“Your Grace, your humble servant presents her duty and ventures to inform you that my mother is come up to London very ill at my aunt Mrs. Webster’s, and I am in duty compelled to wait upon her. Tomorrow being Sunday I will continue with her and hope to return to the playhouse on Monday. Your bounden and obedient humble servant to command.—“Lavinia Fenton.”
“Your Grace, your humble servant presents her duty and ventures to inform you that my mother is come up to London very ill at my aunt Mrs. Webster’s, and I am in duty compelled to wait upon her. Tomorrow being Sunday I will continue with her and hope to return to the playhouse on Monday. Your bounden and obedient humble servant to command.—
“Lavinia Fenton.”
“ ’Tis dated ‘Saturday, After the Play,’ and the chairmen brought it,” she concluded. Lady Fanny was opening her mouth to speak when the door opened and the American Prince entered seeming pale, and disturbed, and the company parted for him to advance to her Grace’s chair, some of the intimates looking at him in surprise. It was now a considerable time since he had presented himself in her presence where he had never been courted, he guessing, as is likely, that his welcome would be on the frosty side. She rose and dropped a curtsey now, very stately, yet with a cold smile.
“We were speaking of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales but now, my Lord, and in a manner to glad the ears of his faithful servant.”
This news and the smile alike astonished his American Highness. What! The Duchess hitherto had turned her beautiful back as impartially on the Prince of Wales as on his parents. My Lord’s quick mind reviewed the situation. This then was the outcome of thefaux pasmade by the Royal party in insulting her. Her support was welcome at all times, but doubly so when Mrs. Vane was carrying public opinion with her against the Prince. He bowed and spoke with a becoming earnestness.
“I wish my Master were present himself to hear so charming a declaration from such lips, Madam. Even in a position so exalted as his, her Grace of Queensbury’s approbation must be prized. A Prince of Wales must needs be dumb on many matters he may himself disapprove, but those who know him best know that his Royal Highness’s sympathies are ever on the side of justice and merit.”
A whispering flutter ran through the company. Was this the signing of a new protocol they witnessed? All heads turned to the Duchess. She looked my Lord Baltimore in the face.
“Not even the most exalted position can save its owner from misjudgment. But all must be judged by deeds, not words. At least ’tis thus I act.”
So! It was to be a waiting policy! Sir Temperley and other ancients drew a relieved breath. My Lord Baltimore drew closer to the Duchess.
“Madam, may I beg your Grace for an audience of a few minutes on a matter entirely private? It is quite apart from any public matter, I dare assure your company in asking their pardon for withdrawing you a moment.”
He gave her his hand to the ante-room, and to the recess at the further end. The courtier in him was still predominant for the first moment.
“If, Madam, I may convey to my Master what you have said, ’twill be a sensible pleasure to his Royal Highness.— I venture to assure you of his sympathy with Mr. Gay’s genius and his horror at the insult put upon your Grace. He spoke of it last night so as I wish you could have been present to hear.”
She drew back a little, but not ungraciously.
“I thought the business had been private, my Lord.”
“Undoubtedly, Madam—but yet——”
“There can be no objection to your conveying my humble duty to his Royal Highness. There is not one of the King’s subjects but should present his duty!”
Her smile however made the message particular and the courtier was content. He proceeded to the next item, but this time with a very different manner. Watching him closely she could perceive that his hand on the back of the chair shook a little. He might have laid it there to steady it.
“Madam, I appeal to you now as the kind protectress of Mrs. Lavinia Fenton. There’s a rumour in the town today that she did not return to Queensbury House last night. That—in short—that the lady has been abducted or has eloped. (Suddenly his voice broke and quivered. He looked at her entreating)—Madam, I am very uneasy, dare I beg any information you have?”
The Duchess gazed at him in astonishment. Never had she seen the American Prince moved one inch before from his haughty or languid composure. She might have pitied him but for her knowledge of Diana’s mind and his persecution of an innocent girl. She laughed coldly.
“Reassure yourself, my Lord. Mrs. Fenton writ me fully. She is in excellent hands—her mother and her aunt. Shall we return to the company?”
“But Madam—Madam!” he almost caught her robe as she turned—“Are you certain your information came from her? May I see the billet? I know her hand well——”
“And how?” asked the Duchess, stepping back and fixing him with her eyes.
