CHAPTER IV
“
THE fair widow,” as my Lord Baltimore had complimented her, the Lady Fanny Armine, sat next morning innegligéein her fine boudoir in Pall Mall, surrounded by all the fashionable frippery of the finest of fine ladies whose gold is as bright as her eyes. Porcelains from Nankin, china gods and monkeys of equal grinning ugliness, chessmen from India in cherry and white ivory, adorned the costly Japan cabinets. Toys from the ends of the earth to please my Lady Fanny—and ’tis to be thought they failed to please her for she never looked their way, but writ and writ, heedless also of the letters and billets that strewed the carpet about her. For this lady might have said with the fair Millamant— “O ay,—letters. I am persecuted with letters. One has ’em one does not know why. They serve to pin up one’s hair.” Indeed she put them to little nobler use than this, or the voider beside her desk. Love-letters, you perceive! But ’twas no love-letter she writ now, but one to a lady she loved—that never failed her in trouble or pleasure. In fine, a most unfeminine friend and cousin, in that she could be trusted with a secret, could give impartial counsel, and never grumble when ’twas not heeded, nor say “I told you so,”—when the inevitable result followed. In short an Irish pearl—her cousin Lady Desmond. But hear the letter. ’Tis revealing.
“My Kitty, my heart’s delight, as the song has it, here’s the long-expected billet from your fond cousin. I was detained late at the Court last night whither I went after Lady Lansdowne’s drum, and so could not seclude myself for a word with my cousin of cousins. But the merry morn is here, and here am I in negligée and my chocolate beside me, for a word with my Lady Desmond, my dear, dear Kitty. And Mrs. Clayton, who shortly proceeds to Ireland to join her episcopal husband and open all your eyes with her coach and six and yellow liveries, hath promised me to take this letter, and if she be not drowned in the crossing that vile water to place it in my Kitty’s own fair hand.“Well, you would have the news, says you, and I won’t fail. The first news is,—Kitty, ’tis good to be a widow! Don’t pull a long face, Madam, but consider. You, ’tis true, love your Sir Richard. I was but sixteen when my uncle married me to the hobgoblin that swept me down to Cornwall and to a Castle Raggedy that the old miser had the money to set in luxury and would not. O Kitty, my life there!—I a blooming girl of sixteen and hesixty! If ’twas wrote in a book who should believe it? Didn’t I cry so excessively that nearly all the blue was washed out of my eyes and left them the colour of skim milk? Lord, when I think of my days—and nights, and he as jealous of all the booby squires about as though they were Sir Harry Wildairs—every man jack of ’em. Avaricious, my dear. If we had a chicken to our dinner, a roast was not allowed on the same table. My jailor—my tyrant, but surely no husband, yet I played him no prisoner’s tricks. (That’s known to you.) ’Tis no manner of good for you, Kitty, to say as you said before in your tender concern for me— And why would you take the brute? Ah, don’t you recall my uncle and his pride and haughtiness, and when he commanded me what could I do but obey? Had I been a fortune—had I had any living soul to speak for me I had been Fanny Clavering still,—But Mr. Armine’s interest in Cornwall was needful to my uncle’s party in the House of Commons and I must needs pay the piper. Well, ’tis over now. I had but four years of it, but the great abhorrence I had for Mr. Armine made it seem like forty, and when I was left to my own guidance at twenty—two years since, I dare swear I felt myself a woman of forty in all but looks.“Looks, Kitty! I see you laughing across the Irish Ocean. Well, without vanity I will own my looks passable. The American Prince last night at Lady Lansdowne’s drum was so good as to say:“ ‘Lady Fanny, here’s poor Mr. Rich, the manager, ravaging all the town for a heroine for Mr. Gay’s new piece to be produced in Portugal Street. For her qualifications he needs beauty of the sparkling order, an exquisite bloom like an apple-blossom in dew. Eyes like the sky above it, lips borrowed from the neighbouring cherry tree. Hair—he did not determine whether it must be spun gold or chestnut, but I am at this moment convinced that chestnut is the only wear. This paragon’s bosom must resemble spring hawthorn in hue and fragrance——’“ ‘In short,’ says I, interrupting, ‘she is a vegetable beauty, since all your similes are drawn from the garden. I imagine her not difficult to find on any farm. A country wench all curds and cream.’“ ‘ ’S’death! you laugh me out of countenance eternally,’ says his Highness. ‘But, for all your jibes, poor Mr. Rich is distracted and he swears the play that will delight the town is dead as mutton if he can’t find the lady. Poor man! And here she sits before me radiant as Hebe—am I not blinded with her rays?—and as far out of the poor soul’s reach as if in the heaven she’s native to!’“I took it, my dear Kitty, as a compliment to my clothes rather than myself, for I had on my white poudesoy embroidered with gold, and rose ribbons with pearl in my head, and ’twas acknowledged it became me very well.“ ‘Not even to oblige you, my Lord, which must ever be my chief study,’ I cried, ‘can I consent to mince and flutter on the stage. I’m told that though you gentlemen do favour the company there, the ladies are—well, their morality is not highly starched, (‘Is it here?’ he interrupted laughing, and motioning at Lady Cranleigh in conversation with Lady Rose, but I went on regardless.) and the gentlemen are even more forthcoming than with us. I dare not risk my character as a staid widow in such surroundings. But what shall Mr. Rich do?’“ ‘Probably hang himself, when I inform him that your Ladyship declines the part. ’Tis not however surprising that the chief actress on a stage like this, should disdain a lower.’“ ’Twas indeed a vast court, it being Queen Caroline’s Birthnight—the men as splendid as the women, which says much. The American Prince had half the revenues of his kingdom on his back—I never saw him look better though he is a personable man always. His coat rose-colour velvet with diamond buttons of prodigious size and the long waistcoat, white satin embroidered by Mrs. Gilson’s own hand (I know her stitch) in pink carnations and forget-me-nots. I heard the Queen remark the embroidery and ask who drew the pattern, telling him she was obliged to the company for the compliment of their Birthnight splendour. Indeed my Lord Baltimore becomes all he wears, though some prefer the graver, more manly features of his Grace of Bolton—his inseparable. So do not I, Kitty, though I love Bolton well.“And now, now for a secret! What shall a woman do that wants a confidant? Reveal it to the butterflies here that will blurt it out to the next flower they perch on! No, forsooth— I am no such fool. But I am at this minute so sick of a secret that the mere pain forces me to be rid of it, and so I will send it across the Irish Sea, sealed in an envelope to my Kitty that hath known all my secrets since I was three years old and stole my first cake.“ ’Tis a heart now, Kitty,—not a cake—and perhaps not so sweet, and less wholesome. ’Tis my Lord Baltimore’s. I think, I guess, I doubt, that his Lordship hath cast the eye of affection on a certain young widow—the Lady Fanny Armine. Ithink. I do not know. It is certain that he distinguishes me in every company, and that his words are— O, Kitty, honey, sugar—nectar perfumed with ambrosia! Indeed they are! But I would not build on that for indeed he is a male flirt if I mistake him not hugely. No—my girl,—words!