CHAPTER VIII.
_'Fair Women and Brave Men.'_
MR. DACRE received him with affection: his daughter with a cordialitywhich he had never yet experienced from her. Though more simply dressedthan when she first met his ardent gaze, her costume again charmed hispractised eye. 'It must be her shape,' thought the young Duke; 'it ismagical!'
The rooms were full of various guests, and some of these were presentedto his Grace, who was, of course, an object of universal notice, butparticularly by those persons who pretended not to be aware of hisentrance. The party assembled at Castle Dacre consisted of some thirtyor forty persons, all of great consideration, but of a differentcharacter from any with whom the Duke of St. James had been acquaintedduring his short experience of English society. They were not what arecalled fashionable people. We have no princes and no ambassadors, noduke who is a gourmand, no earl who is a jockey, no manoeuvring mothers,no flirting daughters, no gambling sons, for your entertainment. Thereis no superfine gentleman brought down specially from town to gaugethe refinement of the manners of the party, and to prevent them, byhis constant supervision and occasional sneer, from losing any of thebeneficial results of their last campaign. We shall sadly want, too,a Lady Patroness to issue a decree or quote her code of consolidatedetiquette. We are not sure that Almack's will ever be mentioned: quitesure that Maradan has never yet been heard of. The Jockey Club may bequoted, but Crockford will be a dead letter. As for the rest, Boodle'sis all we can promise; miserable consolation for the bow-window. As forbuffoons and artists, to amuse a vacant hour or sketch a vacant face, wemust frankly tell you at once that there is not one. Are you frightened?Will you go on? Will you trust yourself with these savages? Try. Theyare rude, but they are hospitable.
The party, we have said, were all persons of great consideration; somewere noble, most were rich, all had ancestors. There were the Earland Countess of Faulconcourt. He looked as if he were fit to reconquerPalestine, and she as if she were worthy to reward him for his valour.Misplaced in this superior age, he was _sans peur_ and she _sansreproche_. There was Lord Mildmay, an English peer and a French colonel.Methinks such an incident might have been a better reason for a latemeasure than an Irishman being returned a member of our ImperialParliament. There was our friend Lord St. Jerome; of course hisstepmother, yet young, and some sisters, pretty as nuns. There were somecousins from the farthest north, Northumbria's bleakest bound, who camedown upon Yorkshire like the Goths upon Italy, and were revelling inwhat they considered a southern clime.
There was an M.P. in whom the Catholics had hopes. He had made a greatspeech; not only a great speech, but a great impression. His mattercertainly was not new, but well arranged, and his images not singularlyoriginal, but appositely introduced; in short, a bore, who, speakingon a subject in which a new hand is indulged, and connected with thefamilies whose cause he was pleading, was for once courteously listenedto by the very men who determined to avenge themselves for theircomplaisance by a cough on the first opportunity. But the orator wasprudent; he reserved himself, and the session closed with his fame yetfull-blown.
Then there were country neighbours in great store, with wives thatwere treasures, and daughters fresh as flowers. Among them we wouldparticularise two gentlemen. They were great proprietors, and Catholicsand Baronets, and consoled themselves by their active maintenance of thegame-laws for their inability to regulate their neighbours by any other.One was Sir Chetwode Chetwode of Chetwode; the other was Sir TichborneTichborne of Tichborne. It was not easy to see two men less calculatedto be the slaves of a foreign and despotic power, which we all knowCatholics are. Tall, and robust, and rosy, with hearts even stouterthan their massy frames, they were just the characters to assemble inRunnymede, and probably, even at the present day, might have imitatedtheir ancestors, even in their signatures. In disposition they weremuch the same, though they were friends. In person there were somedifferences, but they were slight. Sir Chetwode's hair was straight andwhite; Sir Tichborne's brown and curly. Sir Chetwode's eyes were blue;Sir Tichborne's grey.
Sir Chetwode's nose was perhaps a snub; Sir Tichborne's was certainly abottle. Sir Chetwode was somewhat garrulous, and was often like a man ata play, in the wrong box! Sir Tichborne was somewhat taciturn; but whenhe spoke, it was always to the purpose, and made an impression, even ifit were not new. Both were kind hearts; but Sir Chetwode was jovial,Sir Tichborne rather stern. Sir Chetwode often broke into a joke; SirTichborne sometimes backed into a sneer. .
A few of these characters were made known by Mr. Dacre to his youngfriend, but not many, and in an easy way; those that stood nearest.Introduction is a formality and a bore, and is never resorted to by yourwell-bred host, save in a casual way. When proper people meet at properhouses, they give each other credit for propriety, and slide into anacquaintance by degrees. The first day they catch a name; the next, theyask you whether you are the son of General----. 'No; he was my uncle.''Ah! I knew him well. A worthy soul!' And then the thing is settled. Youride together, shoot, or fence, or hunt. A game of billiards will do nogreat harm; and when you part, you part with a hope that you may meetagain.
Lord Mildmay was glad to meet with the son of an old friend. He knew thelate Duke well, and loved him better. It is pleasant to hear our fatherspraised. We, too, may inherit their virtues with their lands, orcash, or bonds; and, scapegraces as we are, it is agreeable to find aprecedent for the blood turning out well. And, after all, there is nofeeling more thoroughly delightful than to be conscious that the kindbeing from whose loins we spring, and to whom we cling with an innateand overpowering love, is viewed by others with regard, with reverence,or with admiration. There is no pride like the pride of ancestry, for itis a blending of all emotions. How immeasurably superior to the herd isthe man whose father only is famous! Imagine, then, the feelings ofone who can trace his line through a thousand years of heroes and ofprinces!
'Tis dinner! hour that I have loved as loves the bard the twilight; butno more those visions rise that once were wont to spring in my quickfancy. The dream is past, the spell is broken, and even the lore onwhich I pondered in my first youth is strange as figures in Egyptiantombs.
No more, no more, oh! never more to me, that hour shall bring itsrapture and its bliss! No more, no more, oh! never more for me, shallFlavour sit upon her thousand thrones, and, like a syren with a sunnysmile, win to renewed excesses, each more sweet! My feasting days areover: me no more the charms of fish, or flesh, still less of fowl, canmake the fool of that they made before. The fricandeau is like a dreamof early love; the fricassee, with which I have so often flirted, islike the tattle of the last quadrille; and no longer are my dreamshaunted with the dark passion of the rich ragout. Ye soups! o'er whosecreation I have watched, like mothers o'er their sleeping child! Yesauces! to which I have even lent a name, where are ye now? Tickling,perchance, the palate of some easy friend, who quite forgets the booncompanion whose presence once lent lustre even to his ruby wine andadded perfume to his perfumed hock!
Our Duke, however, had not reached the age of retrospection. He peckedas prettily as any bird. Seated on the right hand of his delightfulhostess, nobody could be better pleased; supervised by his jaeger, whostood behind his chair, no one could be better attended. He smiled,with the calm, amiable complacency of a man who feels the world is quiteright.
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