"And, O, Madam, were you in want, as a lady of quality sometimes is, of a
young lady to write letters, to keep accounts, and all those little useful
arts such as mending lace and the like, I can truly say that in my
Elizabeth you would find solid worth. She is graver than my Maria.
"Sure we cannot have had the happiness to meet you for nothing. 'Twas
ordained you should walk in upon us. Permit me to ask the name of our
benefactress." The lady hummed and hawed a little; but not being easily
daunted, she tossed up her head bravely enough ere she replied:--
"Gemini, Madam! We can't all be ladies of quality; and if we could, I see
not who could provide the wants and amusements of the fashionable. To be
plain with you, I am an actress--and--"
"An actress!" screams Maria, all rapture. "Sister, do you hear? Was it not
this very day I said, would I could go on the stage like the famous Mrs
Woffington, and other beauties such as this lady. And then should I be
happy and pour all the gold I made into my mama's lap."
The lady shook her head, a little melancholy.
"Gold? Not much of that on the stage, young miss. 'Tis found there--true;
but--but--indirectly. However, this concerns you not. Madam, I am in no
need of such an attendant as you describe, having my dresser and--"
"I might have guessed it! When did luck ever come our way? Farewell,
Madam. Return to your own happiness and abandon us to our misery."
Heart-rending! The lady drew nearer.
"Gemini, Madam! You misjudge me. A woman can but offer what's in her
power. A good word from me to our manager, Mr Sheridan, and with such
faces I doubt not small parts can be found for your daughters in one of
the plays to be produced here, even now rehearse it, and the parts of
Susan and Careless go begging, for the girls that took them are called
away by their mama's illness. But dare I mention such a proposal?"
"Madam, you are all goodness and beauty!" cries Elizabeth. And Maria fell
on her knees like one distraught and kissed the pretty hand in its black
mitten. 'Twas known to them that Mr Sheridan's company was from London and
would return there; and indeed this came like a sunburst through the
cloud, for 'twas food, clothes, admiration, money, hope--and many other
charming things that set them dreaming on worlds to conquer.
They swept their mama away on the wave of their delight; and indeed that
poor lady was always prone to take gilding for gold so long as it
glittered sufficiently.
"And what, Madam, is this play in which Susan and Peggy appear?"
"Child, 'tis 'The Golden Vanity'--a play of a poor girl that weds a rich
lord and--"
Heavens and earth! She could not continue, for how describe the joy and
wonder of the family! Reserve fled away. Prudence borrowed the wings of
Hope, and dressed her face with rainbows. Crowding around the stranger,
they entreated her name, that it might grace their prayers; and she,
radiant with the sunshine she dispensed, calls out:--
"Why, girls, sure you have heard it. 'Tis I am the leading lady in all Mr
Sheridan produces at present. I am George Anne Bellamy."
"George!" screams Mrs G. "'A woman with a man's name,' said old Mother
Corrigan. Girls, your luck's come!" And with that falls into strong
hysterics and frights them all to death.
But joy is a strong cordial, and 'twas not long ere she sat up, panting
and dishevelled, with George Anne's hand in hers, telling her the story of
Mother Corrigan. 'Tis to be supposed Mrs G. had heard that Mrs Bellamy's
heart was not marble in any sense; but what was the lady to do? For my
Lord Mayo spent his rents five years ahead, and though his good nature
would give the coat off his back, that would neither clothe nor feed her
family; while, as for Mr Gunning, that gentleman regarded his wife and
children no more than the cuckoo that leaves her offspring to chance.
Mrs Bellamy was all ears. 'Twas prodigious, 'twas vastly astonishing, she
vowed. Maria was sent out with half a guinea, and they had a comfortable
dish of tea, with currant bread and what not; and she told them tales of
the stage and the fine matches made by Mrs This and Signorina That,
displaying little of its threadbare and much of its tinsel; and by the
time the candles were lit, they were all sworn friends. They parted with
embraces; for Mrs G. was as easy as George Anne, and the girls must needs
follow the example set.
She had her way with Mr Sheridan, who knew 'twas as much as his play was
worth to offend Mrs Bellamy; and she returned next day to announce her
success, triumphing and rattling on like a girl herself, so pleased was
she with their pleasure. All was joy and gladness, and she named the hour
of the first rehearsal and their introduction to Mr Sheridan, who knew as
well as another how pretty faces fill the playhouse; and was proceeding,
when Maria, turning archly upon her, says:--
"Look you here, dearest Mrs Bellamy! Think what it will cost us to refuse
this." And so holds up a splendid card, thick as boards and embellished
with a gilt edge and the Royal Arms and the Irish Harp, and Heaven knows
what braveries, inviting the Honourable Mrs Gunning, Miss Gunning, and
Miss Elizabeth Gunning to the Birthnight ball at the Castle, on the part
of his Excellency, the Earl of Harrington. Diamonds were never so bright
as the eyes that sparkled above it; for the charming new prospect of the
Stage had quite effaced the ball, and poor Mr Harry's trouble in securing
the invitation was like to go for nothing.
"I care nothing now for it!" cries Maria, and Elizabeth echoed her; while
George Anne looked thoughtfully at the Lion and Unicorn guarding a
Paradise she could not hope to enter. Maria made to tear the card across;
but Mrs Bellamy caught it from her hand and did not smile.
"Children," says she at last, "you know not what you talk of. I would have
a word alone with your mama. Take the little ones in your hand, and go out
a while in the sunshine." She thrust some cream-cakes upon them, and they
did so, looking doubtfully at her cloudy eyes; and when the door shut, she
turned to Mrs Gunning.
"Madam, you know well't is my wish to serve you and yours. But seeing this
invitation, there's thoughts comes into my head that I must needs speak
out. This" (she flicked the card) "is the life for the Miss Gunnings, and
not the stage. 'T would scarce become me to tell a lady like yourself what
must be faced there, but--but--'t is much! Ask Peg Woffington--ask Kitty
Clive--ask George Anne Bellamy!" She hung her head.
There was silence. Mrs G. stared at her, all aghast.
"Why, yesterday, all your talk was of pleasure and success. Sure, dear Mrs
Bellamy, 't was not like your kindness to draw on the poor things till
they can think of naught else, and now so far otherwise."
"Why, Madam, I thought there was no other way; and if so, needs must. But
seeing this, my mind misgives me and I falter. I'm a plain-dealer, Madam,
with all my faults, and 't is easy to be seen your daughters are a world's
wonder. I never saw the like, and that being so, 't is certain the dangers
are tenfold for them. They'll see the glories and grandeurs, sure enough,
but not through a wedding ring."
