CHAPTER XIII.
_The Charms of Hauteville_
IT WAS a morning all dew and sunshine, soft yet bright, just fit for ahawking party, for dames of high degree, feathered cavaliers, amblingpalfreys, and tinkling bells. Our friends rose early, and assembledpunctually. All went, and all went on horseback; but they sent beforesome carriages for the return, in case the ladies should be weariedwith excessive pleasure. The cavalcade, for it was no less, broke intoparties which were often out of sight of each other. The Duke andLord St. Jerome, Clara Howard and Charles Faulcon, Miss Dacre and Mrs.Dallington, formed one, and, as they flattered themselves, not the leastbrilliant. They were all in high spirits, and his Grace lectured onriding-habits with erudite enthusiasm.
Their road lay through a country wild and woody, where crag and copsebeautifully intermixed with patches of rich cultivation. Halfway, theypassed Rosemount, a fanciful pavilion where the Dukes of St. Jamessometimes sought that elegant simplicity which was not afforded byall the various charms of their magnificent Hauteville. At length theyarrived at the park-gate of the castle, which might itself have passedfor a tolerable mansion. It was ancient and embattled, flanked by acouple of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the baronialpile which it announced. The park was a petty principality; and itsapparently illimitable extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancientwoods and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the admiration evenof those who had been born in such magical enclosures.
Away they cantered over the turf, each moment with their blood moresparkling. A turn in the road, and Hauteville, with its donjon keep andlordly flag, and many-windowed line of long perspective, its towers, andturrets, and terraces, bathed with the soft autumnal sun, met their gladsight.
'Your Majesty is welcome to my poor castle!' said the young Duke, bowingwith head uncovered to Miss Dacre.
'Nay, we are at the best but captive princesses about to be immured inthat fearful keep; and this is the way you mock us!'
'I am content that you shall be my prisoner.'
'A struggle for freedom!' said Miss Dacre, looking back to Mrs.Dallington, and she galloped towards the castle.
Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome cantered up, and the rest soonassembled. Sir Carte came forward, all smiles, with a clerk of theworks bearing a portfolio of plans. A crowd of servants, for the Dukemaintained an establishment at Hauteville, advanced, and the fairequestrians were dismounted. They shook their habits and their curls,vowed that riding was your only exercise, and that dust in the earthlyeconomy was a blunder. And then they entered the castle.
Room after room, gallery after gallery; you know the rest. Shall wedescribe the silk hangings and the reverend tapestry, the agate tablesand the tall screens, the china and the armour, the state beds and thecurious cabinets, and the family pictures mixed up so quaintly withItalian and Flemish art? But we pass from meek Madonnas and seraphicsaints, from gleaming Claudes and Guidos soft as Eve, from Rubens'ssatyrs and Albano's boys, and even from those gay and natural medleys,paintings that cheer the heart, where fruit and flower, with theirbrilliant bloom, call to a feast the butterfly and bee; we pass fromthese to square-headed ancestors by Holbein, all black velvet and goldchains; cavaliers, by Vandyke, all lace and spurs, with pointed beards,that did more execution even than their pointed swords; patriots andgenerals, by Kneller, in Blenheim wigs and Steen-kirk cravats, allrobes and armour; scarlet judges that supported ship-money, and purplebishops, who had not been sent to the Tower. Here was a wit who hadsipped his coffee at Button's, and there some mad Alcibiades duke whohad exhausted life ere he had finished youth, and yet might be consoledfor all his flashing follies could he witness the bright eyes thatlingered on his countenance, while they glanced over all the patriotismand all the piety, all the illustrious courage and all the historiccraft, which, when living, it was daily told him that he had shamed. Yedames with dewy eyes that Lely drew! have we forgotten you? No! by thatsleepy loveliness that reminds us that night belongs to beauty, ye weremade for memory! And oh! our grandmothers, that we now look upon asgirls, breathing in Reynolds's playful canvas, let us also pay ourhomage to your grace!
