He wondered what it would have been like not to have been born in the purple, but to have been some quite unimportant person—not of too lowly a degree, of course, for that would certainly have been uncomfortable. He might have been obliged to live in Thatch End Cottages, for instance, with a leaking roof; or have been snapped up by the press gang; or even, perhaps (since he had always been undersized) have become the slave of a chimney-sweep. It was undoubtedly better to be the seventh Duke of Sale than a sweep’s apprentice, but he was much inclined to think that to have been plain Mr. Dash, of Nowhere in Particular, would have been preferable to either of these callings.
He began to picture the life of plain Mr. Dash, and was still lost in a pleasant, if slightly ill-informed, reverie when his chaise swept into the forecourt of his house in Curzon Street.
He came down to earth with a thud. Mr. Dash inhabited one of those cosy little terrace houses in a quiet corner of the town, and when he returned to his dwelling after a convivial evening spent with his cronies, playing French hazard, and getting his feet wet, he let himself into his house with his own key, and found no one at all who cared a button where he had been, or what he had been doing. None of his servants had ever known his father. In fact, he had very few servants: just a cook, and a housemaid or two, supposed the Duke, and—stretching a point—possibly a groom to look after his horses. Stewards, butlers, footmen, and valets were encumbrances unknown to Mr. Dash. Nor had he any relatives. Or had he one or two cousins? The Duke could not make up his mind on this point, for although the right style of cousin would undoubtedly be a comfort to Mr. Dash, cousins carried uncles in their wake, and Mr. Dash had no uncles—not even an uncle who lived a very long way from London, and never stirred out of his own house. And, thought the Duke, warming to his theme, Mr. Dash had no Chaplain, and no agent; no tradition to uphold; no dignity to maintain.
It was at this moment that the Duke returned to earth. His chaise had drawn up, and he found himself looking, not at a cosy little house in a terrace, but at the imposing portico of Sale House. As he blinked at it, the great doors were opened by unseen hands, his butler’s portly form appeared; and two footmen and the porter came down the steps to open the door of the chaise, let down the steps, remove the rug from across his Grace’s knees, and assist his Grace to alight. They were followed by Mr. Chigwell, the steward, who kept a sharp-eye on their movements, and was the first to offer a respectful welcome to his Grace.
The Duke began to laugh.
The elder of the two footmen, who figured on Mr. Scriven’s account-books as “the Duke’s footman,” continued to stand with his arm crooked for his master to lean upon as he descended from the coach, and his face rigidly impassive; but the younger footman found the Duke’s low laughter so infectious that he so far forgot himself as to grin in sympathy. Mr. Chigwell, himself a trifle startled, made a mental note of this, and silently rehearsed the words of stern reproof he would presently utter.
The Duke picked up his ebony cane, ducked his head to avoid knocking his tall, curly-brimmed beaver against the roof of the chaise, and jumped lightly down, ignoring both the steps, and the proffered arm. Mr. Chigwell and the porter both surged forward to prevent a possible fall, uttering in shocked accents: “Your Grace!”
“Oh, don’t, pray!” besought the Duke, in a shaking voice. “You will set me off again!”
Mr. Chigwell bowed politely but in a good deal of bewilderment. He said doubtfully: “I am glad to see your Grace in spirits. Will your Grace enter the house? You will be tired after the journey, I make no question. Refreshments have been laid out for your Grace in the Blue Saloon.”
“Thank you,” said the Duke.
He trod up the steps, smiled mechanically at Borrowdale, who bowed him in, and found that three more persons were waiting to welcome him. These were the groom of the chambers, the agent-in-chief, and a stalwart, smartly attired gentleman, who darted forward with his hands held out, exclaiming joyfully: “My dear, dear lord! You must let me be amongst the first to bid you welcome to London! How do you do? But I can see for myself that you are in good health!”
All desire to laugh abruptly left the Duke. He halted dead on the threshold, staring up in dismay into the florid countenance that loomed before him. Then, as he recollected himself, he blushed faintly, and held out his hand, saying, with a little stammer: “F-forgive me! I did not know you had been informed of my coming to town. It is excessively obliging in yon to have come to meet me, Captain Belper.”