"If you mean, Madam, that my daughters--" Mrs Gunning flamed out, furious;
but George Anne was not to be turned from her purpose. She raised her hand
in a fine stage attitude.
"Madam, I wish vastly to serve you. Hear my proposal. Accept this
invitation."
"Impossible. We have no dresses, no shoes, no equipage, and no means to
get them. 'T is absurd!"
"'Tis not absurd. Hear me. In the theatre properties is a fine dress for
Lady Modish and two more for Peggy and Susan Careless. Not perhaps what
such ladies might expect, but passable. And--I know men. There's not a man
will look at their gowns for looking at their faces, though the suits are
well enough when all's said. I vow, Madam, you have so long lived beside
the two that you forget what beauties they are. I wager my next benefit to
a China orange that you'll have no more care once they are seen, but all
the women mad with jealousy and the men with love. Indeed, your young
madams are what one reads of in romances, but don't see. Give them this
chance, and if it fails, I'm good for my offer; but I'm much mistook if
you hold me to it. Gemini, Madam; use your wits! Would you have them what
I won't name, when they may be what your old witch foretold?"
She smiled her charming smile, and pressed Mrs G.'s hand. The lady
pondered. 'Twas disagreeable to owe such a thing to a mere actress, and
one, too, whose reputation was a trifle flyblown. The stage she might have
swallowed--being the lady's province and she a queen on the boards. But an
entry to the world where she and her daughters had a birthright--Fie!
'twas a very different pair of shoes. But George Anne had that in her eye
that would be obeyed; and seeing it, Mrs G. dropped her high tone and
returned the pressure with an air of sensibility.
"'Twas said by old Corrigan that 'twas you to bring us luck, dearest
Madam, and 'tis certain you are prudence itself. Sure a mother can risk
nothing for her darlings. If you will ensure us the dresses, I accept;
and, indeed, my Lord Harrington's father was a friend of my own revered
father in happier days. 'T is possible--"
"'T is certain," cries George Anne gaily. "Not a word will I drop to Mr
Sheridan, who is a perfect Israelite where theatre matters are in hand.
Count on me."
She was gone ere the girls returned, and 'tis needless to tell their
wonder. They preferred the stage, yet condescended to say they would
favour the ball, since Mrs Bellamy counselled it. "But, never, never will
it turn my heart from the charming footlights!" says Maria. "What say you,
sister?"
"I know not. My taste is quieter than yours. I will tell you my mind the
day after the ball. Poor Harry--'tis he has given us this."
She would say no more, but sat thoughtful.
'Twas the evening of the Birthnight ball when George Anne arrived, in a
hackney coach, attended by her dresser, and scarce visible for mantua
boxes. The three children were put away--their usual fate--in the beds
within, and though not able to sleep for excitement, were mute as mice,
lest they be punished by the closing of the door upon the ravishing
glimpses they had of the parlour.
'Tis not for a mere scribbler to intrude upon the chaste mysteries of the
toilet. Suffice it therefore to say that, when all was completed, George
Anne and Mrs. March the dresser stood back, breathless, to contemplate the
work of their hands.
Mrs. Gunning, her fine brown hair piled on her head into an edifice
twisted with gauze and feathers that granted her five inches more of
height, looked a Roman empress--her fine bust displayed to advantage and
sustaining a necklace of stage emeralds set in pinchbeck, which could not
be told from the veritable jewels, so closely were they copied for George
Anne from her Grace the Duchess of Bridgewater's. Her hoop was very wide,
and over it a green satin brocade flowered with gold, wherein George Anne
had played Lady Modish but twenty times, and so rich that 'twould serve
her great-granddaughter. 'Twas ruffled at neck and elbow with Mechlin, and
the girls gazed in awe at their splendid mama. 'Twas a changed woman. She
expanded, she glided, she moved, as a swan floating through her native
element differs from the same lurching along the bank.
But Elizabeth--O beautiful! Sure 'twas joy to see her! Her hair, agleam
with gold, was rolled back and carried in massive braids that crowned and
bound her head in the Grecian taste, confined by a bandeau of pearls that
crossed her brow. Her Grecian robe (indeed the fair Miss Lebeau had played
Calista in it) was a white satin with a fall of lace, and round her
slender throat a chain of seed pearl. Mrs Bellamy knew her business. 'Twas
simple, but simplicity becomes a goddess, and frills and flounces can but
distract the eye from loveliness that seems native to heaven. Her mother
surveyed her in a kind of amaze and then turned to Maria.
'Twas peculiar to these two fair sisters that they adorned each other and
each appeared more beautiful when both were in company. Indeed't was said
later that this contributed much to their triumphs. Maria now appeared in
a fine India muslin embroidered in gold wheat-ears--a robe which't is to
be feared Mr Sidney of the East India Company, the rich nabob of
Jubblepore, had laid at the feet of George Anne in pursuance of a suit not
wholly disdained. No matter! On Maria it shone like the raiment of the
youngest of the angels, draping yet expressing her fair limbs with a
seductive reserve that was art embellishing nature. She had a row of seed
pearl like her sister, and one rose of faintest pink nestled in her virgin
bosom. Her hair of burning gold was dressed in curls _à la mouton_,
as Mrs March expressed it, and a string of pearls wove through the rich
tresses.
But 'tis useless to describe beauty. As well dry a rose in a book and look
for bloom and dew. It depends on bright eye and smiling lip and wordless
sweetness and the fall of exquisite lashes and the tone of music and--and
this poor scribbler lays down his pen and attempts no more to paint where
the great artists later owned themselves vanquished.
"And all is prepared," cries George Anne, exulting. "For my mother's job
coach is at hand to take my three beauties; and distress not yourself, my
dearest Madam, for I engage to remain with your little family will return
in the coach when it deposits you here. And now, children, peep and
whisper no longer, but come see your lovely mama and sisters before they
go to conquer the world."
'Twas the kindest heart! She clapped her hands, and in rushed the three
children like Bedlam let loose, careering round and about the three,
shouting, laughing, and begging to be took also. Raisins and oranges from
George Anne's reticule alone restored them to their beds in peace.
"'The Golden Vanity' has sent forth two incomparable beauties," says she
at the door as they stepped into the coach. "May it bring them the luck of
its heroine and more."
* * * * *
St. Patrick's Hall was all of a blaze with wax candles and flambeaux, and
shining mirrors set in with gilt Cupids, and twinkling of fairy lights in
the great glass lustres and their glittering chains of drops and pendants.
Garlands of green, with roses interspersed, were in swags and loops about
the splendid walls, where hung the pictures of bygone viceroys in ribbon
and star, in frames to match the mirrors that multiplied the scene a
hundredfold.
