which conveyed, better than
words, the depth of his friendship; and his daughter, who looked more
beautiful than ever, advanced with a beaming face and joyous tone, which
quite reconciled the Duke of St. James to being a ruined man.

The presence of strangers limited their conversation to subjects of
general interest. At dinner, the Duke took care to be agreeable: he
talked in an unaffected manner, and particularly to the cousins, who
were all delighted with him, and found him 'quite a different person
from what they had fancied.' The evening passed over, and even lightly,
without the aid of _ecarte_, romances, or gallops. Mr. Dacre chatted
with old Mr. Montingford, and old Mrs. Montingford sat still admiring
her 'girls,' who stood still admiring May Dacre singing or talking, and
occasionally reconciled us to their occasional silence by a frequent
and extremely hearty laugh; that Cumberland laugh which never outlives a
single season in London.

And the Duke of St. James, what did he do? It must be confessed that in
some points he greatly resembled the Misses Montingford, for he was both
silent and admiring; but he never laughed. Yet he was not dull, and
was careful not to show that he had cares, which is vulgar. If a man be
gloomy, let him keep to himself. No one has a right to go croaking
about society, or, what is worse, looking as if he stifled grief. These
fellows should be put in the pound. We like a good broken heart or so
now and then; but then one should retire to the Sierra Morena mountains,
and live upon locusts and wild honey, not 'dine out' with our cracked
cores, and, while we are meditating suicide, the Gazette, or the
Chiltern Hundreds, damn a vintage or eulogise an _entree_.

And as for cares, what are cares when a man is in love? Once more they
had met; once more he gazed upon that sunny and sparkling face; once
more he listened to that sweet and thrilling voice, which sounded like
a bird-like burst of music upon a summer morning. She moved, and each
attitude was fascination. She was still, and he regretted that she
moved. Now her neck, now her hair, now her round arm, now her tapering
waist, ravished his attention; now he is in ecstasies with her twinkling
foot; now he is dazzled with her glancing hand.

Once more he was at Dacre! How different was this meeting to their
first! Then, she was cold, almost cutting; then she was disregardful,
almost contemptuous; but then he had hoped; ah! madman, he had more than
hoped. Now she was warm, almost affectionate; now she listened to him
with readiness, ay! almost courted his conversation. And now he could
only despair. As he stood alone before the fire, chewing this bitter
cud, she approached him.

'How good you were to come directly!' she said with a smile, which
melted his heart. 'I fear, however, you will not find us so merry as
before. But you can make anything amusing. Come, then, and sing to these
damsels. Do you know they are half afraid of you? and I cannot persuade
them that a terrible magician has not assumed, for the nonce, the air
and appearance of a young gentleman of distinction.'

He smiled, but could not speak. Repartee sadly deserts the lover; yet
smiles, under those circumstances, are eloquent; and the eye, after all,
speaks much more to the purpose than the tongue. Forgetting everything
except the person who addressed him, he offered her his hand, and
advanced to the group which surrounded the piano.

CHAPTER II.

_The Moth and the Flame_

THE next morning was passed by the Duke of St. James in giving Mr.
Dacre his report of the state of his affairs. His banker's accounts,
his architect's estimates, his solicitor's statements, were all brought
forward and discussed. A ride, generally with Miss Dacre and one of her
young friends, dinner, and a short evening, and eleven o'clock, sent
them all to repose. Thus glided on a fortnight. The mornings continued
to be passed in business. Affairs were more complicated than his Grace
had imagined, who had no idea of detail. He gave all the information
that he could, and made his friend master of his particular feelings.
For the rest, Mr. Dacre was soon involved in much correspondence; and
although the young Duke could no longer assist him, he recommended and
earnestly begged that he would remain at Dacre; for he could perceive,
better than his Grace, that our hero was labouring under a great deal of
excitement, and that his health was impaired. A regular course of life
was therefore as necessary for his constitution as it was desirable for
all other reasons.