The chapel, where you might trace art from the richly Gothic tomb,designed by some neighbouring abbot, to the last effort of Flaxman;the riding-house, where, brightly framed, looked down upon you with acourtly smile the first and gartered duke, who had been Master of theHorse, were alike visited, and alike admired. They mounted the summitof the round tower, and looked around upon the broad county, which theywere proud to call their own. Amid innumerable seats, where blazed thehearths of the best blood of England, they recognised, with delight, thedome of Dacre and the woods of Dallington. They walked along a terracenot unworthy of the promenade of a court; they visited the flowergardens, where the peculiar style of every nation was in turn imitated;they loitered in the vast conservatories, which were themselvesa palace; they wandered in the wilderness, where the invention ofconsummate art presented them with the ideal of nature. In this poeticsolitude, where all was green, and still, and sweet, or where the onlysound was falling water or fluttering birds, the young Duke recurred tothe feelings which, during the last momentous week, had so mastered hisnature, and he longed to wind his arm round the beautiful being withoutwhom this enchanting domain was a dreary waste.
They assembled in a green retreat, where the energetic Sir Carte haderected a marquee, and where a collation greeted the eyes of thosewho were well prepared for it. Rawdon had also done his duty, and theguests, who were aware of the sudden manner in which the whole affairhad arisen, wondered at the magic which had produced a result worthy ofa week's preparation. But it is a great thing to be a young Duke. Thepasties, and the venison, and the game, the pines, and the peaches, andthe grapes, the cakes, and the confectionery, and the ices, which provedthat the still-room at Hauteville was not an empty name, were all mostpopular. But the wines, they were marvellous! And as the finest cellarsin the country had been ransacked for excellence and variety, it is notwonderful that their produce obtained a panegyric. There was hock of acentury old, which made all stare, though we, for our part, cannot see,or rather taste, the beauty of this antiquity. Wine, like woman, inour opinion, should not be too old, so we raise our altar to the infantBacchus; but this is not the creed of the million, nor was it thepersuasion of Sir Chetwode Chetwode or of Sir Tichborne Tichborne, goodjudges both. The Johannisberger quite converted them. They no longerdisliked the young Duke. They thought him a fool, to be sure, but at thesame time a good-natured one. In the meantime, all were interested, andCarlstein with his key bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, affordedthe only luxury that was wanting.
It is six o'clock, carriages are ordered, and horses are harnessed.Back, back to Dacre! But not at the lively rate at which they had leftthat lordly hall this morning. They are all alike inclined to moveslowly; they are silent, yet serene and satisfied; they ponder upon thereminiscences of a delightful morning, and also of a delightful meal.Perhaps they are a little weary; perhaps they wish to gaze upon thesunset.
It is eight o'clock, and they enter the park gates. Dinner isuniversally voted a bore, even by the Baronets. Coffee covers theretreat of many a wearied bird to her evening bower. The rest lounge ona couch or sofa, or chew the cud of memory on an ottoman. It was a dayof pleasure which had been pleasant. That was certain: but that waspast. Who is to be Duchess of St. James? Answer this. May Dacre, orBertha Vere, or Clara Howard? Lady St. Jerome, is it to be a daughterof thy house? Lady Faulconcourt, art thou to be hailed as the unrivalledmother?' Tis mystery all, as must always be the future of this world. Wemuse, we plan, we hope, but naught is certain but that which is naught;for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end attained; what arethey but fit companions for clothes out of fashion, cracked china, andbroken fans?
Our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his mind was too full ofexciting fancies to think of the interests of his body. As all werewithdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace
.It was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from Rogers' shell, andbrilliant as a phrase just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiledfrom their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes alover muse. Fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the goldenorange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deepand yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. It could not be the wind!
His heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. Andin this shrine, where all was like his love, immaculate and beautiful,he vowed a faith which had not been returned. Such is the madness oflove! Such is the magic of beauty!
Music rose upon the air. Some huntsmen were practising their horns. Thetriumphant strain elevated his high hopes, the tender tone accorded withhis emotions. He paced up and down the terrace in excited reverie, fedby the music. In imagination she was with him: she spoke, she smiled,she loved. He gazed upon her beaming countenance: his soul thrilled withtones which, only she could utter. He pressed her to his throbbing andtumultuous breast!
The music stopped. He fell from his seventh heaven. He felt all theexhaustion of his prolonged reverie. All was flat, dull, unpromising.The moon seemed dim, the stars were surely fading, the perfume of thetrees was faint, the wind of the woods was a howling demon. Exhausted,dispirited, ay! almost desperate, with a darkened soul and staggeringpace, he regained his chamber.