CHAPTER VII.
_'To See Ourselves as Others See Us.'_
NOTHING was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. Arundel Dacre's speech. Allthe world flocked to Castle Dacre to compliment and to congratulate; andan universal hope was expressed that he might come in for the county,if indeed the success of his eloquence did not enable his uncle topre-occupy that honour. Even the calm Mr. Dacre shared the generalelation, and told the Duke of St. James regularly every day that it wasall owing to him. May Dacre was enthusiastic; but her gratitude to himwas synonymous with her love for Arundel, and valued accordingly. TheDuke, however, felt that he had acted at once magnanimously, generously,and wisely. The consciousness of a noble action is itself ennobling.His spirit expanded with the exciting effects which his conducthad produced; and he felt consolation under all his misery fromthe conviction that he had now claims to be remembered, and perhapsregarded, when he was no more among them.
The Bill went swimmingly through the Commons, the majority of twogradually swelling into eleven; and the important night in the Lords wasat hand.
'Lord Faulconcourt writes,' said Mr. Dacre, 'that they expect onlythirty-eight against us.'
'Ah! that terrible House of Lords!' said Miss Dacre. 'Let us see: whendoes it come on, the day after to-morrow? Scarcely forty-eight hoursand all will be over, and we shall be just where we were. You and yourfriends manage very badly in your House,' she added, addressing herselfto the Duke.
'I do all I can,' said his Grace, smiling. 'Burlington has my proxy.'
'That is exactly what I complain of. On such an occasion, there shouldbe no proxies. Personal attendance would indicate a keener interest inthe result. Ah! if I were Duke of St. James for one night!'
'Ah! that you would be Duchess of St. James!' thought the Duke; buta despairing lover has no heart for jokes, and so he did not giveutterance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and caught May Dacre'seye. She smiled, and slightly blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness ofher remark, though too late.
The Duke retired early, but not to sleep. His mind was busied on a greatdeed. It was past midnight before he could compose his agitated feelingsto repose, and by five o'clock he was again up. He dressed himself, andthen put on a rough travelling coat, which, with a shawl, effectuallydisguised his person; and putting in one pocket a shirt, and in theother a few articles from his dressing-case, the Duke of St. James stoleout of Castle Dacre, leaving a note for his host, accounting for hissudden departure by urgent business at Hauteville, and promising areturn in a day or two.
The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his hurried way through the longdewy grass, and, crossing the Park, gained the road, which, however, wasnot the high one. He had yet another hour's rapid walk, before he couldreach his point of destination; and when that was accomplished, he foundhimself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign his own arms, andsituated in the high road opposite his own Park. He was confident thathis person was unknown to the host, or to any of the early idlers whowere lingering about the mail, then breakfasting.
'Any room, guard, to London?'
'Room inside, sir: just going off.'
The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James took his seat in theEdinburgh and York Mail. He had two companions: the first, becauseapparently the most important, was a hard-featured, grey-headedgentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air ofacuteness and conceit; the other was a humble-looking widow inher weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had recently rousedthemselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and now, after their welcomemeal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds.
'Well! now we are off,' said the gentleman. 'Very neat, cleanly littlehouse this, ma'am,' continued he to his companion. 'What is the sign?''The Hauteville Arms.' 'Oh! Hauteville; that is--that is, let me see!the St. James family. Ah! a pretty fool that young man has made ofhimself, by all accounts. Eh! sir?'
'I have reason to believe so,' said the Duke.
'I suppose this is his park, eh? Hem! going to London, sir?'
'I am.'
'Ah! hem! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. Fine ground wasted. What theuse of parks is, I can't say.'
'The place seems well kept up,' said the widow.
'So much the worse; I wish it were in ruins.'
'Well, for my part,' continued the widow in a low voice, 'I think a parknearly the most beautiful thing we have. Foreigners, you know, sir----'
'Ah! I know what you are going to say,' observed the gentleman in acurt, gruffish voice. 'It is all nonsense. Foreigners are fools. Don'ttalk to me of beauty; a mere word. What is the use of all this? Itproduces about as much benefit to society as its owner does.'
'And do you think his existence, then, perfectly useless?' asked theDuke.
