The Young Duke

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'Well, well, go up to the Castle.'

'Pray be seated, Miss,' said a neat-looking mistress of a neat little
farmhouse. 'Pray be seated, sir. Let me dust it first. Dust will get
everywhere, do what we can. And how's Pa, Miss? He has not given me
a look-in for many a day, not since he was a-hunting: bless me, if it
ayn't a fortnight. This day fortnight he tasted our ale, sure enough.
Will you take a glass, sir?'

'You are very good. No, I thank you; not today.'

'Yes, give him a glass, nurse. He is unwell, and it will do him good.'

She brought the sparkling amber fluid, and the Duke did justice by his
draught.

'I shall have fine honey for you, Miss, this year,' said the old nurse.
'Are you fond of honey, sir? Our honey is well known about. I don't know
how it is, but we do always contrive to manage the bees. How fond some
people are of honey, good Lord! Now, when you were a little girl (I knew
this young lady, sir, before you did), you always used to be fond of
honey. I remember one day: let me see, it must be, ay! truly, that it
is, eighteen years ago next Martinmas: I was a-going down the nursery
stairs, just to my poor mistress's room, and I had you in my arms (for I
knew this young lady, sir, before you did). Well! I was a-going down the
stairs, as I just said, to my poor dear mistress's room with you, who
was then a little-un indeed (bless your smiling face! you cost me many
a weary hour when you were weaned, Miss. That you did! Some thought you
would never get through it; but I always said, while there is life there
is hope; and so, you see I were right); but, as I was saying, I was
a-going down the stairs to my poor dear mistress, and I had a gallipot
in my hand, a covered gallipot, with some leeches. And just as I had
got to the bottom of the stairs, and was a-going into my poor dear
mistress's room, said you (I never shall forget it), said you, "Honey,
honey, nurse." She thought it were honey, sir. So you see she were
always very fond of honey (for I knew this young lady long before you
did, sir).'

'Are you quite sure of that, nurse?' said Miss Dacre; 'I think this is
an older friend than you imagine. You remember the little Duke; do not
you? This is the little Duke. Do you think he has grown?'

'Now! bless my life! is it so indeed? Well, be sure, he has grown. I
always thought he would turn out well, Miss, though Dr. Pretyman were
always a-preaching, and talking his prophecycations. I always thought he
would turn out well at last. Bless me! how he has grown, indeed! Perhaps
he grows too fast, and that makes him weak. Nothing better than a glass
of ale for weak people. I remember when Dr. Pretyman ordered it for my
poor dear mistress. "Give her ale," said the Doctor, "as strong as it
can be brewed;" and sure enough, my poor dear master had it brewed! Have
you done growing, sir? You was ever a troublesome child. Often and often
have I called George, George, Georgy, Georgy Porgy, and he never would
come near me, though he heard all the time as plainly as he does now.
Bless me! he has grown indeed!'

'But I have turned out well at last, nurse, eh?' asked the Duke.

'Ay! sure enough; I always said so. Often and often have I said, he will
turn out well at last. You be going, Miss? I thank you for looking in.
My duty to my master. I was thinking of bringing up one of those cheeses
he likes so.'

'Ay! do, nurse. He can eat no cheese but yours.'

As they wandered home, they talked of Lady Caroline, to whom the Duke
mentioned that he must write. He had once intended distinctly to have
explained his feelings to her in a letter from Dacre; but each day he
postponed the close of his destiny, although without hope. He lingered
and he lingered round May Dacre, as a bird flutters round the fruit
which is already grasped by a boy. Circumstances, which we shall
relate, had already occurred, which confirmed the suspicion he had long
entertained that Arundel Dacre was his favoured rival. Impressed with
the folly of again encouraging hope, yet unable to harden his heart
against her continual fascination, the softness of his manner indicated
his passion, and his calm and somewhat languid carriage also told her it
was hopeless. Perhaps, after all, there is no demeanour more calculated
to melt obdurate woman. The gratification he received from her society
was evident, yet he never indulged in that gallantry of which he was
once so proud. When she approached him, a mild smile lit up his pensive
countenance; he adopted her suggestions, but made none; he listened to
her remarks with interest, but no longer bandied repartee. Delicately he
impressed her with the absolute power which she might exercise over his
mind.

'I write myself to Caroline to-morrow,' said Miss Dacre.

'Ah! Then I need not write. I talked of going up sooner. Have the
kindness to explain why I do not: peremptory orders from Mr. Dacre;
fresh air, and----'

'Arithmetic. I understand you get on admirably.'