—what are words? ’Tis his looks—a sort of—what shall I say? His fine eyes soften, he hesitates, dare I say hefearswhen he is in company with me, he whose looks never fall before the greatest sovereign in the world. When he’s with another I find his looks seek me and hover about me, when—“But how do you interpret all this, Kitty? For heaven’s sake tell me! for I, who have dismissed—without vanity I may say as many lovers as any woman in London, can’t trust my own judgment where my Lord Baltimore is in question. I dread to be most unfashionably kind to him. . . . I keep my eyes dropt lest he should read in them more than I mean, and for the life of me I can’t tell my own meaning. What do I mean? Interpret for me. I would not be rash, Kitty. Do but consider my position. Free as air, a handsome fortune (’Tis as well perhaps to marry a miser since I am now repaid for all my Timon’s economies!), the high world’s admiration, cards, beaux, routs, drums, ridottos, masquerades. What more could he or any man give me? To be an American Princess—the Queen of Maryland? Yes, but, Kitty, what a figure should I cut among the savages! with half a dozen provincial ladies to dump curtseys to me? However ’tis not this, ’tis the sex—the sex! His Lordship makes an adorable lover that all the world envies. Indeed, I fear he is a better lover than ever he would be a husband. He is in my power now—Should I put myself in his? I took occasion to make some approach to this subject in regard to Mrs. Greville, married not long since:“ ‘She had every good thing the world can show,’ says I somewhat melancholy. ‘And here she has made herself a slave to Mr. Greville whose temper is the shortest part of him (he measures near seven feet) and what’s to become of the poor lady now? Marriage! ’tis to walk into a prison and shut the door on oneself. Who should know but I that have escaped by the skin of my teeth, as the Apostle says!’“He unfurled my fan, smiling as if to himself.“ ‘Why she has but engaged a new servant, Madam, the foremost and most heartfelt of them all. There’s nothing of the devil in Mr. Greville. He has a heart as fine as his coat and a rent roll as long as his legs. He will not quarrel with his wife for a trifle. ’Twill be a scene of conjugal bliss from morning till night and night till morn. She has but to please him——’“ ‘Please him!’ cries I, ‘Ah, that’s the rub! And suppose she misses the way! And will he study to please her?’“ ‘Some ladies need but be themselves to please universally and for ever. I know one!’ says he, bowing.“All very fine, my dear, at Court,—but at home, by the fireside! I would have said more, but Princess Emily past and stayed a minute. I never saw her look more becoming. She had a glorious stiff-bodied gown of orange and gold stuff with gold ribbons and diamonds in her head. My Lord Baltimore very gallantly got her a seat, we standing.“ ‘I know I intrude,’ says her Royal Highness very gracious, ‘For whenever a gentleman is in talk with Lady Fanny he has the air of desiring to murder any third person who dares approach. Calm yourself however, my Lord, I design but a moment’s stay.’“ ‘I beseech it may be all night, Madam,’ says I, ‘my Lord Baltimore is dull. He sympathizes with poor Mr. Rich, the manager that can’t find a player-woman for Gay’s new piece, and such is his sensibility he can talk of nothing else. Mr. Rich is distracted.’“ ‘Why, there are plenty and to spare of such wenches!’ says the Princess.“ ‘Indeed yes, Madam, but they’re all so confounded ugly. Excepting only Mrs. Oldfield who is so engaged with her General at present that she won’t look at Mr. Rich, there is not one handsomer than the Duchess of Bolton.’“So saying he shot a look at that lady across the room and just then the Duke entered, very magnificent in purple velvet,—vastly grave and fine, and goes up to his wife, bowing low.“ ‘Madam, how does your Grace? I trust I see you pure well?’“The invariable ceremony! She rose and curtseyed,“ ‘I thank your Grace. I do extreme well. I hope I see you the same?’“He bowed and slid off to us. The strangest wedlock sure! Polite, but frosty as December. ’Tis thus and only thus they meet. I wonder would the American Prince and myself come to this favour after a year of wedlock? O Kitty, is not the risk too high for any woman? But supposing a woman loved him?—Supposing there was an emptiness in her heart every time he turned his back. Supposing she hated every woman under fifty that came near him! Kitty, I don’t say ’tis myself I speak of, but if it were—what would you say?“Well, the crowd was so great after this that we were almost drove apart, and I declare I had been smashed and buffeted and my manteau almost torn off my back had it not been that the two gentlemen put their arms before me. Later, Princess Emily came up past me again, very pretty in her orange and gold and whispers, ‘When shall we give you joy, Lady Fanny? No question but my Lord Baltimore is caught and his fine wings clipt to some purpose. Half the world is chattering of those conquering eyes of yours. Give me the first news, your Ladyship!’ She looked very whimsically upon me and would not stay one minute for my denial, but slipt on to where the Queen stood with Sir Robert Walpole beside her—the two of them so deep in affairs of state that neither had a look for the butterfly world about them. A gay surface, but much below it that catches not the eye. She has suffering in her face, too. I doubt we have her great mind with us long, and then for the foolish pepper-headed old King with that fool Mrs. Howard to rule him, and Sir Robert’s day done! It sobered me a little, Kitty, in spite of my flutteration. Sir Robert’s a great man for all his gross tongue and his insolence to my Kitty Queensbury.“The night closed with his Lordship squiring me to my chair. He prest my hand, and once I was seated and the roof let down, he kissed it. I could feel his lips hot upon it. I leaned forward—I would have spoke, but the chairmen saved me. They broke into a trot and so I left him standing bareheaded, among the flambeaux.“O, were he as good as he’s handsome, Kitty!—and yet if he were, should I not weary of him as I should of sops and caudle. What do I want? I know not. I think I want a lover, but not aught so terrible as a husband. I should die of a harsh word from his lips. I want the brilliance of a bad man and the constancy of a good one. Arrant fool that I am!“For news:—The King asked me how I had passed my time at the Bath, and stayed not for the answer. He was hobbling very gouty on a stick. The Queen had upon her half the di’monds she wore at the Coronation and was a blazing figure indeed. Lady Fanny Shirley had the prettiest dress at Court—a satin embroidered in roses—if ’twas not your humble servant’s, as some were fond to say. And that’s my pride, and here’s Lady Carteret thundering at the door and I’ve denied myself.“That makes my news, Kitty, my dear, and in return I require a full and true account of all yours, and desire you will speech it handsomely for me to your worthy Sir Richard and bestow a kiss for me on the little heir. May he grow up to resemble his dear parents in all that is worthy.“But counsel me, Kitty.“Your affectionate cousin and humble servant to command,“Fanny Armine.”“He is called here among the topping ladies the Basilisk on account of his killing looks. In future when I write ‘Bas’ my Kitty will know my meaning.”
“My Kitty, my heart’s delight, as the song has it, here’s the long-expected billet from your fond cousin. I was detained late at the Court last night whither I went after Lady Lansdowne’s drum, and so could not seclude myself for a word with my cousin of cousins. But the merry morn is here, and here am I in negligée and my chocolate beside me, for a word with my Lady Desmond, my dear, dear Kitty. And Mrs. Clayton, who shortly proceeds to Ireland to join her episcopal husband and open all your eyes with her coach and six and yellow liveries, hath promised me to take this letter, and if she be not drowned in the crossing that vile water to place it in my Kitty’s own fair hand.
