The Young Duke

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'Now, sir,' said an outside, 'I will thank you for a slice of that
mutton, and will join you, if you have no objection in a bottle of
sherry.'

'What you please, sir. May I have the pleasure of helping you, ma'am?'

After dinner the Duke took advantage of a vacant outside place.

Tom Rawlins was the model of a guard. Young, robust, and gay, he had a
letter, a word, or a wink for all he met. All seasons were the same to
him; night or day he was ever awake, and ever alive to all the interest
of the road; now joining in conversation with a passenger, shrewd,
sensible, and respectful; now exchanging a little elegant badinage with
the coachman; now bowing to a pretty girl; now quizzing a passer-by; he
was off and on his seat in an instant, and, in the whiff of his cigar,
would lock a wheel, or unlock a passenger.

From him the young Duke learned that his fellow-inside was Mr. Duncan
Macmorrogh, senior, a writer at Edinburgh, and, of course, the father of
the first man of the day. Tom Rawlins could not tell his Grace as much
about the principal writer in 'The Screw and Lever Review' as we can;
for Tom was no patron of our periodical literature, farther than a
police report in the Publican's Journal. Young Duncan Macmorrogh was a
limb of the law, who had just brought himself into notice by a series
of articles in 'The Screw and Lever,' in which he had subjected the
universe piecemeal to his critical analysis. Duncan Macmorrogh cut
up the creation, and got a name. His attack upon mountains was most
violent, and proved, by its personality, that he had come from the
Lowlands. He demonstrated the inutility of all elevation, and declared
that the Andes were the aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he rather
patronised; but flowers he quite pulled to pieces, and proved them to
be the most useless of existences. Duncan Macmorrogh informed us that we
were quite wrong in supposing ourselves to be the miracle of creation.
On the contrary, he avowed that already there were various pieces of
machinery of far more importance than man; and he had no doubt, in
time, that a superior race would arise, got by a steam-engine on a
spinning-jenny.

The other 'inside' was the widow of a former curate of a Northumbrian
village. Some friend had obtained for her only child a clerkship in
a public office, and for some time this idol of her heart had gone on
prospering; but unfortunately, of late, Charles Burnet had got into
a bad set, was now involved in a terrible scrape, and, as Tom Rawlins
feared, must lose his situation and go to ruin.

'She was half distracted when she heard it first, poor creature! I have
known her all my life, sir. Many the kind word and glass of ale I have
had at her house, and that's what makes me feel for her, you see. I
do what I can to make the journey easy to her, for it is a pull at her
years. God bless her! there is not a better body in this world; that I
will, say for her. When I was a boy, I used to be the playfellow in a
manner with Charley Burnet: a gay lad, sir, as ever you'd wish to see
in a summer's day, and the devil among the girls always, and that's been
the ruin of him; and as open-a-hearted fellow as ever lived. D----me!
I'd walk to the land's end to save him, if it were only for his mother's
sake, to say nothing of himself.'

'And can nothing be done?' asked the Duke.

'Why, you see, he is back in L s. d.; and, to make it up, the poor body
must sell her all, and he won't let her do it, and wrote a letter like a
prince (No room, sir), as fine a letter as ever you read (Hilloa, there!
What! are you asleep?)--as ever you read on a summer's day. I didn't
see it, but my mother told me it was as good as e'er a one of the old
gentleman's sermons. "Mother," said he, "my sins be upon my own head. I
can bear disgrace (How do, Mr. Wilkins?), but I cannot bear to see you a
beggar!"'

'Poor fellow!'

'Ay! sir, as good-a-hearted fellow as ever you'd wish to meet!'

'Is he involved to a great extent, think you?'

'Oh! a long figure, sir (I say, Betty, I've got a letter for you from
your sweetheart), a very long figure, sir (Here, take it!); I should be
sorry (Don't blush; no message?)--I should be sorry to take two hundred
pounds to pay it. No, I wouldn't take two hundred pounds, that I
wouldn't (I say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith's).'

Night came on, and the Duke resumed his inside place. Mr. Macmorrogh
went to sleep over his son's article; and the Duke feigned slumber,
though he was only indulging in reverie. He opened his eyes, and a
light, which they passed, revealed the countenance of the widow. Tears
were stealing down her face.

'I have no mother; I have no one to weep for me,' thought the Duke; 'and
yet, if I had been in this youth's station, my career probably would
have been as fatal. Let me assist her. Alas! how I have misused my
power, when, even to do this slight deed, I am obliged to hesitate, and
consider whether it be practicable.'

