The Young Duke

  CHAPTER XI.

  _'Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly.'_

  THE last piece of information was a relief; but the announcement of theelopement cost him a pang. Both surprised, and the first shocked him.We are unreasonable in love, and do not like to be anticipated even inneglect. An hour ago Lady Aphrodite Grafton was to him only an object ofanxiety and a cause of embarrassment. She was now a being to whom he wasindebted for some of the most pleasing hours of his existence, and whocould no longer contribute to his felicity. Everybody appeared desertinghim.

  He had neglected her, to be sure; and they must have parted, it wascertain. Yet, although the present event saved him from the mostharrowing of scenes, he could not refrain shedding a tear. So good! andso beautiful! and was this her end? He who knew all knew how bitter hadbeen the lot of her life.

  It is certain that when one of your very virtuous women ventures to bea little indiscreet, we say it is certain, though we regret it, thatsooner or later there is an explosion. And the reason is this, that theyare always in a hurry to make up for lost time, and so love with thembecomes a business instead of being a pleasure. Nature had intended LadyAphrodite Grafton for a Psyche, so spiritual was her soul, so pure herblood! Art--that is, education, which at least should be an art, thoughit is not--art had exquisitely sculptured the precious gem that Naturehad developed, and all that was wanting was love to stamp an impression.Lady Aphrodite Grafton might have been as perfect a character as wasever the heroine of a novel. And to whose account shall we place herblighted fame and sullied lustre? To that animal who seems formedonly to betray woman. Her husband was a traitor in disguise. She foundherself betrayed; but like a noble chieftain, when her capital was lost,maintained herself among the ruins of her happiness, in the citadel ofher virtue. She surrendered, she thought, on terms; and in yielding herheart to the young Duke, though never for a moment blind to her conduct,yet memory whispered extenuation, and love added all that was necessary.

  Our hero (we are for none of your perfect heroes) did not behave muchbetter than her husband. The difference between them was, Sir LuciusGrafton's character was formed, and formed for evil; while the Dukeof St. James, when he became acquainted with Lady Aphrodite, possessednone. Gallantry was a habit, in which he had been brought up. To protestto woman what he did not believe, and to feign what he did not feel,were, as he supposed, parts in the character of an accomplishedgentleman; and as hitherto he had not found his career productive ofany misery, we may perhaps view his conduct with less severity. But atlength he approaches, not a mere woman of the world, who tries to deludehim into the idea that he is the first hero of a romance that has beena hundred times repeated. He trembles at the responsibility which hehas incurred by engaging the feelings of another. In the conflict ofhis emotions, some rays of moral light break upon his darkened soul.Profligacy brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly that man isthe subject of sympathy, and not the slave of self-love.

  This remorse protracts a connection which each day is productive of morepainful feelings; but the heart cannot be overstrung, and anxietyends in callousness. Then come neglect, remonstrance, explanations,protestations, and, sooner or later, a catastrophe.

  But love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easilythrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving thepassion a new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surprising howmany adventures end in a convent. A dame, in her desperation, flies tothe grate, which never reopens; but in Protestant regions she has timeto cool, and that's the deuce; so, instead of taking the veil, she takesa new lover.

  Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young Duke to a step thevery mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. What anenchanter is Passion! No wonder Ovid, who was a judge, made love so muchconnected with his Metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty she had daredto admit the idea of flying with his Grace; but when the idea was onceadmitted, when she really had, once or twice, constantly dwelt on theidea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about toindulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and ofwhich she had been rifled; when, I say, all this occurred, and her herodiplomatised, and, in short, kept back; why, she had advanced one step,without knowing it, to running away with another man.

  It was unlucky that De Whiskerburg stepped in. An Englishman would nothave done. She knew them well, and despised them all; but he was new(dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they werestrange, she believed to be unhackneyed; and he was impassioned. We neednot go on.

  So this star has dropped from out the heaven; so this precious pearl nolonger gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in aforeign land, among strange faces and stranger customs, and, when shethinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries topersuade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country,and blood, and opinion. And her father's face no longer shines with itsproud love, and her mother's voice no longer whispers to her with sweetanxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is theradiancy of her budding sister's bloom.

  Poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those whoset themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite,by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just rememberbeauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, althoughthe beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, wedon't know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under thesecircumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.

  But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yieldedto great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it isright that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.

  To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all yourPenates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return,no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone;to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have yourchildren asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure theinfluenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard todigest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friendsMr. Ward or Mr. Bulwer.