MY LORD SPENCER
IT happened that when Lady Clancarty came back from her visit to the
house in the forest, weary and tear-stained but happier and more
peaceful, she found herself in trouble. She had been gone a long time
and unhappily her absence had been noticed and commented upon. Faithful
and devoted as Alice was, she was not quickwitted enough to invent
excuses, and was, indeed, thoroughly frightened and distressed by her
mistress’ absence which she could not help connecting in some way
with Lord Clancarty. There had been, in consequence, a great hubbub
at the Lion’s Head, and men were running hither and yon; while the
servants, who had carried her chair, to save themselves from blame
had not failed to give a highly colored account of her meeting with
a strange man in the lane and her disappearance in his company. When
Lady Betty came quietly back through the garden, hoping to escape to
her room unobserved, she met Lord Spencer with his face as white as a
sheet and his lids drooped low over his eyes. He stood in the door of
the inn that opened upon the court, and his sister came upon him so
unexpectedly that she had no time for flight. She knew the signs too
well, however, not to be prepared, and her old spirit returned to her
stronger than ever, and she held her head high. But Spencer did not
intend to open the quarrel there in a public place, his mood was more
dangerous. He was quite aware that the servants, and even the landlord,
were peeping at them from the kitchen way, and he bowed courteously to
his sister and offered her his hand.
“Permit me, madam, to escort you to our mother,” he said so suavely
that the culprit shivered.
“I can go quite well alone, Charles,” she replied passing him with a
careless manner that was scarcely a faithful indication of her mood; “I
am too weary to drink tea or play gleek,” she added yawning; “faith,
’tis tiresome to walk in the fields.”
“Extremely so,” replied my lord, as smooth as silk, “especially when
you bring wood briars back upon your farthingale.”
Lady Betty blushed red as a poppy as she glanced down at the tell-tale
twig caught in the ruffles of her skirts.
“Pull it off, my dear,” she said sweetly.
“Nay, I fear the thorns,” he replied, with distant politeness.
She plucked it away herself with a little grimace.
“You are wise, Charles,” she said, “’tis well to keep your fingers out
of other people’s troubles.”
He bit his lip, giving her a furious glance as she tripped up the
stairs ahead of him. But, though he followed more deliberately, he
entered Lady Sunderland’s room but a moment after her, and in time to
hear her reply to his mother’s sharp inquiry.
“I walked a little way in the meadows, madam,” said Betty, with
delightful mendacity; “you know you recommended it for my complexion.”
“A fine diversion,” remarked Lord Spencer, with a sneer, “but who,
pray, was your companion?”
Lady Betty gave him a sidelong look that spoke volumes.
“Faith,” she retorted, with a shrug, “the world would be a dull place
with no men in it.”
Lady Sunderland tittered behind her fan; if anything appealed to her,
it was her daughter’s absolute audacity. But Spencer was furious.
“You choose a fine subject for a jest,” he said; “I would have you
know, madam, that my sister cannot run about Newmarket with a groom!”
Then Betty turned upon him like a fury.
“Do not dare to say that to me again,” she cried, her bosom heaving
with passion; “you forget to whom you speak! Do you think—do you dare
to think—that I am not as capable as you of defending my own honor and
dignity? More, sir, I would have you know that I am accountable to none
but my father and—my husband!” and she swept past him and out of the
room like a whirlwind.
The older countess sank back in her chair and giggled like a girl.
“La!” she exclaimed, “her spirit!—I’d give ten guineas to see her do
that over again,—and you deserved it, Charles, my love.”
Her son gave her an exasperated look.
“That fellow is Clancarty—I am sure of it,” he said fiercely, “and the
minx is in communication with him—but, by Saint Thomas, I’ll break it
up—if I have to break his head!”
“Fudge, my love,” replied the countess tittering, “’twill take more
than your wit to keep two lovers apart; but never fear, she’ll not give
up her wealth and comfort to run away with him—she has too much sense.”
Lord Spencer’s eyelids drooped lower. “I’ll see that she never has the
opportunity, madam,” he said, in a cool voice that had the effect of
making Lady Sunderland shiver much as Betty had.
Meanwhile, Lady Clancarty poured out her hopes and fears and
half-formed plans to Alice Lynn. The first thing to be done was to get
the wounded man into a place of comfort, where he would also be secure,
and in this Alice could help more than her mistress had dreamed.
The girl had an uncle living in Cambridge, a mercer, and a man with
Jacobite leanings, and she at once suggested his house as a possible
shelter for Lord Clancarty. After some discussion, her mistress eagerly
accepted this opportunity, especially as she must leave Newmarket soon
for London to join her father, and Cambridge would be near. There were
many secret missives passing to and fro between the house in the woods
and the Lion’s Head, but Betty found herself too closely watched by
Spencer to dare another visit, and by the end of a week Lord Clancarty
was strong enough to be moved to Cambridge, to her infinite relief.
