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 tomorrow 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 today 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.’