LADY BETTY AND AN IRISH JACOBITE
LADY BETTY and her companion walked on. The crowd, still huzzaing and
noisy about the victors, was dropped behind them, all its gorgeous
colors knotted into one huge rosette upon the track; beyond were green
meadows and the blue shadows of a grove of limes. The two walked
slowly, Lady Betty a little in advance, her long skirts gathered in one
hand, the other holding her fan, the sun and the breeze kissing the
soft curves of her cheeks. Beside her, holding his hat behind his back,
was Richard Trevor, his eyes on her, while hers were on the landscape;
the long, level stretch of turf, the grove of limes, and farther
off—veiled in golden mist—the wavy outlines of forest and hills.
Above, the sky was blue—blue as larkspur; the air was sweet too, as if
the fragrance of flowers floated on the soft September breeze. A flock
of pigeons, with the whir of many wings, rose from the ground as Betty
approached, and she looked up after them and sighed.
“Is it true that the French king wears red heels to his shoes?” she
asked suddenly and quite irrelevantly.
Mr. Trevor started perceptibly, giving her a quizzical glance.
“They are frequently purple,” he replied, with perfect gravity.
“Because, I suppose, it is a royal color,” she remarked absently; “you
are a Jacobite, Mr. Trevor.”
“Either my disguise is a flimsy one, or your penetration is great, Lady
Clancarty,” he replied, with a whimsical smile; “but I’ll swear I’m not
alone at Newmarket.”
Lady Betty elevated her brows a little.
“It has been frequently hinted that King William was one,” she remarked
tranquilly.
“By the Whigs out of office,” he said, with a short, hard laugh; “he is
not counted one on the Continent.”
“Or in Ireland,” she said; “you were at Londonderry, of course.”
“There were two sides to the wall at Londonderry, my lady,” he
replied; “I was on one—I’ll admit that.”
“It is safe not to be explicit,” she said smiling; “you are an
Irishman, a Papist, and a Jacobite,” she told off each point on her
fingers, “and you are from Munster.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Trevor, with great composure; “you have nailed me
to the wall, madam; I am a sinner of the blackest dye, a subject for
the gallows.”
“So I supposed,” she said cheerfully, nodding her head at him, “and
being all these things, and from the Continent, can you tell me—” for
the first time she hesitated, stopped short, looking at the turf under
her daintily shod feet, her face crimson.
He waited, smiling, composed, watchful; not helping her by a word or
sign, and she could not read his eyes when she looked into them.
“Do you know Lord Clancarty?” she asked bluntly.
He took time to consider, studying, meanwhile, every detail of her
charming, ingenuous face and perfect figure.
“I have met him,” he said deliberately, “in Dublin and in Paris.”
Betty’s agitation was quite apparent, but she commanded herself and
looked up bravely.
“He is my husband,” she said simply.
Mr. Trevor smiled involuntarily.
“He is a happy man,” he said gallantly.
She made an impatient gesture, laughing and blushing.
“Tell me how he looks?” she asked; “I have never seen him since he was
fifteen and I eleven. Is he a bugbear? They would have me believe so.”
“On the contrary, I have always thought him handsome, my lady,”
Mr. Trevor said, smiling imperturbably, “and altogether the most
companionable man I know.”
“Indeed!” she exclaimed; “yet you told me you had only met him—twice.”
“In two places,” corrected Mr. Trevor quite unmoved, “but frequently.
He’s a fine man, madam, take my word for it; I love him like a brother;
he has only one fault, madam, one sin, and that, I’ll admit, is
unpardonable.”
“And that?” she queried, with uplifted brows, a little haughtily.
“And that,” replied Mr. Trevor calmly, “is the fact that he has been
able to live for fourteen years without his wife.”
Lady Clancarty flushed angrily, and then she laughed that delicious,
mirthful laugh of hers.
“He has existed, sir,” she corrected him, “because he never knew how
delightful Lady Clancarty is.”
“Exactly,” replied Trevor, “a mere existence; life uncrowned by
love—such love as he ought to have won, confound him—is not life. He
might as well be a turnip.”