And, more than all, the handsomest women in Ireland were decked out in
silks and satins and all the family jewels, and they sparkling like the
lustres above their heads. And all the gentlemen in uniforms and silk
stockings showing off their fine calves, and they strutting with their
swords and squiring the ladies and bowing. And above it all the Throne,
with the velvet canopy and the Royal Arms, and my Lord Harrington, his
Excellency, sitting like a picture of himself, with his stars and orders
and his coat of sky-blue velvet laced and embroidered with gold; and as
each pretty lady came up to him and swept her curtsey he lifted her by the
hand and kissed her cheek; for the Viceroy has that privilege, and many a
man envied him a few of the kisses, if they did not envy them all.
And now at the great doors appeared three ladies, quietly, like persons
used to assemblies, though to be honest their knees were trembling under
them and their little hearts quaking. So they were passed on from one
golden image to another, until they arrived before his Excellency, the
company politely making way, and a whisper that rose to a buzz running
with them. "Lord! who are they?"--"Who can they be?"--"Look at the
girls!"--"Exquisite!"--"Beautiful!"--"For my part I see nothing in them.
Vilely dressed. Very far from modish."--"Too tall."--"Too short"--in fact,
every expression of approval and disfavour. But every lady stood on the
tips of her satin shoes to see, and every gentleman took the fullest
advantage of his height; and had poor Harry been there, he had died of
jealousy. Alas! even his fond letters were not in Elizabeth's gentle
bosom, but tossed forgot on the bed in Britain Street, with George Anne
casting the eye of sensibility on them.
And now the officer who performed the introduction took Mrs Gunning's
gloved hand, very stately, and led her before the Throne.
"The Honourable Mrs. Gunning, your Excellency."
Down she flowed in a magnificent curtsey, her hands supporting her brocade
on either side, her head bent majestic--Beauty adoring Power. Suddenly my
Lord steps nimbly forward on the dais.
"What?" he cries. "Do my eyes deceive me? Impossible! But sure I have the
happiness to see the daughter of my old friend, and I am honoured beyond
expression to welcome her beneath my roof. Where have you been retired?
And what are these two lovely nymphs? Your daughters? No, sure it can't be
and you all youth and beauty yourself. Present them."
And while mama blushed and bridled, the magic words were spoke, and the
two dropped the gentlest curtseys, and rising, received a salute more than
usual warm from his Excellency on either fair blushing cheek. 'Twas
observed he lingered an instant on Maria's. Viceroys, too, are human.
'Twas an instantaneous conquest--how could it be otherwise? A moment later
they were the centre of a competing crowd of gentlemen, and glances of
coldness and aversion raining on them from ladies only a little less fair
and now deserted. That his Excellency was the first victim, none could
doubt, for when he was not in company with the beauties, he was
discoursing of them to others. True it is that he conducted the Dowager
Rathconnel to the supper-table, but equally true that he left the lady
seated before such dainties as ensure an old age of gout, disengaging
himself with a nimble wit that should have appeased her, and sought out
the mother of the Graces, devoting himself to memories of old times with a
gusto, while Maria and Elizabeth danced and smiled on their adorers,
blooming and beautiful.
"My dear Madam," says his Lordship, "how is it possible that you have
lived so retired for fifteen years? 'T was not justice to your
admirers--of whom I was ever one. How came it about?"
"Why, your Excellency," says the lady very serious, "'twas not with my
good-will. You know well that my late father's good heart was his chief
possession; and my husband--alas!"
Sure a pause and downcast eyes are more expressive than any words. His
Excellency shook his majestic peruke, and echoed the lady.
"Alas! Cards, horses, the bottle--how many a wife and mother hath had
cause to curse that fatal trinity! And 'tis even so, Madam?"
She applied George Anne's laced handkerchief to her eye, then smiled
faintly and seeing opportunity, seized it.
"I would not cloud this festive scene, your Excellency, yet why should I
reserve from a tried friend that I and my poor daughters--"
"Yes, yes!" cries his Lordship, very impatient.
"--Are here this night in borrowed dress," continues Mrs G. solemnly, "and
are indebted even for the shoes upon their feet to the kindness of an
actress, Mrs Bellamy."
"Good Ged!" says Lord Harrington, genuinely shocked, and the more so that
he had himself known Mrs. Bellamy some years since. "Sure it can't be! I
won't believe it. Indeed, we must discourse further of this. Come hither!"
Profoundly interested, he led her to a withdrawing-room and there they
fell into so deep discussion that never had he been such a negligent host.
And when Mrs. Gunning left the withdrawing-room, it was with an imperial
head held high, and a flush in her cheek which became her so well that the
most prying female eye would not give her a day over thirty.
His Excellency led out Maria to a minuet. Twice he took Elizabeth down the
country dances. The generous wines had warmed his heart, the glow of
beauty kindled it to flame, and it was plain to be seen that his eyes were
only for the fair Gunnings. The world followed his example,--when does it
otherwise?--and a petal from Maria's rose, a look from the violet
dark-lashed eyes of Elizabeth, were the prizes of the night.
A party of noblemen escorted them to the doors on leaving, and 'twas with
the utmost difficulty Mrs. Gunning persuaded them it was unnecessary to
ride in cavalcade about the coach to Britain Street. When the ladies were
gone, they returned to the Banqueting Hall to toast "The Irish Beauties,"
and break their glasses in their honour until the floor was strewn with
broken crystal, and the celebrants were most of them borne speechless to
their beds. Indeed, a challenge passed between my Lords Cappoquin and Tuam
upon a dispute as to which lady was the greater Venus.
Never was such a triumph! And Mrs Gunning, falling into George Anne's arms
in Britain Street, declared with tears of joy:--
"You were right, entirely right, my dearest Madam. I am promised a
handsome pension on the Irish Establishment, and his Excellency counsels
me to transport my girls to London, where, he considers, they may pretend
to the highest matches, and promises introductions worthy of them. And, O
Madam, playing at faro in the cardroom, I won a milleleva--no less!--
Fifty guineas!--Lord! was ever anyone so happy!"
Tears of sensibility stood in George Anne's eyes. She was one who shared
to the full the griefs or triumphs of her friends. She wrung Mrs G.'s hand
and embraced the fair conquerors, scorning to mention the rent in Maria's
muslin gown, and the stain of wine on Elizabeth's satin. It was a generous
heart, and had earned more gratitude than she afterwards received from
two, at least, of the ladies.