“Well, you would have the news, says you, and I won’t fail. The first news is,—Kitty, ’tis good to be a widow! Don’t pull a long face, Madam, but consider. You, ’tis true, love your Sir Richard. I was but sixteen when my uncle married me to the hobgoblin that swept me down to Cornwall and to a Castle Raggedy that the old miser had the money to set in luxury and would not. O Kitty, my life there!—I a blooming girl of sixteen and hesixty! If ’twas wrote in a book who should believe it? Didn’t I cry so excessively that nearly all the blue was washed out of my eyes and left them the colour of skim milk? Lord, when I think of my days—and nights, and he as jealous of all the booby squires about as though they were Sir Harry Wildairs—every man jack of ’em. Avaricious, my dear. If we had a chicken to our dinner, a roast was not allowed on the same table. My jailor—my tyrant, but surely no husband, yet I played him no prisoner’s tricks. (That’s known to you.) ’Tis no manner of good for you, Kitty, to say as you said before in your tender concern for me— And why would you take the brute? Ah, don’t you recall my uncle and his pride and haughtiness, and when he commanded me what could I do but obey? Had I been a fortune—had I had any living soul to speak for me I had been Fanny Clavering still,—But Mr. Armine’s interest in Cornwall was needful to my uncle’s party in the House of Commons and I must needs pay the piper. Well, ’tis over now. I had but four years of it, but the great abhorrence I had for Mr. Armine made it seem like forty, and when I was left to my own guidance at twenty—two years since, I dare swear I felt myself a woman of forty in all but looks.
“Looks, Kitty! I see you laughing across the Irish Ocean. Well, without vanity I will own my looks passable. The American Prince last night at Lady Lansdowne’s drum was so good as to say:
“ ‘Lady Fanny, here’s poor Mr. Rich, the manager, ravaging all the town for a heroine for Mr. Gay’s new piece to be produced in Portugal Street. For her qualifications he needs beauty of the sparkling order, an exquisite bloom like an apple-blossom in dew. Eyes like the sky above it, lips borrowed from the neighbouring cherry tree. Hair—he did not determine whether it must be spun gold or chestnut, but I am at this moment convinced that chestnut is the only wear. This paragon’s bosom must resemble spring hawthorn in hue and fragrance——’
“ ‘In short,’ says I, interrupting, ‘she is a vegetable beauty, since all your similes are drawn from the garden. I imagine her not difficult to find on any farm. A country wench all curds and cream.’
“ ‘ ’S’death! you laugh me out of countenance eternally,’ says his Highness. ‘But, for all your jibes, poor Mr. Rich is distracted and he swears the play that will delight the town is dead as mutton if he can’t find the lady. Poor man! And here she sits before me radiant as Hebe—am I not blinded with her rays?—and as far out of the poor soul’s reach as if in the heaven she’s native to!’
“I took it, my dear Kitty, as a compliment to my clothes rather than myself, for I had on my white poudesoy embroidered with gold, and rose ribbons with pearl in my head, and ’twas acknowledged it became me very well.
“ ‘Not even to oblige you, my Lord, which must ever be my chief study,’ I cried, ‘can I consent to mince and flutter on the stage. I’m told that though you gentlemen do favour the company there, the ladies are—well, their morality is not highly starched, (‘Is it here?’ he interrupted laughing, and motioning at Lady Cranleigh in conversation with Lady Rose, but I went on regardless.) and the gentlemen are even more forthcoming than with us. I dare not risk my character as a staid widow in such surroundings. But what shall Mr. Rich do?’
“ ‘Probably hang himself, when I inform him that your Ladyship declines the part. ’Tis not however surprising that the chief actress on a stage like this, should disdain a lower.’
“ ’Twas indeed a vast court, it being Queen Caroline’s Birthnight—the men as splendid as the women, which says much. The American Prince had half the revenues of his kingdom on his back—I never saw him look better though he is a personable man always. His coat rose-colour velvet with diamond buttons of prodigious size and the long waistcoat, white satin embroidered by Mrs. Gilson’s own hand (I know her stitch) in pink carnations and forget-me-nots. I heard the Queen remark the embroidery and ask who drew the pattern, telling him she was obliged to the company for the compliment of their Birthnight splendour. Indeed my Lord Baltimore becomes all he wears, though some prefer the graver, more manly features of his Grace of Bolton—his inseparable. So do not I, Kitty, though I love Bolton well.
“And now, now for a secret! What shall a woman do that wants a confidant? Reveal it to the butterflies here that will blurt it out to the next flower they perch on! No, forsooth— I am no such fool. But I am at this minute so sick of a secret that the mere pain forces me to be rid of it, and so I will send it across the Irish Sea, sealed in an envelope to my Kitty that hath known all my secrets since I was three years old and stole my first cake.
“ ’Tis a heart now, Kitty,—not a cake—and perhaps not so sweet, and less wholesome. ’Tis my Lord Baltimore’s. I think, I guess, I doubt, that his Lordship hath cast the eye of affection on a certain young widow—the Lady Fanny Armine. Ithink. I do not know. It is certain that he distinguishes me in every company, and that his words are— O, Kitty, honey, sugar—nectar perfumed with ambrosia! Indeed they are! But I would not build on that for indeed he is a male flirt if I mistake him not hugely. No—my girl,—words!—what are words? ’Tis his looks—a sort of—what shall I say? His fine eyes soften, he hesitates, dare I say hefearswhen he is in company with me, he whose looks never fall before the greatest sovereign in the world. When he’s with another I find his looks seek me and hover about me, when—
“But how do you interpret all this, Kitty? For heaven’s sake tell me! for I, who have dismissed—without vanity I may say as many lovers as any woman in London, can’t trust my own judgment where my Lord Baltimore is in question. I dread to be most unfashionably kind to him. . . . I keep my eyes dropt lest he should read in them more than I mean, and for the life of me I can’t tell my own meaning. What do I mean? Interpret for me. I would not be rash, Kitty. Do but consider my position. Free as air, a handsome fortune (’Tis as well perhaps to marry a miser since I am now repaid for all my Timon’s economies!), the high world’s admiration, cards, beaux, routs, drums, ridottos, masquerades. What more could he or any man give me? To be an American Princess—the Queen of Maryland? Yes, but, Kitty, what a figure should I cut among the savages! with half a dozen provincial ladies to dump curtseys to me? However ’tis not this, ’tis the sex—the sex! His Lordship makes an adorable lover that all the world envies. Indeed, I fear he is a better lover than ever he would be a husband. He is in my power now—Should I put myself in his? I took occasion to make some approach to this subject in regard to Mrs. Greville, married not long since:
“ ‘She had every good thing the world can show,’ says I somewhat melancholy. ‘And here she has made herself a slave to Mr. Greville whose temper is the shortest part of him (he measures near seven feet) and what’s to become of the poor lady now? Marriage! ’tis to walk into a prison and shut the door on oneself. Who should know but I that have escaped by the skin of my teeth, as the Apostle says!’
“He unfurled my fan, smiling as if to himself.
