hitherto the duke of st. james had been a celebrated personage, but his fame had been confined to the two thousand brahmins who constitute the world. his patronage of the signora extended his celebrity in a manner which he had not anticipated; and he became also the hero of the ten, or twelve, or fifteen millions of pariahs for whose existence philosophers have hitherto failed to adduce a satisfactory cause.
the duke of st. james was now, in the comprehensive sense of the phrase, a public character. some choice spirits took the hint from the public feeling, and determined to dine on the public curiosity. a sunday journal was immediately established. of this epic our duke was the hero. his manners, his sayings, his adventures, regularly regaled, on each holy day, the protestant population of this protestant empire, who in france or italy, or even germany, faint at the sight of a peasantry testifying their gratitude for a day of rest by a dance or a tune. ‘sketches of the alhambra,’ ‘soupers in the regent’s park,’ ‘the court of the caliph,’ ‘the bird cage,’ &c, &c, &c, were duly announced and duly devoured. this journal, being solely devoted to the illustration of the life of a single and a private individual, was appropriately entitled ‘the universe.’ its contributors were eminently successful. their pure inventions and impure details were accepted as delicate truth; and their ferocious familiarity with persons with whom they were totally unacquainted demonstrated at the same time their knowledge both of the forms and the personages of polite society.
at the first announcement of this hebdomadal his grace was a little annoyed, and ‘noctes hautevillienses’ made him fear treason; but when he had read a number, he entirely acquitted any person of a breach of confidence. on the whole he was amused. a variety of ladies in time were introduced, with many of whom the duke had scarcely interchanged a bow; but the respectable editor was not up to lady afy.
if his grace, however, were soon reconciled to this not very agreeable notoriety, and consoled himself under the activity of his libellers by the conviction that their prolusions did not even amount to a caricature, he was less easily satisfied with another performance which speedily advanced its claims to public notice.
there is an unavoidable reaction in all human affairs. the duke of st. james had been so successfully attacked that it became worth while successfully to defend him, and another sunday paper appeared, the object of which was to maintain the silver side of the shield. here everything was couleur de rose. one week the duke saved a poor man from the serpentine; another a poor woman from starvation; now an orphan was grateful; and now miss zouch, impelled by her necessity and his reputation, addressed him a column and a half, quite heart-rending. parents with nine children; nine children without parents; clergymen most improperly unbeneficed; officers most wickedly reduced; widows of younger sons of quality sacrificed to the colonies; sisters of literary men sacrificed to national works, which required his patronage to appear; daughters who had known better days, but somehow or other had not been so well acquainted with their parents; all advanced with multiplied petitions, and that hackneyed, heartless air of misery which denotes the mumper. his grace was infinitely annoyed, and scarcely compensated for the inconvenience by the prettiest little creature in the world, who one day forced herself into his presence to solicit the honour of dedicating to him her poems.
he had enough on his hands, so he wrote her a cheque and, with a courtesy which must have made sappho quite desperate, put her out of the room.
we forgot to say that the name of the new journal was ‘the new world.’ the new world is not quite so big as the universe, but then it is as large as all the other quarters of the globe together. the worst of this business was, ‘the universe’ protested that the duke of st. james, like a second canning, had called this ‘new world’ into existence, which was too bad, because, in truth, he deprecated its discovery scarcely less than the venetians.
having thus managed, in the course of a few weeks, to achieve the reputation of an unrivalled roué, our hero one night betook himself to almack’s, a place where his visits, this season, were both shorter and less frequent.
many an anxious mother gazed upon him, as he passed, with an eye which longed to pierce futurity; many an agitated maiden looked exquisitely unembarrassed, while her fluttering memory feasted on the sweet thought that, at any rate, another had not captured this unrivalled prize. perhaps she might be the anson to fall upon this galleon. it was worth a long cruise, and even a chance of shipwreck.
