CHAPTER IX
TIS known to all the world that the success of “The Beggar’s Opera” was prodigious. Never had such been known. As my Lady Fanny observed in a full conclave of ladies at her pool of commerce ’twas more like a general infection than a reasonable admiration.
“I went for the fourth time on Thursday,” says she, “and could compare it only to a battle to get in at the doors, ladies squawling, shrieking and their lappets tore off in the press, and Mrs. Maynard’s foot so trod upon as she is in bed since. ’Tis true her foot is of that size that a grenadier might make it his pedestal, but as no doubt she wore the shoes borrowed from the Hungarian Giant at Bartholomew Fair their spoiling is to be pitied.”
Her Ladyship’s own foot defying criticism this sally created laughter, though Lady Weston and a few more re-arranged their hoops to discretion.
“But, what think you of Polly?” cries Lady Carteret. —“All the men rave of her, and ’tis declared by those who should know that she is such an icicle as makes some suppose Mr. Rich has reverted to the ancient fashion and drest a pretty boy to play the siren’s part. Indeed ’tis reported she kicked a forward admirer out of the playhouse last week.
“If so,” says another with mock gravity, “it speaks very ill for her Grace of Queensbury’s modesty that has Miss Polly constantly about her person. No, no boy had ever those languishments, those airs and graces. She becomes all she does as only a woman can.”
There was a moment’s pause while the pretty ladies sipped their chocolate served to them by my Lady Fanny’s Mesrour and Selim. Because others had one small blackamoor to serve them she must needs have two, and very well they became her boudoir and her Ladyship’s own immaculate fair complexion, in their Eastern dress of gold and bloom-colour. ’Twas my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu next took up the strain:
“All the same, ladies, I would give more than a pennyworth to know why her Grace is so tender of a mere player. Look at it how you will ’tis an astonishing circumstance. ’Tis whispered that Mrs. Fenton is in truth the daughter of Mr. Francis Hyde and her mother too great to be mentioned.”
“Lord, Lady Mary. Sure you must be choked with scandal to cough it up thus!” cries Mrs. Fentrevor. “Do but consider what you say! This girl’s eighteen if a day, and Mr. Francis Hyde but thirty-two. ’Tis attributing a precocity that——”
The remainder of her sentence was drowned in a general laughter, in which my Lady Fanny pretended to join though in truth watching every word. ’Tis needless to express the amazement with which she had beheld the lady of the boat and of the Duchess’s library trip on to the stage as Polly. It sent her heart to her throat in a fluttering fit that had near burst her staylace. What in the world might it mean? She sought and strove, and rummaged her poor brain, and nothing at all could she decipher. She watched my Lord Baltimore during that performance as a cat does a mousehole, and yet today was no nearer the solving of the mystery than before. What wonder then she should listen breathless to each and all of the pretty gossips lest one or other should hit it. Trembling now lest the talk should turn elsewhere she led it back, unfurling her fan with an air.
“Look here, ladies! Is not this to be in the forefront of the fashion? Look at my fan that Sir Harry Vane hath sent me. Pictures of Polly and Lucy on either side of Macheath,—of Polly with her papa and mamma, of Polly with the bevy of beauties and their babies. Is it not a gem—painted as you’ll see on satin? Indeed the girl has an agreeable air.”
’Twas past from one hand to another with much jealousy that none but Lady Fanny should catch up the mode. But indeed ’twas always she to trip the flying feet of Fashion, the rest were mostly a day after her nimble Ladyship. My Lady Mary Wortley Montagu looked longest at it.
“Say what you will, there’s a resemblance in the features to Kitty Queensbury,” she said, “and ’tis known that family is none too straitlaced. Herself can’t be guilty, for her age is known to us all, but let us run over her sisters, brothers and cousins and consider of the possibilities.”
“Then we shall sit here till tomorrow,” cries Lady Fanny, “for the Hyde family tree is as fruitful as the Jewish Kings’. Lord, no, Madam, you are on a false scent. ’Tis perfectly simple. Her Grace set her whole heart on the success of Gay’s piece and any one contributing to that is an angel in her eyes. Sure we all know her oddities. But behind them a heart of pure gold. I’m her friend and know and love her well, and the better for her whims and fancies, and will answer for it.”
“The greatest oddity of all,” retorts Lady Mary, “is that she will have so promising an affair going on beneath her roof as Mrs. Fenton’s intrigue with my Lord Baltimore. I have as strong a stomach as most, but I confess it makes me qualmish.”
“Lord Baltimore?” cries Lady Fanny, repelling with her gay laughter the piercing glance of her elder. “Why that’s nothing to the purpose. He goes there because Bolton goes, and Bolton goes to tell his woes to the Duchess, and ’tis incredible that a mere player is admitted to sit with her Grace. My woman has it from the Duchess’s woman that the girl is but given bed and board and sees no company whatever. You may trust her Grace’s dignity. No, no—my Lady Mary. He may pursue her at the playhouse, but she has a potent rival. His own self-love.”
“Why ’tis that sends him after her. Polly is so much the mode that to win her would be the last finish and polish to his Lordship’s success. He disdains all his former charmers.”
Lady Fanny resolved on bold action—so piercing, so malicious was the eye that held her.
“Indeed that’s very true, Madam, and who should know it better than your most obedient. I think ’twas for two months or more the Basilisk favoured me with such attention that had I been an ounce vainer I had thought myself the chosen American Princess. But, Lord! I knew him too well. I did but wait my retirement in favour of a more beauteous pretender, and here she comes in the adorable Polly! She’s welcome, for me!”
It baffled the lady, who drew back to wait for the next opportunity to sting. The rest laughed good-humouredly.
“Depend on’t we hear of a great scandal one of these days!” says the pretty bouncing Mrs. Tate.— “The Basilisk never wanted anything that he did not take sooner or later. For my part, I pity the girl unless she favours his suit. Not even the Duchess can protect her. As to the friendship between him and the Duke of Bolton ’tis well known it’s wearing as thin as gossamer. They are little together now. But shall we to our commerce again, Lady Fanny?”
A part of the company took to their cards while those fair Philomels, Mrs. Donnellan together with Mrs. Fane, favoured the rest with a song to my Lady Fanny’s harpsichord from “The Beggar’s Opera” that indeed was not inappropriate to this charming talkative society.
’Twas the dialogue song between Lucy and Polly they sung.
Why, how now, Madam Flirt?If you thus must chatterAnd are for flinging dirt,Let’s see who best can spatter,Madam Flirt!Why, how now, saucy jade?Sure the wench is tipsy!How can you see me madeThe scoff of such a gipsy?Saucy jade!