“ ‘Why she has but engaged a new servant, Madam, the foremost and most heartfelt of them all. There’s nothing of the devil in Mr. Greville. He has a heart as fine as his coat and a rent roll as long as his legs. He will not quarrel with his wife for a trifle. ’Twill be a scene of conjugal bliss from morning till night and night till morn. She has but to please him——’
“ ‘Please him!’ cries I, ‘Ah, that’s the rub! And suppose she misses the way! And will he study to please her?’
“ ‘Some ladies need but be themselves to please universally and for ever. I know one!’ says he, bowing.
“All very fine, my dear, at Court,—but at home, by the fireside! I would have said more, but Princess Emily past and stayed a minute. I never saw her look more becoming. She had a glorious stiff-bodied gown of orange and gold stuff with gold ribbons and diamonds in her head. My Lord Baltimore very gallantly got her a seat, we standing.
“ ‘I know I intrude,’ says her Royal Highness very gracious, ‘For whenever a gentleman is in talk with Lady Fanny he has the air of desiring to murder any third person who dares approach. Calm yourself however, my Lord, I design but a moment’s stay.’
“ ‘I beseech it may be all night, Madam,’ says I, ‘my Lord Baltimore is dull. He sympathizes with poor Mr. Rich, the manager that can’t find a player-woman for Gay’s new piece, and such is his sensibility he can talk of nothing else. Mr. Rich is distracted.’
“ ‘Why, there are plenty and to spare of such wenches!’ says the Princess.
“ ‘Indeed yes, Madam, but they’re all so confounded ugly. Excepting only Mrs. Oldfield who is so engaged with her General at present that she won’t look at Mr. Rich, there is not one handsomer than the Duchess of Bolton.’
“So saying he shot a look at that lady across the room and just then the Duke entered, very magnificent in purple velvet,—vastly grave and fine, and goes up to his wife, bowing low.
“ ‘Madam, how does your Grace? I trust I see you pure well?’
“The invariable ceremony! She rose and curtseyed,
“ ‘I thank your Grace. I do extreme well. I hope I see you the same?’
“He bowed and slid off to us. The strangest wedlock sure! Polite, but frosty as December. ’Tis thus and only thus they meet. I wonder would the American Prince and myself come to this favour after a year of wedlock? O Kitty, is not the risk too high for any woman? But supposing a woman loved him?—Supposing there was an emptiness in her heart every time he turned his back. Supposing she hated every woman under fifty that came near him! Kitty, I don’t say ’tis myself I speak of, but if it were—what would you say?
“Well, the crowd was so great after this that we were almost drove apart, and I declare I had been smashed and buffeted and my manteau almost torn off my back had it not been that the two gentlemen put their arms before me. Later, Princess Emily came up past me again, very pretty in her orange and gold and whispers, ‘When shall we give you joy, Lady Fanny? No question but my Lord Baltimore is caught and his fine wings clipt to some purpose. Half the world is chattering of those conquering eyes of yours. Give me the first news, your Ladyship!’ She looked very whimsically upon me and would not stay one minute for my denial, but slipt on to where the Queen stood with Sir Robert Walpole beside her—the two of them so deep in affairs of state that neither had a look for the butterfly world about them. A gay surface, but much below it that catches not the eye. She has suffering in her face, too. I doubt we have her great mind with us long, and then for the foolish pepper-headed old King with that fool Mrs. Howard to rule him, and Sir Robert’s day done! It sobered me a little, Kitty, in spite of my flutteration. Sir Robert’s a great man for all his gross tongue and his insolence to my Kitty Queensbury.
“The night closed with his Lordship squiring me to my chair. He prest my hand, and once I was seated and the roof let down, he kissed it. I could feel his lips hot upon it. I leaned forward—I would have spoke, but the chairmen saved me. They broke into a trot and so I left him standing bareheaded, among the flambeaux.
“O, were he as good as he’s handsome, Kitty!—and yet if he were, should I not weary of him as I should of sops and caudle. What do I want? I know not. I think I want a lover, but not aught so terrible as a husband. I should die of a harsh word from his lips. I want the brilliance of a bad man and the constancy of a good one. Arrant fool that I am!
“For news:—The King asked me how I had passed my time at the Bath, and stayed not for the answer. He was hobbling very gouty on a stick. The Queen had upon her half the di’monds she wore at the Coronation and was a blazing figure indeed. Lady Fanny Shirley had the prettiest dress at Court—a satin embroidered in roses—if ’twas not your humble servant’s, as some were fond to say. And that’s my pride, and here’s Lady Carteret thundering at the door and I’ve denied myself.
“That makes my news, Kitty, my dear, and in return I require a full and true account of all yours, and desire you will speech it handsomely for me to your worthy Sir Richard and bestow a kiss for me on the little heir. May he grow up to resemble his dear parents in all that is worthy.
“But counsel me, Kitty.
“Your affectionate cousin and humble servant to command,
“Fanny Armine.”
“He is called here among the topping ladies the Basilisk on account of his killing looks. In future when I write ‘Bas’ my Kitty will know my meaning.”
This written, the beautiful Frances, spoilt minion of fortune, laid down her quill and looked about her at the room wherein she sat. Her white brow with the bright chestnut hair rolled back from it and a certain alertness in her eyes bespoke her however something better—a woman who could reflect with shrewdness, and speak much to the point, and all this was her seductive ladyship and more. She had a mind as well as a face and, as she began terribly to suspect, a heart as well as both, but what shall a lady do with a heart in a society which mocks at such a rustic possession? Indeed, as may be seen by her letter, she could scarce tell what to make of it. And ignorance may lead a woman into a sad quandary from which ’tis impossible to extricate herself. Was there a man in London to whom she had chosenotto be attracted, Charles, Lord Baltimore, was that man? For why? Because Lady Fanny knew well that hearts hovered about him in hordes that he could scarce endure. His life was a hurry of gallantry, equipage, feathers, smiles, ogles, love and courtship. He was spoilt by women, if favours flung before his feet could spoil him. ’Twas said and believed his last voyage to his province was to escape the frantic pursuit of a lady whose rank shall make her nameless, and that relays of weeping charmers lined all the roads down to the port whence he sailed. He had fought three duels with jealous husbands and each time pinked his man, and got off himself for all three with a light thrust in the arm. His history might indeed be read by the light of sparkling eyes, and set to the music of sighs. And out of such charming flimsy stuff to make a good homespun husband! Fie!
No doubt but he distinguished Lady Fanny beyond any other, but O the helplessness of a woman! Was it dependable? What did his Lordship when he strolled off with the Duke of Bolton? Where did they go? How were his hours past? How shall a woman know? She sees what she sees, she hears what she is told, but what is behind the scenes so cunningly set, she cannot tell.
Unusual tears stood in Lady Fanny’s blue eyes as she considered her case.
The door opened and her maid came in with a billet in her hand and a posy of flowers:
“My Lord Baltimore’s gentleman left it, Madam, and enquired how your Ladyship had slept.”
“Does he wait?”
“No, your Ladyship.”
She laid the sealed billet by her lady and went off with a curious eye at it over her shoulder. Indeed Lady Fanny’s hand shook a trifle as she opened it.