'My follies,' said the Duke with a serious air, 'have at least been
productive of one good end, they have amused you.'

'Nay! I have done too many foolish things myself any more to laugh at
my neighbours. As for yourself, you have only committed those which were
inseparable from your situation; and few, like the Duke of St. James,
would so soon have opened their eyes to the truth of their conduct.'

'A compliment from you repays me for all.'

'Self-approbation does, which is much better than compliments from
anyone. See! there is papa, and Arundel too: let us run up!'

CHAPTER III.

_Again the Rival_

THE Duke of St. James had, on his arrival at Dacre, soon observed that
a constant correspondence was maintained between Miss Dacre and her
cousin. There was no attempt to conceal the fact from any of the guests,
and, as that young gentleman was now engaged in an affair interesting to
all his friends, every letter generally contained some paragraph almost
as interesting to the Montingfords as to herself, which was
accordingly read aloud. Mr. Arundel Dacre was candidate for the vacant
representation of a town in a distant county. He had been disappointed
in his views on the borough, about which he had returned to England, but
had been nevertheless persuaded by his cousin to remain in his native
country. During this period, he had been a great deal at Castle Dacre,
and had become much more intimate and unreserved with his uncle, who
observed with great satisfaction this change in his character, and lost
no opportunity of deserving and increasing the confidence for which
he had so long unavailingly yearned, and which was now so unexpectedly
proffered.

The borough for which Arundel Dacre was about to stand was in Sussex, a
county in which his family had no property, and very slight connection.
Yet at the place, the Catholic interest was strong, and on that, and
the usual Whig influence, he ventured. His desire to be a member of
the Legislature, at all and from early times extreme, was now greatly
heightened by the prospect of being present at the impending Catholic
debate. After an absence of three weeks, he had hurried to Yorkshire for
four-and-twenty hours, to give a report of the state of his canvass,
and the probability of his success. In that success all were greatly
interested, but none more so than Miss Dacre, whose thoughts indeed
seemed to dwell on no other subject, and who expressed herself with a
warmth which betrayed her secret feelings. Had the place only been
in Yorkshire, she was sure he must have succeeded. She was the best
canvasser in the world, and everybody agreed that Harry Grey-stoke owed
his election merely to her insinuating tongue and unrivalled powers
of scampering, by which she had completely baffled the tactics of Lady
Amarantha.

Germain, who thought that a canvass was only a long morning call, and
might be achieved in a cashmere and a britzska.

The young Duke, who had seen little of his second since the eventful
day, greeted him with warmth, and was welcomed with a frankness which
he had never before experienced from his friend. Excited by rapid
travel and his present course of life, and not damped by the unexpected
presence of any strangers, Arundel Dacre seemed quite a changed man, and
talked immensely.

'Come, May, I must have a kiss! I have been kissing as pretty girls as
you. There now! You all said I never should be a popular candidate. I
get regularly huzzaed every day, so they have been obliged to hire a
band of butchers' boys to pelt me. Whereupon I compare myself to Caesar
set upon in the Senate House, and get immense cheering in "The County
Chronicle," which I have bribed. If you knew the butts of wine, the
Heidelberg tuns of ale, that I have drank during the last fortnight,
you would stare indeed. As much as the lake: but then I have to talk
so much, that the ardour of my eloquence, like the hot flannels of the
Humane Society, save me from the injurious effects of all this liquid.'

'But will you get in; but will you get in?' exclaimed his cousin.

''Tis not in mortals to command success; but---'

'Pooh! pooh! you must command it!' 'Well, then, I have an excellent
chance; and the only thing against me is, that my committee are quite
sure. But really I think that if the Protestant overseers, whom,
by-the-bye, May, I cannot persuade that I am a heretic (it is very hard
that a man is not believed when he says he shall be damned), if they
do not empty the workhouse, we shall do. But let us go in, for I have
travelled all night, and must be off to-morrow morning.'

They entered the house, and the Duke quitted the family group. About an
hour afterwards, he sauntered to the music-room. As he opened the door,
his eyes lighted upon May Dacre and her cousin. They were standing
before the fire, with their backs to the door. His arm was wound
carelessly round her waist, and with his other hand he supported, with
her, a miniature, at which she was looking.

The Duke could not catch her countenance, which was completely hid; but
her companion was not gazing on the picture: his head, a little turned,
indicated that there was a living countenance more interesting to him
than all the skill of the most cunning artist. Part of his cheek was
alone perceptible, and that was burning red.