Why, how now, Madam Flirt?If you thus must chatterAnd are for flinging dirt,Let’s see who best can spatter,Madam Flirt!Why, how now, saucy jade?Sure the wench is tipsy!How can you see me madeThe scoff of such a gipsy?Saucy jade!
Why, how now, Madam Flirt?If you thus must chatterAnd are for flinging dirt,Let’s see who best can spatter,Madam Flirt!
Why, how now, Madam Flirt?
If you thus must chatter
And are for flinging dirt,
Let’s see who best can spatter,
Madam Flirt!
Why, how now, saucy jade?Sure the wench is tipsy!How can you see me madeThe scoff of such a gipsy?Saucy jade!
Why, how now, saucy jade?
Sure the wench is tipsy!
How can you see me made
The scoff of such a gipsy?
Saucy jade!
Mrs. Slammikin, Mrs. Coaxer and their friends could not have applauded louder than that merry party.
’Twas impossible to get away from the thing. ’Twas sung and hummed and bawled and shouted wherever you went from St. James’s to St. Giles’s. The town seethed with stories of how Sir Robert Walpole, attending it and hearing an allusion that pinched him, cried out jovially (seeing all the house watching him), “Again, again! A roaring good song. I insist it be repeated”—and so spoilt the malice intended. But indeed the town talked of nothing else in one form or another, and poor Mr. Handel and his stately and harmonious operas languished on the shelf with the dust gathering upon ’em. The sprightlyolla podridaof songs in the other swept all before it.
But when her company was gone, my Lady Fanny sat staring into the fire thinking thoughts she would not have known for the world. She had learnt one particular that might furnish a clue in the maze—namely that my Lord and the Duke of Bolton were now seldom together. The Duchess she dared not approach. A slap in the face from that white but powerful hand was as likely a finish to what her Grace might consider impertinence as any other. But Bolton——! A lady may count on a courteous answer from a gentleman she knows and honours, whether he reveal the truth or no. She had therefore writ him the sweetest little perfumed billet requesting his company next day. As an old friend. He came. He had a sincere liking for her—and likings with the Duke were a kind of fidelity.
So behold the pair seated—the lady graver than she dared or cared to be with her own sex, but keenly on the alert. No need to record the beginning of the talk while she manœuvred him steadily nearer and nearer to the point. She had herself never seen the Inconstant since the day of the water-party save in the distance—a circumstance so singular and cruel that it might well excuse her anxiety. Indeed she was unfairly used! It came at last to the point. She knew her man. She was candid with him.
“Your Grace, I have a question to ask you, and I ask the favour that it may lie between you and me only. For ’tis an uncommon question, I know.”
“Madam, your Ladyship’s command honours me and shall be faithfully obeyed. ’Tis a distinction to share a secret with you.”
He observed her face to be anxious—a very unaccustomed expression with one so gay, and looked kindly upon her.
“I would I knew this, your Grace. Why is the friendship between you and my Lord Baltimore lessened?”
The attack was so sudden that he flinched.
“Surely, Madam——”
“I know, I know ’tis a most unconscionable question. I am ashamed as I ask it. But I am no stranger to your kind heart, and when I remind your Grace that I have no father, husband or brother to protect me and that my marriage was miserable, I trust you will see I am driven to a self-protection that happier women have unasked from the gentlemen of their family.”
’Twas beautifully said however felt, and the little break in the sweet voice perfection. It moved the Duke.
“My dear lady,” says he, “There’s not a man in London would refuse any request of yours especially so movingly prest. Ask anything you will, and if I don’t reply know ’tis only because honour forbids. You would know why the friendship is lessened between Baltimore and me. Who tells you that it is?”
He was not to escape that way however.
“The whole world!” says Lady Fanny, thus amplifying Mrs. Tate, and sat, her cheek leaned on her hand, looking beseechingly at him.
“You force a very unwilling man to speak, Madam. I own then that the friendship is lessened, but the reason I can’t give. Suffice it to say his Lordship is taking a course I can’t approve of. Pray be so good as ask no more.”
“I need not. I am aware ’tis the pursuit of one in whom your Grace is interested that hath come between you and your friend. I hear on all hands that he pursues her with a fire unknown to him hitherto, and that the lady does not repel his flame.”
“ ’Tis false as hell!” The Duke entrapt, started to his feet, his hand seeking his sword-hilt. “She loathes, she trembles at his pursuit. She’s pure as her name——”
“Polly?” suggests my lady. It brought him to a full stop, and to a stern gravity. Once more he seated himself.
“Her name is Diana, Madam, and she does not belie it. You have led me into an admission that I intended not to make. I desire to know nothing of my Lord Baltimore’s concerns.”
Again she changed to a woman beset with fear, tender, pleading.
“Your Grace, I would I could say the same. But I do desire most honestly to know his concerns, and I have none to counsel me—none! If I say I had reason to think—to imagine——”
He helped her out, with pity.
“The world knows, Madam, that he was at your feet. It seems he is so no longer. What counsellor do you need but the pride that beseems you?”
“O more, much more!” she cried, her beautiful eyes drowned in tears— “You know nothing if you imagine that pride will heal my sore, sore wound. The world mocks me as deserted and humbled. Me! But that’s the least. My own heart——” Her voice was strangled in a sob. He looked upon her bowed head with pity.
“The lady whose heart is engaged there deserves much sympathy. Madam, you are not only beauty’s self, but you have wit and intelligence far beyond your sex. Can these, and a wholesome pride, not aid you to cast aside regrets and go on your way as the stars you resemble emerge the brighter from a cloud? Were he at your feet once more, what have you to build on securely? And after marriage—what? Marriage—”
He paused and the dark shadow descended on his face. That word had terrors for him, and my Lady Fanny knew it.
“Your Grace,” she said gently—“your sympathy is more precious than another’s, for you have suffered. To whom else than to such a gentleman could I have opened myself. I know not how it is, but you are one that women naturally turn to in trouble—full of kind and noble thoughts and a grave sympathy. If I had a brother I could wish him so. Indeed I am in trouble. Tell me, I beseech you, the truth that it may help me like a bitter potion. Is this woman his mistress? But if even she is not, a pursuit so base must for ever dishonour him in my eyes.”
His own flashed, but he subdued the rising anger, and confronted her calmly.