“Madam, I purpose a water-party two days hence and it will be no pleasure to the host if you are not of the party. Therefore, I entreat you to reserve Saturday in my favour. If, as on the last occasion, you make conditions for acceptance, I need only say that that soft, that white, that all-commanding hand shall write its own conditions and I accept them unknown. You know very well that in your absence life darkens for me. When you come it is sunshine. If my tongue did not say it ’tis to be read in my eyes, the reflection of a heart that cannot lie to my lady. More I will not say because I am jealous of this paper that kisses your hand, but more, much more I will say when we meet, if I have permission to open my heart to my sovereign.“Your most humble obedient servant,“Baltimore.”“P.S. Rich writes me word this morning that he hath found the paragon he sought, so my Lady Fanny Armine shall not be disappointed of her play. But the paragon is not so fair as my own choice, I dare swear.”
“Madam, I purpose a water-party two days hence and it will be no pleasure to the host if you are not of the party. Therefore, I entreat you to reserve Saturday in my favour. If, as on the last occasion, you make conditions for acceptance, I need only say that that soft, that white, that all-commanding hand shall write its own conditions and I accept them unknown. You know very well that in your absence life darkens for me. When you come it is sunshine. If my tongue did not say it ’tis to be read in my eyes, the reflection of a heart that cannot lie to my lady. More I will not say because I am jealous of this paper that kisses your hand, but more, much more I will say when we meet, if I have permission to open my heart to my sovereign.
“Your most humble obedient servant,
“Baltimore.”
“P.S. Rich writes me word this morning that he hath found the paragon he sought, so my Lady Fanny Armine shall not be disappointed of her play. But the paragon is not so fair as my own choice, I dare swear.”
She read the letter greedily, scarce heeding the postscript and knew not, poor lady, that the sting, like a scorpion’s, lay in the tail.
“Is it love, is it love?” she murmured to herself, “or is it but the desire to insult his rivals and carry off what they call a prize? And for me—is it but the delight to see the heart that so many bleed for bleed at last for me? And could either of us endure the arrogance of conjugalities? Can I dwindle into a wife or he into a husband?”
She sat long musing, but when she caught up the quill again ’twas to accept of the water-party.
CHAPTER V
THE scene is Mr. Rich’s parlour once more and a trembling suppliant and a lenient judge, for Diana was all but on her knees to Mrs. Scawen without whose countenance she could scarce hope to establish herself in any decency outside Mr. Fenton’s protection. Not only so, but her mother had made it a condition not to be evaded. During the performances in the playhouse in the Haymarket, Mrs. Di had kept her secret, appearing but four times, two in each week, and ’twas easy enough for her to slip in and out, Mrs. Fenton at that time nursing her friend Mrs. Somer through a congestion on the chest. Lord save us! had her mother known, what a hue and cry had there been! But now the matter was come to a head board and lodging must needs be found, and for the life of the girl she could think of none but Mrs. Scawen and her kindly rubicund face.
“For indeed, Madam,” says she continuing, “your own good heart will tell you a girl of eighteen can’t leave her mamma and live alone. What—O what shall I do, if your goodness fails me! I must refuse the part.”
’Tis possible Mrs. Scawen might have an eye to pleasing her employer as well as the lovely suppliant who stood before her with clasped hands, her face shaded with a little gypsy hat over a cap and lappets tied under a chin with dimples the very sign-manual of Venus. ’Twas not an easy matter to refuse such a girl with the tears in her eyes.
“Why, Madam,—my dear!” (the last came out very natural from the good woman’s warm heart), “I would not willingly refuse, but we’re plain people, Scawen and me. We have our little house at hand in Prince’s Place and it’s true there’s two little rooms going abegging, for we’ve neither chick nor child, more’s the pity!—but plain, very plain. And you have the appearance of being used to comfort. I can’t tell, I’m sure——”
“O Madam, Madam! Dismiss me not!” cries Diana. “All my hope is in you. Whatever the rooms may be, and the plainer the better, your goodness will light them up. You see me at my wit’s end, and though I daren’t suppose Mr. Rich would regret me if I slid out of engagement, still——”
“But a gay young player-lady,” hesitates Mrs. Scawen, who had seen much of the sex under such-like conditions.
“I’m far from gay!” protested the poor player, now near weeping. “And I’ll vow, dear Madam, that never a step shall cross the threshold but with your approbation. You shall be in place of my mamma who will run to thank you with all her heart for your goodness to her poor girl.”
So ’twas finally settled and the two hurried off to survey the rooms before the meeting appointed with Mr. Rich and Mr. Gay. ’Tis true they were plain, but they served, and had the merit to be near the playhouse—no small convenience when the perils that beset a lovely face in London be considered. The bargain was sealed with a kiss, and then Mrs. Diana made for the parlour once more to face the ordeal, her whole heart a prayer for fortitude and mercy. She had as yet none of the confidence she was to gain later, and, had the two gentlemen been Grand Inquisitors and she a fair heretic, could not have trembled worse. Mr. Rich and Mr. Gay, the author, sat by the table—the former in a handsome sober suit of grey cloth, the latter in the uncommon garb of a big gown folded about him and a little cap. He had himself carried round in a chair from his morning meal which he took late and luxurious. Indeed a somewhat free use of the pleasures of the table had left its mark on him and he looked but sickly and peevish to Diana’s thinking as she curtseyed low before her judges. She past as near Mr. Rich as she dared, breathing, “My name, Sir, is Lavinia Fenton.” He nodded.
“I beg to present Mrs. Lavinia Fenton to your favourable notice, Mr. Gay,” says Mr. Rich sedately. “You are aware, Sir, that your attractive conception of Polly is none too easy to meet and that I have been put to much trouble and in vain so far in the search. But last evening this young lady walked in carrying hope with her. Your own eyes will teach you, Sir, that her appearance is all we could desire, and my own ears vouch for a harmonious voice and neat manner of singing. You’ll therefore——”
“Humph!” says Mr. Gay.
It fell a little chilling into Mr. Rich’s periods, but he was used not only to Mr. Gay, but to the tribe of authors at large, and their irritability in face of their own precious bantlings, and laughed good-humouredly.
“Why, Sir, I know well that were Venus and Euphrosyne rolled into one they wouldn’t fill an author’s conception of his goddess. But yet——”
“The nose isn’t sufficiently impertinent,” says Mr. Gay, “and I would have the eyes more arch, more sparkling. Such as Bracegirdle’s whom I remember in Millamant. Ah, there was a dish for the gods! Ah, Rich, Rich, where is her like?”
“If you would have this young lady’s eyes sparkle, pay her a pretty compliment, Mr. Gay, as none can do so well, and I’ll wager they outshine Bracey’s. Come now! Bracey was a beginner once also! Cheer the young lady!”
’Twas kindly meant, but still Mr. Gay humphed.
“Her stature! I would have Polly an inch less—a dainty rogue a man may pick up betwixt his finger and thumb. I disparage not the young lady’s appearance when I say I can figure her rather as the Mourning Bride than my bewitching Polly. There is a melancholy in her eye.”