'To be sure, I do. So the world will, some day or other. We areopening our eyes fast. Men begin to ask themselves what the use of anaristocracy is. That is the test, sir.'
'I think it not very difficult to demonstrate the use of anaristocracy,' mildly observed the Duke.
'Pooh! nonsense, sir! I know what you are going to say; but we havegot beyond all that. Have you read this, sir? This article on thearistocracy in "The Screw and Lever Review?"'
'I have not, sir.'
'Then I advise you to make yourself master of it, and you will talk nomore of the aristocracy. A few more articles like this, and a few morenoblemen like the man who has got this park, and people will open theireyes at last.'
'I should think,' said his Grace, 'that the follies of the man who hadgot this park have been productive of evil only to himself. In fact,sir, according to your own system, a prodigal noble seems to be a verydesirable member of the commonwealth and a complete leveller.'
'We shall get rid of them all soon, sir,' said his companion, with amalignant smile.
'I have heard that he is very young, sir,' remarked the widow.
'What is that to you or me?'
'Ah! youth is a trying time. Let us hope the best! He may turn out wellyet, poor soul!'
'I hope not. Don't talk to me of poor souls. There is a poor soul,' saidthe utilitarian, pointing to an old man breaking stones on the highway.'That is what I call a poor soul, not a young prodigal, whose life hasbeen one long career of infamous debauchery.'
'You appear to have heard much of this young nobleman,' said the Duke;'but it does not follow, sir, that you have heard truth.'
'Very true, sir,' said the widow. 'The world is very foul-mouthed. Letus hope he is not so very bad.'
'I tell you what, my friends; you know nothing about what you aretalking of. I don't speak without foundation. You have not the leastidea, sir, how this fellow has lived. Now, what I am going to tell youis a fact: I know it to be a fact. A very intimate friend of mine, whoknows a person, who is a very intimate friend of an intimate friend of aperson, who knows the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one nightthey had for supper--what do you think ma'am?--Venison cutlets, eachserved up in a hundred pound note!'
'Mercy!' exclaimed the widow.
'And do you believe it?' asked the Duke.
'Believe it! I know it!'
'He is very young,' said the widow. 'Youth is a very trying time.'
'Nothing to do with his youth. It's the system, the infernal system. Ifthat man had to work for his bread, like everybody else, do you think hewould dine off bank notes? No! to be sure he wouldn't! It's the system.'
'Young people are very wild!' said the widow.
'Pooh! ma'am. Nonsense! Don't talk cant. If a man be properly educated,he is as capable at one-and-twenty of managing anything, as at any timein his life; more capable. Look at the men who write "The Screw andLever;" the first men in the country. Look at them. Not one of age.Look at the man who wrote this article on the aristocracy: young DuncanMacmorrogh. Look at him, I say, the first man in the country by far.'
'I never heard his name before,' calmly observed the Duke.
'Not heard his name? Not heard of young Duncan Macmorrogh, the fir
stman of the day, by far; not heard of him? Go and ask the Marquess ofSheepshead what he thinks of him. Go and ask Lord Two and Two what hethinks of him. Duncan dines with Lord Two and Two every week.'
The Duke smiled, and his companion proceeded.
'Well, again, look at his friends. There is young First Principles.What a "head that fellow has got! Here, this article on India is by him.He'll knock up their Charter. He is a clerk in the India House. Up tothe detail, you see. Let me read you this passage on monopolies. Thenthere is young Tribonian Quirk. By G--, what a mind that fellow has got!By G--, nothing but first principles will go down with thesefellows! They laugh at anything else. By G--, sir, they look upon theadministration of the present day as a parcel of sucking babes! When Iwas last in town, Quirk told me that he would not give that for all thepublic men that ever existed! He is keeping his terms at Gray's Inn.This article on a new Code is by him. Shows as plain as light, that,by sticking close to first principles, the laws of the country might becarried in every man's waistcoat pocket.'
The coach stopped, and a colloquy ensued.
'Any room to Selby?'
'Outside or in?'
'Out, to be sure.'
'Room inside only.'
'Well! in then.'
The door opened, and a singularly quaint-looking personage presentedhimself. He was very stiff and prim in his appearance; dressed in a bluecoat and scarlet waistcoat, with a rich bandanna handkerchief tied veryneatly round his neck, and a very new hat, to which his head seemedlittle habituated.