The coach again stopped for a quarter of an hour. The Duke had, in
consideration of the indefinite period of his visit, supplied himself
amply with money on repairing to Dacre. Besides his purse, which was
well stored for the road, he had somewhat more than three hundred pounds
in his notebook. He took advantage of their tarrying, to inclose it and
its contents in a sheet of paper with these lines:

'An unknown friend requests Mrs. Burnet to accept this token of his
sympathy with suffering virtue.'

Determined to find some means to put this in her possession before
their parting, he resumed his place. The Scotchman now prepared for his
night's repose. He produced a pillow for his back, a bag for his feet,
and a cap for his head. These, and a glass of brandy-and-water, in time
produced a due effect, and he was soon fast asleep. Even to the widow,
night brought some solace. The Duke alone found no repose. Unused to
travelling in public conveyances at night, and unprovided with any of
the ingenious expedients of a mail coach adventurer, he felt all the
inconveniences of an inexperienced traveller. The seat was unendurably
hard, his back ached, his head whirled, the confounded sherry, slight as
was his portion, had made him feverish, and he felt at once excited
and exhausted. He was sad, too; very depressed. Alone, and no longer
surrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made solitude
precious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energy
vanished. He repented his rashness; and the impulse of the previous
night, which had gathered fresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He
felt alone, and without a friend, and night passed without a moment's
slumber, watching the driving clouds.

The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the whole journey. At St.
Alban's he got out, took a cup of coffee with Tom Rawlins, and, although
the morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. In the first
gloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got out. The Duke sent Rawlins after
her with the parcel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. He
watched the widow protesting it was not hers, his faithful emissary
appealing to the direction, and with delight he observed it left in
her hands. They rattled into London, stopped in Lombard Street, reached
Holborn, entered an archway; the coachman threw the whip and reins from
his now careless hands. The Duke bade farewell to Tom Rawlins, and was
shown to a bed.

CHAPTER VIII.

_The Duke Makes a Speech_

THE return of morning had in some degree dissipated the gloom that had
settled on the young Duke during the night. Sound and light made him
feel less forlorn, and for a moment his soul again responded to his high
purpose. But now he was to seek necessary repose. In vain. His heated
frame and anxious mind were alike restless. He turned, he tossed in his
bed, but he could not banish from his ear the whirling sound of his late
conveyance, the snore of Mr. Macmorrogh, and the voice of Tom Rawlins.
He kept dwelling on every petty incident of his journey, and repeating
in his mind every petty saying. His determination to slumber made him
even less sleepy. Conscious that repose was absolutely necessary to
the performance of his task, and dreading that the boon was now
unattainable, he became each moment more feverish and more nervous; a
crowd of half-formed ideas and images flitted over his heated brain.
Failure, misery, May Dacre, Tom Rawlins, boiled beef, Mrs. Burnet, the
aristocracy, mountains and the marine, and the tower of St. Alban's
cathedral, hurried along in infinite confusion. But there is nothing
like experience. In a state of distraction, he remembered the hopeless
but refreshing sleep he had gained after his fatal adventure at
Brighton. He jumped out of bed, and threw himself on the floor, and in
a few minutes, from the same cause, his excited senses subsided into
slumber.

He awoke; the sun was shining through his rough shutter. It was noon. He
jumped up, rang the bell, and asked for a bath. The chambermaid did not
seem exactly to comprehend his meaning, but said she would speak to the
waiter. He was the first gentleman who ever had asked for a bath at the
Dragon with Two Tails. The waiter informed him that he might get a bath,
he believed, at the Hum-mums. The Duke dressed, and to the Hummums he
then took his way. As he was leaving the yard, he was followed by an
ostler, who, in a voice musically hoarse, thus addressed him:

'Have you seen missis, sir?'

'Do you mean me? No, I have not seen your missis;' and the Duke
proceeded.

'Sir, sir,' said the ostler, running after him, 'I think you said you
had not seen missis?'

'You think right,' said the Duke, astonished; and again he walked on.

'Sir, sir,' said the pursuing ostler, 'I don't think you have got any
luggage?'

'Oh! I beg your pardon,' said the Duke; 'I see it. I am in your debt;
but I meant to return.'

'No doubt on't, sir; but when gemmen don't have no luggage, they sees
missis before they go, sir.'