'Twas amazing to Mrs Gunning and Maria now that ever they had contemplated
the stage--so very far below their pretensions; and it took but a week to
open the former lady's eyes to the little cracks in George Anne's
reputation. She saw plainly that such a friendship could be no aid to
their soaring aspirations; and indeed her ambition had now spread its
wings to some purpose. The Earl of Harrington having advanced the first
installment of her pension, she immediately moved their lodging to the
genteeler Mount Street, and Britain Street was forgot, along with George
Anne. Sure a mother must be prudent! Elizabeth only forsook not her
friend, going to wait upon her and carrying with her many of the posies
left in daily homage to her sister and herself. She had little in her
power, for money was still none too plenty; but kindness and gratitude
smell sweeter even than roses, and these she carried in handfuls straight
from a grateful heart to George Anne.
It smoothed not her own path in Mount Street, for Mrs Gunning's pride grew
with what fed it, and though admiration was plenty, offers were few. It
might be that the enmity of the Dublin ladies stood in their way, for
certain it is that Mrs G. was never a favourite. Where she judged well to
flatter, she flattered too openly; where she disliked and saw no gain, she
insulted; and many gentlemen would have retired from her acquaintance, but
for Maria's frolicsome gaiety and the sweetness of Elizabeth. It gained
ground about the city that there was much scheming in Mount Street with a
view to rich husbands, and it smirched the girls as well as their mama,
and put thorns in their way. It made the men bolder than they should be,
and the women cold.
Maria was the hardier and took it as a necessity of their situation; but
the milder Elizabeth wept often on George Anne's kind bosom over the
insults (as she took it) which Mrs Gunning received with rapture, as
hopeful signs of love. And, whatever the actress's own case might be, 'tis
certain she showed more delicacy in dealing with the girl than did her
lady mother.
Nor had she much comfort from Mr Harry's letters. His father remained
adamant; and though he writ, 'twas more carelessly, and a rumour reached
Dublin that coupled his name with the great fortune Miss Hooker, and was
generally took for truth. Mrs Gunning greeted it with pleasure, regarding
Mr Harry as a gone-by and much below her hopes; but though Elizabeth's
heart was not wounded, her pride was pierced to the quick. It seemed that
all the world conspired to humiliate her, and she asked herself what was
the use of beauty, if it meant this and no more. She sighed and left his
last letter unanswered.
Miss Maria too had her troubles. My Lord Errington pursued her with
ardour, and his handsome rakish face and gallant impudence drew the pretty
moth towards the heat and flame of a dangerous candle. Folly, no more, but
his lady took her vengeance in scandals that spread about the town, and a
duel was fought that did Maria no good and kept off worthier pretenders to
her hand; and indeed it was not a day too soon when the family packed up
their belongings and changed the air to London. The girls outshone all
others--true! but 'twas thought more in beauty than discretion, for
Elizabeth must needs sink with her family. The world draws not nice
distinctions.
But to say they were courted in London is to say little. They broke
triumphant upon the town, supported by letters from his Excellency, and
the town received them with frenzy, as it might the great Italian singer
or the new lions at the Tower, or what not. Amongst the greatest, the Duke
of Hamilton put himself at their disposal, urged thereto by a particular
letter from my Lord Harrington and his own love of beauty. He dangled
about them daily, and it must be owned that from the first moment of
meeting Mrs Gunning fixed the eye of cupidity on his Grace. For of all the
matches of the Kingdom James Hamilton was the greatest available. Duke of
Brandon in England, of Chatelherault in France, of Hamilton in Scotland,
of vast possessions, of suitable age and gallant presence, a princess need
not have disdained his hand. A great prince, indeed, and knowing it
possibly too well,'t was he to dazzle a girl's eye and carry her heart by
storm! For hearts--it was never supposed his Grace possessed one; at
least, he wore it not on his sleeve, but was ever cold and haughty, though
it was well known he liked a pretty woman as well as any--short of the
wedding ring. He hung about the new beauties as a gentleman will, until
wagers began to be laid at White's as to which had caught his favour, and
where would fall the handkerchief of the Grand Bashaw.
Meanwhile, his attentions made them more than ever the mode, and the town
gallants swarmed about them like bees, at the Assemblies where they
figured, attended by my Lord Duke in ribbon and star. As the days went by,
however, the anxious mother observed that his preference was for
Elizabeth, and that he had no thought to interfere with my Lord Coventry,
who could not keep his eyes off Maria, though he committed himself no
further than the Duke. Indeed, stories were now freely circulated
concerning Britain Street and the poverty and shifts of the family, and
wagers were laid that neither the one nobleman nor the other looked for
more than a few months' amusement with the two loveliest girls in England.
Mrs. Gunning was openly called the Adventuress, and it was a favourite
sport with some ladies to imitate her Irish accent and carnying ways with
those she would please; and doubtless Maria angled a little too openly for
her lord. They were, in short, easy game for the mockers, and Elizabeth
shrunk daily more into the shade. It appeared as if it would be the Dublin
story over again.
Mr. Harry came at once to their lodging on his return from Yorkshire, and
to be sure, had not a word to say of Miss Hooker. He would have saluted
Elizabeth, but she drew back with a curtsey, her manner sweet and cold as
an autumn dawn with a touch of winter in the air. He found her changed,
and no wonder, and said as much with some anger.
"It should not surprise you, Harry," says she serenely. "I am now
eighteen, and have seen the world, as you have also. Our betrothal was a
child's game. I like you too well to be your ruin. Marry Miss Hooker, of
whom I hear. 'Tis your best way, and obedience to parents a plain duty."
"You were not so wise in Dublin," replies Mr. Lepel, casting a jealous eye
on the fair monitress. If her looks had changed it was to a more radiant
sweetness, and there was that in the way her long silken lashes lay on her
fair cheek that dwarfed Miss Hooker's fortune. He had better have kept his
distance from the siren, he thought with bitterness. But sure a little
pleasant dallying could hurt neither Miss Hooker nor his father--a summer
pastime and no more; and if the tales flying about town were but the half
of them true, he might hope for this, especially with the past pleading
for him in Elizabeth's tender heart. Sure there was a softening in her
glance. He pushed his chair somewhat nearer and took her hand. She
withdrew it, and removed her seat farther away.
"Is my Elizabeth angry with her Harry," cries he with a fine dramatic air.
"Does she forget those happy days when we were all to one another? What is
Miss Hooker or Miss Any-person to come between us? What--"
"Your future wife, as I understand," says Elizabeth, perfectly calm. "No,
Mr Lepel--I know the world now, better than I could wish" (she sighed),
"and I desire not your attentions. I--"
But Mr Lepel broke in, pale and furious.