“Because she has wrote often to me. Because she is mine—heart and body. Therefore you will conceive my terror to hear——”
“I don’t believe it. You lie,” she said, and there was a dead silence. What shall a man do when a lady and such a lady insults him with a word that only blood can wash out? His habitual composure stood him in good stead. White to the lips he faced her.
“It is a cowardice peculiar to your sex, Madam, to insult a man who can make neither return nor defence. I pass that by, however, until you shall appoint your champion. I assert that Mrs. Fenton is my mistress, and on that ground, request you to tell me what you know.”
’Twas a bold throw. If he could alienate her friends—if he could leave her no refuge but himself, might not the terrified bird fly to his breast—her only refuge? And what matter’s a player’s reputation? She has none—’tis but a jest to laugh at. Who can destroy what has no existence?
The Duchess, now as cool as he, considered a little before replying.
“My Lord, I make no apology for my candour for I still believe you lie and partly see your motive, nor shall I show you the letter, neither. She’s with her friends and will return tomorrow.”
“This is Sunday and so a difficult day,” cried he, “but I beseech you, Madam to hear me, even if you distrust me. ’Tis said all about Portugal Street and the neighbourhood that Mrs. Fenton entered her chair as usual after the play, and was carried off.”
“She never did!” says the Duchess stoutly. “I have it here under her hand. She left a billet and my chairmen brought this with them instead of the lady. ’Tis all perfectly simple.”
“Not so, Madam—not so!” he cried, almost distracted,—“for ’tis said she was only gone a few minutes when another chair exactly like the first came up, for which a man waited. He gave a letter to the chairmen and they went off as they came. ’Twas a trap—a feint to catch the poor innocent. Whose was that first chair?”
“Her mother’s, man! Whose else!” The Duchess was growing impatient. She turned towards the door.
“Would her mother’s chair be lined with red velvet and bear your Grace’s arms?”—says he with fearful earnestness. “Why were there two chairs? We trifle with precious time and more than her life may be at stake. I must see that letter, Madam, if I force it from you.”
“I dare you to touch me,”—she said tossing up her head. “Stand back. I believe ’tis all some vile plot of your own against the girl’s honour. Leave my house and——”
The further door opened. A gentleman entered carelessly, looking about him and not for a moment seeing the two in the recess.
The Duchess sprang forward with a cry.
“Bolton—Bolton! Come hither. This man insults me. He would snatch a letter— You were never more welcome than now.”
He drew his sword instantly and stood lightly leaning on it—the lady beside him.
“Give the word, Madam,” he said, “and I strike.”
But Lord Baltimore did not draw. He was raging, helpless before the pair, the victim of a dreadful anxiety that left him unable to resent what at another moment had sent him flashing against his former friend.
“Afterwards—afterwards!” he said fiercely—“I’ll meet you anywhere. Was I ever backward? But now— If the girl is to be saved, show me the letter. Delay is madness.”
The Duke turned calm eyes on the lady.
“What does he mean, Madam?”
“ ’Tis some mad tale about Diana,” she replied angrily, “and nonsense from beginning to end. He will have it she’s carried off—I know not what all! Whereas I have it under her own hand, she’s with her mother and aunt.”
“May I see this letter?” The quiet voice fell like cold water on her hot anger and the man’s. She took it instantly from the bag and laid it in his hand. He read it, Baltimore trembling like a leashed dog in his eagerness.
“I don’t like the letter,”—said the Duke—“the wording is suspicious and she names no house. And I have it from Mrs. Fenton’s own lips that her mother is her sole living dependence. Who is this aunt? Why do we hear of her for the first time? Have the goodness, my Lord, to repeat your story.”
He told it rapidly, but more fully than to the lady. It is easier to deal with a man and he therefore told it better. She stared at him with widened eyes as he finished.
“The matter is serious,” said Bolton, and stood looking on the ground considering.
“I might have believed him”—she cried,—“but that he lied in one particular and so may have lied in all! He asserted the girl is his mistress! A palpable lie.”
“A palpable lie,” repeated the man beside her. “My Lord, I repeat her Grace’s charge. You have lied.”
“I shall know how to defend my honour later,” said Baltimore—a red fever-spot on either white cheek—“but now—I live, I breathe but to find the girl. Let us be enemies, but at this moment, man, help me to save her that is got into some villain’s hands. Madam, will you not retire? This is a matter for men.”
Bolton’s eye seconded him. She curtseyed, and as the Duke held the door open for her she whispered low:
“Beware lest it be a trap of his own. Tell me all that passes.”