“Consider me your brother, Madam, and hear a plain truth. She is not his mistress nor any man’s. She is pure as yourself.— Can I say more? for ’tis known what temptation you resisted during a hateful marriage. And his pursuit in one sense is not base in that to love such a woman should ennoble any man. ’Tis base only because he would drag the chaste moon from the heavens into the mud of a vile passion. Were he to share his name with her I could honour him, but as it is——”
“Share his great name with a player-woman!” she cried, in horror. “Madness! Impossible! Why—(she made a long pause—then said very low) your Grace yourself loves her. Else you had not said this.”
They stared at each other a second—almost in a kind of terror, his dark face paling. There was a dead silence. She then spoke hurriedly.
“Forgive me. I have pried too far. I did not know—I could not guess. The world seems reeling about me. We will keep each other’s secret—my brother!”
For the Duke—he sat almost stunned. Her words had tore apart a veil in his own heart that covered things strange and undreamt of. Friendship, homage, charm—the pleasure to talk with a creature so simple, so delicate of thought, so ardent in her youth, with a gallant courage to carry her over hindrances, and a pleasant humour to laugh at them. A true and sweet companion for a man. All these things he knew and acknowledged gladly—his sword was at her service. What man could stand by and leave unprotected one so friendless with all her renown? But that there should be more beneath it—Love the conqueror, had not as yet crossed his thoughts. He knew much of women, nothing of love. ’Tis to be remembered that the first knowledge often obscures the last. Its dazzle is as the sun flashed in a mirror that hides the sun itself. But this keen-eyed lady in a swift-darted word revealed him to himself.
Love? Should he be my Lord’s competitor? She trusted him, indeed he knew himself agreeable to her. Love? His heart repeated the word in a kind of passion and could grasp nought else for the moment. He rose to his feet.
“My Lady Fanny, I ask your permission to leave you. I know our interview will be as secret with you as with me. For what you have said of me;—I am a man bound hand and foot, and I will offer dishonour to no good woman. For yourself—indeed I counsel you to put from your heart any man who deserves not the happiness of your esteem.”
He paused, and she sat looking up at him in silence. He then continued.
“I know your esteem to be valuable despite the gay mask you wear. I bespeak it, Madam, for a woman, young and beautiful, sore beset and with a soul as transparent as her eyes. I know not if your path will ever cross hers—so different,—but if it should, remember my entreaty.”
She rose also, and stretching her hand clasped his, like a sister.
“I promise. I know well that life is not all a comedy of Congreve’s—witty, wicked, and with no truth anywhere. Your Grace is all honour. I will shape my steps by yours.”
He bowed low, and kissed the hand that held his,—then departed in silence.
My Lady Fanny sat alone weeping.
CHAPTER X
TWAS at this point that life became very difficult for both Miss Polly and Madam Diana. Her company at the playhouse was not what she would have chose, to say no more, and Mrs. Slammikin, Dolly Trull, Mrs. Vixen, Betty Doxy and others might possibly play their parts so finely as to charm the town because they were almost a second nature with them. She certainly believed it so, and it stood in the way of the comradeship of players which, however mixt with jealousies, subsists behind the scenes. Affront her openly they dared not, for Mr. Rich’s piercing eye was about, and his consideration for a Polly who had lined his pockets with gold until they jingled again, prevented any open persecution. He knew well how much he owed her, and even were gratitude lacking as it was not, he knew that Mr. Gay had it in hand to write a sequel to this shining success, and was in mind to call the new piece “Polly.” Where then in all the world could it be possible to replace the lovely Polly who had crowned the first venture, should she go off in a tiff?
Beside, the girl was the rage. Verses were made on her, and not one but lauded her grace, her starry eyes, her voice angelic, and the Lord knows what! Pamphlets were writ of her life with scarce a grain of truth to the bushel. Fine ladies wore a head-dress surnamed the Polly head,—a little cap of Quakerish demureness with a straw hat atop,—but they loaded it with flowers and ribbons and so spoilt its simplicity. Her figure, appealing, gentle, with claspt hands praying to her Macheath, the violent Lucy t’other side of him, took the town with a kind of emotion as yet untasted, the women as well as the men. They too would pet the pretty creature and give her her heart’s desire for the sake of those sweet virginal looks blooming like a flower in the Newgate filth and obscenity. They laughed with her but never at her. The music was sung everywhere and the trills and quirks of the Italian Opera utterly forgot in favour of the fine old English tunes, “Lumps of Pudding,”—“What gudgeons are we men,”—“London Ladies,” and so forth, which bespangle “The Beggar’s Opera,” to Mr. Gay’s fine new words.
’Tis a strange truth but the piece made a kind of artlessness the fashion, doubtless aided by Polly’s kind simple looks, and for awhile—awhile only, ladies tried to drop the modish jargon that Mr. Congreve and Captain Farquhar had made fashionable in their wicked comedies and to look up innocently and protest a taste in primroses, syllabubs and other country delights. ’Tis hard to unravel, but so ’twas. Indeed Mr. Pope himself composed a madrigal—
“My Polly as a primrose fair,”
“My Polly as a primrose fair,”
“My Polly as a primrose fair,”
“My Polly as a primrose fair,”
set to the air of “Haycock of June,” and had Dr. Swift not laughed him out of countenance it had been gave to the town.
The playhouse was beset by fine gentlemen shouldering for a word with the beauty, and Mr. Rich, divided between fear of offending them and terror of losing his Polly, became a perfect Cerberus, and would bark furiously when so much as a harmless haberdasher left a posy for the goddess. ’Twas remarkable how this gentleman, known for his own easy living and morals, might, so far as Diana knew, have been a bishop for the austere regard in which he held her personally and the manner in which from the first he softened his somewhat gross tongue to her ear. She had a grateful regard for him in return, and ’twas not a negligible element in her triumph that she knew it so valuable to him.
It chanced that, standing at the wings during a performance, he noted the scene where Lucy Lockit in her jealous rage (which Mrs. Bishop played to the life, he thought) presses upon Polly a glass of poisoned wine. Polly, on the alert, drinks not from it but drops it as hastily as she may. Revolving the by-play, Rich, when the house was cleared and he chatting with the ladies, recalled it.
“I know not, Mrs. Fenton and Mrs. Bishop, that ever I saw a scene better played, if so well. It does the two of you infinite credit—I know not which is more true to the passions. But one amendment occurs to me, and if I name it ’tis with diffidence, so well is all now.”
Mrs. Bishop immediately besought his correction and Diana followed suit. She knew, none better, how much she owed to his tutoring.
“How would you have it, Sir?”
“Why thus. At present the audience is held in no suspense. There is no anxiety for Polly. She suspects too soon—she drops the glass, and the attempt might as well not be made for all the effect got from it. Now I hold that no effect but must have its full value on the stage. I would have Polly’s face innocent as a daisy for the moment. She knows—suspects nothing. The audience, knowing, trembles for her.”