"And is it thus you speak, you heartless jade? Clothes, jewels, balls,
'tis these you value. Is there a woman alive that will not sell her soul
for the like? O God, why are fair faces made to madden us? Now I have seen
you once more, how can I return to that flat-faced--"
She rose, with a wave of her hand that dismissed him; but he ranted on in
a towering passion of wrath and grief. It had all burst up anew in his
heart, in and for a moment. He believed himself hardly used indeed.
"Could I bury my father and inherit his land, you would not use me thus.
It is all a cursed thirst for gold, and you are for sale like an Eastern
slave. Who is the highest bidder? But I know well. What am I to compare
with--"
"His Grace the Duke of Hamilton!" announces Mrs Abigail, very demure in
her pinners at the door; and in walks his Grace, magnificent in manners
and dress, and Mr Lepel's fury stopped on a breath, though he could not
regain countenance as readily as Elizabeth. She rose to meet the
visitor--a rose in June; and he might take the blush of anger which was
due to Mr Lepel for a welcome to himself.
What could Mr Harry do but draw back, stammering and looking foolish under
the cold glance Duke Hamilton bestowed on him. Prudence counselled,
"Withdraw. What do you here?" Angry Love retorted, "Here I stay. What!
Shall I leave the field to a rival?" And so, flung himself in a chair
glaring defiance, Elizabeth palpitating between the two. 'Twas not
surprising that she drew nearer to the Duke, as if for protection; that
there was an imploring softness in her face as she looked up to him; that
she saw him greater, handsomer, stronger than ever, beside this idle and
futile young man who had reviled her. The carelessness of his glance at Mr
Lepel seemed to fling his pretensions in the mud--his haughty coolness to
degrade the young man; and to such thoughts women are responsive. If her
heart was touched before, the dart went deeper now She held her head
higher, deerlike, and wasted no words on the unwelcome guest.
The two gentlemen, seeing neither could outstay the other, departed
presently together, Mr Lepel saying with assumed lightness as he bowed,
hat in hand, at the door: "We had not the pleasure to see Madame la mere,
your Grace, and no doubt but she is slipped away on some hunting errand. I
wonder what new fox is broke cover. Half the world bets on my Lord
Coventry still!"
The Duke returned not his salute, and Lepel could not tell whether or no
his arrow had gone home through the armour of chilly pride and silence. He
himself strode angry and ashamed down the street.
That same evening a Council of Three was held in the lodging, Mrs. Gunning
with her mask of smiles laid by, Maria fretful, Elizabeth grave and
retired in her own thoughts. The ladies had but the one bedroom, with a
little closet for the youngest adjoining.
"Girls," says Mrs Gunning, "'Tis time I spoke plain. This six weeks in
town hath reduced my purse till I am frighted to look in it; and what have
we to show? Young women with not half your looks are married and settled
since we came hither. We have had a vast deal of froth and flutter, but
nothing solid. Were it possible to live on sweetmeats and dress in posies,
we have a fine prospect, but not else. I see nought before us but Britain
Street--or worse.", Maria shrugged her white shoulders.
"What more can we do, mama? Sir James Ramsden has offered marriage, and
Captain Golightly; and Mr. Lennox has asked Elizabeth, and Mr. Lepel--"
"What signifies all that?" cries Mrs. Gunning. "Don't let them slip.
They'll serve for the future perhaps, if all fails. Elizabeth, I command
you on your duty that you please Mr. Lepel, though not more than
sufficient to content him. If we can't better him--But, Maria, what said
my Lord Coventry to you at Lady Lowther's ball? I saw him very earnest."
"Nothing that mightn't be in the news-prints, mama. His breed of black
shorthorns filled his thought and tongue. I protest I loathed the man's
folly. 'Tis an insipid creature when all's said."
"No man with a coronet is insipid. He is grave and reserved, and I would
he had been Elizabeth's admirer rather than yours, for they could have sat
silent in a corner together. But what of the Duke, child? My hopes are
sadly sunk."
Elizabeth flamed in a blush, less beautiful than painful. A sore heart was
behind it. She replied not. Mrs. Gunning frowned.
"Well, girls, you're easy enough, but so am not I. Now therefore listen
while I speak my mind."
'Tis needless to be particular in recording the lady's speech, which was
much to the point in dealing with their needs and stratagems. She spoke
for many minutes and at the end tears of shame and anger were in Maria's
lovely eyes. If Elizabeth wept,'twas behind a sheltering hand.
"What signifies grumbling?" finishes Mrs Gunning. "'Tis as plain as the
nose on your face. Elizabeth's is the best chance, and if she makes her
match my Lord Coventry will kiss your slipper, Maria. The Duchess's sister
can marry where she will."
'Twas vain to interrupt. Mrs Gunning sailed on, maternal, imperative, and
took no heed. It would be impertinence to intrude on the talk that
followed, and the plan laid for the entrapping of his Grace, of whom it
may be said that he could protect himself against even the assaults of
beauty better than Mrs Gunning supposed. But Elizabeth, borne down by two
to her one, fought a losing game.
"I hate the man," she cried with spirit, and knew 'twas false as she said
it. "I'd sooner sweep a crossing--"
Mrs Gunning smiled contemptuous.
"Not you! You came pretty near it in Britain Street, and 'tis known how
you relished it. Beggars, my dear, can't be choosers. The Duchess of
Hamilton may have as much delicacy as she pleases. Miss Elizabeth Gunning
can't afford it. There's no more to be said."
Yet Elizabeth said it furiously, and in vain.
A subdued light of wax candles--the most flattering light in the
world--made the parlour enchantment when his Grace sauntered in one
evening, later. Posies were in the bowpots, and a delicate scent of
violets in the air. On a table by the window lay a magnificent
chicken-skin fan sent by my Lord Coventry for Maria's birthday: it was
covered with rosy figures of Cupids swinging garlands in blue air, the
mother-of-pearl sticks latticed with gold. It lay beside a lace
handkerchief, as if a fair hand had flung it careless down. A decanter
of purple Burgundy, with two glasses, was hard by, and a small painting
of the lovely sisters from the hand of Neroni, who had asked the favour
to depict them as wood-nymphs. They advanced, smiling and bearing a
garland between them down a forest glade, while two Cupids concealed
behind a tree aimed a dart at each fair breast.
The Duke contemplated this work of art, smiling at his own thoughts, and
not pleasantly. Presently the door opened and Mrs Gunning and Maria
entered, in hats and capes, followed by Elizabeth, dead pale and in a
_negligée_ with blue ribbons, her hair falling in long tresses to the
knee, confined only with a fillet of ribbon. She looked not even her
eighteen years in this dress, and had a most touching beauty. His Grace
kissed Mrs Gunning's hand, yet with the half-contemptuous air of the great
man. Some might resent such a kiss as an insult, but the lady's armour was
defensive as well as offensive. Says she, curtseying:--
"I beg a thousand pardons, your Grace, but we are disturbed with an
unexpected call. 'Tis what we never imagined, but can't refuse. Good Mrs
Acton, a friend of our Dublin days, is took ill and hath sent for us to
Harbour Street. She is unattended in London; I know your Grace's
sensibility will excuse us."