They were alone, the Duke still leaning on his sword.
“I will be frank. I don’t trust you. I know your pursuit of this poor woman to be most unmanly. It hath drove her almost to despair. Why should I believe a word you utter?”
“For her sake!” says Baltimore, raging yet subdued by this freezing contempt. He paused a moment—then added. “But I was a fool to come here. I don’t want your help—yours least of all. I go my way and act as I can. My seconds shall meet yours later.”
He made for the door, but the Duke was still beside him.
“We will go together,”—he said, and the two went down the great staircase, the grooms of the chambers and lacqueys staring after them, for there was a something strange and ominous in their looks and companionship that tinged the air with doubt.
In the street, the Duke halted.
“Your plan?” he asked.
“I know not—how should I? It’s Sunday, curse it! Where does Rich go Sundays? The playhouse is shut. ’Tis impossible to find a soul.”
“Whence then the rumour you heard?”
“My man brought it from Portugal Street.”
“Then we go there.”
In Portugal Street, the Sunday leisure set free groups of persons, slatternly women and half drunken men to talk over all the news of the day and of all the items the story of the last night was the most favoured. Under the stinking oil lamps, along the gutters, about the dirty cobble-stones the rumours, amplified now beyond recognition, flew to and fro.
Polly was muffled and forced into the chair. She had waved her hand for help. A man with his collar pulled up about his face was guessed to be Sir Charles Jermyn that had long loitered about her. So it raged on, and both men knew that ’twas all false and this but wasting precious time.
“Who shall say she did not go by her own choice?” mutters Baltimore at last—almost under his breath as if it was wrung out of him, as they stood by the corner to consider.
“If your Lordship had won her, yourself could answer that question,” said the Duke. “She is no wanton.”
“The Devil knows what a woman may be.” Again he fell silent. Bolton turned from him to a little group of women clustered at a door.
“You all know Mrs. Fenton!”
“Why yes, your Worship. God bless her pretty face. We see her come and go daily.”
“Do you also know Mrs. Bishop?”
“Why yes, your Worship. . . . Why not? We see her as often.”
“Where is her lodging?”
“Turn up the corner, your Honour. Trenton Street, forty-five.”
The Duke walked briskly off—Lord Baltimore hesitating an instant, then followed him. The lady in a wrapper and cap that had seen more coquettish days herself opened the door and received the salutations of the gentlemen with the utmost astonishment.
“You see me very unprepared for company, my Lords,” says she curtseying and holding the door so as to bar entrance. “What’s your pleasure?”
“A word with you, Madam,” replies the Duke sternly. “We will follow you to your room if you will be so obliging as lead the way.”
She hung on her foot a moment as if demurring, and glanced doubtfully at Baltimore. His face was a shut door, and seeing no help, she turned and preceded them.
The room indeed was little fit for such courtly company. Not, as I have said, that ’twas in itself despicable, but her belongings were littered about in most admired disorder. She must drag a satin manteau off one chair and a sprigged gown of handsome stuff from another before she could request them to be seated. They however preferring to stand, she begged to know their business, perplexed beyond measure to see them in company and striving to guess her course from Baltimore’s face so resolutely turned away.
“My business is simple enough,” says the Duke. “Be so good, Madam, as tell me what you know of Mrs. Fenton’s departure from the playhouse, last night.”
“I, your Grace? Nothing. What should I know? I would have you remember I was discharged by Mr. Rich upon some dislike Mrs. Fenton took to me. I thought it unjust, I own. I don’t love the lady, to be plain with you. But what’s come to her?”
“There is a doubt as to her present situation. You will be handsomely paid for any light you may throw upon it.”
“Money? Take your money elsewhere, your Grace. And if you want news of Mrs. Fenton, there’s one man can give it you better than any. He stands beside you.” She pointed, like an actress, a tragedy finger at Baltimore. Sure a man of his reputation with women could easy enough stand a charge that would but add to his dazzle in the town. She little thought how she served his turn however by the assertion. He stepped forward instantly.
“My Lord Duke, this woman knows what she says. I am the man that has the best right to Mrs. Fenton’s whereabouts. All the playhouse knows this. But I am at sea— She is robbed from me, on the very eve of her placing herself openly under my protection. For God’s sake, Mrs. Bishop, be open if you have aught to tell.”
’Twas partly real, partly acting. She saw her chance to wound and sprang at it.
