AT SADLER'S WELLS
Sadler's Wells, on this mild and cheery spring morning, was a scene of
fashion and of folly. Hither came the élite of London, after the custom
of the day, to seek remedy in the reputed qualities of the springs for
the weariness and lassitude resultant upon the long season of polite
dissipations which society demanded of her votaries. Bewigged dandies,
their long coats of colors well displayed as they strutted about in the
open, paid court there, as they did within the city gates, to the
powdered and painted beauties who sat in their couches waiting for their
servants to bring out to them the draft of which they craved healing for
crow's-feet and hollow eyes. Here and there traveling merchants called
their wares, jugglers spread their carpets, bear dancers gave their
little spectacles, and jockeys conferred as to the merits of horse or
hound. Hawk-nosed Jews passed among the vehicles, cursed or kicked by
the young gallants who stood about, hat in hand, at the steps of their
idols' carriages.
"Buy my silks, pretty lady, buy my silks! Fresh from the Turkey walk on
the Exchange, and cheaper than you can buy their like in all the
city--buy my silks, lady!" Thus the peddler with his little pack of
finery.
"My philter, lady," cried the gipsy woman, who had left her donkey cart
outside the line. "My philter! 'Twill keep-a your eyes bright and your
cheeks red for ay. Secret of the Pharaohs, lady; and but a shilling!"
"Have ye a parrot, ma'am? Have ye never a parrot to keep ye free and
give ye laughter every hour? Buy my parrot, lady. Just from the Gold
Coast. He'll talk ye Spanish, Flemish or good city tongue. Buy my parrot
at ten crowns, and so cheap, lady!" So spoke the ear-ringed sailor, who
might never have seen a salter water than the Thames.
"Powder-puffs for the face, lady," whispered a lean and weazen-faced
hawker, slipping among the crowd with secrecy. "See my puff, made from
the foot of English hares. Rubs out all wrinkles, lady, and keeps ye
young as when ye were a lass. But a shilling, a shilling. See!" And with
the pretense of secrecy the seller would sidle up to a carriage of some
dame, slip to her the hare's foot and take the shilling with an air as
though no one could see what none could fail to notice.
Above these mingled cries of the hangers-on of this crowd of nobility
and gentles rose the blare of crude music, and cries far off and
confused. Above it all shone the May sun, brighter here than lower
toward the Thames. In the edge of London town it was, all this little
pageant, and from the residence squares below and far to the westward
came the carriages and the riders, gathering at the spot which for the
hour was the designated rendezvous of capricious fashion. No matter if
the tower at the drinking curb was crowded, so that inmates of the
coaches could not find way among the others. There was at least magic in
the morning, even if one might not drink at the chalybeate spring.
Cheeks did indeed grow rosy, and eyes brightened under the challenge not
only of the dawn but of the ardent eyes that gazed impertinently bold or
reproachfully imploring.
Far-reaching was the line of the gentility, to whose flanks clung the
rabble of trade. Back upon the white road came yet other carriages,
saluted by those departing. Low hedges of English green reached out into
the distance, blending ultimately at the edge of the pleasant sky. Merry
enough it was, and gladsome, this spring day; for be sure the really ill
did not brave the long morning ride to test the virtue of the waters of
Sadler's Wells. It was for the most part the young, the lively, the
full-blooded, perhaps the wearied, but none the less the vital and
stirring natures which met in the decreed assemblage.
Back of Sadler's little court the country came creeping close up to the
town. There were fields not so far away on these long highways.
Wandering and rambling roads ran off to the westward and to the north,
leading toward the straight old Roman road which once upon a time ran
down to London town. Ill-kept enough were some of the lanes, with their
hedges and shrubs overhanging the highways, if such the paths could be
called which came braiding down toward the south. One needed not to go
far outward beyond Sadler's Wells of a night-time to find adventure, or
to lose a purse.
It was on one of these less crowded highways that there was this morning
enacted a curious little drama. The sun was still young and not too
strong for comfort, and as it rose back of the square of Sadler's it
cast a shadow from a hedge which ran angling toward the southeast. Its
rays, therefore, did not disturb the slumbers of two young men who were
lying beneath the shelter of the hedge. Strange enough must have been
the conclusions of the sun could it have looked over the barrier and
peered into the faces of these youths. Evidently they were of good
breeding and some station, albeit their garb was not of the latest
fashion. The gray hose and the clumsy shoes plainly bespoke some
northern residence. The wig of each lacked the latest turn, perhaps the
collar of the coat was not all it should have been. There was but one
coat visible, for the other, rolled up as a pillow, served to support
the heads of both. The elder of the two was the one who had sacrificed
his covering. The other was more restless in his attitude, and though
thus the warmer for a coat, was more in need of comfort. A white bandage
covered his wrist, and the linen was stained red. Yet the two slept on,
well into the morn, well into the rout of Sadler's Wells. Evidently they
were weary.
The elder man was the taller of the two; as he lay on the bank beneath
the hedge, he might even in that posture have been seen to own a figure
of great strength and beauty. His face, bold of outline, with well
curved, wide jaw and strong cheek bones, was shaded by the tangled mat
of his wig, tousled in his sleep. His hands, long and graceful, lay idly
at his side, though one rested lightly on the hilt of the sword which
lay near him. The ruffles of his shirt were torn, and, indeed, had
almost disappeared. By study one might have recognized them in the
bandage about the hand of the other. Somewhat disheveled was this
youth, yet his young, strong body, slender and shapely, seemed even in
its rest strangely full of power and confidence.