All this was the work of a moment. The Duke stared, turned pale, closed
the door without a sound, and retired unperceived. When he was sure that
he could no longer be observed, he gasped for breath, a cold dew covered
his frame, his joints loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that
sickening sensation when life appears utterly worthless, and ourselves
utterly contemptible. Yet what had he witnessed? A confirmation of what
he had never doubted. What was this woman to him? Alas! how supreme was
the power with which she ruled his spirit! And this Dacre, this Arundel
Dacre, how he hated him! Oh! that they were hand to hand, and sword to
sword, in some fair field, and there decide it! He must conquer; he felt
that. Already his weapon pierced that craven heart, and ripped open that
breast which was to be the pillow of---. Hell! hell! He rushed to his
room, and began a letter to Caroline St. Maurice; but he could not
write; and after scribbling over a quire of paper, he threw the sheets
to the flames, and determined to ride up to town to-morrow.

The dinner bell sounded. Could he meet them? Ay! meet them! Defy them!
Insult them! He descended to the dining-room. He heard her musical
and liquid voice; the scowl upon his brow melted away; but, gloomy and
silent, he took his seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little he
spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. But Arundel had enough to
say. He was the hero of the party. Well he might be. Story after
story of old maids and young widows, sturdy butchers and corrupt coal
merchants, sparkled away; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the
Duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid.

'You are not well!' said Miss Dacre to him, in a low voice.

'I believe I am,' answered he shortly.

'You do not seem quite so,' she replied, with an air of surprise.

'I believe I have got a headache,' he retorted with little more
cordiality. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed.

CHAPTER IV.

_Bitter is Jealousy_

THERE certainly is a dark delight in being miserable, a sort of strange
satisfaction in being savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One of
the greatest pests of philosophy is, that one can no longer be sullen,
and most sincerely do I regret it. To brood over misery, to flatter
yourself that there is not a single being who cares for your existence,
and not a single circumstance to make that existence desirable: there
is wild witchery in it, which we doubt whether opium can reach, and are
sure that wine cannot.

And the Duke! He soon left the uncle and nephew to their miserable
speculations about the state of the poll, and took his sullen way,
with the air of Ajax, to the terrace. Here he stalked along in a fierce
reverie; asked why he had been born; why he did not die; why he should
live, and so on. His wounded pride, which had borne so much, fairly
got the mastery, and revenged itself for all insults on Love, whom it
ejected most scurvily. He blushed to think how he had humiliated
himself before her. She was the cause of that humiliation, and of every
disagreeable sensation that he was experiencing. He began, therefore, to
imprecate vengeance, walked himself into a fair, cold-hearted, malicious
passion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated her. As for him, most
ardently he hoped that, some day or other, they might again meet at
six o'clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but in a different
relation to each other.

It was dark when he entered the Castle. He was about ascending to his
own room, when he determined not to be cowed, and resolved to show
himself the regardless witness of their mutual loves: so he repaired to
the drawing-room. At one end of this very spacious apartment, Mr. Dacre
and Arundel were walking in deep converse; at the other sat Miss Dacre
at a table reading. The Duke seized a chair without looking at her,
dragged it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, with his
arms folded, his feet on the fender, and his chair tilting, he appeared
to be lost in the abstracting contemplation of the consuming fuel.

Some minutes had passed, when a slight sound, like a fluttering bird,
made him look up: Miss Dacre was standing at his side.

'Is your head better?' she asked him, in a soft voice.

'Thank you, it is quite well,' he replied, in a sullen one.

There was a moment's pause, and then she again spoke.

'I am sure you are not well.'

'Perfectly, thank you.'

'Something has happened, then,' she said, rather imploringly.

'What should have happened?' he rejoined, pettishly.

'You are very strange; very unlike what you always are.'

'What I always am is of no consequence to myself, or to anyone else;
and as for what I am now, I cannot always command my feelings, though I
shall take care that they are not again observed.'

'I have offended you?'

'Then you have shown your discretion, for you should always offend the
forlorn.'

'I did not think before that you were bitter.'

'That has made me bitter which has made all others so.'

'What?'

'Disappointment.'

Another pause, yet she did not go.

'I will not quarrel, and so you need not try. You are consigned to my
care, and I am to amuse you. What shall we do?'

'Do what you like, Miss Dacre; but spare, oh! spare me your pity!'

'You do indeed surprise me. Pity! I was not thinking of pity! But you
are indeed serious, and I leave you.'

