LADY BETTY AND HER FATHER
IT was after sundown and the light was dim in the great gallery of
Althorpe. Candles were set in silver sconces at intervals down its
whole length of over a hundred feet, but between lay soft shadows,
and the pictured faces of many famous men and women, of sovereigns of
England, statesmen, soldiers, and court beauties, looked down from the
walls on either hand. Holbein and Van Dyke and Lely had wrought upon
these canvases. Here was the famous Duchess of Cleveland, painted by
Lely, and the Countess of Grammont, and yonder was Lady Portsmouth and
Nell Gwynne herself; and in this strange company, the fair, sweet,
coquettish face of Betty Clancarty, lovely as any of the court beauties
and far more lovable and true.
The floor was polished and strewn with splendid rugs; far-off
India, Turkey, Italy, France, and Holland had contributed rugs and
tapestries, paintings, beautiful bric-a-brac and statuary to decorate
the famous gallery of the Spencers, where Anne of Denmark, Queen of
James the First, and the young Prince Charles, the future royal martyr,
saw the Masque of Ben Jonson. Here, too, came doubtless King Charles
the First, he who created Henry Spencer Earl of Sunderland; here, also,
reigned the daughter of the Sidneys, Dorothy, Countess of Sunderland,
the heroine of Waller’s verses and the grandmother of Lady Betty. A
gallery full of memories, where royalty and beauty smiled dimly from
the great canvases, and every footstep woke an echo of the past.
At that sunset hour the place was quiet save for the cawing of the
rooks under the eaves, for they haunted every corner of the house and
congregated in the long avenues that enfiladed the park; yet even the
sound of bird consultations did not disturb the revery of the man
who slowly paced up and down the gallery—a man past middle age with
an inscrutable face, his head a little bowed as he walked, his hands
behind his back, his dress a long gown of black velvet, ruffles of
lace at the throat and over the slender white hands—a strange man,
self-possessed, complacent, smooth, infinitely winning of address, and
one of the most unscrupulous politicians and time-servers of that
time-serving age when William the Third knew not where to look among
his English counsellors for steady faith, when it was no uncommon thing
for a man to swear allegiance both at Westminster and Saint Germain,
and to be an apostate besides. Even in that age of falsehood and double
dealing, Robert, second Earl of Sunderland, excelled his fellows; but
if he excelled them in falsehood, so did he also in discernment, in the
power to read men, and to win them by his polished and smooth address,
the charm of a personality that had won even upon the cold astuteness
of the king himself.
Whatever his thoughts were now, Lord Sunderland’s face was placid, his
perfect mask of serenity immutable, as he walked to and fro, now and
then pausing to look critically at a fine picture, or to take counsel
with himself, and he looked up with a calm smile when the door at the
farther end of the gallery opened and the graceful figure of Lady Betty
came swiftly toward him. He admired his daughter deeply, but subtle
as he was he did not understand her. His standard of womanhood was
different, and he had no ennobling example in his wife; she had been
false to him and he had known it, and had used the services of her
lover to smooth his own way with William of Orange, while he himself
was vowing fealty to James the Second and walking barefoot, taper in
hand, to the chapel royal to be admitted into the Roman communion—a
communion he renounced as easily at a convenient season. This daughter
who had grown up unlike either parent in simplicity and retirement,
this beautiful, spirited, pure-souled creature he did not understand,
but he admired her, and after his own fashion he loved her. On the
other hand, Lady Betty understood him in many ways more thoroughly than
he dreamed; she had a woman’s intuitions, and she did not reverence
him; his subtlety, his falsehood, his smooth affability did not deceive
her; she looked at him with clear eyes, and knew him better than the
wise and watchful sovereign whom he served. But she was his daughter
and she inherited all his charm of manner, his smooth tongue, his easy
address, and he saw it and always smiled upon her.
She came up to him now with a sparkle in her eyes which portended more
than he imagined.
“Are you better, sir?” she asked, with solicitude; “your absence from
table disturbed me. Was it illness or politics?”
“Both, Betty,” replied the earl smiling; “but you missed me not, you
had a younger and a better man in Spencer.”
“Faith, sir, I would rather have a worse one,” retorted Lady Betty,
with a shrug, “such piety and virtue are too much, they overwhelm me.
’Tis a pity that good men are so often bores!”
Sunderland smiled, amusement twinkling in his deep-set eyes.