“I will be open my Lord. ’Tis true she was your Polly. Your Polly, but other men’s Polly also. And I can only suppose that she’s now gone off with one of them. Yet ’tis possible she may take up with you again one day if you’re prepared to share your interest in her with others.”
“She knows nothing!” cried Baltimore. “ ’Tis but her malicious anger.”
The Duke looked at him in silence, then left the room and strode down the stair, leaving the pair together. For the first time he recalled the connection between them.
CHAPTER XV
WHEN Diana left the playhouse on the Saturday, a heavy rain was falling through the grimy dark, and she muffled her head in her hood and stepped swiftly from the door into the chair, her little feet splashing in the puddled ill-lit gutter, the flambeaux dazzling in the rain. The men lowered the roof instantly and shut the door and set off at a swinging trot, eager no doubt to have done with the dirty night.
Her thoughts were strangely intermingled—the songs and laughter of the playhouse still echoed among them, the gay kindness of the good Duchess, the words of my Lady Fanny,—(“ ’Twas strange she should tell me, of all women, that story of his Grace’s marriage.”)—all these things mixt with a deep content that my Lord Baltimore had been absent this night and indeed many nights lately. ’Twas like a cool lotion to allay a burn—this absence! Sure it might mean he was weary of a pursuit that could bring only rebuffs and contempt, and if so she could deal with others, less to be dreaded.
The play had now been playing two months to crowded houses and still there was no slackening in the rage to see it. Money was turned away nightly, and the rows of chairs on the stage were three deep and some of the boxes run into each other to make more room. ’Twas raging like a fever in the provinces also and a whole regiment of pretty Pollys had sprung up to follow her lead, but none, none like the fair original, so swore men and women alike. A triumph to turn any girl’s head, and since the idol was but a girl, when all’s said and done, it might easily turn hers were it not for a stronger passion than vanity that swept over it and submerged it and left it forgotten.
Love. What was it to be the adored of the town when the one man on whom her own eyes waited knew her very triumph to involve disgrace? Supposing, even supposing, that her birth equalled his own, that he were less than a great Peer of England and she more than a poor lieutenant’s daughter, supposing she were lovely as the fabled Helen, with all the enchantments of Circe added, how could this or aught else rub out the blot that she was but a puppet at whom every rake might stare and form his loose conjectures? True, noblemen as great had condescended to the stage for their pleasures, but that served her nothing. There was a something in her heart that told her the man’s respect for her girlhood would close that door for ever, nor could she wish it otherwise. While, as for anything more, she trembled with shame that even a regret for a thing so impossible should cross her mind. O that she had never seen him but eyeing her on the stage with cold admiration as she played her Newgate part to the life. Alas for the Duchess’s mistaken favour that had taken her from her own humble sphere and set her in one in which however her own heart made her native, her circumstances made her but a tolerated intruder.
So far reason carried her, and then her thoughts were words no longer—but dreams, longings, griefs. Longings for a voice best forgot, for a face—better she had never seen it; for a friend high, gracious, endearing, that made all others as nothing to her and to whom she herself could be nothing but a passing thought. ’Tis the man should look up, not the woman. Before marriage, at least, hers is the throne, but here was this beggar-maid kneeling on the lowest step, her face hidden in her hands for shame, whilst King Cophetua gazed beyond her into regions she must never know.
And he himself so comfortless! There lay the sharpest sting. Suppose she could change places with the shining and lovely lady who had talked with her so condescending—Were she the Lady Fanny Armine—yet herself!—might there be more than a few words of praise? So in imagination she saw the proud eyes soften, the stern mouth relax,—the high courtesy break into the wonderment of passion. His arms—his lips—.
Thus lost in dreams unspeakable she past along the rainy streets, and never heeded how the time went by. At last the chair drew up. The men at the house must have forgot the flambeaux—so dark it was as she looked forth. The roof was raised and, sudden, a cloth soft and blinding fell over her head, and strong hands pulled it about her throat. In the dreadful surprise and alarm she screamed aloud, but the wild cry was muffled in her mouth and herself could more feel than hear it. Her hands were grasped in two strong ones and a man dragged her from the chair. There was a whispering, and then a door opened and in the darkness and terror she knew she was lifted into a house and the door shut behind them.
On the stage a girl must have swooned in such a terror. In life, her heart beat to burst her bosom, her body shook as with an ague, but she kept her wits, clung to them as a drowning sailor, that has but the one frail spar betwixt him and an eternity of horror, clings to the floating hope.