“Why, I could not keep away, my dear Lord!” the Captain said, warmly shaking his hand. “I had the news from your good uncle, and excellent news I found it. I have not set eyes on you since I know not when! But come in out of the draught, sir! You see, I do not forget your old weakness! We must have no sore throats to spoil your visit to the Metropolis.”
“Thank you, I am very well,” the Duke said, disengaging his hand, and turning to bestow it upon the agent.
Mr. Scriven, a middle-aged man in a neat black suit, bowed very low over it, and said that it was a happiness to him to see his Grace. He hoped that everything would be found to be in readiness at Sale House, and begged his Grace to pardon any shortcomings. “Your Grace must know that we have not a full staff of servants here at present,” he said. “And I own that I am not perfectly happy in the Chief Confectioner.” His grave face relaxed into a smile. “But your Grace did not give me very long warning of this visit!”
“I am sure I shall do very well,” said the Duke. “I did not mean to put you to a deal of trouble. I daresay I could have been tolerably comfortable without a Chief Confectioner.”
Everyone realized that the Duke had uttered a witticism, so those who social status permitted them to laugh, did so, in a discreet way; and Mr. Scriven said that he hoped his Grace would not find his house to be quite so ill-prepared as that. He then added that he should hold himself in readiness to attend upon his Grace as soon as he should be needed, and bowed himself away to the set of offices in one wing of the mansion, where he conducted the business-of the Duke’s many estates and large fortune.
The Duke turned to find Borrowdale waiting to assist him to take off his long, multiple-caped driving-coat. He handed his hat, and his gloves, and his cane to his personal footman, allowed Borrowdale to remove his driving-coat, and stood revealed in fawn pantaloons, well-polished Hessian boots, and a blue cloth coat of Weston’s excellent tailoring. As he did not belong to the dandy-set, his shirt-collar points were not excessively high, and his neckcloth, although arranged with propriety, did not aspire to the niceties of the Mail-coach, the Osbaldestone, or the Trône d’Amour. A single fob hung at his waist; he did not carry a quizzing-glass; and except for a plain pearl pin in his tie the only other adornment he wore was the heavy sardonyx signet ring which had belonged to his father. The shank had had to be made smaller to fit his finger, and the ring seemed to be a trifle too large for so delicate a hand, but the Duke was fond of it, and rarely wore any other.
He accompanied Captain Belper into the Blue Saloon, where a fire had been lit, and a table spread with such light refreshments as might be acceptable within a few hours of dinner.
The Captain declined food, but took a glass of Madeira. He said: “Well, and what brings you to town, my lord? Your uncle writes that you mean to buy a horse!”
“Yes, I think I may do that,” replied the Duke.
The Captain lifted quizzical brows. “I think I know you a little too well to stand upon ceremony with you!” he said. “Thought I to myself, Aha! that is a tale for Lord Lionel! Is he still as—careful, shall we say?—as ever?”
“Oh, yes! But I need a new hunter,” replied the Duke tranquilly.
“You know I shall be happy to give you my advice. It will quite bring back old times. And for the rest you mean to do a little junketing about the town, eh? But the high ton parties are at an end, I fancy. Everyone is gone out of town.”
“I hope to see something of my cousin.”
“O
f course! he is stationed here! I think I caught sight of him the other day, devilish smart in his regimentals! These Lifeguardsmen! Hyde Park soldiers, we Peninsular men used to call them!” He laughed heartily as he spoke, but as the Duke had heard this pleasantry a good many times before he did not accord it more than a perfunctory smile. The Captain crossed one leg over the other, with the air of one who had no immediate intention of removing, and said: “Well, my lord, and what is the news with you? I did not see you at Egham races, although they tell me Lord Lionel was there. I was sorry to have missed the chance of paying my compliments to him.”
“Yes, my uncle was staying at Oatlands. He does so every year.”
“But still does not take you along with him!”
“I was in Yorkshire.”
