the day after the arrival of the duke of st. james at cleve park, his host, sir lucius grafton, received the following note from mrs. dallington vere:
‘castle dacre — —— — 182 —.
‘my dear baronet,
‘your pigeon has flown, otherwise i should have tied this under his wing, for i take it for granted he is trained too dexterously to alight anywhere but at cleve.
‘i confess that in this affair your penetration has exceeded mine. i hope throughout it will serve you as well. i kept my promise, and arrived here only a few hours after him. the prejudice which i had long observed in the little dacre against your protégé was too marked to render any interference on my part at once necessary, nor did i anticipate even beginning to give her good advice for a month to come. heaven knows what a month of his conduct might have done! a month achieves such wonders! and, to do him justice, he was most agreeable; but our young gentleman grew impetuous, and so the day before yesterday he vanished, and in the most extraordinary manner! sudden departure, unexpected business, letter and servants both left behind; monsieur grave, and a little astonished; and the demoiselle thoughtful at the least, but not curious. very suspicious this last circumstance! a flash crossed my mind, but i could gain nothing, even with my most dexterous wiles, from the little dacre, who is a most unmanageable heroine. however, with the good assistance of a person who in a french tragedy would figure as my confidante, and who is the sister of your lachen, something was learnt from monsieur le valet, to say nothing of the page. all agree; a countenance pale as death, orders given in a low voice of suppressed passion and sundry oaths. i hear he sulked the night at rosemount.
‘now, my good lucy, listen to me. lose no time about the great object. if possible, let this autumn be distinguished. you have an idea that our friend is a very manageable sort of personage; in phrase less courteous, is sufficiently weak for all reasonable purposes. i am not quite so clear about this. he is at present very young, and his character is not formed; but there is a something about him which makes me half fear that, if you permit his knowledge of life to increase too much, you may quite fear having neglected my admonitions. at present his passions are high. use his blood while it is hot, and remember that if you count on his rashness you may, as nearly in the present instance, yourself rue it. in a word, despatch. the deed that is done, you know —
‘my kindest remembrances to dear lady afy, and tell her how much i regret i cannot avail myself of her most friendly invitation. considering, as i know, she hates me, i really do feel flattered.
‘you cannot conceive what vandals i am at present among! nothing but my sincere regard for you, my much-valued friend, would induce me to stay here a moment. i have received from the countenance of the dacres all the benefit which a marked connection with so respectable and so moral a family confers, and i am tired to death. but it is a well-devised plan to have a reserve in the battles of society. you understand me; and i am led to believe that it has had the best effect, and silenced even the loudest. “confound their politics!” as dear little squib says, from whom i had the other day the funniest letter, which i have half a mind to send you, only you figure in it so much!
‘burlington is at brighton, and all my friends, except yourself. i have a few barbarians to receive at dallington, and then i shall be off there. join us as quickly as you can. do you know, i think that it would be an excellent locale for the scena. we might drive them over to dieppe: only do not put off your visit too long, or else there will be no steamers.
‘the duke of shropshire has had a fit, but rallied. he vows he was only picking up a letter, or tying his shoestring, or something of that kind; but ruthven says he dined off boudins à la sefton, and that, after a certain age, you know —
‘lord darrell is with annesley and co. i understand, most friendly towards me, which is pleasant; and charles, who is my firm ally, takes care to confirm the kind feeling. i am glad about this.
‘felix crawlegh, or crawley, as some say, has had an affair with tommy seymour, at grant’s. felix was grand about porter, or something, which he never drank, and all that. tommy, who knew nothing about the brewing father, asked him, very innocently, why malt liquors had so degenerated. conceive the agony, particularly as lady selina is said to have no violent aversion to quartering her arms with a mash-tub, argent.
‘the macaronis are most hospitable this year; and the marquess says that the only reason that they kept in before was because he was determined to see whether economy was practicable. he finds it is not; so now expense is no object.
‘augustus henley is about to become a senator! what do you think of this? he says he has tried everything for an honest livelihood, and even once began a novel, but could not get on; which, squib says, is odd, because there is a receipt going about for that operation which saves all trouble:
‘“take a pair of pistols and a pack of cards, a cookery-book and a set of new quadrilles; mix them up with half an intrigue and a whole marriage, and divide them into three equal portions.” now, as augustus has both fought and gamed, dined and danced, i suppose it was the morality which posed him, or perhaps the marriage.
‘they say there is something about lady flutter, but, i should think, all talk. most probably a report set about by her ladyship. lord flame has been blackballed, that is certain. but there is no more news, except that the wiltshires are going to the continent: we know why; and that the spankers are making more dash than ever: god knows how! adieu!