Stairs, and heavy feet of men who carried her, and now, stopping, they released her hands a moment, then bound the wrists together, making her captive indeed. Another door opened and she was laid on a sofa, still blinded, and heard renewed whispering and the chink of money and then retreating steps and the creaking staircase. Was it to be murder? She wore about her neck the Duchess’s miniature set in pearl. But no—no! She knew a deeper dread; should she faint, she must be utterly at his mercy?—God forbid! She gathered every wavering sense into her agonized heart and waited.
Hands loosed the wrappage about her head, and a dim light dazzled her a moment till she put her arm before her eyes. It was certainly my Lord Baltimore she thought to see, but no—a tall man of handsome person stood with his back to her, wrapping a bandage about his own wrist as though ’twas wounded. He turned—and a faint cry broke from her lips—Macheath—Walker! And by the fire a woman.
Her first thought was hope. For my Lord Baltimore she had nothing but deadly terror—the white mask of his face a language she could not read. But this man she saw daily, had laughed, had jested with him, half ridiculed his passion as a foolish calf-love that a girl may rally a little if she notice it at all. She slid her feet over the edge of the sofa, her mind clear as a dagger’s point at once.
“Mr. Walker!” says she—“You’ve rescued me, and are wounded in my defence. Loose my hands instantly that I may help my deliverer.”
“Your deliverer indeed, my angel,” says Walker, turning very red and walking up to her. “Haven’t I seen you persecuted night after night by that fop that would drag you in the mud for his own pleasure, and could a true lover like myself endure to stand by and do nothing? Not I! Here stands one that offers you his love and no dishonour with it.—There’s a parson below will marry us in a twinkling, and I hope I’m a man can protect his own wife from Baltimore or any other scented essence in the town. I’ll unbind your hands, my life, the minute I have your word to give me them for good.”
She stared up at him incredulous. The woman had not turned nor spoke and her capuchin was about her.
“Sir, you’re drunk or mad!” cries Diana with spirit. “What have I ever said or done to encourage you to such an insult! I despised you always.”
“Your sweet eyes—your sweeter lips, Madam, are my best excuse”—says the outraged lover. “They spoke more handsomely than your tongue. And if you did despise me you take a foolish time to tell me so, for here you’re in my power. But sure I know my Polly’s little coquettish ways and take your pretty contempt for a lure the more.”
He approached a step nearer.
“Madam—Madam!” screams Diana—shrinking back—“You’ve a woman’s heart. You won’t see a poor girl terrified to death. Help me, unbind my hands! O, Madam.”
The woman by the fire turned slowly with gleaming eyes. Mrs. Bishop.
Then indeed for a moment the victim knew despair for there was that in the woman’s face to make her tremble. Hatred, fury—every violent passion might have been depicted from her silent look and clenched hands. But not a word did she speak, and was the more dreadful.
“Hold your noise!” cries Macheath, very fierce and flushed with anger. “You do but hurt your own cause. ’Tis for me to command and you to obey and this lady is here for a witness. Hear then my purpose——”
There was a little of the playhouse rant about him as he stepped back and flung out his fine chest with the true highwayman’s air. He was fool enough to relish his part in the acting.
“ ’Tis my purpose to wed you immediately, Mrs. Fenton, and many an actor has played lover to his own wife on the boards, and ’tis that I intend. There’s money and love and joy in the future I offer you and many a fine lady would leap at the chance. ’Tis perhaps unknown to you the love letters I have by the score from handsome heiresses that know a man when they see him. I wager yourself has not so many.”
“Stow all this talk,” says Mrs. Bishop, sharply. “Can’t you see, man, what she needs is the whip not the honeycomb? She’s in love with my Lord Baltimore. Is she likely to accept to be an honest man’s wife when she can be a peer’s Miss? and rob a better woman than herself!”
“Baltimore!” Diana could scarce articulate, so terrible was the woman. “Mrs. Bishop, you are most frightfully mistook. I loathe the man. His mere presence oppresses me. Is it possible— O how blind I have been! Yourself loves him? Then take him, and I’ll bless the day that rids me of a man I hate.”
She could not clasp her hands but stretched them forth beseechingly. How came it she had never seen nor suspected the true cause of the woman’s jealousy? O blind that she had been! She saw Mrs. Bishop far more to be feared than the weak handsome fool that swaggered so big and loud before them. Her one aim must be to convince her. The man was the lesser danger.
