"That busy hive, the world,
And all its thousand stings."
Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various members
of the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becoming
diversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemen
in evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close by
her. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr.
"'Tis really true, then," demanded the other--a round-faced man, with
brilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church--"'tis
really true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?"
"_I_ had it from an excellent hand, I assure you," returned Sir Richard.
"Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that 'twas
the main cause of her sudden death."
"It really was so?"
"Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond
Harley."
"Ha! then 'tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of
D'Urfey's jest on the Princess Sophia?--ha, ha, ha!" and the Bishop
laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly.
"No, I scarce think I did, my Lord."
"Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen
extreme diversion.
"`The crown is too weighty
For shoulders of eighty--
She could not sustain such a trophy:
Her hand, too, already
Has grown so unsteady,
She can't hold a sceptre:
So Providence kept her
Away--poor old dowager Sophy!'"
Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment.
Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess
Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?
"Capital good jest!" said the Baronet, his amusement over. "I heard
from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly
well this summer--quite rid of her gout."
"So do I hear," returned the Bishop. "What think you of the price set
on the Pretender's head?"
Sir Richard whistled.
"The Queen's own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers,"
continued the Bishop.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Five thousand, I was told?"
"Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it."
"Well--I--don't--know!" slowly answered Sir Richard. "I cannot but feel
very doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price on
the head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord--sounds bad!
Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen's brother, yet 'tis unnatural
for his sister to set a price on his head."
By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard's intellect was not of
the first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightly
contemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment.
"`The Prince of Wales!'" repeated he. "Surely, Sir, you have more wit
than to credit that baseless tale? Why not set a price on the
Pretender?"
Be it known to the reader, though it was not to Sir Richard, that on
that very morning Bishop Atterbury had forwarded a long letter to the
Palace of Saint Germain, in which he addressed the aforesaid Pretender
as "your Majesty," and assured him of his entire devotion to his
interests.
"Oh, come, I leave the whys and wherefores to yon gentlemen of the black
robe!" answered Sir Richard, laughing. "By the way, talking of prices,
have you heard the prodigious price Sir Nathaniel Fowler hath given for
his seat in the Commons? Six thousand pounds, 'pon my honour!"
"Surely, Sir, you have been misinformed. Six thousand! 'Tis amazing."
"Your Lordship may well say so. Why, I gave but eight hundred for mine.
By the way, there is another point I intended to acquaint you of, my
Lord. Did you hear, ever, that there should be a little ill-humour with
my Lord Oxford, on account of--you know?"
"On account? Oh!" and the Bishop's right hand was elevated to his lips,
in the attitude of a person drinking. "Yes, yes. Well, I cannot say I
am entirely ignorant of that affair. Sir Jeremy's lady assured me she
knew, beyond contradiction, that my Lord Oxford once waited on her,
somewhat foxed."
Of course, "she" was the Queen. But why a fox, usually as sober a beast
as others, should have been compelled to lend its name to the vocabulary
of intoxication, is not so apparent.
"Absolutely drunk, I heard," responded Sir Richard; "and she was
prodigiously angered. Said to my Lady Masham, that if it were ever
repeated, she would take his stick from him that moment. Odd, if the
ministry were to fall for such a nothing as that."
"Well, 'twas not altogether reverential to the sovereign," said the
Bishop; "and the Queen is extreme nice, you know."
The threat of taking the stick from a minister was less figurative in
Queen Anne's days than now. The white wand of office was carried before
every Cabinet Minister, not only in his public life, but even in
private.
At this point a third gentleman joined the others, and they moved away,
leaving Phoebe in her corner.
Phoebe sat meditating, for nobody had spoken to her, when she felt a
soft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look up
into a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger.
Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr.
The small-pox had changed her terribly--far more than her sister. No
one could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft,
peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty's best point, was replaced
by a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease.
"You did not know me at first," said Gatty, quietly, as if stating a
fact, not making an inquiry.
"I do now," answered Phoebe, returning Gatty's smile.
"Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a rough
one, Phoebe."
"I am afraid you must have suffered _very_ much, Mrs Gatty."
"Won't you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered,
Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then."