'Sorry to disturb you, ladies and gentlemen: not exactly the properplace for me. Don't be alarmed. I'm always respectful wherever I am. Myrule through life is to be respectful.'
'Well, now, in with you,' said the guard.
'Be respectful, my friend, and don't talk so to an old soldier who hasserved his king and his country.'
Off they went.
'Majesty's service?' asked the stranger of the Duke.
'I have not that honour.'
'Hum! Lawyer, perhaps?'
'Not a lawyer.'
'Hum! A gentleman, I suppose?'
The Duke was silent; and so the stranger addressed himself to theanti-aristocrat, who seemed vastly annoyed by the intrusion of so low apersonage.
'Going to London, sir?'
'I tell you what, my friend, at once; I never answer impertinentquestions.'
'No offence, I hope, sir! Sorry to offend. I'm always respectful. Madam!I hope I don't inconvenience you; I should be sorry to do that. Wesailors, you know, are always ready to accommodate the ladies.'
'Sailor!' exclaimed the acute utilitarian, his curiosity stifling hishauteur. 'Why! just now, I thought you were a soldier.'
'Well! so I am.'
'Well, my friend, you are a conjuror then.'
'No, I ayn't; I'm a marine.'
'A very useless person, then.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly educated, such anamphibious corps would never have been formed, and some of the mostatrocious sinecures ever tolerated would consequently not have existed.'
'Sinecures! I never heard of him. I served under Lord Combermere. Maybeyou have heard of him, ma'am? A nice man; a beautiful man. I have seenhim stand in a field like that, with the shot falling about him likehail, and caring no more for them than peas.'
'If that were for bravado,' said the utilitarian, 'I think it a verysilly thing.'
'Bravado! I never heard of him. It was for his king and country.'
'Was it in India?' asked the widow.
'In a manner, ma'am,' said the marine, very courteously. 'At Bhurtpore,up by Pershy, and thereabouts; the lake of Cashmere, where all theshawls come from. Maybe you have heard of Cashmere, ma'am?'
'"Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere!'" hummed the Duke tohimself.
'Ah! I thought so,' said the marine; 'all people know much the same; forsome have seen, and some have read. I can't read, but I have served myking and country for five-and-twenty years, and I have used my eyes.'
'Better than reading,' said the Duke, humouring the character.
'I'll tell you what,' said the marine, with a knowing look. 'I suspectthere is a d--d lot of lies in your books. I landed in England lastseventh of June, and went to see St. Paul's. "This is the greatestbuilding in the world," says the man. Thinks I, "You lie." I did nottell him so, because I am always respectful. I tell you what, sir; maybeyou think St. Paul's the greatest building in the world, but I tell youwhat, it's a lie. I have seen one greater. Maybe, ma'am, you think I amtelling you a lie too; but I am not. Go and ask Captain Jones, of the58th. I went with him: I give you his name: go and ask Captain Jones, ofthe 58th, if I be telling you a lie. The building I mean is thepalace of the Sultan Acber; for I have served my king and countryfive-and-twenty years last seventh of June, and have seen strangethings; all built of precious stones, ma'am. What do you think of that?All built of precious stones; carnelian, of which you make your seals;as sure as I'm a sinner saved. If I ayn't speaking the truth, I am notgoing to Selby. Maybe you'd like to know why I am going to Selby? I'lltell you what. Five-and-twenty years have I served my king and countrylast seventh of June. Now I begin with the beginning. I ran away fromhome when I was eighteen, you see! and, after the siege of Bhurtpore, Iwas sitting on a bale of silk alone, and I said to myself, I'll go andsee my mother. Sure as I am going to Selby, that's the whole. I landedin England last seventh of June, absent five-and-twenty years, servingmy king and country. I sent them a letter last night. I put it in thepost myself. Maybe I shall be there before my letter now.'
'To be sure you will,' said the utilitarian; 'what made you do such asilly thing? Why, your letter is in this coach.'
'Well! I shouldn't wonder. I shall be there before my letter now. Allnonsense, letters: my wife wrote it at Falmouth.'
'You are married, then?' said the widow.
'Ayn't I, though? The sweetest cretur, madam, though I say it beforeyou, that ever lived.'