And ’twas at that moment that Diana, forgetting her own alarms in a statement so preposterous, broke into a roulade of laughter resembling a string of pearls, so round and mellow it fell from her rosy lips, and then, terrified, she stopt all of a sudden, and clasped her hands to her heart, fearing she had spoiled her chance.
“Again, again, child!” cries Mr. Gay eagerly. “That was my Polly’s very laugh. If you can give us that for certain, I’ll overlook the nose (—not but what your nose is very well otherwise!) and the inch too much. Laugh again, child!”
She did and naturally, for the queer man and his queer cap and gown so impressed her that ’twas no hard task. Mr. Rich looked on delighted as Gay cried:
“And your speaking voice, girl? Speak for me! My Polly is an arch rogue, but demure as a little Quakeress when she will. O a delicious slut! She hath a voice of music and can sidle and wheedle her way into a man’s heart when most he closes it against her. Canst do that, child?”
She looked up beneath the veil of long eyelashes and smiled slowly, dropping a curtsey until her hoop settled low on the ground, and keeping her eyes fixed all the time on Mr. Gay as she rose again. She was no longer frightened. Trust a woman to know when her dart goes home. She clasped her little hands, and acted very passably for a beginner.
“O Sir, with a kind word to cheer me you shall see I am your very Polly. My nose, I cannot help it, though I pray its pardon if it offends you. And for my height— Do but look at my heels! Sure I can wear them flat if you will and there’s your Polly—just so high as your heart. No higher!”
With her face all sparkling and beseeching like an April day, she raised her petticoats an inch and displayed a little foot adorably perched on a ridiculous high heel like a porcelain shepherdess. But Mr. Gay heeded not the foot though Mr. Rich marked it well.
“The voice—the air! Perfection’s self,” he cries, “I forgive the nose. Indeed of its kind ’tis charming, though I would have Polly’s a little less correct in outline. But the voice! ’Tis as soft as a wood-dove’s and assaults the senses like a rose perfume. She’ll do, Mr. Rich. Your old discrimination is not run altogether to seed as I supposed. Let’s pray she falls in love with Walker, though I hold him but a dull rogue for my Macheath.”
“He’ll do!” says Mr. Rich briefly. “But I’m content you’re content, Mr. Gay. Indeed she’s the right stuff, and so you’ll say when you hear her warble. Not but what she wants training enough and to spare. ’Tis only in the fables that Minerva springs full armed from the head of Jove. But the stuff’s there. Sir, we shall do.”
“My dear,” says Mr. Gay, snuffing and fumbling for his handkerchief; “Mr. Rich says right. You’ll do. Be not too proud and perked up for teaching. Be docile, womanly and obedient, and you’ll be the very rod with which I’ll hit the court in the face and hold up its follies to the public. Go—you’re a pretty girl and a good. I like you well. But stay a minute—” (and here he became awful) “No running after the fellows while the work’s in hand. No junketing;—all sober earnest. This I condition for.”
“She won’t need to run after the fellows,” cries Mr. Rich, bursting into a great laugh, “They’ll do the running. Better instruct your Polly in the art of escaping, Mr. Gay. ’Tis that must be her study. Canst bridle, Miss Polly, when they become too ardent?”
She bridled charmingly and with the prettiest air of shy dignity. Indeed she was now at the top of her part, seeing that like a chaste Susanna she had the two elders on her string. An express then summoned Mr. Gay away to the Duchess of Queensbury who, having been at daggers drawn with the court, was all for Mr. Gay’s company and was plotting reprisals with him. Mr. Rich, returning to business, fixed her salary at two guineas a week and one Benefit on the run should the play go over the month. She thought it riches and ’twas not amiss, Mr. Rich having favoured the great Mrs. Oldfield with but one guinea weekly when she appeared first as Candiope. At all events it left the girl overjoyed, knowing she could pay Mrs. Scawen and put something considerable in her pocket as well. ’Twas more than the wealth of nabobs, for ’twas freedom, hope, fame, and a many other glittering delights that rang to the tune of those two golden guineas.
She thought it due to Mr. Rich’s consideration to mention her arrangement to share Mrs. Scawen’s roof, the which he approved very kindly and with a sensibility beyond her expectation.
“I would not have you but under some sensible woman’s wing that knows the risks, and since it can’t be your mamma, you might seek further and find a worse than Scawen. She hath a good nature that does her infinite credit. Now, Mrs. Polly, if you permit me that liberty (that the secret of your name really be kept), come hither at four of the clock for the reading of the piece, and be not set back by the necessary fault-finding at rehearsals even though it seem rough. Nor yet by the jealousies of your fellow players, men and women. ’Tis the curse of the stage, but since ’tis human nature ’tis to be predicted ’twill outlast the stage itself. But fear not. The prize is great, and all shall be well.”
’Twas surprising how the rough places smoothed themselves for this pretty creature. It gave her much hope and courage. She went tripping back to Mr. Scawen’s whither her little baggage was brought by two hulking porters, and her mamma followed later to bestow her blessing and see Mrs. Scawen to implore her goodness for the girl and to be instantly summoned should any danger threaten.
“For I would have you know, Madam,” says she feelingly to Mrs. Scawen, “that she’s my all. I’m not so blest in my husband as I could wish, and if aught should go wrong with her I see not what shall become of me.”
Mrs. Scawen vowed attention with many bends and curtseys, and then left them, Mrs. Fenton preparing to depart.
“My child,” she said, embracing her, “Mr. Fenton hath tiffed all day about your going, and came near to strike me. But what he revealed in his anger justifies us, and there’s no more to say but that I implore you to do me and yourself credit, remembering that your father came of an ancient and honourable family. Let it not sink in your hands.”
“Be not low-spirited, my dearest Mamma,” cries Diana, twining about her like an ivy to the parent tree. “Come often to see me and I’ll work—Lord! how I’ll work!—and then a little home for you and me and that bad man forgot.”
So they parted, and the girl put her rooms in order, and then dined with Mrs. Scawen on a boiled chick neatly enough served, Scawen being absent all day on his business, and so to Portugal Street for the reading, all of a flutter, but winged by hope.
’Twas a strange scene to her in the green-room—rows of chairs set out for the players and a vacant space in front with two chairs and a desk for Mr. Gay and Rich, and candles beside ’em, for though still day the room was not overlight. Diana stood at the door a moment, looking timidly under her hat at the little crowd of persons not yet seated who were talking together till the two great men should appear. Their jargon was as strange to her as their faces. They looked her over carelessly and resumed their talk, each seeming familiar with all, and she the only stranger. This was the case truly, all being stock members of Mr. Rich’s company. They might have made some little overture, she thought, but none did, and still she hesitated near the threshold.