"Why, Madam, friendship is so rare a virtue that 'tis worth proclaiming at
the Exchange. I will give myself the pleasure to wait on you another
evening."
His hat was beneath his arm; he picked up his clouded cane.
"I thank your Grace." Mrs Gunning's voice was stately. It changed as she
turned to Elizabeth. "And now, my flower, my dove, repose yourself on the
couch, and Mrs Abigail will bring you the lavender drops, and let me find
my treasure well and smiling on my return."
"What? Does not Miss Elizabeth accompany her mama?" The tone was alert.
"By no means, your Grace. She has ailed all day with her head, and is not
fit for a sick chamber. Farewell, child. I wait your Grace."
He took Mrs Gunning's hand to conduct her to the coach; 'twas as pretty a
comedy as ever George Anne Bellamy played. He laughed inwardly leading her
to the door, and on the stairs discoursed charmingly on the last
masquerade at Vauxhall. Without the hall door he paused.
"Is Miss Elizabeth Gunning too ailing, Madam, to receive a friend for a
few moments? Permit me to assist you."
And before the lady could reply, he bundled the two into the coach, and
was halfway up the steps ere Mrs Gunning could cry: "I know not, your
Grace. A moment perhaps--"
He bowed from the door.
"Be easy, Madam. I will myself administer the lavender drops if needful."
It was impossible for the Duke to hasten himself, for this he had never
done within the memory of man; but 'twas scarce a minute since he had left
the room when he reëntered, half fearing to find his pretty bird flown.
Not so, however. She leaned against the shutter, her eyes fixed on the
evening sky. It seemed she had forgot his Grace, for her expression was
sorrowful and quiet, unlike the female trifling he expected, and he heard
a faint sigh. She turned, startled.
"Forgive me, my Lord Duke. I think I can't stay. My head--"
She would have glided to the door. 'Twas provocative, however meant, and
he put himself in her way. She tried the other side of the table. He
blocked that also, and was before her again. Finally she ceased the
attempt and stood with eyes cast down.
"Child, don't hasten. Give me a few minutes. I see you alone for the first
time and never so lovely as now. Is it your long hair, or what is it? Sure
the angels have locks like this."
He lifted a heavy tress as if marvelling. She snatched it from him like an
aggrieved queen; then, seeming to recollect herself, stood silent again.
'Twas but a schoolgirl, with trembling lips and veiling hair. He took her
hand like a man accustomed to be obeyed, as indeed he was.
"Child, your mama hath left you in my care, and you can't desire I should
relinquish the pleasure. Such an opportunity no gentleman could resist. Be
seated, Madam, and let us discourse."
'Twas all on one side, for she had not opened her lips. But she obeyed
him, and sat in the chair he handed her to, as passive as a marble lady.
He seemed at a loss to continue, and stood looking at her where she
drooped, then took a chair beside her.
"You are pleased to be less cordial than I have known you, Madam. Is it
whim or anger? I like a woman's pretty coquetries as well as any man, but
this silence--"
It still continued. She was snow and marble. Not a word. Only the dark
lashes like fans on her cheek. Not a gleam rewarded him.
"A sullen beauty!" says his Grace languidly, "but yet a beauty beyond all
others. So here we sit!" He drew out his jewelled timepiece.
"I give you a minute, Madam--nay, two. And if by then you have not spoke,
I will try if the warmth of a kiss on those sweet lips won't thaw the ice.
I swear it!"
He laid the sparkling toy at her elbow on the table, and stared in her
face. 'T is certain his Grace had dined. He was not wont to treat any
woman thus unless where it was asked for. A minute went by--the tick was
audible, but she moved not. And now a slow hot tear scorched its way down
her cheek. If this followed mama's instruction, it bettered it. The tune
was scarce out when he springs up and cries with triumph:--
"I was not mistook. Your silence asks a kiss, child, and James Hamilton
was never the man to refuse a woman's challenge. Give me your lips, and
more."
His swashbuckling Border ancestors were stirring in his veins, and for a
moment his face coarsened and his eyes were gross. He caught her by the
two arms and bent his mouth upon hers.
In a flash the fair statue was living and dangerous. He was a strong man,
she a wisp of a girl; but she flung him off and stood glaring at him.
"How dare you?" she panted, and could no more. The eyes were unveiled at
last and rained fire on him. Never had any person seen her look thus; she
faced him gallantly. He applauded as if it had been the Woffington or any
other fair game.
"'Tis prettily done--but I see your drift, Madam. If a young lady is left
by her friends and her own desire to sit alone with one of the best-known
men in town, she takes the consequences. Yet I would not have missed
Lucretia--she lacked only the dagger in her hand. But the comedy may end.
Give me your lips, child, and coquet no more."
"Sir--if you are a gentleman--"
"Madam, I am a lover."
"Oh,'tis too much--too much!" she cries. "I have undertook what was beyond
me, and I can't--I can't carry it through. I would if I could--I cannot!"
The strange words, the despair in her face was no stage-play. The Duke
knew sincerity when it cried aloud. Still grasping her hands, he stood at
arm's length, staring in her face.
"You cannot, Madam? What mean you? Are you in earnest?"
Not withdrawing her hands, fast held and quivering, she kept silence. He
could feel the pulses flutter in her wrists, and the fumes of wine cleared
slowly out of his brain and carried the brutality with them.
"Have the condescension to explain yourself. You are safe in my company
now. Possibly I was mistook, but I supposed you not unwilling for our
tête-a-tête. Accept my apologies if this is not the case. I thrust no
attentions on women who dislike them."
"Sir, I will explain, and go, and never see your face again. I die of
shame."
He could still feel the pitiful flutter in her wrists. He relaxed his grip
and handed her to her chair,--a gentleman again,--James, Duke of Hamilton
and Brandon. "I see myself gravely in error, Madam. I await your words."
She would not sit, nor he. They stood apart now, and he could scarce hear
the silver tremble of her voice.
"Sir, we are poor. You know this. And last night my mother did ask me
whether I supposed your Grace had any feeling for me beyond careless
goodwill. I knew not. What could I say? And she then revealed to me--oh,
how reveal it now!--that our little means is all but spent, and that gone,
we must retire into poverty and misery again. Also that there are debts,
and prison for debtors. Also that any match for my sister is impossible to
hope for--No--how can I tell it! And she did say that if we could
hope--could but know that--"
Her voice died on her lips. She hung her head in agony. He took her up.