“I should have known it indeed! You would not miss the grouse-shooting, I’ll wager! I daresay you would not have been amused as well at Oatlands: nothing but whist, and the company rather elderly nowadays. Très polissons, moreover: not at all what his lordship would wish for you!” He drank some of his wine, and set the glass down on the table at his elbow. “Well, you are wanting to hear all the town-gossip, I expect. There is very little to tell you. The old Queen seems to have recovered from the spasm she suffered in the spring. They say it was provoked by hearing that the Duchesses of Cambridge and Cumberland had met and embraced. Her physicians thought her rage would have carried her off! Then we had Clarence’s marriage in July: a shabby affair! Lord, what laughing-stocks they do make of themselves, the Royal Dukes! Three of them bolting into matrimony helter-skelter, one after the other. Entering for the Heir-to-the-throne Stakes, I call it! No doubt we shall be celebrating three Interesting Events next year. What else is there to tell you? Upon my word, I know of no particular tit-bit of scandal! The Regent drives his tilbury in the park every day, with his groom sitting up beside him: it doesn’t take well: the sobersides think he should have more dignity. You did well to stay out of town for the general election: you know Castlereagh got pelted? A bad business: came near to rioting in some parts. But you will have heard all that!”
In this fashion the Captain rattled on until interrupted by Borrowdale, who came into the room to enquire if it would suit his Grace to dine at eight o’clock, or whether he wished to visit a theatre. The Duke had meant to call at his cousin’s chambers that evening, but he knew that the Captain hoped to be asked to dine with him, and he could not bring himself to disappoint him. Upon receiving the invitation, the Captain protested half-heartedly that he was wearing his morning-clothes, but allowed himself to be easily persuaded into remaining. The Duke, feeling that a whole evening of his conversation could not be borne, said that they would dine early, and go to the theatre. This necessitated ordering the town carriage, selecting the play to be seen, and despatching a footman to procure a box—arrangements which the Duke found pompous, and the Captain, who was generally obliged to attend to all such details himself, agreeably luxurious.
They did not part until the Captain had wrung an assignation for the following morning out of the Duke, but a decided hint that they should also spend the afternoon together was countered by the Duke’s saying that he had some calls he must make.
At breakfast next day, the Duke bethought him of his agent, and desired one of the footmen to carry a message to him. Mr. Scriven, who had been expecting the summons, speedily presented himself in the library, bringing with him a formidably bulging brief-case; and the next hour was spent by the Duke in glancing perfunctorily over accounts; listening to suggestions for the improvement of several of his estates; and having it respectfully explained to him why his own ideas could not possibly be put into execution. Mr. Scriven was very kind to him—indeed, almost fatherly; and he said that it was a gratification to him to find his young master taking such a proper interest in his affairs; but he contrived to make him feel very ignorant. The interview ended with his saying that in anticipation of the Duke’s needs he had drawn a cheque on Child’s Bank, and would his Grace care to take all or part of the money into his own charge at once? The Duke thought he would not need more than a hundred pounds for the present, so this was counted out, in bills, and the sovereigns that still seemed so very new and strange; and the Duke went off to Manton’s Shooting Gallery, to meet Captain Belper, Here he did some very pretty shooting at a wafer, and fell in love with a handsome pair of duelling-pistols, which he purchased. The Captain cut several sly jokes about this, affecting to believe that he must have come to London to fight a duel over some unknown Fair One, and offering himself as a second. The Duke received these in good part, and by dint of employing evasive tactics, managed to shake him off without making any definite arrangement for a further meeting. The Captain said he should wait upon him next day; the Duke made plans for leaving his house at an early hour, and not returning to it until late at night.
Chapter IV
An hour later, the Duke had formally offered for Lady Harriet Presteigne’s hand in marriage, and had been accepted.
He had been lucky to have found his future father-in-law at home, he was told. The family was on the point of leaving town, the household, in fact, was in a pucker with the business of packing-up already, for while Lord and Lady Ampleforth, with the younger children, were off to Staffordshire, Lady Harriet was going to pay her annual visit to her grandmother in Bath. If the Duke had come but one day later, he would have found the shutters up, and the knocker off the door.