'Well, what am I in your debt? I can pay you here.'

'Five shillings, sir.'

'Here!' said the Duke; 'and tell me when a coach leaves this place
to-morrow for Yorkshire.'

'Half-past six o'clock in the morning precisely,' said the ostler.

'Well, my good fellow, I depend upon your securing me a place; and that
is for yourself,' added his Grace, throwing him a sovereign. 'Now, mind;
I depend upon you.'

The man stared as if he had been suddenly taken into partnership with
missis; at length he found his tongue.

'Your honour may depend upon me. Where would you like to sit? In or out?
Back to your horses, or the front? Get you the box if you like. Where's
your great coat, sir? I'll brush it for you.'

The bath and the breakfast brought our hero round a good deal, and
at half-past two he stole to a solitary part of St. James's Park, to
stretch his legs and collect his senses. We must now let our readers
into a secret, which perhaps they have already unravelled. The Duke
had hurried to London with the determination, not only of attending the
debate, but of participating in it. His Grace was no politician; but the
question at issue was one simple in its nature and so domestic in its
spirit, that few men could have arrived at his period of life without
having heard its merits, both too often and too amply discussed. He was
master of all the points of interest, and he had sufficient confidence
in himself to believe that he could do them justice. He walked up and
down, conning over in his mind not only the remarks which he intended
to make, but the very language in which he meant to offer them. As he
formed sentences, almost for the first time, his courage and his fancy
alike warmed: his sanguine spirit sympathised with the nobility of the
imaginary scene, and inspirited the intonations of his modulated voice.

About four o'clock he repaired to the House. Walking up one of the
passages his progress was stopped by the back of an individual bowing
with great civility to a patronising peer, and my-lording him with
painful repetition. The nobleman was Lord Fitz-pompey; the bowing
gentleman, Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh, the anti-aristocrat, and father of the
first man of the day.

'George! is it possible!' exclaimed Lord Fitz-pompey. 'I will speak to
you in the House,' said the Duke, passing on, and bowing to Mr. Duncan
Macmorrogh.

He recalled his proxy from the Duke of Burlington, and accounted for
his presence to many astonished friends by being on his way to the
Continent; and, passing through London, thought he might as well
be present, particularly as he was about to reside for some time in
Catholic countries. It was the last compliment that he could pay his
future host. 'Give me a pinch of snuff.'

The debate began. Don't be alarmed. I shall not describe it. Five or six
peers had spoken, and one of the ministers had just sat down when the
Duke of St. James rose. He was extremely nervous, but he repeated to
himself the name of May Dacre for the hundredth time, and proceeded. He
was nearly commencing 'May Dacre' instead of 'My Lords,' but he escaped
this blunder. For the first five or ten minutes he spoke in almost as
cold and lifeless a style as when he echoed the King's speech; but he
was young and seldom troubled them, and was listened to therefore with
indulgence. The Duke warmed, and a courteous 'hear, hear,' frequently
sounded; the Duke became totally free from embarrassment, and spoke
with eloquence and energy. A cheer, a stranger in the House of Lords,
rewarded and encouraged him. As an Irish landlord, his sincerity could
not be disbelieved when he expressed his conviction of the safety of
emancipation; but it was as an English proprietor and British noble
that it was evident that his Grace felt most keenly upon this important
measure. He described with power the peculiar injustice of the situation
of the English Catholics. He professed to feel keenly upon this subject,
because his native county had made him well acquainted with the temper
of this class; he painted in glowing terms the loyalty, the wealth, the
influence, the noble virtues of his Catholic neighbours; and he closed a
speech of an hour's duration, in which he had shown that a worn subject
was susceptible of novel treatment, and novel interest, amid loud
and general cheers. The Lords gathered round him, and many personally
congratulated him upon his distinguished success. The debate took
its course. At three o'clock the pro-Catholics found themselves in
a minority, but a minority in which the prescient might have well
discovered the herald of future justice. The speech of the Duke of St.
James was the speech of the night.

The Duke walked into White's. It was crowded. The first man who welcomed
him was Annesley. He congratulated the Duke with a warmth for which the
world did not give him credit.

'I assure you, my dear St. James, that I am one of the few people whom
this display has not surprised. I have long observed that you were
formed for something better than mere frivolity. And between ourselves
I am sick of it. Don't be surprised if you hear that I go to Algiers.
Depend upon it that I am on the point of doing something dreadful.'
'Sup with me, St. James,' said Lord Squib; 'I will ask O'Connell to meet
you.'

