DESCRIBES A SCANDALOUS ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE AND THE
CONSEQUENCES THEREOF
“The Barrasdaile” was back in town and all the beaux of Mayfair were
agog, and forthwith hasted to give her welcome. They came by coach,
in sedan chairs, on horseback and afoot; battered beaux wise in wine
and women, sprightly beaux wise in town gossip and the latest mode,
youthful beaux wise in nothing as yet; but one and all they gathered
from every point of the compass and clad in all the colours of the
spectrum, passioning for her wealth, eager for her rank, allured by her
youth, or smitten by her beauty, agreeable to their own respective ages
and conditions; they came to flourish hats gracefully, shoot ruffles
languidly, flutter handkerchiefs daintily, tap snuff-boxes dreamily,
to stare, ogle, smile, frown, sigh and languish, each according to his
nature. And chief amongst these, my Lord Sayle, more completely assured
of himself than usual, if it were possible; and this by reason that His
Majesty (so gossip had it) was about to reinstate him in the royal favour
and make him Lord-Lieutenant of his county besides, on condition that
he put down the damnable practice of smuggling in his neighbourhood.
Be this as it may, it was an indisputable fact (rumour was positive on
this point) that His Majesty had received him, deigned him a nod, and
chattered at him in German, whereupon other gentlemen immediately bowed
to him, renewed acquaintance and congratulated him in English. Thus my
Lord Sayle found himself in very excellent spirits.
Now upon the very morning of my Lady Barrasdaile’s so triumphant return,
it befell that _The Satyric Spy, or Polite Monitor_, most scandalous and
(consequently) most carefully perused of journals, came out with the
following items of fashionable intelligence:
LADY H——a B——e, whose sudden and inexplicable desertion so
lately made of Mayfair a dreary waste, hath been seen driving
post for Paris. Paris doubtless awaited her with yearning
expectation, but yearned vainly. For, upon the highway this
bewitching she (_mirabile dictu_) vanished utterly away. Paris
received her not, Dieppe knew her not! Whither she vanished, by
what means, to what end, at what precise minute of the day or
night, or precisely where this astounding disappearance took
place, these be questions answerable but by her bewitching self.
BUT
It is furthermore credibly reported that Sir J——n D——g, whose
triumphs in the PAPHIAN FIELDS have made him NOTORIOUS and the
ENVY of lesser humans not so fortunate, left Paris abruptly
two or three days ago, and hath been observed in company with
a pretty SERVING-MAID, a BUXOM WAITING-WENCH whose humble
situation in life is completely off-set by the potency of
her peerless charms. Sir J——n D——g, quick to recognise the
goddess despite her HOMESPUN, is become her very devoted slave
and adorer. It is thought that he may carry her eventually
London-wards to out-rival the unrivalled BARRASDAILE.
_Nota Bene_: He that runs may read! Who seeth through a brick
wall cannot be blind. Yet whoso addeth two and two and maketh
of them five must be a bad arithmetician. _Verl. Sap._
THE WENCH SUPREME: OR A LAMENT FOR LANGUISHING LADIES
Sir J——n D——g who in smug world censorious
Hath, wooing, won himself a fame notorious.
E’en from one scene of triumphs late hath flown
Triumphant still, since flees he not alone;
But with him (let not Scandal from Truth blench)
Doth bear away a STRAPPING WAITING-WENCH,
A wench of wenches she (come aid me, Muse,
And teach me what just synonyms to use!)
A wench, a maid, a nymph, nay, goddess rather,
Though smutty chimney-sweep perchance her father!
Thus hath Sir J——n the latest fashion showed
And mating so, made serving-maids the mode!
Ye sprightlies proud! Ye high-born dames despair,
Weep pearly tears and rend your powdered hair.
Forgo that fond, that secret-cherished hope
That ye yourselves might, one day, thus elope:
Since FASHION and Sir J——n do both decree
No LADY may, except a WENCH she be!
Mayfair was powerfully and profoundly stirred: elegant gentlemen, having
perused these extracts from _The Polite Monitor_ hurriedly to themselves,
forthwith hasted to read them aloud, and with due deliberation, to
all who would listen; they were the main topic of discussion in every
fashionable club and coffee-house. Fine ladies, old and young, becked
and nodded over their Bohea, etc., lifted censorious eyebrows, whispered
behind their fans, and, learning my lady was in town, promptly ordered
coach or chair and were borne incontinent to my lady’s house in St.
James’s Square, each and every armed with a copy of _The Polite Monitor_,
and all eager to pour oil on the flames as lovingly as possible.