“Mrs. Bishop—did I ever say an unkind word or look a hard look at you? How have I deserved this? Only—I see—because you was under a frightful mistake. I swear to you that my best hope is never to see my Lord Baltimore again. If he is pledged to you—but indeed that concerns me not, only rid me of him and I’ll bless you.”
“We’ll rid you of him effectively, Madam,” interrupts Macheath, very gloomily. “He won’t interfere with Mrs. Walker, I swear!” But Diana did not heed him. She dragged herself to her feet and faced Mrs. Bishop.
“Madam, I now perceive I have stood in your light in more ways than one. For my Lord, be assured there’s no effort of yours I won’t second to escape him. For the stage—I’m sick of it. ’Tis no place for me. I’ll throw up my part tomorrow, and earn my bread in any way that gives me peace. I swear it.”
“Can you give me back my Lord’s heart? Can you undo the disgrace put on me when I was kicked forth from the playhouse and all for your baby face? No, Madam. God himself can’t put back the mischief you’ve done me. I live but to see you in the dust, and afterwards could be content to starve.”
The duel was between the women. They scarce heeded Macheath and he stood watching with an imprecation on his lips. Once more Diana began the hopeless task.
“Madam, I have money and to spare. ’Tis all at your disposal and more if you’ll aid me to leave this house. Set me but in the street and——”
A laugh was the woman’s only answer, but no more was needed. So, seeing she did but beat on marble, she stood a moment despairing, yet entreating some unknown Power in her soul for courage, for understanding to protect herself. But it seemed none took pity. And as she so stood suddenly a thought flashed the blood along her pale cheeks and sent the light to her dimmed eyes.
“Have you thought, Sir, that I shall be missed? The hue and cry will be raised when the Duchess knows I am not come.”
Mrs. Bishop laughed harshly.
“Her Grace’s anxiety was set at rest by a letter under your own hand to say you was otherwise engaged tonight. No, no, Mrs. Fenton. Here you are, and make the best of it. You leave it but as the wife of a man so much too good for you as I wonder he honours you with the offer.”
“Madam,” says Mr. Walker with great state, on hearing this praise,—“Mrs. Bishop says true—My offer need certainly not go abegging when half the women in London would jump at it. I allow for modesty and coquetry, and a rake like myself loves modesty in his women but you’ve said and done enough now to prove you the possessor of both. Prepare for the ceremony. The parson is belowstairs.”
He went and opened the door, calling aloud,—
“Mr. Evans, be so obliging as walk up. The lady and me are ready.”
But Diana had slipt to her knees by the sofa, hiding her face against it, beaten down at last, hopeless of any aid or pity but what might come from her own helpless courage. What stung her most cruelly was the letter to the Duchess. Heavens! What might not such wretches have writ in her name,—and the Duke would hear it and know her utterly vile. In that moment she tasted more than the bitterness of death, and owned herself utterly over-reached.
A shuffling step came up the stair and a man entered whom, had she seen, she must shrink from with loathing—a dull heavy-eyed scoundrel in a parson’s greasy gown threadbare at the edges,—one of the unfrocked crew that hung about the Fleet, ripe for any mischief, with the smell of drink hot on him. He took notice of the young creature on her knees, and showed his gapped teeth in a laugh. ’Twas not the first and would not be the last in the way of his business.
“Drag her up, Sir,”—he says to Walker. “She must stand. Let the lady hold her up on t’other side. ’Tis the signature after that really matters. Come on, young Madam,—Time and tide wait for no woman. I’m due elsewhere in thirty minutes.”
But Diana did not raise her head.
“Come along, my dear. You promised to make me happy. Be as good as your word!” says Walker, wheedling and laying hold of her arm. Then first the man Evans observed her wrists.
“You must untie them, Mr. Walker. Sure a lady can’t take the ring with her hands like that, and besides I mustn’t have it said I married any woman dragged bound to the altar— Free her hands, Sir,—she can’t escape anyhow.”
Walker seeing him in earnest took out his knife and cut the bond as her hands lay stretched out on the sofa. But still she lay as if dead, with her head upon them.
“Now we’re nicely!” says the horrid man. “Stand up, young lady, and we’ll proceed with the sacred ceremony. Dearly beloved——”
Diana sprang to her feet.