'Why did you not bring your wife with you?' asked the widow.
'And wouldn't I be very glad to? but she wouldn't come among strangersat once; and so I have got a letter, which she wrote for me, to put inthe post, in case they are glad to see me, and then she will come on.'
'And you, I suppose, are not sorry to have a holiday?' said the Duke.
'Ayn't I, though? Ayn't I as low about leaving her as ever I was in mylife; and so is the poor cretur. She won't eat a bit of victuals tillI come back, I'll be sworn; not a bit, I'll be bound to say that; andmyself, although I am an old soldier and served my king and country forfive-and-twenty years, and so got knocked about, and used to anything,as it were, I don't know how it is, but I always feel queer whenever Iam away from her. I shan't make a hearty meal till I see her. Somehow orother, when I am away from her, everything feels dry in the throat.'
'You are very fond of her, I see,' said the Duke.
'And ought I not to be? Didn't I ask her three times before she said_yes_? Those are the wives for wear, sir. None of the fruit that fallsat a shaking for me! Hasn't she stuck by me in every climate, andin every land I was in? Not a fellow in the company had such a wife.Wouldn't I throw myself off this coach this moment, to give her amoment's peace? That I would, though; d----me if I wouldn't.'
'Hush! hush!' said the widow; 'never swear. I am afraid you talk toomuch of your love,' she added, with a faint smile.
'Ah! you don't know my wife, ma'am. Are you married, sir?'
'I have not that happiness,' said the Duke.
'Well, there is nothing like it! but don't take the fruit that falls ata shake. But this, I suppose, is Selby?'
The marine took his departure, having stayed long enough to raise in theyoung Duke's mind curious feelings.
As he was plunged into reverie, and as the widow was silent,conversation was not resumed until the coach stopped for dinner.
'We stop here half-an-hour, gentlemen,' said the guard. 'Mrs. Burnet,'he con
tinued, to the widow, 'let me hand you out.'
They entered the parlour of the inn. The Duke, who was ignorant of theetiquette of the road, did not proceed to the discharge of hisduties, as the youngest guest, with all the promptness desired by hisfellow-travellers.
'Now, sir,' said an outside, 'I will thank you for a slice of thatmutton, and will join you, if you have no objection in a bottle ofsherry.'
'What you please, sir. May I have the pleasure of helping you, ma'am?'
After dinner the Duke took advantage of a vacant outside place.
Tom Rawlins was the model of a guard. Young, robust, and gay, he had aletter, a word, or a wink for all he met. All seasons were the same tohim; night or day he was ever awake, and ever alive to all the interestof the road; now joining in conversation with a passenger, shrewd,sensible, and respectful; now exchanging a little elegant badinage withthe coachman; now bowing to a pretty girl; now quizzing a passer-by; hewas off and on his seat in an instant, and, in the whiff of his cigar,would lock a wheel, or unlock a passenger.
From him the young Duke learned that his fellow-inside was Mr. DuncanMacmorrogh, senior, a writer at Edinburgh, and, of course, the father ofthe first man of the day. Tom Rawlins could not tell his Grace as muchabout the principal writer in 'The Screw and Lever Review' as we can;for Tom was no patron of our periodical literature, farther than apolice report in the Publican's Journal. Young Duncan Macmorrogh was alimb of the law, who had just brought himself into notice by a seriesof articles in 'The Screw and Lever,' in which he had subjected theuniverse piecemeal to his critical analysis. Duncan Macmorrogh cutup the creation, and got a name. His attack upon mountains was mostviolent, and proved, by its personality, that he had come from theLowlands. He demonstrated the inutility of all elevation, and declaredthat the Andes were the aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he ratherpatronised; but flowers he quite pulled to pieces, and proved them tobe the most useless of existences. Duncan Macmorrogh informed us that wewere quite wrong in supposing ourselves to be the miracle of creation.On the contrary, he avowed that already there were various pieces ofmachinery of far more importance than man; and he had no doubt, intime, that a superior race would arise, got by a steam-engine on aspinning-jenny.
The other 'inside' was the widow of a former curate of a Northumbrianvillage. Some friend had obtained for her only child a clerkship ina public office, and for some time this idol of her heart had gone onprospering; but unfortunately, of late, Charles Burnet had got intoa bad set, was now involved in a terrible scrape, and, as Tom Rawlinsfeared, must lose his situation and go to ruin.