Meanwhile, Herminia, Lady Barrasdaile, that spoiled child of fortune,
having sworn at her meek maid and snubbed her doting Aunt Lucinda into
angry revolt, sat scowling at the reflection of her beauteous self in
the mirror, with this same scandalous “hateful” journal crumpled in
passionate fist.
“O mem,” wailed the faithful Betty, “if you’d only took my advice——”
“Hold your tongue, creature!”
“Yes, my lady! But if you’d only not run away——”
“Peace, devilish female!”
“Yes, mem! But I told you how ’twould——”
Here my lady launched a hairbrush, whereat Betty squealed and vanished.
“Thou’rt so wild, Herminia!” exclaimed her diminutive aunt—“so woefully,
wilfully wild! Such a masterful madcap like thy poor father before thee!”
“Would he were alive this day to ... cram this hateful thing down
somebody’s throat!” cried my lady, hurling _The Polite Monitor_ to the
floor and stamping on it.
“Aye, but whose throat, child? ’Tis what all the world will be
asking—whose?”
“Whose, indeed!” repeated my lady between white teeth. “Let me but find
him—let me but be sure!”
“Heavens, Herminia!—and what then?”
“Then, if I could find no better champion, I’d ... thrash or fight him
myself!”
“Cease, child, cease! Remit thy ravings; ’tis merest madness! Horrors,
Herminia, how——”
“O Aunt Lucy, a Gad’s name cease gasping out alliterations on me—do!”
“Fie, miss! And you with your profane oaths and vulgar swearing indeed!
Look at ye, with your great, strong body and hugeous powerful limbs! I
protest thou’rt positively——”
“Aunt, dare to call me ‘strapping’ or ‘buxom’ and I’ll set you atop of
the armoire yonder!”
“Nothing so feminine, Herminia!” retorted her very small aunt, with the
utmost courage. “Brawny’s the word! Thou’rt positively brawny, a brawn——”
Here a pantherine leap, a muffled scream, and my lady’s aunt, clasped
in my lady’s arms, was whirled to the top of a tall press in adjacent
corner, there to dangle two very small and pretty feet helplessly, to
clutch and cower and whimper to be taken down.
“’Faith, aunt,” quoth my lady, “to see you so, none would ever believe
you were a duchess and so great a lady.”
“And I don’t feel like one!” wailed the Duchess miserably. “How can I? O
Herminia ... child ... my dear, prithee take me down. If I fall——”
“You won’t fall, dear aunt—you never do!”
“I nearly did last time, minx!”
“Because you wriggled, aunt.”
“I’ll ha’ this hateful thing destroyed!” cried the Duchess, striking the
huge piece of furniture with a ridiculously small, white hand.
“Then I shall buy a bigger!” quoth my lady.
“Then I’ll leave thee, thou vixenish child!”
“But you’d come back to me, thou dear little loved aunt.”
“Aye, I should, thou great amiable wretch. Now pray lift me down like the
sweet, gentle soul thou art, Herminia.”
“Am I brawny, aunt?”
“Thou’rt a fairy elf! Take me down, child.”
“As for fighting, aunt——”
“Thou couldst not, wouldst not, thou’rt too maidenly, too tender, too
gentle ... take me down!”
“But indeed, aunt, you know I can fence better than most men—aye, as well
as Sir John Dering himself, I’ll wager.”
“That wretch! Pray lift me down, Herminia, dear.”
“’Faith, aunt, perched so, you look like a girl o’ fifteen!”
“And I’m woman of forty-five——”
“With scarce a white hair and never a wrinkle!”
“Indeed, child, I can feel ’em growing as I sit here, so prithee, my
sweet love, lift me——”
But at this moment was a hurried knock and Mrs. Betty entered, cheeks
flushed and mild eyes wider than usual.
“O my lady!” she exclaimed—“Company!”
“Betty,” cried the Duchess, “come and take me down—this moment!”
“Oh, I dessent, your Grace.... O mem, there be company below ... ladies,
mem—crowds, and gentlemen!”
“Ah!” cried my lady between clenched teeth, “so they’re here already—to
tear and rend me, dammem!”
“Herminia!” cried the Duchess, scandalised. “Herminia, fie! Herminia, for
shame! I gasp, child! Such language, miss——”
“Fits the occasion, aunt, so tush—and hush! Who’s below, Betty—the women,
I mean?”
“Well, mem, I only got a glimp’, but I ’spied my Lady Belinda Chalmers
for one——”
“That detestable rattle! Who else?”
“My Lady Prudence Bassett was with her, mem.”
“That backbiting vixen! And Mrs. Joyce Mildmay is with ’em, I’ll vow?”