“I see your drift. Thus!” says Polly, and instantly her expression changed to what he desired.
“Right. That speaks to the heart. Myself who has played Harlequin knows that gesture and expression go as far or further than words. So! Well then, I would have Polly take the glass, hold it a moment and lift it to her lips absently. She sips—the house watches. No—’tis bitter! She drops it as Macheath is led in. You follow?”
“Entirely. What thinks Mrs. Bishop?”
“Mr. Rich can’t judge amiss, and Mrs. Fenton will add a new charm to the part.”
She bowed to him sombre-eyed, and went out with a sliding curtsey to Polly as she past.
“My dear,” says Mr. Rich, “I would not have you too familiar with Mrs. Bishop. She is a fine forthcoming actress and in some respects a worthy woman, but too free with gentlemen to be your companion. Is she kind with you?”
“Sir, she has never shown a desire for my companionship, nor have I intruded it. But I have no unkindness to complain of. If you ask for complaints—I wish ’twere possible to keep the dressing-rooms and the passages leading to them more private from young men of the town. I hate——”
“Why, so do I wish!— But what’s to be done? It might provoke a riot and ruin the play was I to interfere, and remember also, Mrs. Fenton, ’tis only yourself that objects. Could you find even one of the women to second you?”
“I think not, to be honest, Sir.”
“Well, then, be your own judge! What can I do?”
“I see, Sir,” she answered and turned patiently away. Indeed she did not complain without reason, but might have borne the rest but for my Lord Baltimore, of whom she now almost dreamed, though not as he desired. Night after night she would see his face in the shadows of the way to her dressing-room, pale, handsome, with thin lips compressed and a look indescribable in his eyes—something that threatened yet implored and bided its time. He would speak occasionally as she past, though but of the play, or some gossip of the town—never of love. More often, he spoke not at all, merely bowed and waited outside till she was ready for her chair, and when she came out cloaked and hooded, she would see him still, standing in the shadows and watching her with white fixt face, and burning eyes.
The chair, lined with red velvet and bearing the Duchess’s cypher, was ever in waiting at the stage entrance, and two footmen in her liveries handed the young lady in, and went on either side as the chairmen proceeded. There were times when she rejoiced to know herself guarded, remembering the fixt face that watched her.
Once she looked back in the moonlight and amidst the careless people in the street, still discerned him, standing with folded arms and staring after her. She drew her head in with a shudder and never lookt back again. It made the playhouse dreadful to her for all her triumph.
The next night, before her scene with Lucy Lockit she recalled Mr. Rich’s request to the dark sullen creature waiting to go on.
“I thought him in the right, Mrs. Bishop, did not you?”
“ ’Tis nothing to me either way. ’Tis your effect, not mine. But I can have no objections.”
She said no more and moved off.
Diana ailed somewhat that evening. All day had her head ached and her pulses throbbed. Could she have been excused from the play she would gladly, but knowing Mr. Rich leaned on her, and her understudy, though a pretty girl and letter-perfect, by no means the true Polly, she forced herself to her part.
The play proceeded. At the due point Lucy tendered her the glass of wine—good claret, for Mr. Rich would have it so, and innocent as a child she put it to her lips and more than sipped, for she found herself faint and wearied. She swallowed a mouthful and then dropt the glass. It shattered on the ground and, putting her hand to her head, she sank sideways and fainted dead away. In an instant a gentleman seated on the stage flew to the rescue with Mr. Rich and they carried her between them behind the scenes—my Lord Baltimore! Indeed he almost lived at the play at this time and was as well known as Macheath himself to the audience. It gave rise to much gossip.
The understudy was immediately ready and the play proceeded amid the whispers and confusion of the audience,—while Diana was carried to Mr. Rich’s parlour and there reclined in a chair. My Lord Baltimore stood beside her with Rich on the other side, her dresser hurrying for the apothecary.
“My Lord,” says Rich while they waited assistance, “you were near Mrs. Fenton when she fell. Was there any accident, or how?”
“She drank but a mouthful of the wine and fell instantly—almost as though it had been poison. But that’s impossible. And yet——”
Suddenly he ceased, with a look of horror.— Rich who knew the circumstances of the former amour as well as he, caught it and reflected it in his own face.
“Impossible,” he repeated. “And yet—O, my Lord, a jealous woman,—Doubly jealous, of yourself and of Mrs. Fenton’s triumph; is anything impossible? You play with fire—I dare assure you. I had not considered it fully before, but Mrs. Bishop is not one to trifle with. She has carried it all so quietly that my fears were never roused.”
“If I thought this,” my Lord said under his breath, “she should repent it the longest day she lived. But say nothing—nothing, Rich, as yet. We don’t know. The wine was all spilt on the ground, the glass broke and no proof left. Mrs. Fenton appeared pale and languid at the opening. Say nothing yet, I warn you!”
They stood mute for a minute or two, she lying unconscious between them—Baltimore unable to consider the thing for the deadly fear that filled him, Rich in a tormenting anxiety on more counts than one. Presently the woman returning with the hurrying apothecary, the gentlemen were bid stand back and restoratives applied. They watched until her eyelids fluttered and then Rich approached his mouth to his companion’s ear.
“My Lord, resent not my entreaty that you would withdraw before she has her senses. If she fears you——”
“Fear?” repeats my Lord haughtily. “Surely, Rich, you don’t need to be told that a woman fears most where she loves most, especially in such a case as hers and mine. There’s a perfect understanding between Mrs. Fenton and myself though she conceals it. I have the right to be here.”
“If that’s so——” says Rich hesitating. He knew not enough to disbelieve, and Polly might be as deep as others for aught he could tell.
“If?” says the other, and laid his hand on his sword. Rich stared, and at that moment the apothecary called him softly, and he went to him, Lord Baltimore drawing back into the darkest corner of the room.
“Sir, Mrs. Fenton recovers. Oblige me with particulars that the treatment may be answerable. I should judge she had partaken of something unwholesome.”
From the shadow Lord Baltimore put his finger on his lip and Rich observed the gesture.
“Why as to that,” says he, “I can’t throw much light, Mr. Meynell. The lady was unwell when she came to play and she fainted dead away in the prison scene. I hope ’tis a trifle.”
“Tomorrow will declare more, Sir. She has youth and a fine constitution. If agreeable to you, Mrs. Jones and myself will convey her to the care of her friends. ’Tis certain she can’t play tomorrow or possibly the day after.”