he danced with lady aphrodite, because, since the affair of the signora, he was most punctilious in his attentions to her, particularly in public. that affair, of course, she passed over in silence, though it was bitter. she, however, had had sufficient experience of man to feel that remonstrance is a last resource, and usually an ineffectual one. it was something that her rival — not that her ladyship dignified the bird by that title — it was something that she was not her equal, that she was not one with whom she could be put in painful and constant collision. she tried to consider it a freak, to believe only half she heard, and to indulge the fancy that it was a toy which would soon tire. as for sir lucius, he saw nothing in this adventure, or indeed in the alhambra system at all, which militated against his ulterior views. no one more constantly officiated at the ducal orgies than himself, both because he was devoted to self-gratification, and because he liked ever to have his protégé in sight. he studiously prevented any other individual from becoming the petronius of the circle. his deep experience also taught him that, with a person of the young duke’s temper, the mode of life which he was now leading was exactly the one which not only would insure, but even hurry, the catastrophe his faithful friend so eagerly desired. his pleasures, as sir lucius knew, would soon pall; for he easily perceived that the duke was not heartless enough for a roué. when thorough satiety is felt, young men are in the cue for desperate deeds. looking upon happiness as a dream, or a prize which, in life’s lottery, they have missed; worn, hipped, dissatisfied, and desperate, they often hurry on a result which they disapprove, merely to close a miserable career, or to brave the society with which they cannot sympathise.
the duke, however, was not yet sated. as after a feast, when we have despatched a quantity of wine, there sometimes, as it were, arises a second appetite, unnatural to be sure, but very keen; so, in a career of dissipation, when our passion for pleasure appears to be exhausted, the fatal fancy of man, like a wearied hare, will take a new turn, throw off the hell-hounds of ennui, and course again with renewed vigour.
and to-night the duke of st. james was, as he had been for some weeks, all life, and fire, and excitement; and his eye was even now wandering round the room in quest of some consummate spirit whom he might summon to his saracenic paradise.
a consummate spirit his eye lighted on. there stood may dacre. he gasped for breath. he turned pale. it was only for a moment, and his emotion was unperceived. there she stood, beautiful as when she first glanced before him; there she stood, with all her imperial graces; and all surrounding splendour seemed to fade away before her dazzling presence, like mournful spirits of a lower world before a radiant creature of the sky.
she was speaking with her sunlight smile to a young man whose appearance attracted his notice. he was dressed entirely in black, rather short, but slenderly made; sallow, but clear, with long black curls and a murillo face, and looked altogether like a young jesuit or a venetian official by giorgone or titian. his countenance was reserved and his manner not easy: yet, on the whole, his face indicated intellect and his figure blood. the features haunted the duke’s memory. he had met this person before. there are some countenances which when once seen can never be forgotten, and the young man owned one of these. the duke recalled him to his memory with a pang.
our hero — let him still be ours, for he is rather desolate, and he requires the backing of his friends — our hero behaved pretty well. he seized the first favourable opportunity to catch miss dacre’s eye, and was grateful for her bow. emboldened, he accosted her, and asked after mr. dacre. she was courteous, but unembarrassed. her calmness, however, piqued him sufficiently to allow him to rally. he was tolerably easy, and talked of calling. their conversation lasted only for a few minutes, and was fortunately terminated without his withdrawal, which would have been awkward. the young man whom we have noticed came up to claim her hand.
‘arundel dacre, or my eyes deceive me?’ said the young duke. ‘i always consider an old etonian a friend, and therefore i address you without ceremony.’
the young man accepted, but not with readiness, the offered hand. he blushed and spoke, but in a hesitating and husky voice. then he cleared his throat, and spoke again, but not much more to the purpose. then he looked to his partner, whose eyes were on the ground, and rose as he endeavoured to catch them. for a moment he was silent again; then he bowed slightly to miss dacre and solemnly to the duke, and then he carried off his cousin.
‘poor dacre!’ said the duke; ‘he always had the worst manner in the world. not in the least changed.’
his grace wandered into the tea-room. a knot of dandies were in deep converse. he heard his own name and that of the duke of burlington; then came ‘doncaster beauty.’ ‘don’t you know?’ ‘oh! yes.’ ‘all quite mad,’ &c, &c, &c. as he passed he was invited in different ways to join the coterie of his admirers, but he declined the honour, and passed them with that icy hauteur which he could assume, and which, judiciously used, contributed not a little to his popularity.
he could not conquer his depression; and, although it was scarcely past midnight, he determined to disappear. fortunately his carriage was waiting. he was at a loss what to do with himself. he dreaded even to be alone. the signora was at a private concert, and she was the last person whom, at this moment, he cared to see. his low spirits rapidly increased. he got terribly nervous, and felt miserable. at last he drove to white’s.