The journey was safely and secretly accomplished, and she had the
happiness of knowing that he would have both care and nursing, besides
greater security.
By this time the races were over, and the stream of people had poured
back to the capital, where Parliament had been opened by the king, and
Newmarket was empty and quiet. Lady Sunderland went to Windsor, leaving
her daughter to go on to London to the earl’s house, where Sunderland
and Spencer had preceded her.
Lady Clancarty went up to London, therefore, with her two women, Alice
and Melissa Thurle, and tried to wait with patience for an opportunity
to see her husband again. She was cheered and solaced, however, by
frequent secret messages that assured her, not only of his safety, but
that he was mending rapidly. He had even been able to write her one
letter himself, which she kept hidden in her bosom by day and under her
pillow by night, though it was only a meagre little letter, written
while his hand was still unsteady.
“Dear heart,” he wrote, “was it a dream—that lovely vision in the
dark cabin? Were those soft kisses immaterial too? Or did I really hold
you in my arms and feel your cheek against my own? Dear heart, dear
wife, I love you, yet am I parted from you—but not for long—not for
long! Else would this earth be a purgatory and I should wish the wound
had been fatal! Forgive me, I do not doubt you,—I should rather die.”
But the time came, at last, when it was even dangerous to receive or
send these missives, for Lord Spencer was watchful and suspicious
still, and for Clancarty’s sake Betty forced herself to be
patient,—the sharpest trial of all.
The weeks passed and the cold Saint Agnes weather was upon them.
Parliament was in the depths of its wrangles over the military
establishment, but the House of Commons, though never more unruly
than in these last years of William the Third, was in a somewhat
milder mood—alarmed by the threatened difficulty of the Spanish
Succession—and it permitted the ministers to put the most favorable
interpretation upon the law and retain ten thousand fighting men.
Further, it expressed its attachment to the sovereign’s person
by suspending the benefit of the Habeas Corpus Act twelve months
longer from Bernardi and the other conspirators involved in the late
Assassination Plot. Lord Sunderland was almost constantly at the
king’s elbow, absorbed in political affairs, and Spencer stood out as a
shining light among the younger Whigs.
Meanwhile, Lady Clancarty fretted her heart out because she could
neither see Clancarty nor get a message from him. Her suite of rooms
at Leicester House—which was now the town house of the Earl of
Sunderland—were never so dreary. She paced them day and night in her
anxiety, and struggle as she would to hide it, there were signs of it
upon her face. Yet she played her part well as the mistress of her
father’s house, and she had never been more lovely or more courted. Her
receptions were always crowded, and at every ball she was the centre of
a lively group of admirers and friends. But with it all her heart ached.
It was one evening, the night of my Lord Bridgewater’s ball at his
house in the Barbican, that Lady Clancarty stood looking at her own
reflection, all dressed for the rout. Her gown, a wondrous affair of
silver lace and white brocade, became her well, and her luxuriant hair
was deftly dressed with one large diamond flashing like a star amidst
the curls. She turned away from the glass smiling—she could not help
a certain pleasure in the picture—but the next she sighed and looked
about for Alice.
“Where is the girl?” she said to herself; “alas! what a silly fool I am
to deck myself out like this—for what? I know not, since he cannot see
me and I cannot tell how it fares with him.”
Her mood changed swiftly; a moment before she had thought of herself
and of the ball—now she stood dejected, her head bowed, tears in her
eyes.
“Ah, if I only knew how he was,” she murmured softly, “if I could only
see him well!”
As she spoke the door opened gently and Alice looked in, glancing
around the room.
“What ails you, Alice?” asked her mistress, “you wear the face of a
conspirator; where have you been?”
Alice laid her finger on her lips and withdrew—to Betty’s infinite
astonishment—and the next instant the door opened wider and a tall
man, cloaked and booted for riding, crossed the threshold.
Betty uttered a strange little cry; her beautiful India fan fell on the
floor and broke in a thousand pieces. Lord Clancarty sprang toward her
and caught her in his arms in time to keep her from falling.
“My darling!” he said, “I came too unexpectedly—I have done wrong.”
“O Donough!” she cried, smiling through her tears, “I am so glad—so
glad!” and she held him off to look at him; “pale,” she said, “and
thin—but mine—mine own!”
“Ah, Betty darling!” he whispered, covering her face with kisses, “I
have been dying for this—to come to you again!”
“And you came here!” she said, a little catch in her voice, “here,
in this house,—oh, the danger of it! Spencer hates your very name,
darling; how dared you come?”
He caressed her soft hair, smiling.
“How dared I, Betty?” he replied, “ah, my child, you do not know me.
Are you glad to see me even here?”
“Am I glad?” she murmured, tears in her eyes. “Ah, Donough, the days
have seemed like weeks—the weeks eternities!”
“I am not worthy of you,” he said, laying his cheek against her soft
one, “I am not worthy of you; but above all else I love you—ay,
better than my own soul!”