“Yes, mem——”
“’Tis this devilish _Monitor_ hath brought ’em upon me, and they’re here
to condole with me—the wretches!”
“But I’m with ye, child!” quoth the Duchess from her lofty perch, whence
my lady hasted to lift her forthwith, holding her suspended in mid-air a
moment to kiss her furiously ere she set her gently down.
“God bless you, aunt, for a sweet, kind little soul! But I’ll not see
’em—yes, I will, and you shall come too! Yet no,” sighed my lady, “no,
’twere better I front their claws alone—the cats. Come you to my rescue
should they inflict themselves on me too long, dearest.” And having, with
Mrs. Betty’s deft aid, smoothed her silks and laces, having patted and
pulled at rebellious curls, my lady descended the broad stair and swept
into the great reception-room, where a group of chattering ladies rose
with one accord, chattering fond epithets, to embrace her, kiss, fondle
and stare at her with eyes that took in for future reference every item
of her apparel, every gesture, glance and flicker of her eyelash.
“My dearest Herminia, welcome back to town!” cried Lady Belinda, with a
pouncing kiss. “How vastly well you’re looking ... though a little worn,
of course ... a trifle pale, my love!”
“Pale, indeed!” sighed Lady Prudence, “and small wonder, my sweet soul,
for who would not look pale and haggard under the circumstances?”
“And such circumstances, Herminia love!” gasped Mistress Joyce,
shuddering and turning up her large blue eyes soulfully. “To think thy
fair, unblemished name should be even remotely associated with that—that
monster, Sir John Dering! My heart bleeds for thee, thou poor, injured
dear!” At this, every other lady sighed also and shuddered in unanimous
horror, while the gentlemen scowled, nodded, rapped snuff-boxes loudly,
snuffed ferociously and voiced their sentiments of indignant abhorrence.
“A dem’d, lying scandal, by heaven!” exclaimed Lord Verrian.
“A dooced scandalous lie, on my soul!” ejaculated Mr. Prescott.
“Such infernal, audacious, dem’d impertinence should not be permitted for
a dem’d moment, by Gad!” quavered fierce old Lord Aldbourne.
“Paper should be publicly burned!” quoth Captain Armitage.
“And the impudent editor-fellow instantly hanged!” added my Lord Sayle
fiercely, while divers other gentlemen said much the same and quite as
ferociously.
“You are alluding to the report in _The Monitor_, I think?” inquired my
lady serenely.
“Indeed, yes, my dearest!” answered Lady Belinda languishing. “To the—the
scandalous notice concerning you, my love, and that—that infamous Dering
creature! Needless to say, dear Herminia, we are all positively sure that
’tis basely false—a most wicked invention not worthy a moment’s credit,
though, to be sure—you was in France very lately, my sweet soul, was you
not?”
“Yes, dear Herminia,” sighed Lady Prudence, “and Mr. Scarsdale here
assures us that he met and spoke with Sir John Dering on the road between
Dieppe and Paris! Is it not so, sir?”
“Beyond all question, ladies!” answered Mr. Scarsdale, stepping forward
and bowing with a flourish. “Not only did I see Sir John, but conversed
with him——”
“Eh—eh?” cried old Lord Aldbourne pettishly, curving talon-like fingers
about his ear. “Eh, sir—cursed with him, d’ye say? What about, pray?”
“I said ‘conversed,’ my lord,” answered Mr. Scarsdale, flushing a little.
“Then dammit, sir, speak up, sir!” commanded his ancient lordship. “Be
good enough to remember that my dem’d ears are not so young as they were!”
“As I was saying,” pursued Mr. Scarsdale, making the most of the
occasion, “I met Sir John Dering by chance at a wayside inn, not twenty
miles from Paris, and had some conversation with him.”
“Why then, sir,” quoth my lady, “’tis like you saw this ‘wench,’ this
‘nymph,’ this ‘goddess in homespun’?”
“Egad, my lady,” smirked Mr. Scarsdale, “now you mention it, I did——”
“Hid?” cried Lord Aldbourne. “What did ye hide for, sir, and where?”
“My lord, I say that I caught a brief glimpse of Sir John Dering’s ‘buxom
wench’!”
“Oh, rat me, but did ye so, Scarsdale?” piped Mr. Prescott. “And was she
handsome indeed—come?”
“Let me parish, sir, if she wasn’t!” cried Mr. Scarsdale, ecstatic. “A
magnificent crayture, on my life! A plum, sir, a glorious piece——”
“We believe you, sir!” quoth Captain Armitage. “Dering ever had an
infallible eye, a most exact judgment!”