“So I have always thought,” she replied, with a charming smile; “but
then, you know, Mr. Trevor, he might not have been able to win it.”
“Not win it!” he exclaimed, “not win it, when he is a husband to begin
with. By Saint Patrick, madam, I’d cut his acquaintance for life! Not
win it? What cannot a man do under the inspiration of a beautiful and
noble woman? Kingdoms have been won and lost for them. If Troy fell for
Helen, an empire might well fall for a woman as beautiful and far more
womanly. I’d run Clancarty through, my lady, if he were not willing to
die for his true love. Irishmen are not made of such poor stuff. No,
no, he would win it, never fear.”
Lady Betty’s chin was up and her eyes travelling over the green turf
again.
“An idle boast, sir,” she said carelessly; “no woman would be lightly
won after years of neglect.”
“Nor should be,” he replied, in a deep tone of emotion, “nor should
be! By the Virgin, Clancarty ought to go on his knees from Munster to
Althorpe in penitence.”
“Faith, what would he do about the Channel, Mr. Trevor?” she asked
wickedly.
“Swim it, madam,” he replied promptly; “a true man and a lover would
not drown—with such a saint enshrined before him.”
“A Protestant saint for a Papist penitent,” remarked Lady Betty
smiling; “what a poor consolation.”
“Love laughs at obstacles, my Lady Clancarty,” said Mr. Trevor, “and it
forgets creed.”
“Oh!” she said and her brows went up.
“There is one excuse, though,” he went on, “one—or I would never speak
to Donough Macarthy again.”
“Oh, there is one, then?” she asked doubtfully.
“One—yes,” he replied gravely; “he is a proscribed exile, madam, this
king of yours has excepted him from the Act of Grace; he cannot return
except, indeed, to the Tower and the block. But, after all, to lose a
head is less than to lose a heart.”
Lady Betty laughed.
“Only one can recover a heart,” she said wickedly, “but a head—I never
heard of one that was put on after the headsman.”
“Nor I,” he admitted, “but, after all, one can die but once.”
“And one can love many times,” suggested Betty; “I have heard that my
Lord Clancarty’s heart is tender.”
“Mere fables, madam,” he replied, with cool mendacity; “his heart is
made for one image only and would keep that—to eternity.”
“His must be a valuable and rare heart,” Lady Clancarty remarked
demurely, “too good, sir, to exchange for a human one.”
“Verily too good to give without a fair exchange, madam,” he replied,
smiling audaciously; “nor will Clancarty cast it by the wayside. I know
him for a man who will love and be loved again. He’s no moonstruck
youth, my lady; when he gives he will demand a return.”
She carried her head proudly. “He should have to win it,” she said.
“He would win it,” Trevor retorted boldly, “and he would hold it.
Pshaw, madam, I despise a milksop, and so do you!”
“You are overbold in your assertions, sir,” Betty said, stopping short
and looking back over the heath, shading her eyes with her fan.
“Bold for a friend, my lady,” he said gracefully, “bold for the absent
who has none to plead his cause.”
Lady Betty laughed.
“Do you see that whirling, frantic thing yonder?” she asked, pointing;
“’tis my Lady Sunderland’s India shawl; she is waving to me. We must go
back, sir; she thinks I venture too near the lions.”
“We must go back, it seems, since you command it,” he replied
regretfully, “but I may see Lady Clancarty again? I may speak to her
of—her husband?”
Betty hesitated for the twentieth part of a second and then she smiled.
“We are at the Lion’s Head,” she said, “and I shall receive my friends
after supper—but do not talk of Lord Clancarty.”
He bowed profoundly, and she moved on, for the India shawl was waving
frantically now and Savile and the others were coming toward them.
“I thank you for the privilege,” said Richard Trevor with his daring
smile; “we will talk of Lady Clancarty.”
But Betty answered not a word; she walked back across the heath,
proudly silent, nor did she cast a single relenting glance behind
her—and thus failed to see the quizzical expression in his eyes.