'She was half distracted when she heard it first, poor creature! I haveknown her all my life, sir. Many the kind word and glass of ale I havehad at her house, and that's what makes me feel for her, you see. Ido what I can to make the journey easy to her, for it is a pull at heryears. God bless her! there is not a better body in this world; that Iwill, say for her. When I was a boy, I used to be the playfellow in amanner with Charley Burnet: a gay lad, sir, as ever you'd wish to seein a summer's day, and the devil among the girls always, and that's beenthe ruin of him; and as open-a-hearted fellow as ever lived. D----me!I'd walk to the land's end to save him, if it were only for his mother'ssake, to say nothing of himself.'
'And can nothing be done?' asked the Duke.
'Why, you see, he is back in L s. d.; and, to make it up, the poor bodymust sell her all, and he won't let her do it, and wrote a letter like aprince (No room, sir), as fine a letter as ever you read (Hilloa, there!What! are you asleep?)--as ever you read on a summer's day. I didn'tsee it, but my mother told me it was as good as e'er a one of the oldgentleman's sermons. "Mother," said he, "my sins be upon my own head. Ican bear disgrace (How do, Mr. Wilkins?), but I cannot bear to see you abeggar!"'
'Poor fellow!'
'Ay! sir, as good-a-hearted fellow as ever you'd wish to meet!'
'Is he involved to a great extent, think you?'
'Oh! a long figure, sir (I say, Betty, I've got a letter for you fromyour sweetheart), a very long figure, sir (Here, take it!); I should besorry (Don't blush; no message?)--I should be sorry to take two hundredpounds to pay it. No, I wouldn't take two hundred pounds, that Iwouldn't (I say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith's).'
Night came on, and the Duke resumed his inside place. Mr. Macmorroghwent to sleep over his son's article; and the Duke feigned slumber,though he was only indulging in reverie. He opened his eyes, and alight, which they passed, revealed the countenance of the widow. Tearswere stealing down her face.
'I have no mother; I have no one to weep for me,' thought the Duke; 'andyet, if I had been in this youth's station, my career probably wouldhave been as fatal. Let me assist her. Alas! how I have misused mypower, when, even to do this slight deed, I am obliged to hesitate, andconsider whether it be practicable.'
The coach again stopped for a quarter of an hour. The Duke had, inconsideration of the indefinite period of his visit, supplied himselfamply with money on repairing to Dacre. Besides his purse, which waswell stored for the road, he had somewhat more than three hundred poundsin his notebook. He took advantage of their tarrying, to inclose it andits contents in a sheet of paper with these lines:
'An unknown friend requests Mrs. Burnet to accept this token of hissympathy with suffering virtue.'
Determined to find some means to put this in her possession beforetheir parting, he resumed his place. The Scotchman now prepared for hisnight's repose. He produced a pillow for his back, a bag for his feet,and a cap for his head. These, and a glass of brandy-and-water, in timeproduced a due effect, and he was soon fast asleep. Even to the widow,night brought some solace. The Duke alone found no repose. Unused totravelling in public conveyances at night, and unprovided with any ofthe ingenious expedients of a mail coach adventurer, he felt all theinconveniences of an inexperienced traveller. The seat was unendurablyhard, his back ached, his head whirled, the confounded sherry, slight aswas his portion, had made him feverish, and he felt at once excitedand exhausted. He was sad, too; very depressed. Alone, and no longersurrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made solitudeprecious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energyvanished. He repented his rashness; and the impulse of the previousnight, which had gathered fresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. Hefelt alone, and without a friend, and night passed without a moment'sslumber, watching the driving clouds.
The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the whole journey. At St.Alban's he got out, took a cup of coffee with Tom Rawlins, and, althoughthe morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. In the firstgloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got out. The Duke sent Rawlins afterher with the parcel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. Hewatched the widow protesting it was not hers, his faithful emissaryappealing to the direction, and with delight he observed it left inher hands. They rattled into London, stopped in Lombard Street, reachedHolborn, entered an archway; the coachman threw the whip and reins fromhis now careless hands. The Duke bade farewell to Tom Rawlins, and wasshown to a bed.