“And pray, sir, what was she like?” demanded my lady, rising and
approaching the speaker. “Be very particular. Was she dark or fair? And
her features ... her face, sir, was it round or oval——”
“She was dark, my lady, dark as night!” answered Mr. Scarsdale. “As to
her face ... her face, my lady....” Here, meeting my lady’s glance, he
faltered suddenly, his eyes opened wider, his heavy mouth gaped slightly,
and he seemed to experience some difficulty with his breath.
“Well, sir!” demanded my lady. “What was she like?”
“She was ... very beautiful ... beyond description ...” mumbled Mr.
Scarsdale, heedless of Lord Aldbourne’s vociferous demands that he would
“speak up and be dem’d!”
“Was I there?” questioned my lady relentlessly.
“No, no ... no, indeed, madam.”
“And yet you saw me!” She laughed scornfully and turned her back upon his
pitiable discomfiture. “For, O dear friends,” she cried, “dear my loving
friends, for once our _Monitor_ doth not lie! Aye, indeed, ’tis all
true—every word on’t. I was the serving-wench Mr. Scarsdale was so kind
to favour with his notice—’tis all true!”
“Heaven save us!” ejaculated Lady Belinda faintly, then uttered a
stifled scream and closed her eyes. “I sink!” she gasped. “I swoon! O my
poor Herminia, beware! Think, mem, think what you are saying! Oh, I am
shocked.... ’Tis dreadful!”
But here my lady laughed joyously, while all watched her in more or less
scandalised amaze—all save Mr. Scarsdale, who was mopping damp brow in
corner remote.
Her merriment subsiding, my lady arose and, standing before them, proud
head aloft, told her tale.
“Some of you know that I have long entertained the deepest animosity
against Sir John Dering, and with just cause——”
“We did!” quoth Lady Belinda, tossing her head.
“We do, madam!” answered Captain Armitage gravely.
“And most of you are, I think, acquainted with that impetuous boy,
Viscount Templemore, who, inspired by some rash word of mine concerning
Sir John Dering, started for Paris with some wild notion of becoming my
champion and forcing Sir John to fight him. Hearing of this madness, I
set off in immediate pursuit, but my coach broke down and, thus delayed,
and to while away a dreary hour, I wrapped myself in my maid’s cloak
and walked out to watch the moon rise, and thus, by the merest chance,
met Sir John himself, who, it seemed, had left Paris ere the duel could
take place. All of you, I think, are aware of Sir John’s overweening
pride and arrogance, and I determined to make this fortuitous meeting a
means of humbling his pride and trampling his lofty self-esteem in the
dust. Judge now if I have succeeded or no! Sir John mistook me for a
serving-maid, whereupon I acted the part of shy, country simpleton to
such perfection—Mr. Scarsdale saw me in the part, you’ll remember, and
was equally deceived—were you not, Mr. Scarsdale?”
But that gentleman had softly and discreetly taken his departure.
“Well, dear my friends, the end of it was, I very soon had Sir John
sighing and languishing to such degree that I ran away with him——”
“Madam!” exclaimed Lady Belinda.
“O heavens!” gasped Lady Prudence.
“Until he thought me safe, and then—I ran away from him—left him, with
a flea in his ear, disconsolate—to mourn and seek his shy, humble,
rustical wench as he is doubtless doing at this very moment——”
“Tee-hee!” laughed ancient Lord Aldbourne, slapping feeble knee with
veinous hand. “Dering—that terror o’ husbands! Hee-he! Oh, sink me!
Jilted, bilked and made a dem’d, everlasting fool of by a serving-wench!
Oh, split me!” And my lord laughed until he choked, and would have rolled
to the floor but for the Captain’s ready arm.
And now, as she turned, my lady found my Lord Sayle beside her.
“By heaven, madam,” he exclaimed, his assurance no whit abated, “I
protest ’twas marvellous well done, egad! We entertained an angel
unawares; ’twas your divine self that honoured us, after all, then.”
“Indeed, sir!” she retorted in fierce scorn, “and ’twas your base self
that I scorned then, as I do now—and ever shall!” And she left him to
scowl after her while the room buzzed with talk and laughter.
“That Dering, of all men, should be so flammed! O monstrous rich!”
“When this gets round ... alas, poor Sir John! Ha, ha!”
“Poor Dering ... every coffee-house in town will ring with the tale!”
“He will never dare show his face in London after this!” etc. etc., until
the long room echoed again.
Then the tall, folding doors were opened almost unnoticed, and a gorgeous
menial solemnly announced:
“Sir John Dering!”