‘b. d. v.’
the letter ended; all things end at last. a she-correspondent for our money; provided always that she does not cross.
our duke — in spite of his disgrace, he still is ours, and yours too, i hope, gentlest reader — our duke found himself at cleve park again, in a different circle from the one to which he had been chiefly accustomed. the sporting world received him with open arms. with some of these worthies, as owner of sanspareil, he had become slightly acquainted. but what is half a morning at tattersall’s, or half a week at doncaster, compared with a meeting at newmarket? there your congenial spirits congregate. freemasons every man of them! no uninitiated wretch there dares to disturb, with his profane presence, the hallowed mysteries. there the race is not a peg to hang a few days of dissipation on, but a sacred ceremony, to the celebration of which all men and all circumstances tend and bend. no balls, no concerts, no public breakfasts, no bands from litolf, no singers from welsh, no pineapples from gunter, are there called for by thoughtless thousands, who have met, not from any affection for the turfs delights or their neighbour’s cash, but to sport their splendid liveries and to disport their showy selves.
the house was full of men, whose talk was full of bets. the women were not as bad, but they were not plentiful. some lords and signors were there without their dames. lord bloomerly, for instance, alone, or rather with his eldest son, lord bloom, just of age, and already a knowing hand. his father introduced him to all his friends with that smiling air of self-content which men assume when they introduce a youth who may show the world what they were at his years; so the earl presented the young viscount as a lover presents his miniature to his mistress. lady afy shone in unapproached perfection. a dull marchioness, a gauche viscountess, and some other dames, who did not look like the chorus of this diana, acted as capital foils, and permitted her to meet her cavalier under what are called the most favourable auspices.
they dined, and discussed the agricultural interest in all its exhausted ramifications. wheat was sold over again, even at a higher price; poachers were recalled to life, or from beyond seas, to be rekilled or retransported. the poor-laws were a very rich topic, and the poor lands a very ruinous one. but all this was merely the light conversation, just to vary, in an agreeable mode, which all could understand, the regular material of discourse, and that was of stakes and stallions, pedigrees and plates.
our party rose early, for their pleasure was their business. here were no lounging dandies and no exclusive belles, who kept their bowers until hunger, which also drives down wolves from the pyrenees, brought them from their mystical chambers to luncheon and to life. in short, an air of interest, a serious and a thoughtful look, pervaded every countenance. fashion was kicked to the devil, and they were all too much in earnest to have any time for affectation. breakfast was over, and it was a regular meal at which all attended, and they hurried to the course. it seems, when the party arrive, that they are the only spectators. a party or two come on to keep them company. a club discharges a crowd of gentlemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. at length a sprinkling of human beings is collected, but all is wondrous still and wondrous cold. the only thing that gives sign of life is lord breedall’s movable stand; and the only intimation that fire is still an element is the sailing breath of a stray cigar.
‘this, then, is newmarket!’ exclaimed the young duke. ‘if it required five-and-twenty thousand pounds to make doncaster amusing, a plum, at least, will go in rendering newmarket endurable.’
but the young duke was wrong. there was a fine race, and the connoisseurs got enthusiastic. sir lucius grafton was the winner. the duke sympathised with his friend’s success.
he began galloping about the course, and his blood warmed. he paid a visit to sanspareil. he heard his steed was still a favourite for a coming race. he backed his steed, and sanspareil won. he began to find newmarket not so disagreeable. in a word, our friend was in an entirely new scene, which was exactly the thing he required. he was interested, and forgot, or rather forcibly expelled from his mind, his late overwhelming adventure. he grew popular with the set. his courteous manners, his affable address, his gay humour, and the facility with which he adopted their tone and temper, joined with his rank and wealth, subdued the most rugged and the coldest hearts. even the jockeys were civil to him, and welcomed him with a sweet smile and gracious nod, instead of the sour grin and malicious wink with which those characters generally greet a stranger; those mysterious characters who, in their influence over their superiors, and their total want of sympathy with their species, are our only match for the oriental eunuch.
he grew, we say, popular with the set. they were glad to see among them a young nobleman of spirit. he became a member of the jockey club, and talked of taking a place in the neighbourhood. all recommended the step, and assured him of their readiness to dine with him as often as he pleased. he was a universal favourite; and even chuck farthing, the gentleman jockey, with a cock-eye and a knowing shake of his head, squeaked out, in a sporting treble, one of his monstrous fudges about the prince in days of yore, and swore that, like his royal highness, the young duke made the market all alive.
the heart of our hero was never insensible to flattery. he could not refrain from comparing his present with his recent situation. the constant consideration of all around him, the affectionate cordiality of sir lucius, and the unobtrusive devotion of lady afy, melted his soul. these agreeable circumstances graciously whispered to him each hour that he could scarcely be the desolate and despicable personage which lately, in a moment of madness, he had fancied himself. he began to indulge the satisfactory idea, that a certain person, however unparalleled in form and mind, had perhaps acted with a little precipitation. then his eyes met those of lady aphrodite; and, full of these feelings, he exchanged a look which reminded him of their first meeting; though now, mellowed by gratitude, and regard, and esteem, it was perhaps even more delightful. he was loved, and he was loved by an exquisite being, who was the object of universal admiration. what could he desire more? nothing but the wilfulness of youth could have induced him for a moment to contemplate breaking chains which had only been formed to secure his felicity. he determined to bid farewell for ever to the impetuosity of youth. he had not been three days under the roof of cleve before he felt that his happiness depended upon its fairest inmate. you see, then, that absence is not always fatal to love!