“I have often found them so, Betty,” he admitted; “but Charles is a
worthy youth, my dear, and his advice, though often somewhat tedious
and long winded, is weighty and merits consideration.”
“It may be so,” replied the countess, with an arch smile; “but upon my
soul, sir, he was so long and loud in braying it at me that I fell to
looking at his ears, expecting to see them start up on either side of
his head and grow long and pointed. He is tedious!” and her ladyship
yawned.
“Brothers often are, Betty,” remarked the earl smiling; “you must
have other and gayer company. In fact, I was but now planning to send
you to Newmarket for the races; Lady Sunderland is there, Spencer is
going, and I go presently. You have lived too much in retirement here;
you must go to Newmarket and hear gayer talk than the discourses of our
young sage.”
“I shall be glad to escape the oracle,” said the countess; but she
glanced searchingly at her father and added quietly, “My retirement
becomes me, sir; I am practically a widow.”
The earl’s expression changed a trifle, but such a trifle that his
daughter made little of it.
“We will not refer to that unhappy contract,” he said smoothly; “it was
an error on my part, Elizabeth, and I assure you I repent it.”
“Has Lord Clancarty written to you, father?” she asked, so abruptly
that Sunderland started, and for an instant his eye faltered under
hers, and he hesitated before he was himself again.
“Never,” he said calmly, closing his silver snuff-box and giving the
lid a friendly little tap.
His momentary confusion, though, was nearly his undoing; his daughter
laid a white hand on his arm.
“He has written you,” she said imperiously, “and lately, too!”
“Upon my word, Elizabeth,” said the earl frowning, “you go too far.”
“I cannot help it,” she cried impetuously. “Have I no rights? Ought it
to be concealed from me and confided to my brother, who only taunts me?
My husband has written you!”
Sunderland had recovered himself now, however, and smiled calmly at her.
“You are too headstrong, my love,” he said smoothly, “too easily
suspicious. If Clancarty wrote, why should I conceal it? As you remark,
he is your husband in the eyes of the law, but your husband in fact he
is not, and trust me, Betty, he is too great a Jacobite to risk himself
in England.”
“But, father, the Peace of Ryswick has brought many back,” she said,
“and we all know—it is notorious how easy King William is—and you,
you could get Clancarty’s pardon a thousand times over, if you would!”
“Hear the child!” said Sunderland, with a gesture of mock despair.
“Why, Betty, ’twas marvellous hard to get my own, and the politicians
hate me so that not even Spencer’s devotion to the Whigs appeases that
party. Clancarty’s pardon!—’twould cost me my liberty and, perhaps, my
head.”
“Nonsense!” pouted Lady Betty; “you are the king’s friend; I will not
believe you. And you might, at least, take thought of me; I am his
wife.”
“O child, child!” laughed Lord Sunderland, “as little his wife as
my Lady Devonshire or the Princess Anne. Married to him, through
your father’s folly, when you were eleven and parted from him on the
instant. What virtue is there in such a contract? Be sure, my love, he
has in no wise respected it—nor will he while I have my daughter safe
with me. Think not of him, Betty! ’Twas my folly, but then he possessed
large estates in Munster and it promised to be a great match; for,
believe me, I had no thought of tying you to a proscribed and penniless
scapegrace.”
“Ay,” said Lady Betty, with spirit, “he was rich and now he is poor;
therefore, my lord, I will not desert him!”
Lord Sunderland laughed, but his eyes did not laugh with him.
“There is no question of desertion, my child,” he said smoothly, “you
are not his wife, and you never shall be.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” retorted the incorrigible countess, “I am his
wife, and I will be no other man’s.”
“Tush!” replied the earl impatiently, “you know not what you say. Go
to your apartment, Elizabeth, and reflect upon the matter until you
recollect your duty to me. Here comes Spencer now with some visitors,
and I have no more leisure for your childish folly.”
But Lady Betty would not be silenced; as she retired toward the door
opposite the one that was opening to admit the earl’s visitors, she
murmured low but distinctly,—
“I am his wife, my lord, and I will be no less,” and she swept out with
her face aflame and her head high.
She came to the head of the great staircase and stood looking down,
gracefully poised, her finger on her lips; a charming figure, musing
upon destiny, with the soft candle-light shining down upon her stately
young head and her flowing white robes. She began to hum softly to
herself the air of “Roseen Dhu.”
“And one beaming smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew!
My dark Rosaleen!”