She lay, conscious at last, but with closed eyes and as if too heavy for speech while the arrangements were making. Rich stooped over her and took her hand and she returned the kindness with a faint pressure.
“I’ll play tomorrow, fear not!” she said in a little breath, and he with cordial warmth:
“My dear, am I a brute? Rest all you will and need. I’d sooner bilk the play than hurt my good Polly.”
He supported her out with the apothecary, the woman following and she had never glanced my Lord Baltimore’s way. Indeed ’twas as much as she could do to reach the coach. Presently Rich returned, the other standing moodily with a downcast eye where he left him.
“My Lord,” says he, “I know not the rights of this matter. ’Tis beyond my sounding, but this I say candidly. I shall never know ease of mind while Mrs. Bishop is in the cast with Mrs. Fenton. If what you say is true of the relations between you and Mrs. Fenton I am the more uneasy. ’Tis very possible we have escaped a frightful calamity, and ’twould not be the first of the kind. ’Tis not so very long since in “The Rival Queens” that Mrs. Barry stabbed Mrs. Boutel on the stage, and had all but done for her—the audience suspecting nothing. I’ll have no Rival Queens here. This is the last night Bishop plays for me.”
My Lord avoided his eye.
“I can’t say but you are right, though it be painful for me to injure a woman specially one where I’m not entirely conscience-clear. At the same time we may suspect far too much—’tis probable we do. And I am to request, Mr. Rich, that you will be generous in your terms with Mrs. Bishop, for which I will be at the cost. We may be unjust in the one matter. Let us not in the other.”
Mr. Rich agreed, then in a hesitating manner he added—
“My Lord, you have condescended to honour me with your company at the playhouse for many a day. May I in return ask a favour?”
“Ask, man, and have, if it be possible.”
“Well—’tis this. Your presence here so often disturbs the women. I am the last to meddle with a gentleman’s amours, but there are times and places to be observed, and this has made much talk. Need I say more?”
Baltimore frowned on the hint, then cleared his brow.
“I take you, Sir. I think your application reasonable. I will attend once weekly or less. Fear not that any affair between me and Mrs. Fenton shall disturb your arrangements. She is loyal to you, and her wish is my command. May I in return request to be present unseen when you dismiss Mrs. Bishop. I desire to know the truth as a safeguard.”
Mr. Rich agreed, motioning to the deep closet behind his scrutoire, and went off, his Lordship remaining behind him in deep thought.
So he remained until the noise of plaudits and then the departing audience could be heard, and presently the players began to stream past the door on their way to becoming sober citizens once more. Lord Baltimore stepped within the closet and drew the door to a crack as Rich’s voice approached together with the swish of a hoop.
“Be seated, Madam,” says Rich, pushing a chair to her when the door was shut behind them. “I have a matter of business to settle with you.”
“Sir, your most obedient.”
My Lord could see her from where he stood. She sat pale, heavy-jawed, handsome, her eye on Mr. Rich with a furtive watchfulness, her hands strongly claspt in one another.
“I regret to say, Madam, that we must part. Henceforth Lucy Lockit will be played by Mrs. Parker.”
She sprang to her feet.
“Sir, my contract——”
“Madam, you’ll find your contract does not cover such extras as your attack upon Mrs. Fenton. Beware lest you lay yourself open to such a charge as may make Newgate a reality to you instead of a play. I desire not to be more particular in an affair that may ruin you, especially as I judge it may have no serious effect. But I will risk nothing more.”
Mr. Rich’s manner was perfect, calm, judicial, severe. Mrs. Bishop’s was equally so in its way. She was all injured innocence in a moment.
“Sir, I am entitled to ask for the charge. Hath Mrs. Fenton declared me culpable in any matter? Am I liable because she swoons? Mrs. Allen did it a week since and no to-do made!”
“Madam, I charge you with tampering with the wine Mrs. Fenton drunk on the stage tonight. I charge you with a dangerous jealousy of that lady which may lead to trouble. And because I will avert such trouble I bid you begone. Your money affairs shall be handsomely treated with. I counsel you to avoid such talk and noise as may damage you beyond repair and to go quietly.”
“It would ill beseem me to risk my character in a place where such odious accusations can be made against an innocent woman,” she cried furiously, clutching the arm of her chair as though ’twere Mr. Rich’s throat. Baltimore could see the knuckles stand out white as chalk. “So I’ll go. I have no protector. But I know who’s at the back of this business. My Lord Baltimore helped to carry off the fainting angel. He’s her lover, Mr. Rich, her lover (a slow smile parted my Lord’s lips), and I leave you to judge how that will affect your interests before many days are out. That’s the mainspring of it all, and I, forsooth, must be got out of the way because beneath a prude’s face she carries a courtesan’s behaviour.”
Mrs. Bishop used a plainer word. She paused not, but flashed on.
“You may heed me little, Sir, because you, like others, was aware of my Lord Baltimore’s relation to me. I care not, ’tis the truth. I own it painful to be supplanted and by so arrant a jilt. Therefore I go with pleasure. As to poison—for I suppose that’s your meaning, I snap my fingers at so low a charge—so very much beneath me! you can’t prove it, Sir, and there’s a law of libel if you make the assertion.”
“Madam,” says Mr. Rich serenely, “I propose to let sleeping dogs lie, and you will do well to follow my example. I would recommend you on parting to keep your opinion on Mrs. Fenton to yourself. She has powerful protectors. Tomorrow, all money matters outstanding shall meet with due settlement. I have now the honour to bid you farewell.”
He rose and bowed. She curtseyed, in a black supprest rage and moved towards the door. There it broke out in one fierce sentence flung at him—
“Look out for your favourite, Mr. Rich. I will have my revenge if I swing for it. And when the time comes, blame yourself and his Lordship. Not me.— Judas!”
She shot out of the room and flung the door to behind her, and her steps were heard along the passage. A moment, and his Lordship emerged, dusting his velvet cuffs with a laced handkerchief.
“What’s the verdict, Sir? Guilty or not Guilty? In either case you carried it perfectly.”
“I declare I know not!” replied Rich, with an anxious brow—“But I doubt we’ve seen the last of her yet. A violent dangerous woman. Look out, my Lord, and for Miss Polly too.”
“A notable temper indeed. But I think myself not inexperienced with that charming sex, and I judge this a woman’s violence come and gone like a cat’s-paw. Good-night, Rich. You need be at no charges in the matter.”
He departed with his usual easy grace, and Mr. Rich left alone, stared into the fire much perplexed.