Lord Ampleforth, who was a kindly, harassed man, generally thought to be under the complete dominance of his wife, pushed matters to a crisis not quite bargained for by the Duke by saying almost at once: “I can guess why you are here, Gilly: I have been having some correspondence with your uncle. But I wish you will consider well, my dear boy! I shall not pretend to you that I do not like the alliance. Indeed, there is none I could like half as well, for setting aside the position my girl would occupy, I know of no one who would, I believe, make her happier. Your poor father was one of my closest friends, too! But do you wish it, my boy? Are you quite sure you have not been pushed into this by your uncle? I know Lionel well! an excellent fellow, and means-nothing but good, but overbearing—very overbearing!”
Taken aback, and at a loss for anything to say, the Duke flushed hotly, and stammered: “No, no! I mean—”
“You see, Gilly,” said Ampleforth, fidgeting about the room, “I am very much attached to you, both for your father’s sake, and for your own, and I should not like to think—Well, I was always very much against arranging such a thing before either of you were out of the nursery! And what I wish to say to you is this! If your heart is not in the business, I would not have you go a step farther in it. You need not regard anything but your own inclination, and I beg of you not to allow yourself to be swayed by considerations that do not matter a button! If expectations have been raised, they were not raised by you. I have always deprecated Harriet’s being encouraged to suppose—But I need not say more upon that head!”
He had certainly said enough. The Duke pulled himself together, and in a composed voice said that he entertained the deepest regard for Lady Harriet, and should think himself fortunate indeed if his suit were accepted.
Doubt and relief struggled for supremacy in Lord Ampleforth’s breast; relief won; he said: “Well! If your mind is set on it, what can I say but that my girl must count herself honoured to receive so distinguishing a proposal? I am sure—that is, I fancy there can be no doubt—But you will wish to hear her answer from her own lips! Do but sit down, Sale, while I discover if my lady is able to see you. I know she will wish to do so, but with the house at sixes and sevens—But I will not keep you waiting above a little while!”
He almost thrust his guest into a chair by the fire, and hurried off in search of his wife. He found her in her dressing-room, in conference with the housekeeper, and surrounded by a litter of bandboxes. She was a handsome woman, dressed in the first style of elegance in a Rutland half-robe, with a striped zephyr shawl, and a some
what formidable turban. Her nose was high-bridged, and her blue eyes at once penetrating and cold. One glance at her spouse sufficed to make her dismiss the housekeeper; and as soon as this portly dame had curtsied herself out of the room, she said: “Well, Ampleforth? What is it?”
“I have Sale downstairs,” he said. “He has been with me this past half-hour.”
“Sale!” she exclaimed, her eyes narrowing,
“My love, he has made me an offer for Harriet’s hand. He expressed himself with the greatest propriety: I think you would have been pleased to have heard him.”
“I was beginning to think he meant to cry off!” she said, in the outspoken way which always made her lord wince. “So he has offered at last! He could not have chosen a more awkward moment! The drawing-room is under holland covers already, and it is quite out of the question for us to be asking him to dine. We have only the under-cook here.”
“Upon my word, I had thought you would have been glad of the news!” said his lordship, quite astonished.
“Pray do not talk to me in that foolish manner, Ampleforth! You know very well that I am excessively glad of it, but why he might not have made his offer at a more seasonable time I have not the remotest conjecture. We should have held a dress-party, and the announcement should have been made at it. People will think it a shabbily contrived business!”
“You forget, ma’am,” rather feebly suggested his lordship, “that we are still in black gloves. It will not be thought wonderful that we do not—”
“Cousin Albinia, and I know not how many times removed, besides having been as mad as Bedlam for years! I assure you I should not have regarded that! However, it isof no use to repine! The thing is that Sale has been brought up to scratch, and heaven knows I must be thankful for that, for I don’t scruple to tell you, my lord, that I have been fearing Harriet was to be obliged to wear the willow. Where have you put him?”
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