it was a morning all dew and sunshine, soft yet bright, just fit for a hawking party, for dames of high degree, feathered cavaliers, ambling palfreys, and tinkling bells. our friends rose early, and assembled punctually. all went, and all went on horseback; but they sent before some carriages for the return, in case the ladies should be wearied with excessive pleasure. the cavalcade, for it was no less, broke into parties which were often out of sight of each other. the duke and lord st. jerome, clara howard and charles faulcon, miss dacre and mrs. dallington, formed one, and, as they flattered themselves, not the least brilliant. they were all in high spirits, and his grace lectured on riding-habits with erudite enthusiasm.

their road lay through a country wild and woody, where crag and copse beautifully intermixed with patches of rich cultivation. halfway, they passed rosemount, a fanciful pavilion where the dukes of st. james sometimes sought that elegant simplicity which was not afforded by all the various charms of their magnificent hauteville. at length they arrived at the park-gate of the castle, which might itself have passed for a tolerable mansion. it was ancient and embattled, flanked by a couple of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the baronial pile which it announced. the park was a petty principality; and its apparently illimitable extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancient woods and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the admiration even of those who had been born in such magical enclosures.

away they cantered over the turf, each moment with their blood more sparkling. a turn in the road, and hauteville, with its donjon keep and lordly flag, and many-windowed line of long perspective, its towers, and turrets, and terraces, bathed with the soft autumnal sun, met their glad sight.

‘your majesty is welcome to my poor castle!’ said the young duke, bowing with head uncovered to miss dacre.

‘nay, we are at the best but captive princesses about to be immured in that fearful keep; and this is the way you mock us!’

‘i am content that you shall be my prisoner.’

‘a struggle for freedom!’ said miss dacre, looking back to mrs. dallington, and she galloped towards the castle.

lord mildmay and lady st. jerome cantered up, and the rest soon assembled. sir carte came forward, all smiles, with a clerk of the works bearing a portfolio of plans. a crowd of servants, for the duke maintained an establishment at hauteville, advanced, and the fair equestrians were dismounted. they shook their habits and their curls, vowed that riding was your only exercise, and that dust in the earthly economy was a blunder. and then they entered the castle.

room after room, gallery after gallery; you know the rest. shall we describe the silk hangings and the reverend tapestry, the agate tables and the tall screens, the china and the armour, the state beds and the curious cabinets, and the family pictures mixed up so quaintly with italian and flemish art? but we pass from meek madonnas and seraphic saints, from gleaming claudes and guidos soft as eve, from rubens’s satyrs and albano’s boys, and even from those gay and natural medleys, paintings that cheer the heart, where fruit and flower, with their brilliant bloom, call to a feast the butterfly and bee; we pass from these to square-headed ancestors by holbein, all black velvet and gold chains; cavaliers, by vandyke, all lace and spurs, with pointed beards, that did more execution even than their pointed swords; patriots and generals, by kneller, in blenheim wigs and steen-kirk cravats, all robes and armour; scarlet judges that supported ship-money, and purple bishops, who had not been sent to the tower. here was a wit who had sipped his coffee at button’s, and there some mad alcibiades duke who had exhausted life ere he had finished youth, and yet might be consoled for all his flashing follies could he witness the bright eyes that lingered on his countenance, while they glanced over all the patriotism and all the piety, all the illustrious courage and all the historic craft, which, when living, it was daily told him that he had shamed. ye dames with dewy eyes that lely drew! have we forgotten you? no! by that sleepy loveliness that reminds us that night belongs to beauty, ye were made for memory! and oh! our grandmothers, that we now look upon as girls, breathing in reynolds’s playful canvas, let us also pay our homage to your grace!