“Sir, I am a young woman under the protection of the Duchess of Queensbury and the Duke of Bolton. I’m the famous Mrs. Fenton of ‘The Beggar’s Opera.’ And if I come to harm rest assured the doers will be hunted to the gallows. This wicked man and woman have dragged me here——”
“You came of your own free will”—screams Mrs. Bishop, but the girl continued—
“And be assured if I live, I’ll drag my case before the King and have justice though I die for it.”
’Twas gallantly said and she faced them now like her fighting father’s daughter. A moment—and the fallen parson looked doubtfully to Walker.
“You kept this from me, Sir. I did not know the lady had powerful friends. I understood ’twas a poor orphan. If this is the distinguished Mrs. Fenton, the town will be up to protect her. I can’t go further till I have satisfaction.”
Diana, seeing she was on the right track, continued earnestly.
“Sir, if you’ll take me to Queensbury House or to Mr. Rich’s house in Bloomsbury you’ll receive a hundred guineas. I promise it. Less it shan’t be and more it may. This portrait on my neck assures you of what I say—’tis her Grace, the Duchess. Take it as an earnest.”
She tore it off and thrust it in his hand. He looked at it doubtfully and in much fear. A small ducal coronet surmounted it, and all the town riff-raff knew the handsome haughty face beneath the pearls. He clutched a greedy hand on it.
“Madam, I can’t break faith with my employer. One gentleman don’t betray another, so you must not expect I shall take you from his care, but all the same I won’t marry you, so I won’t, for the Church requires the woman shall say ‘I will’ and mean as well as say it. But I’m convinced that a little private talk between yourself and the handsome groom will soften your heart, and then I’m your man. I recommend the lady to leave the young couple together also and descend with me, and I’ll wager all will be well.”
He looked with a leer on Walker, and on Mrs. Bishop, and the woman rising threw on her capuchin and pulled the hood over her head.
“The reverend gentleman says well,” she cried, “and I’m much mistook if when we return tomorrow morning we find you not as keen for the ceremony as now set against it. That’s the only salve for a woman’s honour, Mr. Evans. Will you lead the way?”
Diana caught his arm, entreating, praying not to be left with Walker. He loosed her hands laughing—
“Why, Madam, you’ve your remedy. Let the ceremony proceed, and the veriest prude need not shudder to be alone with her husband. Shall I go or stay?”
Mrs. Bishop was already at the door, looking darkly back upon her.
“You’ve but a moment to make your choice,” says she,—“Marriage or worse. Come, Mr. Evans.”
He looked back, Diana made a spring for the door, but they thrust her back and Walker caught her.
“Choose!” cries the man, opening his eyes at her and laughing as if her pain pleased the devil in him. She drew away from Walker and faced them all.
“I choose,” she said with her cheeks pale as death and her eyes glittering. ’Tis then a woman is dangerous!— “Go. Since there’s no help for me in God or man I’ll protect myself. Go!”
“Take notice,” cries Mrs. Bishop shrilly, “that she requests to be left alone with him. Mr. Walker, I wish you a good-night. Madam, I wish you the same with your lover.”
“Madam and Sir, your Servant!” says the reverend gentleman. The door banged and their steps were heard descending. The hall door opened and shut. They were heard to pass along the street.
“Won’t my charming creature lay aside her reserve now?” says Walker, approaching her once more. “We’re alone in the house, and if ’twas necessary to mislead others my Mrs. Fenton can be at her ease with her faithful lover. Let me have the joy to announce at the playhouse tomorrow that we’re man and wife. There’s many a man would speak no more of marriage after your refusal and you in my hands, but I’m my lovely creature’s most devoted, and will be as ready to send for the parson tomorrow morning as I was but now.”
He made to put his arm about her gallantly but she sprang back, a pair of scissors in her hand that she caught up from the table. He laughed contemptuous:
“You don’t fright me with that toy, child. Put it down.”
She held it up.
“I’ll plunge it in my own throat if you come nearer,”—she cried—a white fury with a line of gleaming teeth showing through her white lips. A mask of hatred that struck him dumb.
Not a brave man, though a showy, he tried to temporize.— After a minute’s hesitation—
“Put it down, my girl—put it down. I won’t frighten you. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She said no more, but stood rigid. A moment and Macheath flung out his arm suddenly to catch the weapon from her. She sprang aside, and he tripped his foot on the claw of the table and sprawled over it. Like lightning she rushed to the window and flung up the sash.