"The task is too hard for you. Let me continue. Your mama said that, if
she and your sister withdrew and left you with me, if you put forth your
charms (and God knows there were never such!), 'twas possible you might
set the sweetest trap for the rich man, and with his aid clamber out of
the mud and sit secure beside him. Confirm me if I don't err. Confess!"
"I confess." The words scarce broke the silence.
"And love was not in the bargain," the cruel voice persisted. "Mama did
not enquire whether James Hamilton was distasteful to you or the reverse.
He was a moneybag--no man. Confess again."
"I confess. Sir, we have used you very ill. I ask your pardon. I was a
fair mark for insult." Her head dropped lower. She could not otherwise
hide her face, but shame overflowed it in waves of crimson.
"To be frank, Madam, I have never found your mother congenial company.
'Twas not for her I sought this house. Tell me, was this her plot only?
Was it acceptable to you?"
"At least, I followed it. She is my mother. I am one flesh and blood with
her. If she is a plotter, so too am I. I bid your Grace farewell, and pray
for so much pity as that you will never come this way again, nor see me,
lest I die at your feet."
"Madam, do I owe you no apology?"
"I think none, your Grace. You acted as the woman you took me for might, I
suppose, expect. Let me go."
A singular thing happened here. The Duke, the haughtiest and coldest of
men, bent his knee and carried her hand to his lips. So on Birthnights he
kissed the late Queen's hand, she standing before the Throne. Then stood
very grave. "Madam, I entreat your pardon. I have shown you a side of a
man's character very unfitting for your eyes and you but the child you
are. Forgive me, and ere we part for ever, answer me one question, in
token of your pardon. Had I been but James Hamilton, the lowest of my
clan--could you have honoured me with any regard?"
She stammered, trembling before this melancholy gentleness.
"I know not."
He persisted, gentle but firm:
"We have perhaps something to pardon each other. I ask again--would this
have been possible?"
Constrained, she sought for breath. Because a cold handsome face softens,
because distrust is melted, shall a woman let her heart fly like a bird to
a man's bosom?
"Sir, you ask more than I can answer."
Still the eyes insisted, and now the strong hand held hers.
"Sir--I think--I believe--it had not been impossible."
"What--not James Hamilton--no more?--with a shieling on the moors, and the
heather-cock for food, and a Hamilton plaid to wrap his heart's darling,
and a fire of peats to sit by, and this hand empty but for love and his
claymore?--Would the beauty of the world have come to his breast?"
His voice was a strong music--a river in spate. His eyes caught hers and
held them.
"'Tis not impossible. But oh, how should I prove it--prove it? There's not
a word I say but rings false now. Leave me--leave me. I have said too
much."
"You can't prove it? But you can, and if you prove it, I will distrust
God's mercy before I will distrust my girl. All you have told me was known
to me--known to all the town. It rings through the streets that the fair
Gunnings and their mother are schemers; that they love none and seek only
the best price for their charms. Marry me now, this hour, Elizabeth, and
face the world that will call you plotter and adventuress. For they will
so! There's no club in town but will ring with the story of how the beauty
was cunningly left to a half-drunk man's advances. That's how Horry
Walpole and all the old women of both sexes will have it! All this will be
known through your mother's folly and your Abigail's chatter, and they
will tell how you trapped me, how I would have escaped and could not for
the snares about my feet. Marry me and face this, if you will, and I will
believe you love me, for you will stand a disgraced woman for all time.
Marry me not, and I will make your way easy with gold, and your mother
shall tell her own tale, and not a smirch on your name and fear not but
another rich man will give you all I could, and not a spot on it. Choose
now once and for all. I have seen and I know how my coronet will sting you
with shame--with shame set in it."
He did not embrace her. 'Twas the strangest wooing. The clock pointed to
eleven. The house was dead silent. Her eyes widened with pain and fear.
She looked piteously at him.
"They will say you caught me drunk, whom you could not catch sober. They
will say you forced the marriage, lest I escape. There is nothing they
will not say but the truth--that my sweetheart is the sweetest, the
purest, the proudest woman alive. Your delicacy will be trod in the mud,
Madam. Will you take your man at that? Will you crawl through the dirt to
his heart?"
His fire kindled hers. Her eyes glittered.
"And if they believed me worthless--that is not what I ask. What would
your Grace think?"
He smiled with peculiar sweetness.
"Child, you know. Look at me."
And still she trembled.
"Beloved, adored!" he cried. "Think you I knew not 'twas death to you to
tell the truth? Shall a man find a pearl in the dirt and not set it over
his heart. I have loved you since first I saw your fair face, and now I
honour you. Come to me and bless me; and when these fools cackle and
gibber, I shall know how to protect my wife."
His arms went round her.
"I will do it," she said.
The minutes passed in an exquisite joy, plucked out of shame like a rose
from a torrent. He left her and went to the door, and leaning over the
balustrade, called down the stair:--
"Armitage!"
A young man, handsomely dressed and something of a fop after his
valet-fashion, sprang up the stair--his Grace's gentleman. His master,
very tranquil and haughty, was by the door--the fair Miss Gunning erect in
her chair.
"Armitage, proceed at once to my house, and acquaint my chaplain, Mr
MacDonald, that this lady and I are to be married immediately. Desire him
to come hither with all that is necessary, and lose not a moment."
And seeing Armitage hesitate like a man wonderstruck, the Duke stamped his
foot and set him flying down the way he came, calling after him:--
"Desire Mrs Abigail to come up this moment."
They heard the door shut violently, and Mrs Abigail came up, very demure
and curtseying to the ground.
"Be seated, good woman. Your lady will excuse you. We wait the Reverend Mr
MacDonald, with ring and licence, and you and Armitage shall serve for
witnesses to the marriage. Now I think of it, call also the woman of the
house."
He carried it masterfully, and Elizabeth, no more than any other woman,
could be insensible to that charming tyranny. He stood behind her chair
while the woman called for Mrs Mann--who came, mortally afraid of her
company.
"Shall Mrs Abigail braid my hair?--it tumbles all about me," says
Elizabeth, questioning her master timidly.
"'Tis so great a beauty I will not have it hid," he cries, standing behind
her chair where the long locks lay on the ground.
Silence again, and the time passing.
At last, a sound as if Armitage propelled somewhat before him up the
stair, and into the room walks his Grace's gentleman, and before him a
stout personage in bands and cassock, so breathless from haste as to be
incapable of any speech.