Lord Fitz-pompey and Lord Darrell were profuse in congratulations; but
he broke away from them to welcome the man who now advanced. He was one
of whom he never thought without a shudder, but whom, for all that, he
greatly liked.

'My dear Duke of St. James,' said Arundel Dacre, 'how ashamed I am
that this is the first time I have personally thanked you for all your
goodness!'

'My dear Dacre, I have to thank you for proving for the first time to
the world that I was not without discrimination.'

'No, no,' said Dacre, gaily and easily; 'all the congratulations and all
the compliments to-night shall be for you. Believe me, my dear friend, I
share your triumph.'

They shook hands with earnestness.

'May will read your speech with exultation,' said Arundel. 'I think we
must thank her for making you an orator.'

The Duke faintly smiled and shook his head.

'And how are all our Yorkshire friends?' continued Arundel. 'I am
disappointed again in getting down to them; but I hope in the course of
the month to pay them a visit.'

'I shall see them in a day or two,' said the Duke. 'I pay Mr. Dacre one
more visit before my departure form England.'

'Are you then indeed going?' asked Arundel, in a kind voice.

'For ever.'

'Nay, nay, _ever_ is a strong word.'

'It becomes, then, my feelings. However, we will not talk of this. Can I
bear any letter for you?'

'I have just written,' replied Arundel, in a gloomy voice, and with a
changing countenance, 'and therefore will not trouble you. And yet----'

'What!'

'And yet the letter is an important letter: to me. The post, to be sure,
never does miss; but if it were not troubling your Grace too much, I
almost would ask you to be its bearer.'

'It will be there as soon,' said the Duke, 'for I shall be off in an
hour.'

'I will take it out of the box then,' said Arundel; and he fetched it.
'Here is the letter,' said he on his return: 'pardon me if I impress
upon you its importance. Excuse this emotion, but, indeed, this letter
decides my fate. My happiness for life is dependent on its reception!'

He spoke with an air and voice of agitation.

The Duke received the letter in a manner scarcely less disturbed; and
with a hope that they might meet before his departure, faintly murmured
by one party, and scarcely responded to by the other, they parted.

'Well, now,' said the Duke, 'the farce is complete; and I have come to
London to be the bearer of his offered heart! I like this, now. Is there
a more contemptible, a more ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous ass
than myself? Fear not for its delivery, most religiously shall it be
consigned to the hand of its owner. The fellow has paid a compliment to
my honour or my simplicity: I fear the last, and really I feel rather
proud. But away with these feelings! Have I not seen her in his arms?
Pah! Thank God! I spoke. At least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does
not think me quite a fool. O, May Dacre, May Dacre! if you were but
mine, I should be the happiest fellow that ever breathed!'

He breakfasted, and then took his way to the Dragon with Two Tails. The
morning was bright, and fresh, and beautiful, even in London. Joy came
upon his heart, in spite of all his loneliness, and he was glad and
sanguine. He arrived just in time. The coach was about to start. The
faithful ostler was there with his great-coat, and the Duke found that
he had three fellow-passengers. They were lawyers, and talked for the
first two hours of nothing but the case respecting which they were
going down into the country. At Woburn, a despatch arrived with the
newspapers. All purchased one, and the Duke among the rest. He was
well reported, and could now sympathise with, instead of smile at, the
anxiety of Lord Darrell.

'The young Duke of St. James seems to have distinguished himself very
much,' said the first lawyer.

'So I observe,' said the second one. 'The leading article calls our
attention to his speech as the most brilliant delivered.'

'I am surprised,' said the third. 'I thought he was quite a different
sort of person.'

'By no means,' said the first: 'I have always had a high opinion of him.
I am not one of those who think the worse of a young man because he is a
little wild.'

'Nor I,' said the second. 'Young blood, you know, is young blood.'

'A very intimate friend of mine, who knows the Duke of St. James well,
once told me,' rejoined the first, 'that I was quite mistaken about him;
that he was a person of no common talents; well read, quite a man of the
world, and a good deal of wit, too; and let me tell you that in these
days wit is no common thing.'

'Certainly not,' said the third. 'We have no wit now.'

'And a kind-hearted, generous fellow,' continued the first, 'and _very_
unaffected.'

'I can't bear an affected man,' said the second, without looking off his
paper. 'He seems to have made a very fine speech indeed.'