“Damme if I understand the business!” he muttered to himself. “My Lord swears and Bishop subscribes, yet I would take the innocency of Miss Polly’s face before them both. I think she’s an honest girl in spite of them. But who shall say where a woman’s concerned. ’Tis beyond me. Lord send she’s on the mend tomorrow, be it as it will. Yet I think the jewels I have in charge to be his after all. Curse the women, and the men that won’t let them be!”
CHAPTER XI
FROM Miss Polly’s troubles to Madam Diana’s is but a step and not a long one.
She was took back in a coach to Queensbury House, and the Duchess being at Court heard nothing of the affair until next day, and then sent very obliging inquiries.
The girl lay very heavy and ailing all that day, not well able either to control nor examine the thoughts that roamed through her brain. She would have sent for her mother but Mr. Rich, on his guard against any attempts of Mr. Fenton’s to make his profit out of Miss Polly, had advanced money to get him out of the coffee house, and put him in a fair way to pay his debt upon it, provided he would retire to the suburbs. Mrs. Fenton willing to be clear of the temptations of the town for her husband joyfully seconded him, and at present they had a lodging at Gravesend.
So ’twas a stranger who watched with Diana, and this gave her time to resolve on silence as to her suspicion of Mrs. Bishop though her terror of the woman was such as she knew not how to face the meeting with her. ’Twas a sensible relief when a missive from Mr. Rich bid her have no uneasiness about her part until she should be quite recovered, adding in a careless postscript that Mrs. Bishop on a better proposal had left him at short notice and Mrs. Parker would be answerable for Lucy Lockit.
“And let me beg my admired Miss Polly,” concluded he—“to take the necessary rest and return to us in the bloom and beauty she alone is possest of in such abundance.”
’Twas very kind and she was sensible of it and sent an obliging message in return. That day she past in solitude but for her attendant, feeling her strength revive at every moment, and the next morning was able to rise and walk about her room, but still unvisited. She received the Duchess’s commands to attend her in the library in the evening of the next day. She could scarce believe so short a time could so have changed her looks when she saw herself in the glass before proceeding thither.
Pale and with purple shadows beneath the eyes, the dark hair piled about her face made it appear as though carved in ivory, and even the fresh coral of her mouth was faded. The white muslin folds of hernegligéewithout a hoop fell loose and flowing about her and outlined her graceful limbs and bosom with an elegance which even she herself might at another time admire though now too wearied to give a thought to her looks. A tender and moving figure.
So she went slowly to the library, and, the door opening, was surprised to see her Grace magnificent in a white satin gown embroidered in silver, the petticoat covered with a trimming answerable, and a necklace of rubies like roses about her glorious throat. Lovely as when Prior wrote of her—
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,Kitty at heart’s desire,Obtained Love’s chariot for a dayAnd set the world afire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,Kitty at heart’s desire,Obtained Love’s chariot for a dayAnd set the world afire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,Kitty at heart’s desire,Obtained Love’s chariot for a dayAnd set the world afire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,
Kitty at heart’s desire,
Obtained Love’s chariot for a day
And set the world afire.”
She swam forward to meet Diana and touched her kindly on the shoulder, motioning her to a chair.
“I would see with my own eyes how Miss Polly does,” says she. “I was full of regrets to hear of so unfortunate an accident and was it not that the apothecary enjoined quiet, I had gone yesterday to enquire in person for Mrs. Diana. But my woman and your own obliging message reassured me.”
“I thank your Grace,” says Diana with the tears of weakness welling to her eyes, “and am your bounden servant to my life’s end in gratitude for this and all your other immeasurable favours. If I could think I should live to testify it better than in words——”
“My dear, you repay me double in the satisfaction and pleasure you have bestowed on my good Mr. Gay and myself, and the delight your charming air must carry wherever ’tis known. This evening I receive company in the gold and white drawing-room and must leave you, but before I go would ask privately between you and me—have you any suspicions that there was any foul play with you that you dropt so sudden after drinking the wine from Lucy’s hand?”
“Madam, to you I can tell my heart. I know not—how should I—but indeed that woman terrifies me beyond measure, though I can’t believe that a mere stage jealousy could carry her to so fearful a length, and other grudge against me she has none.”
“How know you that?” cries the Duchess with one of her bright rapid flashes. “Let me tell you, Mrs. Di, that I know better, and though I may not be more particular (for reasons) I entreat you to avoid all men at the playhouse, and keep yourself very secluded there. I had a word with Mr. Rich to that effect, and can assure you he thinks as I do. There’s a better fate for you, Mrs. Di, than to be a playhouse trull, and since you are none by nature, close every approach that may make you one by force or persuasion.”
Diana all but slid from her chair on her knees before the radiant figure that towered over her in so majestic a height.
“Madam—Your Grace, my heart beats responsive to every one of your words. I’m beset and persecuted at the playhouse, though not so much of late. And Mr. Rich himself is all goodness, but what can he do? Sure the place swarms with bold young men—so audacious as your Grace can scarce believe. Indeed, when the run of the piece is over I would give all but my life to retire from the stage and play no more. I hate the playhouse.”
Now this did not suit the Duchess neither, for ’tis to be remembered, she desired the girl for the Polly of Mr. Gay’s succeeding piece. She might not have said so much had she known the bitterness in her heart. She pulled a chair for herself.
“Mrs. Di, you make me bold to ask—Have you any other living than the stage?”
“None, Madam. So I see not how to leave it, yet loathe my living. And yet—the stage itself—the joy and delight to sing, to act—to attract kind looks and sunshiny smiles—how beautiful, were it not for the bad men and women that make it a torment!”
“My dear,” says the Duchess, touched by this simple grief, “you are a good girl. So continue and fear not. You have powerful protection. If I say it of myself I say true, and I will add that his Grace the Duke of Bolton is, after his haughty fashion, your sworn knight. Mr. Gay also, and in the playhouse Mr. Rich is a kindly watch-dog. And I could name more. Whatever life you might choose there would be dangers and displeasures with your figure and lack of fortune,—and you would not there have the protection you have now. Be of good courage—and dispense not with the utmost prudence and I predict a shining future. And now must I go, but will return in an hour to see you for a moment.”
She extended her hand graciously and Diana kissed it. She knew the words were truth. Then watching until the great lady swept out of the doors, she took a book of prints from Mr. Hogarth’s pictures and supporting them on a table began to look them through. And time went by.