He turned; he seized her hand.

'Nay! do not go. Forgive me,' he said, 'forgive me, for I am most
miserable.'

'Why, why are you?'

'Oh! do not ask; you agonise me.'

'Shall I sing? Shall I charm the evil spirit?'

'Anything?'

She tripped to the piano, and an air, bursting like the spring, and gay
as a village feast, filled the room with its delight. He listened, and
each instant the chilly weight loosened from his heart. Her balmy voice
now came upon his ear, breathing joy and cheerfulness, content and love.
Could love be the savage passion which lately subjugated his soul? He
rose from his seat; he walked about the room; each minute his heart
was lighter, his brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful and
quivering like the twilight, glanced o'er his mind in indistinct but
exquisite tumult, and hope, like the voice of an angel in a storm, was
heard above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, and, stealing
to the enchantress, seated himself at her side. So softly he reached
her, that for a moment he was unperceived. She turned her head, and her
eyes met his. Even the ineffable incident was forgotten, as he marked
the strange gush of lovely light, that seemed to say---- what to think
of was, after all, madness.

CHAPTER V.

_Arundel's Disappointment_

THE storm was past. He vowed that a dark thought should not again cross
his mind. It was fated that she should not be his; but it was some
miserable satisfaction that he was only rejected in favour of an
attachment which had grown with her years, and had strengthened with her
stature, and in deference to an engagement hallowed by time as well as
by affection. It was deadly indeed to remember that Fate seemed to have
destined him for that happy position, and that his folly had rejected
the proffered draught of bliss. He blasphemed against the Fitz-pompeys.
However, he did not leave Dacre at the same time as Arundel, but
lingered on. His affairs were far from being arranged. The Irish
business gave great trouble, and he determined therefore to remain.

It was ridiculous to talk of feeding a passion which was not susceptible
of increase. Her society was Heaven; and he resolved to enjoy it,
although he was to be expelled. As for his loss of fortune, it gave him
not a moment's care. Without her, he felt he could not live in England,
and, even ruined, he would be a match for an Italian prince.

So he continued her companion, each day rising with purer feelings and
a more benevolent heart; each day more convinced of the falseness of his
past existence, and of the possibility of happiness to a well-regulated
mind; each day more conscious that duty is nothing more than
self-knowledge, and the performance of it consequently the development
of feelings which are the only true source of self-gratification. He
mourned over the opportunities which he had forfeited of conducing to
the happiness of others and himself. Sometimes he had resolved to remain
in England and devote himself to his tenantry; but passion blinded him,
and he felt that he had erred too far ever to regain the right road.

The election for which Arundel Dacre was a candidate came on. Each day
the state of the poll arrived. It was nearly equal to the last. Their
agitation was terrible, but forgotten in the deep mortification which
they experienced at the announcement of his defeat. He talked to the
public boldly of petitioning, and his certainty of ultimate success; but
he let them know privately that he had no intention of the first, and
no chance of the second. Even Mr. Dacre could mot conceal his deep
disappointment; but May was quite in despair. Even if her father could
find means of securing him a seat another time, the present great
opportunity was lost.

'Surely we can make some arrangement for next session,' said the Duke,
whispering hope to her.

'Oh! no, no, no; so much depended upon this. It is not merely his taking
a part in the debate, but--but Arundel is so odd, and everything was
staked upon this. I cannot tell you what depended upon it. He will leave
England directly.'

She did not attempt to conceal her agitation. The Duke rose, and paced
the room in a state scarcely less moved. A thought had suddenly flashed
upon him. Their marriage doubtless depended upon this success. He knew
something of Arundel Dacre, and had heard more. He was convinced of the
truth of his suspicion. Either the nephew would not claim her hand
until he had carved out his own fortunes, or perhaps the uncle made his
distinction the condition of his consent. Yet this was odd. It was all
odd. A thousand things had occurred which equally puzzled him. Yet he
had seen enough to weigh against a thousand thoughts.

CHAPTER VI.

_A Generous Action_

ANOTHER fortnight glided away, and he was still at the Castle, still the
constant and almost sole companion of May Dacre. It is breakfast; the
servant is delivering the letter-bag to Mr. Dacre. Interesting moment!
when you extend your hand for the billet of a mistress, and receive your
tailor's bill! How provokingly slow are most domestic chieftains in this
anxious operation! They turn the letters over and over, and upside and
down; arrange, confuse, mistake, assort; pretend, like Champollion, to
decipher illegible franks, and deliver with a slight remark, which is
intended as a friendly admonition, the documents of the unlucky wight
who encourages unprivileged correspondents.