“Help—all good people! Help a poor girl trapped and held here by a villain!”
Her screams rang through the street, and a kind of terror that was half hatred seized the man lest she ruin him outright. He sprang at her, and holding her with the strength of fear and fury, bound her wrists once more, and when he had her helpless, bound her ankles also, and lifting her, flung her on the sofa.
“Lie there till I loose you,” he cries. “Hunger tames beasts and may tame a wild cat like you. I leave you here till tomorrow, and if you come not to your senses when I return with the parson, ’twill be the worse for you.”
He took a third strip of stuff and bound it over her mouth, then stood a moment looking at her.
“You’ve yourself to thank for this rough usage. I would have dealt otherwise with any but a fury. Learn wisdom now, before ’tis too late.”
He extinguished the light, leaving her in darkness and went out, locking the door behind him, to seek counsel of Mrs. Bishop. The affair had reached a point that terrified him, and he knew not how to go back nor forward. Flight, not love, was his present inclination, and he thought never to return.
So she passed the night of Saturday and the day of Sunday.
CHAPTER XVI
THE Duke, on leaving my Lord Baltimore with his former inamorata, strode down into the street, and stood for a moment in deep thought. ’Twas Mr. Rich was in his mind—that and the resolution to have done for good and all with his former friend and follow his search alone. The woman Bishop sickened him—Baltimore scarce less. ’Twas such a bewilderment of lies and intrigues as an honest man scarce could cut his way through. Better act alone, and if more slowly more certainly.
So standing a minute, he called a chair and directed the men to Rich’s house in Bloomsbury. He had never entered it—their meeting being at the playhouse or other haunts of amusement, and certainly this occasion on which he made his bow there was the last he would have chose. To speak of Mrs. Fenton to any man was as distasteful to him as if she had been his sister—or his wife.
The comparison was strange and tingled along his veins like a draught of strong drink. His wife. O thought undreamt of and mad! Sure it should have been impossible for his idlest fancy to present such an image to his mind even for a moment! He dismissed it and returned to consideration of how he should open the matter with Rich.
The fine house astonished his Grace first as he drew up at the portico—a portico with pillars, forsooth, and extinguishers for the link-men to thrust their flambeaux. He knew Rich prosperous but had not expected this.
Strange days!—When a Harlequin and a man that adventured his luck in a playhouse could live so! We may thus observe the Duke haughty in spite of his contempt of many of his own company. He smiled a little sarcastic as a well-laced lacquey opened the door to the chairman’s thundering knock, and, not knowing his visitor, announced somewhat supercilious that Mr. Rich was private in his study.
“Take this”—says the Duke briefly, writing his name on a paper, “and I’ll follow you.”
He directed the chair to wait and went with his quick step after the lacquey.
Mr. Rich flew to the door to receive him.
“My Lord Duke! The joyful surprise! What kind wind brings you to my poor shanty. ’Tis an honour I often wished, but dared not propose. The claret, Jenkins.”
“Why, I thank you, Richie,” says the Duke, as easy as any Lord Foppington and his levée, “You’ll welcome me the more when I tell you I come as an ambassador of the greatest lady in London.”
“The Queen?” cries Mr. Rich, trembling with excitement. “Doth her Majesty, honour us at the playhouse? Indeed I never dreamt— We must soften the allusions, your Grace.”
“I forgot the Queen!” says the Duke coolly. “No, I meant her Grace of Queensbury. She’s certainlyyourgreatest lady, Richie, if we consider what she has done for your play.”
Mr. Rich bowed assenting, pushing his cravat into place and wishing the Duke had gave more notice of his coming.
“Well, but it’s thus,” continues the visitor, stretching out his long legs easily in his chair,—“Mrs. Fenton did not return to Queensbury House last night, but sent a billet in place of her charming self. Her Grace commissions me to ask if Mr. Rich knows aught of her doings.”
“Why, yes, my Lord Duke, and was more than a little overset for the moment, but on consideration can’t see that ’twill affect the piece. If she turns a stage lover into a real one ’tis the lady’s pleasure, though I could wish she had chose better while about it.”
“We play at cross-purposes, I perceive!” The Duke sat up straight in his chair.
“Did the little minx not tell her Grace?” Rich was fumbling in his pocket.— “Why—where is it? O, here ’tis. I suspected nothing, being too busy a man to watch the flirtations of my pretty players.”
Constraining himself to quiet, the Duke took the paper coolly and opened it.