Meanwhile in the white and gold drawing-room lit up with the magnificent lustres and hundreds of wax candles, a minuet was dancing by fair ladies and four gallant gentlemen, and the rest sat by to see, the Duchess a little apart with the Lady Fanny Armine. ’Twas a scene from some exquisite French pastoral in delicate rose and blue—the ladies like Watteau shepherdesses in high-drest hair garlanded with wreaths of little roses on one side and hooped skirts disclosing miracles of small feet beneath them—the beaux, magnificent Damons and Celadons in pink and violet satin coats and breeches. The couples passed and re-passed, bowing, smiling, garlanded heads held high, swords, fans, all playing their parts in the pretty measure, a scene of grace and high breeding indescribable, and fitly set in the noble rooms.
“Fops! Fools!” said the Duchess suddenly—half laughing, half melancholy. “What a world do we live in, Fanny! Is there a touch of truth or reality in it all? See my Lord Govan there—you and I know his history. Should he be in any decent woman’s house? Yet there he smirks and struts! See my Lady Deloraine. Is there a fish-fag in St. Giles’s with a tongue as foul as hers? Shall I tell you the story of her speech with his Majesty at the last basset party at Kensington Palace?”
“You don’t need! Sure I have nothing here to wash my ears with! After half an hour of Lady Deloraine I go home and make the attempt, but all the perfumes of Araby won’t sweeten them. But is there none you can say a better word for? Look yonder, your Grace.”
She motioned with her head to a corner where the Duke of Bolton sat in earnest talk with Lord Hervey—the Queen’s faithful attendant—a pale handsome man, most sumptuously drest.
“Lord Hervey?” asked the Duchess. “No—I meant not him, though I think him a devoted servant. ’Tis Bolton you would say. A great and gallant gentleman, and not a day passes but I swear at Fortune that tied him to that toad of a woman and he scarce more than a child when ’twas done. You also respect him, Fanny? I like you the better for it.”
“I love him,” says the lady, softly beating time with her fan to the music.
“As how?” the Duchess swept one of her rapier glances at her.
“As I need not be ashamed to tell you nor all the world, Madam. As a true friend—faithful and kind. If I could see Bolton content and happy with a deserving woman I’d mark the day with a white stone in my calendar.”
“Why, so would I! I did not think any woman but myself had plumbed his deeps. I sometimes think that excepting my poor Queensbury, he’s the only man I know that in this gross age hath any respect or tenderness for women. Fanny, I knew one like him when I was a child—I have sat on his knee! And when I was a girl of fourteen I would tell Mary Granville and all my cousins, “I have seen the man I would marry, and if he’ll wait two years more I’m at his service. I have not since seen his like—unless ’tis Bolton.”
“Who was he, Kitty?” says Lady Fanny softly.
“Colonel Harry Esmond—and ’tis a long story, too long for a minuet. But he was the true Marquis of Esmond and—No, the story’s too long. But the man himself—I dreamt of him as a girl. Dark, noble, with manners that did but reflect his mind, wise but with a kind of gentle humour that played upon the surface as sunlight upon the sea. Tender, and courteous to all women, young or old, high upon the point of honour, brave, proud so that none dare take a liberty with him more than with the King at his coronation.— O Fanny—there was none like him! He went to the American colonies—I think ’twas Virginia,—in 1715—but I treasure a little letter I had once from him and when I think of truth and honour I think of Colonel Esmond, who was old enough almost to be my father though I worshipt him as a girl does and forget him never.”
Her beautiful eyes grew large and dark with thought. The minuet,—the white and gold walls lifted and dispersed like dreams. She saw the hero of her youth— Had he waited, had he understood, she had perhaps had a different life. So she dreamt, foolishly and fondly as women will.
Lady Fanny’s voice recalled her.
“I saw him once,” she said. “The Carterets knew him well. But I was too young. Duchess, in talking t’other day with Bolton I said I wished he might find a woman with all the virtues and graces that should fill his sore and lonely heart. Was I wrong? Do you blame me to turn an advocate for—what shall I call it?”
“Why, Fanny,”—says her Grace, with a shining smile—“How should I blame you? What choice has a man in Bolton’s case? Either he must take the vile pleasures of the town, or sink into a soured loneliness, or make a home with some woman kind and tender that will keep youth and joy green in him. Can I trust you, Fanny—if I say something in my mind? I don’t speak idly, as you know.”
“You can trust me. I tell you I love Bolton—and—I don’t wholly hate your Grace!” says Lady Fanny, smiling also. She stretched her hand behind her painted fan, and the Duchess quickly claspt and dropt it. Little did the Duke know what those fair creatures plotted as he glanced their way idly. How should he? But indeed like all men of his sort he had a great faith in the sex and was very amenable to the guidance of the good among them though he did not know this himself.
The fine couples past and re-past in their minuet, and the Duchess sunk her voice to a thread.
“Fanny, when you came in long since with my Lord—let us say Bas—you came very inconvenient, and I nearly tiffed with you that day. I wanted you gone.”
“Didn’t I see it? Didn’t I go?”
“Yes, to both! I never knew you fail in tact and breeding. Well—was you surprised that day at my company?”
“Astonished. I could make neither head nor tail of it, and still less when I saw her on the stage as Polly. Lord, what could I think but that ’twas one of the Kitty escapades, and that her Grace was eclipsed in Kitty for the moment?”
“Kitty’s not a bad sort neither when you know her,” says the Duchess laughing. “At all events she has a certain method in her madness. Well, but to return. Fanny, I bid you disengage yourself from this mob for a moment and find your way to the library. There you shall find the woman I destine for Bolton. And, as you love him, so I bid you treat her. Now I can’t talk with you longer. The minuet is all but over, I trust you, your Ladyship, and you shall be my helper if you will, though the Church will not bless our enterprise.”
She glided off to receive a new entry of guests and Lady Fanny sat amazed. As yet the matter was not clear in her mind. She did not know whom to expect, nor what might be the Duchess’s intention. But the curiosity of a true woman built on the foundation of her friendship for Bolton and the Duchess, made every minute seem an eternity to her as she gradually slid towards the door, dropping a word here and there to the gay groups she past, but permitting none to detain her. Lord preserve us! What could be the meaning?
So it came to pass that Diana, turning the leaves of her book slowly, heard a faint sound as one great wing of the carved door opened sufficient to admit a strange but shining lady, fair as a rose in her pink damask gown with stiff pointed waist and cut so low as to disclose a lovely bosom beneath a long throat with a black velvet ribbon tied about it and loops of pearls that were less white. So singularly clear against the dark doors, she might almost have appeared a celestial visitant were it not that angelic beings are allowed to be less modish in the pictures wherewith the artists favour us. Her ladyship’s beauty was more on the sparkling order than the pensive and religious. She came gliding up to Diana with an easiness and grace all her own, and dropt the prettiest little curtsey;—nothing formal nor alarming, it exprest the friendliness it intended. Diana rose and curtseyed also, smiling, as it were, involuntary as she might at a child, a rose, a bird.