the house had just broken up, and the political members had just entered, and in clusters, some standing and some yawning, some stretching their arms and some stretching their legs, presented symptoms of an escape from boredom. among others, round the fire, was a young man dressed in a rough great coat all cords and sables, with his hat bent aside, a shawl tied round his neck with boldness, and a huge oaken staff clenched in his left hand. with the other he held the ‘courier,’ and reviewed with a critical eye the report of the speech which he had made that afternoon. this was lord darrell.
we have always considered the talents of younger brothers as an unanswerable argument in favour of a providence. lord darrell was the younger son of the earl of darleyford, and had been educated for a diplomatist. a report some two years ago had been very current that his elder brother, then lord darrell, was, against the consent of his family, about to be favoured with the hand of mrs. dallington vere. certain it is he was a devoted admirer of that lady. of that lady, however, a less favoured rival chose one day to say that which staggered the romance of the impassioned youth. in a moment of rashness, impelled by sacred feelings, it is reported, at least, for the whole is a mystery, he communicated what he had heard with horror to the mistress of his destinies. whatever took place, certain it is lord darrell challenged the indecorous speaker, and was shot through the heart. the affair made a great sensation, and the darleyfords and their connections said bitter things of mrs. dallington, and talked much of rash youth and subtle women of discreeter years, and passions shamefully inflamed and purposes wickedly egged on. we say nothing of all this; nor will we dwell upon it. mrs. dallington vere assuredly was no slight sufferer. but she conquered the cabal that was formed against her, for the dandies were her friends, and gallantly supported her through a trial under which some women would have sunk. as it was, at the end of the season she did travel, but all is now forgotten; and hill street, berkeley square, again contains, at the moment of our story, its brightest ornament.
the present lord darrell gave up all idea of being an ambassador, but he was clever; and though he hurried to gratify a taste for pleasure which before had been too much mortified, he could not relinquish the ambitious prospects with which he had, during the greater part of his life, consoled himself for his cadetship. he piqued himself upon being at the same time a dandy and a statesman. he spoke in the house, and not without effect. he was one of those who make themselves masters of great questions; that is to say, who read a great many reviews and newspapers, and are full of others’ thoughts without ever having thought themselves. he particularly prided himself upon having made his way into the alhambra set. he was the only man of business among them. the duke liked him, for it is agreeable to be courted by those who are themselves considered.
lord darrell was a favourite with women. they like a little intellect. he talked fluently on all subjects. he was what is called ‘a talented young man.’ then he had mind, and soul, and all that. the miracles of creation have long agreed that body without soul will not do; and even a coxcomb in these days must be original, or he is a bore. no longer is such a character the mere creation of his tailor and his perfumer. lord darrell was an avowed admirer of lady caroline st. maurice, and a great favourite with her parents, who both considered him an oracle on the subjects which respectively interested them. you might dine at fitz-pompey house and hear his name quoted at both ends of the table; by the host upon the state of europe, and by the hostess upon the state of the season. had it not been for the young duke, nothing would have given lady fitz-pompey greater pleasure than to have received him as a son-in-law; but, as it was, he was only kept in store for the second string to cupid’s bow.
lord darrell had just quitted the house in a costume which, though rough, was not less studied than the finished and elaborate toilet which, in the course of an hour, he will exhibit in the enchanted halls of almack’s. there he will figure to the last, the most active and the most remarked; and though after these continued exertions he will not gain his couch perhaps till seven, our lord of the treasury, for he is one, will resume his official duties at an earlier hour than any functionary in the kingdom.
yet our friend is a little annoyed now. what is the matter? he dilates to his uncle, lord seymour temple, a greyheaded placeman, on the profligacy of the press. what is this? the virgilian line our orator introduced so felicitously is omitted. he panegyrizes the ‘mirror of parliament,’ where, he has no doubt, the missing verse will appear. the quotation was new, ‘timeo danaos.’
lord seymour temple begins a long story about fox and general fitzpatrick. this is a signal for a general retreat; and the bore, as sir boyle roche would say, like the last rose of summer, remains talking to himself.