Presently came steps behind her and the two gentlemen entered, Mr. Gay now extremely well drest in a snuff-coloured cloth suit in the latest mode and finely powdered peruke. He stopt by the door and made a sliding bow and flourish of his hat to the ladies, Mr. Rich following, the talk ceasing at once amid an avalanche of bows and curtseys. Mr. Rich said loudly:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the piece Mr. Gay is about to favour us with is so novel, so witty and humorous, with such strange unexpected turns as I don’t doubt will distinguish us all very highly if justice is done in the playing of it. And ’twill doubtless add also to his own ever-green laurels. ’Tis scarce needful then that I bespeak your best attention to what follows. But before you are seated I beg to present to your good-fellowship Mrs. Lavinia Fenton whom Mr. Gay and I have cast for a principal part. I might indeed saytheprincipal part were it not that she divides the honours with Mrs. Bishop who is chose for the Lucy Lockit of the production. But let no lady fear that she comes short of a humorous part and great occasions. Mrs. Slammikin—but I need not to continue. You will hear all presently. Ladies, Mrs. Lavinia Fenton. Mrs. Fenton, these are the gentlemen of our company.”
All bowed, and curtseyed, with eyes of surprise and (’tis possible) jealousy on the newcomer. All, that is to say, excepting the men. For like one man they stared at the fair new planet swum into their skies and could not take their eyes off her. She wore her black hair fastened up with ribbons and drest in high rolls, and a handsome flowered chintz over a hoop of the top mode, and was, to be sure, a beauty confest, outshining all the rest, though Mrs. Bishop, the destined Lucy Lockit was a fine handsome sombre-eyed woman. For the excitement brought a lovely bloom to her cheek and made her eyes sparkle like purple wine in crystal. Mr. Rich shot her a glance of approval as he handed her to a chair on the right of the front row and did the same by Mrs. Bishop after.
’Twas a strange position for a slip of a girl. This must be owned. But Mr. Gay now began with his folio paper in his hand and a fine delivery from the chest, though a somewhat sawing action of the disengaged arm.
Beggars! The company stared upon one another wonderstruck. So engrossed were they that they knew not that a young man—beautiful as Apollo could he be dressed by the famous tailor Grimson in the latest mode, had come in softly by the door behind them, and sat astride his chair, leaning his arms on the back and his chin on them, and so continued through the reading.
So Mr. Gay proceeded, and, a very unusual circumstance in a green-room, the company more than once applauded, delighted at some rich and witty turn that caught their fancy. Walker—the destined Macheath, fairly roared outright at more than one speech to his credit, and at the first pause clapt his hands till the palms rang again. A lusty handsome man somewhat coarsely built, but a good leg and a swagger, and a roving eye to top it all.
“Why, I swear, Mr. Gay, that there’s not its like in the universe. Damme if there is! ’Tis so astonishing new—so surprising fresh! It needs but the embellishing of the actor to make it more than passable.”
“I am happy, Sir, in your approval!” says Mr. Gay drily. “But as for embellishment—the closer you stick to my lines and indications the more like you are to take the town. I dare assure you every point is considered.”
Rich winked to Walker. He knew as well as Walker that when all’s said and done the cast of the die is in the player’s hand. But authors (and especially authors so high in favour with her beauteous Grace of Queensbury) must be humoured. Walker settled down with an almost invisible sneer. As for Diana, she hung enraptured on every word. Was ever such dazzling wit in the world before! She forgot herself; she laughed her enchanting laugh aloud when Mrs. Peachum tumbling over is supposed to display more of her person than the mode warrants. ’Twas like silver bells. The company willy-nilly must needs laugh with her, and Mr. Gay stopt, smiling a minute full in her eyes. She remembered scarce at all that she was to shine in it, the thing so carried her away, and after the scene with Lucy Lockit was read, she clapt her hands till she tore her glove. The rest were more pragmatical, comparing it with by-gone experiences and appraising it as Diana could not, but all were extreme well satisfied—the only doubt being how the necessary absence of splendid costume and surrounding must affect the piece. The songs being only read naturally lost it much of its attraction.
“For my part,” says Mrs. Bishop, levelling her fine eyes, “I vow I like it well enough, but consider the parts should be dressed above the common persons Mr. Gay hath chose to depict. ’Tis my own purpose to wear my wardrobe that I played in for ‘The Recruiting Officer.’ I have no notion to make myself a fright in any part I play, and ’twon’t go down with the public neither. They come as much for glitter as anything else.”
“On that point, Madam, I’m adamant!” cries Mr. Gay. “I won’t have my play spoilt by the absurdities of fine ladies in satins and brocades when I entend a higwayman’s doxies. Indeed I won’t, and so I give you notice. ’Tis to reduce the whole to a namby-pamby absurdity. What says Mrs. Fenton?”
’Twas an awkward moment for Diana who desired not to offend either party, though indeed her own good sense took part with Mr. Gay. But all eyes turned to her, Rich laughing a little to hear what Miss Timidity would say.
“Why, Sir,—I am but an inexperienced player and Mrs. Bishop a skilful, but indeed for my own part I think a woman may look as well in chintzes and a cap as in damask and a Brussels head. ’Tis all in the wearing of it and in the face, and sure Mrs. Bishop’s face would carry off sacking, and so please Mr. Gay and delight the public.”
’Twas so prettily said and with an art so charmingly hid under innocence that Rich laughed behind his hand and Mrs. Bishop gave her a smacking kiss for guerdon. And indeed she stood there so fair an example of her own precept in her flowered chintz and laced handkerchief across the bosom that there was not one but agreed.
“We have however,” says Mr. Gay, “the advantage of a gentleman’s presence that’s an infallible authority both on glitter and the taste of the town. Perhaps my Lord Baltimore will do us the favour of his verdict on the dressing of the piece.”
My Lord came forward, his sword at his side, as easy and handsome a gentleman as to be seen in a month’s walk. Had he indeed played Macheath—but, Lord! ’twas as well not, considering the poor hearts of the city ladies who moved not on his dangerous orbit.
“Your servant, Mr. Gay, Mr. Rich, ladies and gentlemen!” says he laughing. “ ’Tis a distinction to be asked my opinion in such a society. But since you’ll have it—why, this fair lady is right a million times over. What! shall such a face as Mrs. Bishop’s depend on the price she pays a yard for her stuffs? Does her agreeable humour depend on the feathers in her head and would they make reparation if she were absent? She knows better herself though her modesty won’t admit it. No, Mr. Rich. Dress the play in character and I warrant you a success that sets the town ablaze.”
“You taste the piece then, my Lord!” says Gay, purring like a cat that has its ears tickled.
“Lord, yes! Why even read ’tis the wittiest thing I’ve heard in five years. And when ’tis played—— But much is in the players. Which of these charming ladies is your Polly, Mr. Rich? You was in despair no later than yesterday.”
Mr. Rich indicated Diana with a flourish:
“Mrs. Fenton, I present my Lord Baltimore.”
She sank low in a curtsy while his Lordship proffered his most elegant bow as though ’twere a posy. Rising to the recover, her eyes met his.
Instant, and she knew not why, a wave of colour flowed from her heart to her face and she blushed faintly but divinely—too warm upon so cool an occasion. But ’tis impossible to express the language of his look. A flash only, yet it said the unspeakable in astonishment, admiration, boldness and submission. Be it remembered his Lordship was an old hand at the game, not a move of it unknown to him. His lips said only what any actress might expect.
“Madam, ’tis a felicity to be known to you. Your looks, your voice ensure us a Polly that shall borrow the very car of love and set the world afire.”
“That car, my Lord,” says Mr. Gay laughing, “was long ago engaged by Mr. Prior to Her Grace of Queensbury. ’Tis not for hire.”