A letter was delivered to Miss Dacre. She started, exclaimed, blushed,
and tore it open.

'Only you, only you,' she said, extending her hand to the young Duke,
'only you were capable of this!'

It was a letter from Arundel Dacre, not only written but franked by him.

It explained everything that the Duke of St. James might have told them
before; but he preferred hearing all himself, from the delighted and
delightful lips of Miss Dacre, who read to her father her cousin's
letter.

The Duke of St. James had returned him for one of his Cornish boroughs.
It appeared that Lord St. Maurice was the previous member, who had
accepted the Chiltern Hundreds in his favour.

'You were determined to surprise, as well as delight us,' said Mr.
Dacre.

'I am no admirer of mysteries,' said the Duke; 'but the fact is, in
the present case, it was not in my power to give you any positive
information, and I had no desire to provide you, after your late
disappointment, with new sources of anxiety. The only person I could
take the liberty with, at so short a notice, was St. Maurice. He, you
know, is a Liberal; but he cannot forget that he is the son of a Tory,
and has no great ambition to take any active part in affairs at present.
I anticipated less difficulty with him than with his father. St. Maurice
can command me again when it suits him; but, I confess to you, I have
been surprised at my uncle's kindness in this affair. I really have not
done justice to his character before, and regret it. He has behaved
in the most kind-hearted and the most liberal manner, and put me under
obligations which I never shall forget. He seems as desirous of serving
my friend as myself; and I assure you, sir, it would give you pleasure
to know in what terms of respect he speaks of your family, and
particularly of Arundel.'

'Arundel says he shall take his seat the morning of the debate. How very
near! how admirably managed! Oh! I never shall recover my surprise and
delight! How good you are!'

'He takes his seat, then, to-morrow,' said Mr. Dacre, in a musing tone.
'My letters give a rather nervous account of affairs. We are to win it,
they hope, but by two only. As for the Lords, the majority against
us will, it is said, be somewhat smaller than usual. We shall never
triumph, George, till May is M.P. for the county. Cannot you return her
for Pen Bronnock too?'

They talked, as you may suppose, of nothing else. At last Mr. Dacre
remembered an appointment with his bailiff, and proposed to the Duke to
join him, who acceded.

'And I to be left alone this morning, then!' said Miss Dacre. 'I am
sure, as they say of children, I can set to nothing.'

'Come and ride with us, then!'

'An excellent idea! Let us canter over to Hauteville! I am just in the
humour for a gallop up the avenue, and feel half emancipated already
with a Dacre in the House! Oh! to-morrow, how nervous I shall be!'

'I will despatch Barrington, then,' said Mr. Dacre, 'and join you in ten
minutes.'

'How good you are!' said Miss Dacre to the Duke. 'How can we thank you
enough? What can we do for you?'

'You have thanked me enough. What have I done after all? My opportunity
to serve my friends is brief. Is it wonderful that I seize the
opportunity?'

'Brief! brief! Why do you always say so? Why do you talk so of leaving
us?'

'My visit to you has been already too long. It must soon end, and I
remain not in England when it ceases.'

'Come and live at Hauteville, and be near us?'

He faintly smiled as he said, 'No, no; my doom is fixed. Hauteville is
the last place that I should choose for my residence, even if I remained
in England. But I hear the horses.'

The important night at length arrived, or rather the important
messenger, who brought down, express, a report of its proceedings to
Castle Dacre.

Nothing is more singular than the various success of men in the House of
Commons. Fellows who have been the oracles of coteries from their
birth; who have gone through the regular process of gold medals,
senior wranglerships, and double firsts, who have nightly sat down
amid tumultuous cheering in debating societies, and can harangue
with unruffled foreheads and unfaltering voice, from one end of a
dinner-table to the other, who, on all occasions, have something to say,
and can speak with fluency on what they know nothing about, no sooner
rise in the House than their spells desert them. All their effrontery
vanishes. Commonplace ideas are rendered even more uninteresting by
monotonous delivery; and keenly alive as even boobies are in those
sacred walls to the ridiculous, no one appears more thoroughly aware of
his unexpected and astounding deficiencies than the orator himself. He
regains his seat hot and hard, sultry and stiff, with a burning cheek
and an icy hand, repressing his breath lest it should give evidence of
an existence of which he is ashamed, and clenching his fist, that
the pressure may secretly convince him that he has not as completely
annihilated his stupid body as his false reputation.

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