The Young Duke
CHAPTER X.
_Love's Young Dream_
MORNING came, and the great majority of the gentlemen rose early asAurora. The chase is the favourite pastime of man and boy; yet somepreferred plundering their host's preserves, by which means theirslumbers were not so brief and their breakfast less disturbed. The_battue_, however, in time, called forth its band, and then one by one,or two by two, or sometimes even three, leaning on each other's armsand smiling in each other's faces, the ladies dropped into thebreakfast-room at Castle Dacre. There, until two o'clock, a loungingmeal might always be obtained, but generally by twelve the coast wasclear; for our party were a natural race of beings, and would haveblushed if flaming noon had caught them napping in their easy couches.Our bright bird, May Dacre, too, rose from her bower, full of the memoryof the sweetest dreams, and fresh as lilies ere they kiss the sun.
She bends before her ivory crucifix, and gazes on her blessed mother'sface, where the sweet Florentine had tinged with light a countenance
Too fair for worship, too divine for love!
And innocence has prayed for fresh support, and young devotion told herholy beads. She rises with an eye of mellowed light, and her soft cheekis tinted with the flush that comes from prayer. Guard over her, yeangels! wheresoe'er and whatsoe'er ye are! For she shall be your meetcompanion in an after-day. Then love your gentle friend, this sinlesschild of clay!
The morning passed as mornings ever pass where twenty women, for themost part pretty, are met together. Some read, some drew, some worked,all talked. Some wandered in the library, and wondered why such greatbooks were written. One sketched a favourite hero in the picturegallery, a Dacre, who had saved the State or Church, had fought atCressy, or flourished at Windsor: another picked a flower out of theconservatory, and painted its powdered petals. Here, a purse, half-made,promised, when finished quite, to make some hero happy. Then there waschat about the latest fashions, caps and bonnets, _seduisantes_, andsleeves. As the day grew' old, some rode, some walked, some drove. Apony-chair was Lady Faulconcourt's delight, whose arm was roundly turnedand graced the whip; while, on the other hand, Lady St. Jerome ratherloved to try the paces of an ambling nag, because her figure was of thesublime; and she looked not unlike an Amazonian queen, particularly whenLord Mildmay was her Theseus.
He was the most consummate, polished gentleman that ever issued from thecourt of France. He did his friend Dacre the justice to suppose that hewas a victim to his barbarous guests; but for the rest of the gallopingcrew, who rode and shot all day, and in the evening fell asleep justwhen they were wanted, he shrugged his shoulders, and he thanked hisstars! In short, Lord Mildmay was the ladies' man; and in their morningdearth of beaux, to adopt their unanimous expression, 'quite a host!'
Then there was archery for those who could draw a bow or point anarrow; and we are yet to learn the sight that is more dangerous for yourbachelor to witness, or the ceremony which more perfectly develops allthat the sex would wish us to remark, than this 'old English' custom.
With all these resources, all was, of course, free and easy as the air.Your appearance was your own act. If you liked, you might have remained,like a monk or nun, in your cell till dinner-time, but no later. Privacyand freedom are granted you in the morning, that you may not exhaustyour powers of pleasing before night, and that you may reserve for thosefavoured hours all the new ideas that you have collected in the courseof your morning adventures.
But where was he, the hero of our tale? Fencing? Craning? Hitting?Missing? Is he over, or is he under? Has he killed, or is he killed? forthe last is but the chance of war, and pheasants have the pleasureof sometimes seeing as gay birds as themselves with plumage quite asshattered. But there is no danger of the noble countenance of the Dukeof St. James bearing to-day any evidence of the exploits of himself orhis companions. His Grace was in one of his sublime fits, and did notrise. Luigi consoled himself for the bore of this protracted attendanceby diddling the page-in-waiting at dominos.
The Duke of St. James was in one of his sublime fits. He had commencedby thinking of May Dacre, and he ended by thinking of himself. He wasunder that delicious and dreamy excitement which we experience when theimage of a lovely and beloved object begins to mix itself up with ourown intense self-love. She was the heroine rather of an indefinitereverie than of definite romance. Instead of his own image alone playingabout his fancy, her beautiful face and springing figure intruded theirexquisite presence. He no longer mused merely on his own voice and wit:he called up her tones of thrilling power; he imagined her in all thetriumph of her gay repartee. In his mind's eye, he clearly watched allthe graces of her existence. She moved, she gazed, she smiled. Now hewas alone, and walking with her in some rich wood, sequestered,warm, solemn, dim, feeding on the music of her voice, and gazing withintenseness on the wakening passion of her devoted eye. Now they rodetogether, scudded over champaign, galloped down hills, scampered throughvalleys, all life, and gaiety, and vivacity, and spirit. Now they werein courts and crowds; and he led her with pride to the proudest kings.He covered her with jewels; but the world thought her brighter than hisgems. Now they met in the most unexpected and improbable manner: nowthey parted with a tenderness which subdued their souls even more thanrapture. Now he saved her life: now she blessed his existence. Now hisreverie was too vague and misty to define its subject. It was a streamof passion, joy, sweet voices, tender tones, exulting hopes, beamingfaces, chaste embraces, immortal transports!
It was three o'clock, and for the twentieth time our hero made an effortto recall himself to the realities of life. How cold, how tame, howlifeless, how imperfect, how inconsecutive, did everything appear! Thisis the curse of reverie. But they who revel in its pleasures must bearits pains, and are content. Yet it wears out the brain, and unfits usfor social life. They who indulge in it most are the slaves of solitude.They wander in a wilderness, and people it with their voices. They sitby the side of running waters, with an eye more glassy than the stream.The sight of a human being scares them more than a wild beast does atraveller; the conduct of life, when thrust upon their notice, seemsonly a tissue of adventures without point; and, compared with thecreatures of their imagination, human nature seems to send forth onlyabortions.
'I must up,' said the young Duke; 'and this creature on whom I havelived for the last eight hours, who has, in herself, been to me theuniverse, this constant companion, this cherished friend, whose voicewas passion and whose look was love, will meet me with all the formalityof a young lady, all the coldness of a person who has never even thoughtof me since she saw me last. Damnable delusion! To-morrow I will get upand hunt.'
He called Luigi, and a shower-bath assisted him in taking a more healthyview of affairs. Yet his faithful fancy recurred to her again. He mustindulge it a little. He left off dressing and flung himself in a chair.
'And yet,' he continued, 'when I think of it again, there surely canbe no reason that this should not turn into a romance of real life. Iperceived that she was a little piqued when we first met at Don-caster.Very natural! Very flattering! I should have been piqued. Certainly,I behaved decidedly ill. But how, in the name of Heaven, was I to knowthat she was the brightest little being that ever breathed! Well, I amhere now! She has got her wish. And I think an evident alteration hasalready taken place. But she must not melt too quickly. She will not;she will do nothing but what is exquisitely proper. How I do love thischild! I dote upon her very image. It is the very thing that I havealways been wanting. The women call me inconstant. I have never beenconstant. But they will not listen to us without we feign feelings, andthen they upbraid us for not being influenced by them. I have sighed, Ihave sought, I have wept, for what I now have found. What would she giveto know what is passing in my mind! By Heavens! there is no blood inEngland that has a better chance of being a Duchess!'