"Hath he the licence?"
"He hath, your Grace, but he declares that the occasion being so great,
and the incumbent of Mayfair Chapel, Dr Keith, being at home and the
chapel open, for the greater solemnity 'twere well to have the marriage
solemnised there. 'Tis but ten minutes, and I have brought the chariot, if
it please your Grace."
And now, puffing sore, the clergyman put in his plea,--not for delay, the
Duke's face forbade that,--but that all be done with ceremony.
"If a word more be said, I send for the Archbishop!" swears his Grace,
flushed and handsome. "My chariot's at the door. Bundle in all who can.
Madam, allow me."
He drew the bride's hand to his, and preceded them down the stair, holding
it high as in a minuet. The women followed without a word. Elizabeth went
in a dream, half-enchantment, half-nightmare.
The chapel was dark and musty--no time to light the lamps; but Mr
Armitage, the facile, the adroit, a perfect Mercury and old in experience,
called in four linkmen waiting by their ladies' empty chairs in the street
outside.
These grimy fellows stood upon the altar steps, two at a side, lighting
the book the parson opened, his voice resounding through the silent place
with startling loudness. Behind the bridal pair huddled the women.
"Dearly Beloved, we are met together--" and so to the close. But his voice
was muffled beside the clear ring of James Hamilton's. His "I will" fell
like a sword on the air. He was never a man to show his heart but to the
one in whose hand it lay, and his tone disdained all but the woman who
stood by him. He put his signet ring on her finger, and they turned from
the altar man and wife.
"Give each of these men five guineas, and bid them light her Grace to her
chariot, Armitage. Take you the women back to Mrs Gunning's lodging, where
we follow. I thank you, Mr Keith, for the best service any man ever did
me. It shall not go unrewarded."
He handed her into the chariot with the utmost ceremony; and when the door
was closed, flung himself on his knees before her, clasping her waist.
"My dear--my girl, how shall I thank you? Think you I don't know what it
hath cost you--and the proof you have given me that your heart is mine.
My wife--my sweetheart!"
'Twas half after twelve when Mrs Gunning returned with Maria, being a
prudent woman, and resolved that, if the criminal did not hang himself, it
should not be for want of rope.
"The chariot's at the door and the light still in the parlour!" she
whispered; "sure, he can't be there still? Heaven send he be not drunk and
asleep. 'Twas mere folly to leave the wine!"
Not a sound. They approached as it were on tiptoe up the stair, and softly
opened the door.
My Lord Duke, attended by Armitage, stood before them, splendid in his
dark red velvet laced with silver, the blue ribbon crossing his breast. He
held Elizabeth by the hand, she pale as ashes but perfectly composed.
Mrs Gunning gave a fine dramatic start, Maria advancing behind her,
devoured with curiosity.
"What--what can this mean? Little did I expect to find your Grace here at
this hour. Elizabeth, I fear you have been vastly imprudent. Your good
name--" She might have said more but the Duke came forward, very
magnificent.
"Madam, permit me to introduce a _stranger_," says he, with emphasis
on the word, "Her Grace the Duchess of Hamilton."
"Lord! Then 'tis to be!" cries Mrs Gunning, all radiant, and mistaking his
meaning. "O my sweet child, my Elizabeth--how have you took me by
surprise! When shall it be, your Grace?"
"Madam, it is done. Miss Gunning became my bride in the Mayfair
Chapel--was it twenty minutes since, Armitage?"
"Fifteen, your Grace."
"'Twas all in order--a clergyman?--'twas legal?" pants Mrs Gunning, her
hand to her heart.
"Assuage your maternal fears, Madam." His lip was disdainful--he set her a
world away. "All was as you could have wished. Permit the Duchess and
myself to wish you farewell and good night--or rather good morning."
He led Elizabeth to the door, which Armitage held open. It closed behind
them, and their steps were heard descending. The Duchess had not said a
word.
There was silence until the chariot had rumbled away, when Mrs Gunning
found her voice.
"I did not credit her with such skill. She hath played her cards well
indeed. I would give the world to know what passed."
"That we shall never know," says Maria. "He's not the man to tell his
secrets, nor she neither. Sure, they're a pair."
"Well, Heaven send you show the like skill with my Lord Coventry. You
can't do better. Lord, how my heart beats for joy!"
"I shall not need, Madam," says Miss Maria coolly. "She has ensured my
match with her own. The Duchess of Hamilton's sister won't go begging for
a husband. 'Tis now but to choose my wedding silk. Come, let us to bed.
These late hours hurt my bloom. Let us however drink a toast in this wine
to old Mother Corrigan and the Golden Vanity. 'Tis the least we can do.
Blow out the candles."
(_Elizabeth, later Duchess of Argyll, bore her honours with dignity and
became a very great lady. Maria, Countess of Coventry, died aged
twenty-seven, not untouched by scandal, and a victim to her own frivolity.
Mrs Gunning received a valuable appointment as Housekeeper at one of the
royal palaces. "The Luck of the Gunnings" became a proverb._
_It has been disputed which of the two famous actresses, Peg Woffington or
George Anne Bellamy had the honour of setting the beauties forth in life.
Mrs. Bellamy's claim has the better evidence, especially in view of the
Countess of Coventry's distinguished impertinence to her a few years
later._)
Maria Walpole
_Countess of Waldegrave
Duchess of Gloucester_
17(?)-1807
Horace Walpole was convinced that even the Gunnings envied the beauty of
Maria Walpole, his niece. "Yesterday," he writes, "t'other famous Gunning
dined there. She has made a friendship with my charming niece, to disguise
her jealousy." To the surprise of all London, Maria, daughter of Sir
Edward Walpole and Maria Clements, married the Earl of Waldegrave, "for
character and credit the first match in England." At her husband's death,
she refused the Duke of Portland, but secretly married the Duke of
Gloucester, brother to the King. Her admirers point out the romance of her
fortunes--how she was daughter of a milliner, granddaughter of a great
Prime Minister, widow of an Earl, wife of a Duke, sister-in-law to the
King, mother of the three ladies Waldegrave, and, in her second marriage,
mother of Prince William and the Princess Sophia.
Sir Joshua Reynolds made seven portraits of the lovely "Walpole Beauty."
Years afterward, when he was at work on his famous painting of her three
daughters, Walpole begged him to pose them "as the three Graces, adorning
a bust of the Duchess as the Magna Mater." "But," adds the veteran of
Strawberry Hill, with what resignation he can muster, "my ideas were not
adopted."
[Illustration: Maria Walpole, Countess of Waldegrave and her daughter
Elizabeth Laura afterwards Countess of Waldegrave.]
V