The Young Duke | Page 9

speech, so inaudible that it was doubted whether, after all, the
young orator really did lose his virginity. In the end, up started the
Premier, who, having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and
liberal; gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and
then the motion was withdrawn.
While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some
consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept; yet, on
the whole, there was an air about the assembly which can be witnessed
in no other in Europe. Even the most indifferent looked as if he would
come forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most
imbecile as if he could serve his country if it required him. When a man
raises his eyes from his bench and sees his ancestor in the tapestry, he
begins to understand the pride of blood.
The young Duke had not experienced many weeks of his career before
he began to sicken of living in an hotel. Hitherto he had not reaped any
of the fruits of the termination of his minority. He was a cavalier seul,
highly considered, truly, but yet a mere member of society. He had
been this for years. This was not the existence to enjoy which he had
hurried to England. He aspired to be society itself. In a word, his tastes
were of the most magnificent description, and he sighed to be
surrounded by a court. As Hauteville House, even with Sir Carte's
extraordinary exertions, could not be ready for his reception for three
years, which to him appeared eternity, he determined to look about for
an establishment. He was fortunate. A nobleman who possessed an
hereditary mansion of the first class, and much too magnificent for his
resources, suddenly became diplomatic, and accepted an embassy. The

Duke of St. James took everything off his hands: house, furniture,
wines, cooks, servants, horses. Sir Carte was sent in to touch up the
gilding and make a few temporary improvements; and Lady
Fitz-pompey pledged herself to organise the whole establishment ere
the full season commenced and the early Easter had elapsed, which had
now arrived.
It had arrived, and the young Duke had departed to his chief family seat,
Hauteville Castle, in Yorkshire. He intended at the same time to fulfil
his long-pledged engagement at Castle Dacre. He arrived at Hauteville
amid the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and the crackling of
bonfires. The Castle, unlike most Yorkshire castles, was a Gothic
edifice, ancient, vast, and strong; but it had received numerous
additions in various styles of architecture, which were at the same time
great sources of convenience and great violations of taste. The young
Duke was seized with a violent desire to live in a genuine Gothic castle:
each day his refined taste was outraged by discovering Roman
windows and Grecian doors. He determined to emulate Windsor, and
he sent for Sir Carte.
Sir Carte came as quick as thunder after lightning. He was immediately
struck with Hauteville, particularly with its capabilities. It was a superb
place, certainly, and might be rendered unrivalled. The situation
seemed made for the pure Gothic. The left wing should decidedly be
pulled down, and its site occupied by a Knight's hall; the old terrace
should be restored; the donjon keep should be raised, and a gallery,
three hundred feet long, thrown through the body of the castle.
Estimates, estimates, estimates! But the time? This was a greater point
than the expense. Wonders should be done. There were now five
hundred men working for Hauteville House; there should be a thousand
for Hauteville Castle. Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche, Carte Blanche!
On his arrival in Yorkshire the Duke had learnt that the Dacres were in
Norfolk on a visit. As the Castle was some miles off, he saw no
necessity to make a useless exertion, and so he sent his jäger with his
card. He had now been ten days in his native county. It was dull, and he
was restless. He missed the excitement of perpetual admiration, and his

eye drooped for constant glitter. He suddenly returned to town, just
when the county had flattered itself that he was about to appoint his
public days.
CHAPTER VII.
The First Fancy
EASTER was over, the sun shone, the world was mad, and the young
Duke made his début at Almack's. He determined to prove that he had
profited by a winter at Vienna. His dancing was declared consummate.
He galloped with grace and waltzed with vigour. It was difficult to
decide which was more admirable, the elegance of his prance or the
precision of his whirl. A fat Russian Prince, a lean Austrian Count, a
little German Baron, who, somehow or other, always