'I should not wonder at his turning out something great,' said the
third.

'I have no doubt of it,' said the second.

'Many of these wild fellows do.'

'He is not so wild as we think,' said the first.

'But he is done up,' said the second.

'Is he indeed?' said the third. 'Perhaps by making a speech he wants a
place?'

'People don't make speeches for nothing,' said the third.

'I shouldn't wonder if he is after a place in the Household,' said the
second.

'Depend upon it, he looks to something more active,' said the first.

'Perhaps he would like to be head of the Admiralty?' said the second.

'Or the Treasury?' said the third.

'That is impossible!' said the first. 'He is too young.'

'He is as old as Pitt,' said the third.

'I hope he will resemble him in nothing but his age, then,' said the
first.

'I look upon Pitt as the first man that ever lived,' said the third.

'What!' said the first. 'The man who worked up the national debt to
nearly eight hundred millions!'

'What of that?' said the third. 'I look upon the national debt as the
source of all our prosperity.'

'The source of all our taxes, you mean.'

'What is the harm of taxes?'

'The harm is, that you will soon have no trade; and when you have no
trade, you will have no duties; and when you have no duties, you will
have no dividends; and when you have no dividends, you will have no law;
and then, where is your source of prosperity?' said the first.

But here the coach stopped, and the Duke got out for an hour.

By midnight they had reached a town not more than thirty miles from
Dacre. The Duke was quite exhausted, and determined to stop. In half an
hour he enjoyed that deep, dreamless slumber, with which no luxury can
compete. One must have passed restless nights for years, to be able to
appreciate the value of sound sleep.

CHAPTER IX.

_A Last Appeal_

HE ROSE early, and managed to reach Dacre at the breakfast hour of the
family. He discharged his chaise at the Park gate, and entered the house
unseen. He took his way along a corridor lined with plants, which led
to the small and favourite room in which the morning meetings of May and
himself always took place when they were alone. As he lightly stepped
along, he heard a voice that he could not mistake, as it were in
animated converse. Agitated by sounds which ever created in him emotion,
for a moment he paused. He starts, his eye sparkles with strange
delight, a flush comes over his panting features, half of modesty, half
of triumph. He listens to his own speech from the lips of the woman he
loves. She is reading to her father with melodious energy the passage
in which he describes the high qualities of his Catholic neighbours. The
intonations of the voice indicate the deep sympathy of the reader. She
ceases. He hears the admiring exclamation of his host. He rallies his
strength, he advances, he stands before them. She utters almost a shriek
of delightful surprise as she welcomes him.

How much there was to say! how much to ask! how much to answer! Even Mr.
Dacre poured forth questions like a boy. But May: she could not
speak, but leant forward in her chair with an eager ear, and a look of
congratulation, that rewarded him for all his exertion. Everything was
to be told. How he went; whether he slept in the mail; where he went;
what he did; whom he saw; what they said; what they thought; all must be
answered. Then fresh exclamations of wonder, delight, and triumph.
The Duke forgot everything but his love, and for three hours felt the
happiest of men.

At length Mr. Dacre rose and looked at his watch with a shaking head. 'I
have a most important appointment,' said he, 'and I must gallop to keep
it. God bless you, my dear St. James! I could stay talking with you for
ever; but you must be utterly wearied. Now, my dear boy, go to bed.'

'To bed!' exclaimed the Duke. 'Why, Tom Rawlins would laugh at you!'

'And who is Tom Rawlins?'

'Ah! I cannot tell you everything; but assuredly I am not going to bed.'

'Well, May, I leave him to your care; but do not let him talk any more.'

'Oh! sir,' said the Duke, 'I really had forgotten. I am the bearer to
you, sir, of a letter from Mr. Arundel Dacre.' He gave it him.

As Mr. Dacre read the communication, his countenance changed, and
the smile which before was on his face, vanished. But whether he were
displeased, or only serious, it was impossible to ascertain, although
the Duke watched him narrowly. At length he said, 'May! here is a letter
from Arundel, in which you are much interested.'

'Give it me, then, papa!'

'No, my love; we must speak of this together. But I am pressed for time.
When I come home. Remember.' He quitted the room.

They were alone: the Duke began again talking, and Miss Dacre put her
finger to her mouth, with a smile.

'I assure you,' said he, 'I am not wearied. I slept at----y, and the
only thing I now want is a good walk. Let me be your companion this
morning!'

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