a canter is the cure for every evil, and brings the mind back to itself sooner than all the lessons of chrysippus and crantor. it is the only process that at the same time calms the feelings and elevates the spirits, banishes blue devils and raises one to the society of ‘angels ever bright and fair.’ it clears the mind; it cheers the heart. it is the best preparation for all enterprises, for it puts a man in good humour both with the world and himself; and, whether you are going to make a speech or scribble a scene, whether you are about to conquer the world or yourself, order your horse. as you bound along, your wit will brighten and your eloquence blaze, your courage grow more adamantine, and your generous feelings burn with a livelier flame. and when the exercise is over the excitement does not cease, as when it grows from music, for your blood is up, and the brilliancy of your eye is fed by your bubbling pulses. then, my young friend, take my advice: rush into the world, and triumph will grow out of your quick life, like victory bounding from the palm of jove!
our duke ordered his horses, and as he rattled along recovered from the enervating effects of his soft reverie. on his way home he fell in with mr. dacre and the two baronets, returning on their hackneys from a hard fought field.
‘gay sport?’ asked his grace.
‘a capital run. i think the last forty minutes the most splitting thing we have had for a long time!’ answered sir chetwode. ‘i only hope jack wilson will take care of poor fanny. i did not half like leaving her. your grace does not join us?’
‘i mean to do so; but i am, unfortunately, a late riser.’
‘hem!’ said sir tichborne. the monosyllable meant much.
‘i have a horse which i think will suit your grace,’ said mr. dacre, ‘and to which, in fact, you are entitled, for it bears the name of your house. you have ridden hauteville, sir tichborne?’
‘yes; fine animal!’
‘i shall certainly try his powers,’ said the duke. ‘when is your next field-day?’
‘thursday,’ said sir tichborne; ‘but we shall be too early for you, i am afraid,’ with a gruff smile.
‘oh, no!’ said the young duke, who saw his man; ‘i assure you i have been up today nearly two hours. let us get on.’
the first person that his grace’s eye met, when he entered the room in which they assembled before dinner, was mrs. dallington vere.
dinner was a favourite moment with the duke of st. james during this visit at castle dacre, since it was the only time in the day that, thanks to his rank, which he now doubly valued, he could enjoy a tête-à-tête with its blooming mistress.
‘i am going to hunt,’ said the duke, ‘and i am to ride hauteville. i hope you will set me an example on thursday, and that i shall establish my character with sir tichborne.’
‘i am to lead on that day a bold band of archers. i have already too much neglected my practising, and i fear that my chance of the silver arrow is slight.’
‘i have betted upon you with everybody,’ said the duke of st. james.
‘remember doncaster! i am afraid that may dacre will again be the occasion of your losing your money.’
‘but now i am on the right side. together we must conquer.’
‘i have a presentiment that our union will not be a fortunate one.’
‘then i am ruined,’ said his grace with rather a serious tone.
‘i hope you have not really staked anything upon such nonsense?’ said miss dacre.
‘i have staked everything,’ said his grace.
‘talking of stakes,’ said lord st. jerome, who pricked up his ears at a congenial subject, ‘do you know what they are going to do about that affair of anderson’s?’
‘what does he say for himself?’ asked sir chetwode.
‘he says that he had no intention of embezzling the money, but that, as he took it for granted the point could never be decided, he thought it was against the usury laws to allow money to lie idle.’
‘that fellow has always got an answer,’ said sir tichborne. ‘i hate men who have always got an answer. there is no talking common sense with them.’
the duke made his escape today, and, emboldened by his illustrious example, charles faulcon, lord st. jerome, and some other heroes followed, to the great disgust of sir chetwode and sir tichborne.
as the evening glided on conversation naturally fell upon the amusements of society.
‘i am sure we are tired of dancing every night,’ said miss dacre. ‘i wonder if we could introduce any novelty. what think you, bertha? you can always suggest.’
‘you remember the tableaux vivants?’ said mrs. dallington vere.
‘beautiful! but too elaborate a business, i fear, for us. we want something more impromptu. the tableaux are nothing without brilliant and accurate costume, and to obtain that we must work at least for a week, and then, after all, in all probability, a failure. ils sont trop recherchés,’ she said, lowering her voice to mrs. dallington, ‘pour nous ici. they must spring out of a society used to such exhibitions.’
‘i have a costume dress here,’ said the duke of
st. james.
‘and i have a uniform,’ said lord mildmay.
‘and then,’ said mrs. dallington, ‘there are cashmeres, and scarfs, and jewels to be collected. i see, however, you think it impossible.’
‘i fear so. however, we will think of it. in the meantime, what shall we do now? suppose we act a fairy tale?’
‘none of the girls can act,’ said mrs. dallington, with a look of kind pity.
‘let us teach them. that itself will be an amusement. suppose we act cinderella? there is the music of cendrillon, and you can compose, when necessary, as you go on. clara howard!’ said may dacre, ‘come here, love! we want you to be cinderella in a little play.’
‘i act! oh! dear may! how can you laugh at me so! i cannot act.’
‘you will not have to speak. only just move about as i direct you while bertha plays music.’