He hummed the words relating to “Kitty beautiful and young,” and turned off to Rich. Lord Baltimore drew nearer to Diana.
“Madam, your most obedient was interested before in Mr. Gay’s venture. I can think of nought else now. Tell me what happy town hath given us so great a wonder, for I have not seen these piercing charms in London.”
’Twas overdone, impertinent. He had not so treated a lady. She felt the distinction and levelled her eyes coolly at him but said nothing. He continued:
“Why, Madam, all the Mrs. Fiddlefans in the town will take to chintz, so do you set it off, and jewels will cease to be the mode when you display that posy in your bosom. Confound me if I see not before me the very masterstroke of creation—the ecstasy of nature! I——”
She curtseyed again and turned from him in silence the very line of her haughty neck showing displeasure. He halted on a word, surprised and angry in his turn, then revolved slowly to Mrs. Bishop, his sword clashing as he did so.
Diana made for the door, the business being finished, but not before Mr. Rich said graciously, in an aside:
“You’ve won Gay’s heart, child. That suffices. Win no more hearts until the play is done. You’ll have your part tomorrow. Think but of that and of the business in hand and bid the fops flutter about other candles. Yet displease not his Lordship utterly. His word is law to the fine ladies and gentlemen that make or mar us.”
She curtseyed again with hot angry cheeks. That night a posy of red roses tied with blue and silver satin ribbons was left for her at Mrs. Scawen’s. But no name. She flung it atop of the fire and Mrs. Scawen had much ado to rescue the ribbons for her own wearing to Bartholomew Fair. Knowing the habits of the nobility and gentry she informed Mrs. Di that these colours were the livery of my Lord Baltimore. ’Tis certain that many ladies wore this livery not only on their persons but in their hearts—the more’s the pity!
CHAPTER VI
AFORTNIGHT later, Catherine Duchess of Queensbury—a very imperious and beautiful lady, was seated in her own library, and her companion was his Grace of Bolton. But a few words must needs be said of this celebrated person, Mr. Gay’s patroness and (it must needs also be said) instigator in his attacks upon the court. Never was a lady more favoured by fortune. Born of the great Hyde family that had given two Queens to England—their Majesties Mary the Second and Queen Anne, she married as greatly as her birth demanded, becoming Duchess of Queensbury and Dover in her twentieth year, and paling all the beauties of her own rank by her radiant face. A wit, a termagant, with a tongue like a dagger, and the most wilful of her sex, she queened it right royally, and if the majestic Queen Caroline could daunt her Grace ’twas as much as she could, and that by no means always. Certainly no other person made the attempt. For Prior’s “Kitty beautiful and young,”—who by the way seemed but to grow in beauty as in years, considered herself the first lady in Europe by right divine, and for those who failed to bow before her sceptre ’twas apt to become a rod, and descend upon their backs with a resounding thwack. But sweet as a summer breeze to those who were fortunate enough to please her Divinity! Of these Mr. Gay had the happiness to be one of the chief, and at the present time his knife and fork was laid daily at her Grace’s table and a room kept at his disposal, his Grace the Duke, her husband, approving all that his consort decreed. It came as a consequence that Madam followed every event in the production of “The Beggar’s Opera” with as much interest as its author, hoping to launch it with all its sting at her deadly enemy Sir Robert Walpole, the famous minister.
Behold then the fair Kitty—whom her enemies described as a cat—in the full bloom of her charms, more lovely at twenty-eight than when she stole the car of love and set the world afire (to quote again her adorer, Prior) in her teens. A noble looking creature with large lucent eyes and long throat to set off her diamonds, and brown hair shot with gold dressed so as to add to her fine height. She might have been an Empress. Yet, will it be believed that this woman who moved and spoke a goddess confessed, could descend so far as to snatch off her brocaded apron in a fury when those dainty ornaments were forbid at Court, and fling it in the face of the Lord Chamberlain who strove to hinder her Grace’s invasion in the contraband garment? Not only did she so, but considered herself the aggrieved party and swept on into the Presence, darting such awful glances at him as must have withered the unfortunate but for the supporting anger of royalty on his side.
Such then was the lady with whom Bolton sat closeted now. They had played together as children and between them subsisted a strong and faithful friendship that admitted of truth on both sides with an unalterable kindness beneath, whatever little whiffs might disturb the surface.
She sat at her tambour frame stitching the flowers of a silken garden, and while she stuck her needle in and out she discoursed of ‘The Beggar’s Opera.’ ’Twas truly in her mind night and day, owing to the malicious pleasure she took in the hope of wounding Sir Robert Walpole with the innuendoes her Grace and Mr. Gay had prepared.
“Gay tells me all goes as well as even he could wish,” says she. “ ’Twas Heaven’s own blessing sent us a Polly he can approve, for like all the tribe of authors he’s so thin-skinned that unless all’s perfection he expects the sky to fall and crush his hopes. He describes her the prettiest wench he ever set eyes on—a black beauty but with eyes like violets.”
“Beauty is not all in a player,” says the Duke, caressing her silky lap-dog on his knees. “ ’Tis manner—a something seductive, I know not how to word it, but a something that makes the whole world desire to embrace the lady.”
The Duchess gave one of her big hearty laughs.
“And doubtless they do so—more or less!” says she. His Grace still stroked the dog’s silken ears.
“Why, not in this case, Madam, it appears. ’Tis a case of the chaste Diana, and——”
“What? On the stage? I won’t believe it.”
“But you must believe it. For one whole fortnight—fourteen days, no less, this damsel hath stood fire and hath not lowered her flag, no, not by an inch. ’Tis reported that her Macheath is so in love with her that he can scarce play the character of the gay libertine that shines on all the ladies alike, and is in public, as in his private character of Mr. Walker, so lovesick that he can’t say ‘How happy could I be with either,’ without conveying by every sign and token that he has no eye at all for the unhappy Lucy Lockit, and that his whole soul is Polly’s. Mr. Rich hath scolded, argued, reasoned, and all in vain.”
“And Polly?”
“Polly will have none of him, she turns up the most exquisite nose in Christendom, barring your Grace’s, and when she must sidle up to him does it with a Don’t-touch-me! air that she must certainly amend or incur Mr. Gay’s severest reproof.”
“Then you’ve seen her, Sir, I conclude?”
“Certainly, Madam, what would my character for fashion be worth had I not seen the new, the famous, the adorable Polly? I was presented to her in the green-room, but could scarce form a judgment of her face so resolutely did she keep her eyes on the ground and tilt her hat brim over her eyes. There was that in her air that said ‘A man’s an animal I distrust most liberally. Not a man shall come within the circumference of my hoop but I’ll freeze him into awe. Keep your distance, Sir!’ Accordingly I kept it. I know not what she is like.”
“Then there’s a lover behind the scenes,” says her Grace, sticking a jonquil and laughing.
“Why be so cruel in your judgment, Madam? Hasn’t Mrs. Bracegirdle carried her reputation unspotted through the world and she a famous player? Don’t your Grace recall Congreve’s verse?”
And in a very mellow and manly tenor the Duke sangsotta voce: