“You poor child!” she murmured, “how could you help it? I vow that I myself—yes, for some minutes—I was as deep in love with the fellow as you yourself were. But, of course, you were with him longer—every day. Lud! what a handsome rascal he is, to be sure. His lordship must take you to the country without delay. Has the fellow tried to transfer the character in the play beyond the footlights?”
“Never—never!” cried Susan. “Sir Francis was right—he is a gentleman. That is the worst of it!”
“Oh, lud! the worst of it? Are you mad, girl?”
“I am not mad now, but I know that I shall be if he remains a gentleman—if he refrains from telling me that he loves me—or at least of giving me a chance of telling him that I love him. That would be better than nothing—'twould be such a relief. I really do not think that I want anything more than to be able to confess to him that I love him—that 'tis impossible that I should love another.”
“The sooner you go to the country the better 'twill be for yourself and all of us—his lordship especially. Good heavens, child, you must be mad! Do you fancy that his lordship would give his consent to your marriage with a strolling player, let him be as handsome as Beelzebub?”
“He is not a strolling player. Mr. O'Brien is in Mr. Garrick's company, and every one knows that he is of good family. I have been searching it out for the past week—all about the O'Briens—there were a great many of them, all of them distinguished. If it had not been that King James was defeated by William, in Ireland, Mr. O'Brien's grandfather would have been made a duke. They were all heroes, the O'Briens. And they were just too sincere in their devotion to the losing side—that was it—the losing side was always the one they took up. And yet you call him a strolling player!”
“I take back the insinuation and offer him my apologies; he is not a strolling player because he doesn't stroll—would to Heaven he did! Oh, my poor Sue, take a stroll into the country yourself as soon as possible and try to forget this dreadfully handsome wretch. You would not, I am sure, force me to tell his lordship what a goose his daughter is like to make of herself.”
At this point there was a dramatic scene, one that was far more deeply charged with comedy of a sort than any to be found in Mr. Whitehead's play. Lady Susan accused her dear friend of being a spy, of extorting a confession from her under the guise of friendship, which in other circumstances—the rack, the wheel, the thumbscrew, in fact the entire mechanism of persuasion employed by the Spanish Inquisition—would have been powerless to obtain. Lady Sarah on her side entreated her friend not to show herself to be even a greater goose than her confession would make her out to be. For several minutes there was reproach and counter-reproach, many home truths followed home thrusts; then some tears, self-accusation, expressions of sympathy and tenderness, followed by promises of friendship beyond the dreams of Damon and Pythias; lastly, a promise on the part of Sue that she would take the advice of her devoted Sarah and fly to the country without delay.
Strange to say, she fled to the country, and, stranger still, the result was not to cure her of her infatuation for the handsome actor. For close upon a year she did not see him, but she was as devoted to him as she had been at first, and no day passed on which she failed to think of him, or to spend some hours writing romantic verses, sometimes in the style of Waller in his lyrics, sometimes in the style (distant) of Mr. Dryden in his pastorals: she was Lesbia, and Mr. O'Brien was Strephon.
But in the meantime she had improved so much in her acting that when Lady Sarah, who had within the year married Sir Thomas Bunbury, ventured to rally her upon her infatuation of the previous spring, she was able to disarm her suspicions by a flush and a shrug, and a little contemptuous exclamation or two.
“Ah, my dear one, did not I give you good advice?” cried Lady Sarah. “I was well assured that my beloved Sue would never persevere in a passion that could only end in unhappiness. But indeed, child, I never had the heart to blame you greatly, the fellow is handsome as Apollo and as proud as Apolyon. He has broken many hearts not accounted particularly fragile, during the year.”
“Is't possible? For example?—I vow that I shall keep their names secret.”
Lady Sarah shook her head at first, but on being importuned whispered a name or two of ladies of their acquaintance, all of whom—according to Lady Sarah—had fallen as deep as was possible in love with O'Brien. Her ladyship was so intent on her narration of the scandals that she quite failed to see the strange light that gleamed in her friend's eyes at the mention of every name—a rather fierce gleam, with a flash of green in it. She did not notice this phenomenon, nor did she detect the false note in the tribute of laughter which her friend paid to her powers of narration.
But Lady Sue, when the other had left her, rushed to her room and flung herself on her bed in a paroxysm of jealousy. She beat her innocent pillow wildly, crying in the whisper that the clenching of her teeth made imperative—“The hussies! Shameless creatures! Do they hope that he will be attracted to them? Fools!—they are fools! They do not know him as I know him. They think that he is nothing but a vain actor—Garrick, or Barry, or Lewes. Oh, they do not know him!”
She lay there in her passion for an hour, and if it was her maid who discovered her at the end of that time, it is safe to assume that the young woman's flesh was black and blue in places for several days afterwards. The pinch and the slipper were among the most highly approved forms of torture inflicted upon their maids at that robust period of English history. The French Revolution was still some way off.
A few weeks later Lady Susan was sitting to Sir Joshua Reynolds for a group, in which he painted her with her friend Lady Sarah Bunbury and Mr. Henry Fox; and it was the carrying out of this scheme that put quite another scheme into the quick brain of the first-named lady. Painting was in the air. She possessed a poor print of Mr. O'Brien, and she had found an immense consolation in gazing upon it—frequently at midnight, under the light of her bedroom candle. The sight of the life-like portraits in Sir Joshua's studio induced her to ask herself if she might not possess a picture of her lover that would show him as he really was in life, without demanding so many allowances as were necessary to be made for the shortcomings of the engraver of a print. Why should she not get Sir Joshua Reynolds to paint for her the portrait of Mr. O'Brien?
0379
The thought was a stimulating one, and it took possession of her for a week. At the end of that time, however, she came to the conclusion that it would be unwise for her to employ Sir Joshua on a commission that might possibly excite some comment on the part of her friends should they come to learn—and the work of this particular painter was rather inclined to be assertive—that it had been executed to her order. But she was determined not to live any longer without a portrait of the man; and, hearing some one mention at Sir Joshua's house the name of Miss Catherine Read, who was described as an excellent portrait painter, she made further inquiry, and the result was that she begged her father, the Earl of Ilchester, who was devoted to her, to allow her to have her portrait done by Miss Read, to present to Lady Sarah on her birthday.
Of course Miss Read was delighted to have the patronage of so great a family—she had not yet done her famous pastel of the Duchess of Argyll—and Susan, accompanied by her footman, lost no time in beginning her series of sittings to the artist to whom Horace Walpole referred as “the painteress.”
She was both patient and discreet, for three whole days elapsed before she produced a mezzotint of Mr. O'Brien.
“I wonder if you would condescend to draw a miniature portrait of his lordship's favourite actor from so poor a copy as this, Miss Read?” she said. “Have you ever seen this Mr. O'Brien—an Irishman, I believe he is?”
Miss Read assured her that Mr. O'Brien was her favourite actor also. The print produced was indeed a poor one; it quite failed to do justice to the striking features of the original, she said.
“I felt certain that it could bear but a meagre resemblance to Mr. O'Brien if all that I hear of the man be true,” said Lady Susan. “His lordship swears that there has never been so great an actor in England, and I should like to give him a surprise by presenting to him a miniature portrait of his favourite, done by the cunning pencil of Miss Read, on his birthday. I protest that 'tis a vast kindness you are doing me in undertaking such a thing. But mind, I would urge of you to keep the affair a profound secret. I wish it as a surprise to my father, and its effect would be spoilt were it to become known to any of his friends that I had this intention.”
“Your ladyship may rest assured that no living creature will hear of the affair through me,” said the painteress. “But I heartily wish that your ladyship could procure for me a better copy than this print from which to work,” she added.
“I fear that I cannot promise you that; I found two other prints of the same person, but they are worse even than this,” said Lady Susan. “You must do your best with the material at your disposal.”
“Your ladyship may depend on my doing my best,” replied Miss Read. “When does his lordship's birthday take place?”
Her ladyship was somewhat taken aback by the sudden question. It took her some time to recollect that her father's birthday was to be within a month. She felt that she could not live for longer than another month without a portrait of the man whom she loved.
While she was going home in her chair she could not but feel that she had hitherto been an undutiful daughter, never having taken any interest in her father's birthday, and being quite unacquainted with its date. She hoped fervently that Miss Read would not put herself to the trouble to find out exactly on what day of what month it took place. The result of such an investigation might be a little awkward.
It so happened that Miss Read took no trouble in this direction. All her attention was turned upon the task of making a presentable miniature out of the indifferent material with which she had been supplied for this purpose. She began wondering if it might not be possible to get O'Brien to sit to her half a dozen times in order to give her a chance of doing credit to herself and to the gentleman's fine features.
She was still pondering over this question when her attendant entered with a card, saying that a gentleman had come to wait on her.
She read the name on the card, and uttered an exclamation of surprise, for the name was that of the man of whom she was thinking—Mr. O'Brien, of Drury Lane Theatre.
She had wholly failed to recover herself before he entered the studio, and advanced to her, making his most respectful bow. He politely ignored her flutter-ings—he was used to see her sex overwhelmed when he appeared.
“Madam, I beg that you will pardon this intrusion,” he said. “I have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, knowing of your great capacity as an artist.”
“Oh, sir!” cried the fluttered little lady, making her courtesy.
“Nay, madam, I have no intention of flattering one to whom compliments must be as customary as they are well deserved,” said the actor. “I come not to confer a favour, madam, but to entreat one. In short, Miss Read, I am desirous of presenting a valued friend of mine with the portrait of a lady for whom he entertains a sincere devotion. For certain reasons, which I need not specify, the lady cannot sit to you; but I have here a picture of her poorly done in chalks, from which I hope it may be in your power to make a good—a good—— Good heavens! what do I behold? 'Tis she—she—Lady Susan herself!”
He had glanced round the studio in the course of his speech, and his eyes had alighted upon the newly-begun portrait of Lady Susan. It represented only a few days' work, but the likeness to the original had been ably caught, and no one could fail to recognise the features.
He took a hurried step to the easel, and the air made by his motion dislodged a print which the artist had laid on the little ledge that supported the stretcher of the canvas. The print fluttered to the floor; he picked it up, and gave another exclamation on recognising his own portrait in the mezzotint.
Looking from the print to the picture and then at Miss Read, he said in a low voice, after a pause—“Madam, I am bewildered. Unless you come to my assistance I protest I shall feel that I am dreaming and asleep. Pray, madam, enlighten me—for Heaven's sake tell me how this”—he held up the print—“came into such close juxtaposition with that”—he pointed to the portrait on the easel.
“'Tis easily told, sir,” said Miss Read, smiling archly. “But I must leave it to your sense of honour to keep the matter a profound secret.”
“Madam,” said Mr. O'Brien with dignity, “Madam, I am an Irishman.”
“That is enough, sir; I know that I can trust you. The truth is, Mr. O'Brien, that Lady Susan is sitting to me for her portrait—that portrait. 'Twas marvellous that you should recognise it so soon. I have not worked at it for many hours.”
“Madam, your art is beyond that of the magician. 'Tis well known that every form depicted by Miss Read not only breathes but speaks.”
“Oh, sir, I vow that you are a flatterer; still, you did recognise the portrait—'tis to be presented to Lady Sarah Bunbury.”
“Her ladyship will be the most fortunate of womankind.”
“Which ladyship, sir—Lady Susan or Lady Sarah?”
“Both, madam.” The Irishman was bowing with his hand on his heart. “But the print—my poor likeness?”
“That is the secret, sir; but you will not betray it when I tell you that Lady Susan entrusted that print to me in order that I might make a copy in miniature for her to present to her father, Lord Ilchester. You are his favourite actor, Mr. O'Brien, as no doubt you are aware.”
“'Tis the first I heard of it, madam.” There was a suggestion of mortification in the actor's tone.
“Ah, 'twould be impossible for Mr. O'Brien to keep an account of all his conquests. But now you can understand how it is that her ladyship wishes her intention to be kept a secret: she means to add to the acceptability of her gift by presenting it as a surprise. But her secret is safe in your keeping, sir?”
“I swear to it, madam.” Mr. O'Brien spoke mechanically. His hand was on his chin: he was clearly musing upon some question that perplexed him. He took a turn up and down the studio, and then said:
“Madam, it has just occurred to me that you, as a great artist——”
“Nay, sir,” interposed the blushing painteress.
“I will not take back a word, madam,” said the actor, holding up one inexorable hand. “I say that surely so great an artist as you should disdain to do the work of a mere copyist. Why should not you confer upon me the honour of sitting to you for the miniature portrait?”
“Oh, sir, that is the one favour which I meant to ask of you, if my courage had not failed me.”
“Madam, you will confer immortality upon a simple man through that magic wand which you wield.” He swept his hand with inimitable grace over the mahl-stick which lay against the easel. “I am all impatient to begin my sitting, Miss Read. Pray let me come to-morrow.”
“Her ladyship comes to-morrow.”
“I shall precede her ladyship. Name the hour, madam.”
Without the least demur Miss Read named an hour which could enable him to be far away from the studio before Lady Susan's arrival.
And yet the next day Lady Susan entered the studio quite half an hour before Mr. O'Brien had left it. Of course she was surprised. Had not Miss Read received a letter, making her aware of the fact that she, Lady Susan, would be forced, owing to circumstances over which she had no control, to sit for her portrait an hour earlier than that of her appointment?
When Miss Read said she had received no such letter, Lady Susan said some very severe things about her maid. Miss Read was greatly fluttered, but she explained in as few words as possible how it was that Mr. O'Brien had come forward in the cause of art, and was sitting for the miniature. Lady Susan quickly got over her surprise. (Had Miss Read seen the letter which her ladyship had received the previous evening from Mr. O'Brien she would not have marvelled as she did at the rapidity with which her ladyship recovered her self-possession.) Her ladyship was quite friendly with the actor, and thanked him for his courtesy in offering to give up so much of his time solely for the sake of increasing the value of her gift to her father.
A few minutes later, while they were discussing some point in the design of the picture, Miss Read was called out of the studio, and in a second Lady Susan was in his arms.
“Fate is on our side, darling girl!” he whispered.
“I could not live without you, my charmer. But I was bold! I took my fate in both hands when I wrote you that letter.”
“Dear one, 'twas the instinct of true love that made you guess the truth—that I wanted the portrait because I loved the original. Oh, dear one, what have I not suffered during the year that has parted us!” said Lady Susan, with her head upon his shoulder.
The Irishman found it necessary to fall back upon the seductive tongue of his country for words of endearment to bestow upon her. He called her “Sheila,” “a cushla machree,” “mavourneen,” and also “aroon.” But when Miss Read returned to the studio they were still discussing a purely artistic point in connection with the portrait.
Of course now that O'Brien knew the secret of the miniature there was no reason that Miss Read could see why he and Lady Susan should not meet at her studio. To do her justice, neither could her ladyship perceive why they should not come together at this place. They came every day, and every day Lady Susan begged that Miss Read would allow her to rest in her ante-room after the fatigue of the sitting. She rested in that room, and in the company of O'Brien, until at last Miss Read became frightened; and one day told her friend Lord Cathcart something of her fears. Lord Cathcart, in his turn, told Lord Ilchester. His lordship was furious, but cautious.
He wanted evidence of his daughter's infatuation. He got it the next morning, for he insisted on seeing a letter which arrived for Lady Susan, addressed in the handwriting of Lady Sarah. This letter turned out to be from O'Brien, and Susan confessed that her father's surmise was correct—all the letters which she had recently received in Lady Sarah's hand had come from O'Brien.
Her father was foolish enough to grant her permission to say farewell to her lover, and thus the two were allowed to come together once more. They had a long talk, in the course of which O'Brien communicated to her a secret of the theatre, which was that Mr. Garrick and Mr. Colman were engaged in the construction of a comedy to be calledThe Clandestine Marriage, and that Mr. Garrick told him that he, O'Brien, was to play the part of the lover—the gentleman who had married the lady in secret.
Lady Susan parted from her lover, not in tears, but in laughter.
The conclusion of the story is told by Horace Walpole, writing to Lord Hertford.
“You will have heard of the sad misfortune that has happened to Lord Ilchester by his daughter's marriage with O'Brien, the actor,” wrote Walpole; and then went on to tell how Lady Susan had made her confession to her father, vowing to have nothing more to do with her lover if she were but permitted to bid him good-bye. “You will be amazed,” continued Walpole, “even this was granted. The parting scene happened the beginning of the week. On Friday she came of age, and on Saturday morning—instead of being under lock and key in the country—walked downstairs, took her footman, said she was going to breakfast with Lady Sarah, but would call at Miss Read's; in the street pretended to recollect a particular cap in which she was to be drawn, sent the footman back for it, whipped into a hackney chair, was married at Covent Garden Church, and set out for Mr. O'Brien's villa at Dunstable.”
Unlike many other alliances of a similar type, this marriage turned out a happy one. O'Brien was induced to leave the stage and to depart with his wife for America. He obtained a grant of some forty thousand acres in the province of New York, and had he retained this property and taken the right side during the Revolution his descendants would to-day be the richest people in the world. A few years later he was given a good appointment in Bermuda; and finally, in 1770, he was made Receiver-General of the County of Dorset, and became popular as a country squire. He died in 1815, and Lady Susan survived him by twelve years.
It was Lady Sarah who had made the imprudent marriage. She submitted to the cruelties of her husband for fourteen years, and on her leaving his roof he obtained a divorce.
In 1781, nineteen years after her first marriage, she wedded the Hon. George Napier, and became the mother of three of the greatest Englishmen of the nineteenth century. She lived until she was eighty. Her friend Lady Susan followed her to the grave a year later, at the age of eighty-four.