‘oh! dear may, i cannot, indeed! i never did act. ask eugenia!’
‘eugenia! if you are afraid, i am sure she will faint. i asked you because i thought you were just the person for it.’
‘but only think,’ said poor clara, with an imploring voice, ‘to act, may! why, acting is the most difficult thing in the world. acting is quite a dreadful thing. i know many ladies who will not act.’
‘but it is not acting, clara. well! i will be cinderella, and you shall be one of the sisters.’
‘no, dear may!’
‘well, then, the fairy?’ ‘no, dear, dear, dear may!’
‘well, duke of st. james, what am i to do with this rebellious troop?’
‘let me be cinderella!’
‘it is astonishing,’ said miss dacre, ‘the difficulty which you encounter in england, if you try to make people the least amusing or vary the regular dull routine, which announces dancing as the beautiful of diversions and cards as the sublime.’
‘we are barbarians,’ said the duke. ‘we were not,’ said may dacre. ‘what are tableaux, or acted charades, or romances, to masques, which were the splendid and various amusement of our ancestors. last christmas we performed “comus” here with great effect; but then we had arundel, and he is an admirable actor.’
‘curse arundel!’ thought the duke. ‘i had forgotten him.’
‘i do not wonder,’ said mrs. dallington vere, ‘at people objecting to act regular plays, for, independently of the objections, not that i think anything of them myself, which are urged against “private theatricals,” the fact is, to get up a play is a tremendous business, and one or two is your bound. but masques, where there is so little to learn by rote, a great consideration, where music and song are so exquisitely introduced, where there is such an admirable opportunity for brilliant costume, and where the scene may be beautiful without change — such an important point — i cannot help wondering that this national diversion is not revived.’
‘suppose we were to act a romance without the costume?’ said the duke. ‘let us consider it a rehearsal. and perhaps the misses howard will have no objection to sing?’
‘it is difficult to find a suitable romance,’ said miss dacre. ‘all our modern english ones are too full of fine poetry. we tried once an old ballad, but it was too long. last christmas we got up a good many, and arundel, isabella, and myself used to scribble some nonsense for the occasion. but i am afraid they are all either burnt or taken away. i will look in the music-case.’
she went to the music-case with the duke and mrs. dallington.
‘no,’ she continued; ‘not one, not a single one. but what are these?’ she looked at some lines written in pencil in a music-book. ‘oh! here is something; too slight, but it will do. you see,’ she continued, reading it to the duke, ‘by the introduction of the same line in every verse, describing the same action, a back-scene is, as it were, created, and the story, if you can call it such, proceeds in front. really, i think, we might make something of this.’
mr. dacre and some others were at whist. the two baronets were together, talking over the morning’s sport. ecarté covered a flirtation between lord mildmay and lady st. jerome. miss dacre assembled her whole troop; and, like a manager with a new play, read in the midst of them the ballad, and gave them directions for their conduct. a japan screen was unfolded at the end of the room. two couches indicated the limits of the stage. then taking her guitar, she sang with a sweet voice and arch simplicity these simpler lines:—
i.
childe dacre stands in his father’s hall,
while all the rest are dancing;
childe dacre gazes on the wall,
while brightest eyes are glancing.
then prythee tell me, gentles gay!
what makes our childe so dull today?
each verse was repeated.
in the background they danced a cotillon.
in the front, the duke of st. james, as childe dacre, leant against the wall, with arms folded and eyes fixed; in short, in an attitude which commanded great applause.
ii.
i cannot tell, unless it be,
while all the rest are dancing,
the lady alice, on the sea,
with brightest eyes is glancing,
or muses on the twilight hour
will bring childe dacre to her bower.
mrs. dallington vere advances as the lady alice. her walk is abrupt, her look anxious and distracted; she seems to be listening for some signal. she falls into a musing attitude, motionless and graceful as a statue. clara howard alike marvels at her genius and her courage.
iii.
childe dacre hears the curfew chime,
while all the rest are dancing;
unless i find a fitting rhyme,
oh! here ends my romancing!
but see! her lover’s at her feet!
oh! words of joy! oh! meeting sweet!
the duke advances, chivalric passion in his every gesture. the lady alice rushes to his arms with that look of trembling transport which tells the tale of stolen love. they fall into a group which would have made the fortune of an annual.
iv.
then let us hope, when next i sing,
and all the rest are dancing,
our childe a gentle bride may bring,
all other joys enhancing.
then we will bless the twilight hour
that call’d him to a lady’s bower.
the duke led mrs. dallington to the dancers with courtly grace. there was great applause, but the spirit of fun and one-and-twenty inspired him, and he led off a gallop. in fact, it was an elegant romp. the two baronets started from their slumbers, and lord mildmay called for mademoiselle dacre. the call was echoed. miss dacre yielded to the public voice, and acted to the life the gratified and condescending air of a first-rate performer. lord mildmay called for madame dallington. miss dacre led on her companion as sontag would malibran. there was no wreath at hand, but the duke of st. james robbed his coat of its rose, and offered it on his knee to mademoiselle, who presented it with parisian feeling to her rival. the scene was as superb as anything at the académie.
