AT THE TOY-SHOP
THE star of Lady Clancarty’s fortune for that week at Newmarket was an
evil star. For it was the very day after that fateful interview with
her husband, a day that dawned after a night of repentance and good
resolutions, that another straw turned the tide against reconciliation.
Lady Sunderland’s party had spent the forenoon at the theatre, and on
their way to the race-course they stopped at Master Drake’s toy-shop on
the promenade; a shop famous not only for the toys and trinkets of a
kind that amused the women of fashion, but for the tea that he served
in a little room in the rear, which was divided into stalls like those
in coffee-rooms. Here both beaux and belles congregated to sip tea, and
gossip, and raffle for some choice toy from India.
The shop, recently replenished by its wily proprietor, was a glittering
mass of novelties and almost vied with the famous India houses of
London in its collection of Oriental articles. Here were hideous
dragons of porcelain, snuff-boxes with jewelled lids, and canes of
the latest fashion, jars of snuff and pulvillo, and bottles of rare
perfumes, gilded flasks of cut glass, boxes of patches ready cut for
the cheeks and brows of the beauties, ivory combs and fans of wonderful
and beautiful design, delicate tea-sets and many bits of Dutch china,
first accepted because of the example of Queen Mary, gloves and laces
and even India shawls. Here, too, were toys, jewelry, cogged dice,
masks, dominoes and vizors, and here, as in London, the discreet
toy-men handed _billets-doux_ back and forth and made appointments
between the beaux and belles; and here many a meeting took place, and
many a momentous question was settled for all time, either in the
toy-shop itself or in the stalls behind it, where the world of fashion
reigned.
My Lady Sunderland and my Lady Dacres were no sooner there than they
were plunged in the excitement of a raffle for a hideous china dragon,
and almost came to blows for the possession of the treasure. But Lady
Betty, quite indifferent, stood apart talking to a group of gay young
people near the entrance. My Lord of Devonshire was there, and the
Marquis of Hartington, and in their train, young Mackie, upon whom
the Countess of Clancarty smiled; and there, too, was Lord Savile,
who had been at her elbow all the morning and would have declared his
passion for her had he dared. And she was in a reckless mood; her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and she laughed and jested, though her
heart ached.
The king was well enough to be present at the race in the afternoon
and all the world was agog to see him. The throng at the toy-shop grew
greater as the people stopped on their way from the theatre to the
track, and the group at the door grew larger with Lady Betty in the
centre of it, sparkling and flushing and laughing, the picture of a
beautiful coquette.
“All the great men go up to Parliament next Wednesday, Lady Clancarty,”
said Mr. Benham, “and we shall see your brother shine as the bright
particular star of the Whig firmament.”
“A star—a constellation rather; the Little Bear of the party,” laughed
Lady Betty roguishly; “what will you do this season, my Lord of
Devonshire?”
The great man smiled benevolently upon the beauty.
“Whatever your heart desires, madam,” he replied gallantly.
Betty flashed a quick look at him.
“Will you indeed, my lord?” she asked archly; “what if I should ask a
great boon—even half thy kingdom?”
Devonshire looked at the beautiful, flushed face and marvelled.
“Even that, dear Lady Betty,” he replied courteously, “even that.”
“I have your word, my lord,” she said, and laughed softly.
“And mine,” murmured Savile, in her ear, “you have not asked—but it is
the whole of my kingdom.”
“Ah,” she said, and gave him a roguish glance, “I do remember—but not
your entire trust in my decision!”
He blushed crimson. “I upheld my honor then,” he murmured, looking into
her eyes; “my heart is yours—to break at will!”
Her expression changed, changed so sharply that he looked around,
following the direction of her glance, and saw the face of the man he
hated—the Irish Jacobite. Lord Clancarty stood just within the door,
his eyes holding Betty’s against her will. Savile heard her quick gasp,
saw her hands flutter, and he thrust himself between with a black look
at Clancarty. But Lady Betty, trying to collect herself, met young
Mackie’s eyes and saw that he knew. The blood rushed to her temples but
she laughed.
“My lord,” she said to Devonshire, “does your horse run to-day? or my
Lord Savile’s gray mare?”
Devonshire smiled. “Both, my lady,” he said, “and Savile will be a
bankrupt before night—in all but love, I suspect.”
“A poor substitute for a full purse, my lord,” she said recklessly,
without taking thought of her words until she felt rather than saw
Clancarty’s grave look at her. “I mean,” she stammered, “in my Lord
Savile’s case—” and then she stopped, covered with confusion.
Never had Lady Betty made so many mistakes, but young Mackie came
valiantly to her aid.
“Have you heard the rumor that the King of Spain is dying?” he asked
innocently.
“He has been dying for a long time,” remarked Mr. Benham laughing, “and
the King of France and the emperor are dying of anxiety.”
“Precisely, and but for our king there would be a war for the
succession within a week,” said Devonshire thoughtfully; “as it is, the
peace of Europe hangs by a thread—the narrow thread of a sickly man’s
life.”
“Yes,” put in Betty, herself again, “and Parliament is for cutting down
the military establishment.”
Devonshire smiled. “The people do not love a standing army, Lady
Clancarty,” he replied.
“No,” she responded quickly, “they would perhaps prefer a French fleet
in the Thames.”
“Some of ’em would,” said Savile sullenly.
“No, sir, you are wrong,” declared Devonshire, “no Englishman
would—not even a Jacobite—when it came to that. You remember how the
southern counties rose to repulse Tourville’s squadron in ’90?”
“You are in the right, my lord; no true Briton has ever thought of
seeing his country under the heel of Louis,” said Clancarty, suddenly
taking part in the conversation.
“Some traitors—who are not Englishmen—would, Mr. Trevor,” sneered
Savile, with an emphasis on the name.
The disguised earl shot a fierce glance at him and smiled dangerously.
“Little dogs snarl when they dare not bite, my lord,” he said suavely.
“Since the famous peace, sir, all the renegades and cutpurses talk
loud,” replied Savile, in an insolent undertone.
“Cowards always insult men in the presence of women,” retorted
Clancarty smiling.
At this moment they were interrupted by a movement of the throng, some
passing out, and my Lady Sunderland, having won her Chinese dragon from
all competitors, bore down upon them flushed with triumph, and the
chairs were called.
Betty stood a moment at the threshold. Clancarty was beside her, his
face quite grave. She looked up; the impulse was in her heart to speak
and their eyes met but his were cold.
“You choose wisely, my lady,” he said, in a bitter undertone, “a full
purse is better than a beggarly love, it seems.”
She flushed crimson.
Savile thrust himself forward and held out his hand.
“Permit me to put you in your chair, my lady,” he said, grace and
courtesy personified; handsome, well dressed, courtly, the very picture
of a deferential lover.
“A thousand thanks, my lord,” she said sweetly, putting her hand in his.
He put her in her chair and the procession started, Lady Sunderland
screaming to the toy-man about the careful packing of her dragon, and
Betty looked out smiling, more charming than ever.
A moment afterwards, Clancarty and Savile faced each other.
“This very evening would be propitious, my lord,” said the Irishman
coolly, “the same spot, I believe, and the same seconds?”
“At your service, sir,” said Savile fiercely, “and damn you, I mean to
kill you!”
“I’m beholden to you, my lord,” replied the earl, and laughed as he
walked away.
“Ah, Betty,” he said to himself, as he passed on toward the Lion’s
Head, “is a coquette worth dying for?” and then, after a moment, he
hummed two lines of the old song:—
“A second life, a soul anew,
My dark Rosaleen!”