the chapel, where you might trace art from the richly gothic tomb, designed by some neighbouring abbot, to the last effort of flaxman; the riding-house, where, brightly framed, looked down upon you with a courtly smile the first and gartered duke, who had been master of the horse, were alike visited, and alike admired. they mounted the summit of the round tower, and looked around upon the broad county, which they were proud to call their own. amid innumerable seats, where blazed the hearths of the best blood of england, they recognised, with delight, the dome of dacre and the woods of dallington. they walked along a terrace not unworthy of the promenade of a court; they visited the flower gardens, where the peculiar style of every nation was in turn imitated; they loitered in the vast conservatories, which were themselves a palace; they wandered in the wilderness, where the invention of consummate art presented them with the ideal of nature. in this poetic solitude, where all was green, and still, and sweet, or where the only sound was falling water or fluttering birds, the young duke recurred to the feelings which, during the last momentous week, had so mastered his nature, and he longed to wind his arm round the beautiful being without whom this enchanting domain was a dreary waste.

they assembled in a green retreat, where the energetic sir carte had erected a marquée, and where a collation greeted the eyes of those who were well prepared for it. rawdon had also done his duty, and the guests, who were aware of the sudden manner in which the whole affair had arisen, wondered at the magic which had produced a result worthy of a week’s preparation. but it is a great thing to be a young duke. the pasties, and the venison, and the game, the pines, and the peaches, and the grapes, the cakes, and the confectionery, and the ices, which proved that the still-room at hauteville was not an empty name, were all most popular. but the wines, they were marvellous! and as the finest cellars in the country had been ransacked for excellence and variety, it is not wonderful that their produce obtained a panegyric. there was hock of a century old, which made all stare, though we, for our part, cannot see, or rather taste, the beauty of this antiquity. wine, like woman, in our opinion, should not be too old, so we raise our altar to the infant bacchus; but this is not the creed of the million, nor was it the persuasion of sir chetwode chetwode or of sir tichborne tichborne, good judges both. the johannisberger quite converted them. they no longer disliked the young duke. they thought him a fool, to be sure, but at the same time a good-natured one. in the meantime, all were interested, and carlstein with his key bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, afforded the only luxury that was wanting.

it is six o’clock, carriages are ordered, and horses are harnessed. back, back to dacre! but not at the lively rate at which they had left that lordly hall this morning. they are all alike inclined to move slowly; they are silent, yet serene and satisfied; they ponder upon the reminiscences of a delightful morning, and also of a delightful meal. perhaps they are a little weary; perhaps they wish to gaze upon the sunset.

it is eight o’clock, and they enter the park gates. dinner is universally voted a bore, even by the baronets. coffee covers the retreat of many a wearied bird to her evening bower. the rest lounge on a couch or sofa, or chew the cud of memory on an ottoman. it was a day of pleasure which had been pleasant. that was certain: but that was past. who is to be duchess of st. james? answer this. may dacre, or bertha vere, or clara howard? lady st. jerome, is it to be a daughter of thy house? lady faulconcourt, art thou to be hailed as the unrivalled mother?’ tis mystery all, as must always be the future of this world. we muse, we plan, we hope, but naught is certain but that which is naught; for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end attained; what are they but fit companions for clothes out of fashion, cracked china, and broken fans?

our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his mind was too full of exciting fancies to think of the interests of his body. as all were withdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace. it was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from rogers’ shell, and brilliant as a phrase just turned by moore. the thousand stars smiled from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes a lover muse. fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deep and yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. it could not be the wind!

his heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. and in this shrine, where all was like his love, immaculate and beautiful, he vowed a faith which had not been returned. such is the madness of love! such is the magic of beauty!

music rose upon the air. some huntsmen were practising their horns. the triumphant strain elevated his high hopes, the tender tone accorded with his emotions. he paced up and down the terrace in excited reverie, fed by the music. in imagination she was with him: she spoke, she smiled, she loved. he gazed upon her beaming countenance: his soul thrilled with tones which, only she could utter. he pressed her to his throbbing and tumultuous breast!

the music stopped. he fell from his seventh heaven. he felt all the exhaustion of his prolonged reverie. all was flat, dull, unpromising. the moon seemed dim, the stars were surely fading, the perfume of the trees was faint, the wind of the woods was a howling demon. exhausted, dispirited, ay! almost desperate, with a darkened soul and staggering pace, he regained his chamber.