The younger man was in some fashion an epitome of the other, and it had
needed little argument to show the two were brothers. But why should two
brothers, well-clad and apparently well-to-do, probably brothers from a
country far to the north, be thus lying like common vagabonds beneath an
English hedge?
Far down the roadway there rose a cloud of dust, which came steadily
nearer, following the only vehicle in sight, probably the only one which
had passed that morning. As this little dust-cloud came slowly nearer it
might have been seen to rise from the wheels of a richly-built and
well-appointed coach. Four dark horses obeyed the reins handled by a
solemn-visaged lackey on the box, and there was a goodly footman at the
back. Within the coach were two passengers such as might have set
Sadler's Wells by the ears. They sat on the same seat, as equals, and
their heads lay close together, as confidantes. The tongues of both ran
fast and free. Long gloves covered the arms of these beauties, and their
costumes showed them to be of station. The crinoline of the two filled
all the body of the ample coach from seat to seat, and the folds of
their figured muslins, flowing out over this ample outline, gave to the
face of each a daintiness of contour and feature which was not ill
relieved by the high head-dress of ribbons and bepowdered hair. Of the
two ladies, one, even in despite of her crinoline, might have been seen
to be of noble and queenly figure; the towering head-dress did not fully
disguise the wealth of red-bronze hair. Tall and well-rounded, vigorous
and young, not yet twenty, adored by many suitors, the Lady Catharine
Knollys had rarely looked better than she did this morning as she drove
out to Sadler's, for Providence alone knew what fault of a superb vital
energy. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and every gesture betokened
rather the grand young creature that she was than the valetudinarian
going forth for healing. Her cheek, turned now and again, showed a
clear-cut and untouched soundness that meant naught but health. It
showed also the one blemish upon a beauty which was toasted in the court
as faultless. Upon the left cheek there was a _mouche_, excessive in its
size. Strangers might have commented on it. Really it covered a
deep-stained birth-mark, the one blur upon a peerless beauty. Yet even
this might be forgotten, as it was now.
The companion of the Lady Catharine in her coach was a young woman,
scarce so tall and more slender. The heavy hoop concealed much of the
grace of figure which was her portion, but the poise of the upper body,
free from the seat-back and erect with youthful strength as yet
unspared, showed easily that here, too, was but an indifferent subject
for Sadler's. Dark, where her companion was fair, and with the glossy
texture of her own somber locks showing in the individual roll which ran
back into the absurd _fontange_ of false hair and falser powder, Mary
Connynge made good foil for her bosom friend; though honesty must admit
that neither had yet much concern for foils, since both had their full
meed of gallants. Much seen together, they were commonly known, as the
Morning and Eve, sometimes as Aurora and Eve. Never did daughter of the
original Eve have deeper feminine guile than Mary Connynge. Soft of
speech--as her friend, the Lady Catharine, was impulsive,--slow, suave,
amber-eyed and innocent of visage, this young English woman, with no
dower save that of beauty and of wit, had not failed of a sensation at
the capital whither she had come as guest of the Lady Catharine. Three
captains and a squire, to say nothing of a gouty colonel, had already
fallen victims, and had heard their fate in her low, soft tones, which
could whisper a fashionable oath in the accent of a hymn, and say "no"
so sweetly that one could only beg to hear the word again. It was
perhaps of some such incident that these two young maids of old London
conversed as they trundled slowly out toward the suburb of the city.
"'Twould have killed you, Lady Kitty; sure 'twould have been your end to
hear him speak! He walked the floor upon his knees, and clasped his
hands, and followed me about like a dog in a spectacle. Lord! but I
feared he would have thrown over the tabouret with his great feet. And
help me, if I think not he had tears in his eyes!"
"My friend," said Lady Kitty, solemnly, "you must have better care of
your conduct. I'll not have my father's old friend abused in his own
house." At which they both burst into laughter. Youth, the blithely
cruel, had its own way in this old coach upon the ancient dusty road, as
it has ever had.
But now serious affairs gained the attention of these two fairs. "Tell
me, sweetheart," said Lady Catharine, "what think you of the fancy of my
new dresser? He insists ever that the mode in Paris favors a deep bow,
placed high upon the left side of the 'tower.' Montespan, of the French
court, is said to have given the fashion. She hurried at her toilet, and
placed the bow there for fault of better care. Hence, so must we if we
are to live in town. So says my new hair-dresser from Paris. 'Tis to
Paris we must go for the modes."
"I am not so sure," began Mary Connynge, "as to this arrangement. Now I
am much disposed to believe--" but what she was disposed to believe at
that time was not said, then or ever afterward, for at that moment there
happened matters which ended their little talk; matters which divided
their two lives, and which, in the end, drove them as far apart as two
continents could carry them.
"O Gemini!" called out Mary Connynge, as the coachman for a moment
slackened his pace. "Look! We shall be robbed!"
The driver irresolutely pulled up his horses. From under the shade of
the hedge there arose two men, of whom the taller now stood erect and
came toward the carriage.
"'Tis no robber," said Lady Catharine Knollys, her eyes fastened on the
tall figure which came forward.
"Save us," said Mary Connynge, "what a pretty man!"