actually knowing his purpose, made way. They seemed awed by his dignity, and shuffled behind Mr. Dacre, as if he were the only person who was the Duke’s match.
‘Mr. Dacre,’ said his Grace, in the softest but still audible tones, and he extended, at the same time, his hand; ‘Mr. Dacre, our first meeting should have been neither here nor thus; but you, who have excused so much, will pardon also this!’
Mr. Dacre, though a calm personage, was surprised by this sudden address. He could not doubt who was the speaker. He had left his ward a mere child. He saw before him the exact and breathing image of the heart-friend of his ancient days. He forgot all but the memory of a cherished friendship.
He was greatly affected; he pressed the offered hand; he advanced; he moved aside. The young Duke followed up his advantage, and, with an air of the greatest affection, placed Mr. Dacre’s arm in his own, and then bore off his prize in triumph.
Right skilfully did our hero avail himself of his advantage. He spoke, and he spoke with emotion. There is something inexpressibly captivating in the contrition of a youthful and a generous mind. Mr. Dacre and his late ward soon understood each other; for it was one of those meetings which sentiment makes sweet.
‘And now,’ said his Grace, ‘I have one more favour to ask, and that is the greatest: I wish to be recalled to the recollection of my oldest friend.’
Mr. Dacre led the Duke to his daughter; and the Earl of St. Jerome, who was still laughing at her side, rose.
‘The Duke of St. James, May, wishes to renew his acquaintance with you.’
She bowed in silence. Lord St. Jerome, who was the great oracle of the Yorkshire School, and who had betted desperately against the favourite, took Mr. Dacre aside to consult him about the rain, and the Duke of St. James dropped into his chair. That tongue, however, which had never failed him, for once was wanting. There was a momentary silence, which the lady would not break; and at last her companion broke it, and not felicitously.
‘I think there is nothing more delightful than meeting with old friends.’
‘Yes! that is the usual sentiment; but I half suspect that it is a commonplace, invented to cover our embarrassment under such circumstances; for, after all, “an old friend” so situated is a person whom we have not seen for many years, and most probably not cared to see.’
‘You are indeed severe.’
‘Oh! no. I think there is nothing more painful than parting with old friends; but when we have parted with them, I am half afraid they are lost.’
‘Absence, then, with you is fatal?’
‘Really, I never did part with any one I greatly loved; but I suppose it is with me as with most persons.’
‘Yet you have resided abroad, and for many years?’
‘Yes; but I was too young then to have many friends; and, in fact, I accompanied perhaps all that I possessed.’
‘How I regret that it was not in my power to accept your kind invitation to Dacre in the Spring!’
‘Oh! My father would have been very glad to see you; but we really are dull kind of people, not at all in your way, and I really do not think that you lost much amusement.’
‘What better amusement, what more interesting occupation, could I have had than to visit the place where I passed my earliest and my happiest hours? ’Tis nearly fifteen years since I was at Dacre.’
‘Except when you visited us at Easter. We regretted our loss.’
‘Ah! yes! except that,’ exclaimed the Duke, remembering his jäger’s call; ‘but that goes for nothing. I of course saw very little.’
‘Yet, I assure you, you made a great impression. So eminent a personage, of course, observes less than he himself is observed. We had a graphical description of you on our return, and a very accurate one, too; for I recognised your Grace to-night merely from the report of your visit.’
The Duke shot a shrewd glance at his companion’s face, but it betrayed no indication of badinage, and so, rather puzzled, he thought it best to put up with the parallel between himself and his servant. But Miss Dacre did not quit this agreeable subject with all that promptitude which he fondly anticipated.
‘Poor Lord St. Jerome,’ said she, ‘who is really the most unaffected person I know, has been complaining most bitterly of his deficiency in the air noble. He is mistaken for a groom perpetually; and once, he says, had a douceur presented to him in his character of an ostler. Your Grace must be proud of your advantage over him. You would have been gratified by the universal panegyric of our household. They, of course, you know, are proud of their young Duke, a real Yorkshire Duke, and they love to dwell upon your truly imposing appearance. As for myself, who am true Yorkshire also, I take the most honest pride in hearing them describe your elegant attitude, leaning back in your britzska, with your feet on the opposite cushions, your hat arranged aside with that air of undefinable grace characteristic of the Grand Seigneur, and, which is the last remnant of the feudal system, your reiterated orders to drive over an old woman. You did not even condescend to speak English, which made them quite enthusiastic—’
‘Oh, Miss Dacre, spare me!’
‘Spare you! I have heard of your Grace’s modesty; but this excessive sensibility, under well-earned praise, surprises me!’
‘But, Miss Dacre, you cannot indeed really believe that this vulgar ruffian, this grim scarecrow, this Guy Faux, was—was—myself.’
‘Not yourself! Really, I am a simple personage. I believe in my eyes and trust to my ears. I am at a loss for your meaning.’
‘I mean, then,’ said the Duke, who had gained time to rally, ‘that this monster was some impostor, who must have stolen my carriage, picked my pocket, and robbed me of my card, which, next to his reputation, is a man’s most delicate possession.’
‘Then you never called upon us?’
‘I blush to confess it, never; but I will call, in future, every day.’
‘Your ingenuousness really rivals your modesty.’
‘Now, after these confessions and compliments, may I suggest a waltz?’
‘No one is waltzing now.’
‘When the quadrille, then, is finished?’
‘Then I am engaged.’
‘After your engagement?’
‘That is indeed making a business of pleasure. I have just refused a similar request of your fellow-steward. We damsels shall soon be obliged to carry a book to enrol our engagements as well as our bets, if this system of reversionary dancing be any longer encouraged.’
‘But you must dance with me!’ said the Duke, imploringly.
‘Oh! you will stumble upon me in the course of the evening, and I shall probably be more fortunate.
I suppose you feel nervous about to-morrow?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Ah! I forgot. Your Grace’s horse is the favourite. Favourites always win.’
‘Have I a horse?’
‘Why, Lord St. Jerome says he doubts whether it be one.’
‘Lord St. Jerome seems a vastly amusing personage; and, as he is so often taken for an ostler, I have no doubt is an exceedingly good judge of horse-flesh.’
Miss Dacre smiled. It was that wild, but rather wicked, gleam which sometimes accompanies the indulgence of innocent malice. It seemed to insinuate, ‘I know you are piqued, and