“Madam,” says the newcomer, “I am commanded by the Duchess— Lord, ’tis Polly!”
The fine speech fluttered off into silence and Madam stood staring at the girl, with thoughts whirling like a windmill in her head.
Bas;—this was the woman. Then she must hate her. But no! Bolton vouched for her purity, for her terror of his pursuit. Then she should love her, if she could forgive her unhappy attraction for him. But a slut of a Polly—in a Newgate rabble? Then she must despise her! But a girl like a lily—delicate and a gentlewoman, then sure she must admire her. Indeed ’twas a dance of contradictions in her head that turned Lady Fanny herself pale for a moment as she stared at her rival. Then, masking herself in her armour of high breeding, she sank easily into a seat, every sense on the alert,—every glance a weapon, every smile a shield, beneath the face that exprest a careless languor and pleasure.
Diana, fearing nothing, knowing nothing, and therefore the stronger of the two, awaited her Ladyship’s pleasure. Sure all that came from the Duchess must be good.
“I knew, Madam, you were staying with her Grace but did not recall it at the moment. ’Tis indeed a distinction to meet in private the lady whom all the town adores. But I trust I see you recovered; for in common with all the world I knew you ailed. I hope a mere nothing.”
“Nothing, Madam. I thank your obliging concern. I hope to resume my part tomorrow. ’Tis condescending in you to quit the company yonder to visit me.”
There is no mistaking the tone and air of a gentlewoman. The girl possest these and my Lady Fanny noted it half angry. How dare she bear the mark of a class that should not be hers. And then her charming face so delicate and pensive. My Lady had seen her more than once on the stage, all winsome, pleading, sparkling, singing with voice angelic. She had hated her then, had watched her with a viperish jealousy. This pale girl in her flowing draperies did not resemble Miss Polly. ’Twas impossible to see her in the mind’s eye with Macheath and his company. Sure that must be a dream and this the reality.
“ ’Twas by her Grace’s command I came to make your acquaintance, and my own inclination seconded it. If I speak as a friend—are you happy in your profession? You appear very young.”
“I shall be nineteen before very long, Madam. Yes—I thank you—I am happy, though I must own that it has disadvantages not known across the footlights. But her Grace’s goodness has smoothed my way. She is a wonderful lady.”
“You say true. She has a heart as great as her face is beautiful, and knows not fear.”
“O happy!” sighs Diana, “I would I were not afraid. But her Grace teaches me courage.”
“You have met company here?”
“Very few, Madam. Mr. Gay, Mrs. Pendarves, Lady Granville. I think no more.”
“You have not then met his Grace the Duke of Bolton?”
You’ll allow ’twas searching, since the fair actress evaded the name. Lady Fanny’s keen observation marked the change in her face,—a shade of reserve—a something difficult to record in speech.
“I have had that honour, Madam.”
“He is a friend of mine also. A gentleman kind and noble in all his thoughts. His life more melancholy than his goodness deserves.”
There was no reply, but my Lady knew she had a listener.
“You have heard the story of his marriage?”
“Save that he is married I have heard nothing, Madam.”
“A singular case. You may turn the story into a play and act in it one day, Mrs. Fenton, but the lady concerned does not resemble you. At the age of fourteen his Grace was contracted by his father and hers to his distant cousin the daughter of the Earl of Carberry—a young lady of nineteen. He had not so much as seen her, and was then at school. Two years later he was sent to make the Grand Tour, and at the age of eighteen was recalled to marry,—she then being twenty-three. When he saw her he entreated his father to release him— You will not wonder if ever you see and know her Grace. He threatened to shoot himself sooner than marry her. At last he flatly refused. Finally my Lord Carberry waited upon him and told him that the best years of her life were gone waiting for him, that she was homely, had no fortune, that her only recommendation was her relationship to the Poulet family (his Grace’s), that, in short ’twould be her ruin if he refused her now. Can you guess his reply?”
“Yes,—for I know the Duke,” says Diana, lifting her head, her great eyes fixed like stars on my Lady. “He would say—‘She shall not suffer for me.’ ”
“Exactly. I see you know him. He made it plain to her father that ’twould be a ceremony and no more. And so he carried the matter through but never lived with her.”
Silence. My Lady proceeded.
“Later, when his father died ’twas known that had his Grace acted then it would have been possible to carry a bill through the House of Lords to dissolve the marriage. ’Twas known also that his Majesty the last King was favourable. His Grace was warned that ’twas then or never. He replied that the poor lady had never offended him, that she was his wife and to cast her off would be a dastardly action. So the chance past never to return. He has now been married sixteen years.”
Silence still. Again my Lady Fanny spoke.
“Thus he has condemned himself to a life of misery lest another should suffer. I know not any man else who would do the like. Do you, Mrs. Fenton?”
A voice so low as scarcely to be heard——
“Madam, I know not any man who would do the like. I did not know such a man could be.”
No more was said on that head. My Lady Fanny drifted the talk to Mr. Gay, to Diana’s early days, and finally rose to leave her, satisfied that she had done her part. She said a cordial farewell and made for the door, smiling and waving her hand as it closed upon her. The grace of her manner was charming. Diana, who need envy none, envied that bright and harmless glitter like summer lightning in July.
But the smile fell from my Lady’s face as she paused a minute in the ante-room to collect herself. So that was her rival. Surely an innocent one—surely trembling on the verge of an interest in Bolton, if not already over it. Yet who could tell? If she could but be certain!—If the girl were bound hand and heart to Bolton, might not Baltimore return to his old allegiance?
Who shall blame her if in speeding the Duchess’s plot, she helped her own cause also. She was at that time neither wholly selfish nor unselfish, neither true nor false, half hating, half liking the girl, swayed with every thought that crost her brain. It takes a woman and a passionate one to be thus complicate, and ’tis impossible a man should write her thoughts. ’Tis much if he can record her deeds.
She looked at herself in a long glass that could not flatter the charming truth, and set a curl to advantage and re-looped the pearls. Then, going softly through the corridor, she entered the great drawing-room making as though to pass by Bolton at the door.
“I thought your Ladyship was gone on to the masquerade,” says he. She smiled at him over her shoulder.
“No indeed, your Grace. ’Twas a work of charity. I sat awhile with Mrs. Fenton in the library.”
She went lightly on. Presently he past out.