Behold, then, our hero domesticated at Dacre; rising at nine, joining
a family breakfast, taking a quiet ride, or moderate stroll, sometimes
looking into a book, but he was no great reader; sometimes fortunate
enough in achieving a stray game at billiards, usually with a Miss
Montingford, and retiring to rest about the time that in London his most
active existence generally began. Was he dull? was he wearied? He was
never lighter-hearted or more contented in his life. Happy he could not
allow himself to be styled, because the very cause which breathed this
calm over his existence seemed to portend a storm which could not be
avoided. It was the thought, the presence, the smile, the voice of May
Dacre that imparted this new interest to existence: that being who never
could be his. He shuddered to think that all this must end; but although
he never indulged again in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed
him to thrust away the future, and to participate in all the joys of the
flowing hour.

At the end of February the Montingfords departed, and now the Duke was
the only guest at Dacre; nor did he hear that any others were expected.
He was alone with her again; often was he alone with her, and never
without a strange feeling coming over his frame, which made him tremble.
Mr. Dacre, a man of active habits, always found occupation in his public
duties and in the various interests of a large estate, and usually
requested, or rather required, the Duke of St. James to be his
companion. He was desirous that the Duke should not be alone, and ponder
too much over the past; nor did he conceal his wishes from his daughter,
who on all occasions, as the Duke observed with gratification, seconded
the benevolent intentions of her parent. Nor did our hero indeed wish
to be alone, or to ponder over the past. He was quite contented with
the present; but he did not want to ride with papa, and took every
opportunity to shirk; all of which Mr. Dacre set down to the indolence
of exhaustion, and the inertness of a mind without an object.

'I am going to ride over to Doncaster, George,' said Mr. Dacre one
morning at breakfast. 'I think that you had better order your horse too.
A good ride will rouse you, and you should show yourself there.'

'Oh! very well, sir; but, but I think that----'

'But what?' asked Mr. Dacre, smiling.

The Duke looked to Miss Dacre, who seemed to take pity on his idleness.

'You make him ride too much, papa. Leave him at home with me. I have
a long round to-day, and want an escort. I will take him instead of my
friend Tom Carter. You must carry a basket though,' said she, turning to
the Duke, 'and run for the doctor if he be wanted, and, in short, do any
odd message that turns up.'

So Mr. Dacre departed alone, and shortly after his daughter and the Duke
of St. James set out on their morning ramble. Many were the cottages at
which they called; many the old dames after whose rheumatisms, and many
the young damsels after whose fortunes they enquired. Old Dame Rawdon
was worse or better; worse last night, but better this morning. She was
always better when Miss called. Miss's face always did her good. And
Fanny was very comfortable at Squire Wentworth's, and the housekeeper
was very kind to her, thanks to Miss saying a word to the great Lady.
And old John Selby was quite about again. Miss's stuff had done him a
world of good, to say nothing of Mr. Dacre's generous old wine.

'And is this your second son, Dame Rishworth?' 'No; that bees our
fourth,' said the old woman, maternally arranging the urchin's thin,
white, flat, straight, unmanageable hair. 'We are thinking what to do
with him, Miss. He wants to go out to service. Since Jem Eustace got on
so, I don't know what the matter is with the lads; but I think we shall
have none of them in the fields soon. He can clean knives and shoes very
well, Miss. Mr. Bradford, at the Castle, was saying t'other day that
perhaps he might want a young hand. You haven't heard anything, I
suppose, Miss?'

'And what is your name, sir?' asked Miss Dacre. 'Bobby Rishworth, Miss!'
'Well, Bobby, I must consult Mr. Bradford.' 'We be in great trouble,
Miss,' said the next cottager. 'We be in great trouble. Tom, poor Tom,
was out last night, and the keepers will give him up. The good man has
done all he can, we have all done all we can, Miss, and you see how it
ends. He is the first of the family that ever went out. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. Seventy years, our fathers before us, have we
been on the 'state, and nothing ever sworn agin us. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. I am sure if Tom had been an underkeeper, as Mr.
Roberts once talked of, this would never have happened. I hope that will
be considered, Miss. We are in great trouble surely. Tom, you see, was
our first, Miss.'

'I never interfere about poaching, you know, Mrs. Jones. Mr. Dacre is
the best judge of such matters. But you can go to him, and say that I
sent you. I am afraid, however, that he has heard of Tom before.'

'Only that night at Milwood, Miss; and then you see he had been drinking
with Squire Ridge's people. I hope that will be considered, Miss.'

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