“THE fair widow,” as my Lord Baltimore had complimented her, the Lady
Fanny Armine, sat next morning in _negligée_ in her fine boudoir in Pall
Mall, surrounded by all the fashionable frippery of the finest of fine
ladies whose gold is as bright as her eyes. Porcelains from Nankin,
china gods and monkeys of equal grinning ugliness, chessmen from India
in cherry and white ivory, adorned the costly Japan cabinets. Toys from
the ends of the earth to please my Lady Fanny—and ’tis to be thought
they failed to please her for she never looked their way, but writ and
writ, heedless also of the letters and billets that strewed the carpet
about her. For this lady might have said with the fair Millamant— “O
ay,—letters. I am persecuted with letters. One has ’em one does not
know why. They serve to pin up one’s hair.” Indeed she put them to
little nobler use than this, or the voider beside her desk.
Love-letters, you perceive! But ’twas no love-letter she writ now, but
one to a lady she loved—that never failed her in trouble or pleasure.
In fine, a most unfeminine friend and cousin, in that she could be
trusted with a secret, could give impartial counsel, and never grumble
when ’twas not heeded, nor say “I told you so,”—when the inevitable
result followed. In short an Irish pearl—her cousin Lady Desmond. But
hear the letter. ’Tis revealing.
“_My Kitty_, my heart’s delight, as the song has it, here’s the
long-expected billet from your fond cousin. I was detained late
at the Court last night whither I went after Lady Lansdowne’s
drum, and so could not seclude myself for a word with my cousin
of cousins. But the merry morn is here, and here am I in
negligée and my chocolate beside me, for a word with my Lady
Desmond, my dear, dear Kitty. And Mrs. Clayton, who shortly
proceeds to Ireland to join her episcopal husband and open all
your eyes with her coach and six and yellow liveries, hath
promised me to take this letter, and if she be not drowned in
the crossing that vile water to place it in my Kitty’s own fair
hand.
“Well, you would have the news, says you, and I won’t fail. The
first news is,—Kitty, ’tis good to be a widow! Don’t pull a
long face, Madam, but consider. You, ’tis true, love your Sir
Richard. I was but sixteen when my uncle married me to the
hobgoblin that swept me down to Cornwall and to a Castle Raggedy
that the old miser had the money to set in luxury and would not.
O Kitty, my life there!—I a blooming girl of sixteen and he
_sixty_! If ’twas wrote in a book who should believe it? Didn’t
I cry so excessively that nearly all the blue was washed out of
my eyes and left them the colour of skim milk? Lord, when I
think of my days—and nights, and he as jealous of all the booby
squires about as though they were Sir Harry Wildairs—every man
jack of ’em. Avaricious, my dear. If we had a chicken to our
dinner, a roast was not allowed on the same table. My jailor—my
tyrant, but surely no husband, yet I played him no prisoner’s
tricks. (That’s known to you.) ’Tis no manner of good for you,
Kitty, to say as you said before in your tender concern for me—
And why would you take the brute? Ah, don’t you recall my uncle
and his pride and haughtiness, and when he commanded me what
could I do but obey? Had I been a fortune—had I had any living
soul to speak for me I had been Fanny Clavering still,—But Mr.
Armine’s interest in Cornwall was needful to my uncle’s party in
the House of Commons and I must needs pay the piper. Well, ’tis
over now. I had but four years of it, but the great abhorrence I
had for Mr. Armine made it seem like forty, and when I was left
to my own guidance at twenty—two years since, I dare swear I
felt myself a woman of forty in all but looks.
“Looks, Kitty! I see you laughing across the Irish Ocean. Well,
without vanity I will own my looks passable. The American Prince
last night at Lady Lansdowne’s drum was so good as to say:
“‘Lady Fanny, here’s poor Mr. Rich, the manager, ravaging all
the town for a heroine for Mr. Gay’s new piece to be produced in
Portugal Street. For her qualifications he needs beauty of the
sparkling order, an exquisite bloom like an apple-blossom in
dew. Eyes like the sky above it, lips borrowed from the
neighbouring cherry tree. Hair—he did not determine whether it
must be spun gold or chestnut, but I am at this moment convinced
that chestnut is the only wear. This paragon’s bosom must
resemble spring hawthorn in hue and fragrance——’
“‘In short,’ says I, interrupting, ‘she is a vegetable beauty,
since all your similes are drawn from the garden. I imagine her
not difficult to find on any farm. A country wench all curds and
cream.’
“‘’S’death! you laugh me out of countenance eternally,’ says his
Highness. ‘But, for all your jibes, poor Mr. Rich is distracted
and he swears the play that will delight the town is dead as
mutton if he can’t find the lady. Poor man! And here she sits
before me radiant as Hebe—am I not blinded with her rays?—and
as far out of the poor soul’s reach as if in the heaven she’s
native to!’
“I took it, my dear Kitty, as a compliment to my clothes rather
than myself, for I had on my white poudesoy embroidered with
gold, and rose ribbons with pearl in my head, and ’twas
acknowledged it became me very well.
“‘Not even to oblige you, my Lord, which must ever be my chief
study,’ I cried, ‘can I consent to mince and flutter on the
stage. I’m told that though you gentlemen do favour the company
there, the ladies are—well, their morality is not highly
starched, (‘Is it here?’ he interrupted laughing, and motioning
at Lady Cranleigh in conversation with Lady Rose, but I went on
regardless.) and the gentlemen are even more forthcoming than
with us. I dare not risk my character as a staid widow in such
surroundings. But what shall Mr. Rich do?’
“‘Probably hang himself, when I inform him that your Ladyship
declines the part. ’Tis not however surprising that the chief
actress on a stage like this, should disdain a lower.’
“’Twas indeed a vast court, it being Queen Caroline’s
Birthnight—the men as splendid as the women, which says much.
The American Prince had half the revenues of his kingdom on his
back—I never saw him look better though he is a personable man
always. His coat rose-colour velvet with diamond buttons of
prodigious size and the long waistcoat, white satin embroidered
by Mrs. Gilson’s own hand (I know her stitch) in pink carnations
and forget-me-nots. I heard the Queen remark the embroidery and
ask who drew the pattern, telling him she was obliged to the
company for the compliment of their Birthnight splendour. Indeed
my Lord Baltimore becomes all he wears, though some prefer the
graver, more manly features of his Grace of Bolton—his
inseparable. So do not I, Kitty, though I love Bolton well.
“And now, now for a secret! What shall a woman do that wants a
confidant? Reveal it to the butterflies here that will blurt it
out to the next flower they perch on! No, forsooth— I am no
such fool. But I am at this minute so sick of a secret that the
mere pain forces me to be rid of it, and so I will send it
across the Irish Sea, sealed in an envelope to my Kitty that
hath known all my secrets since I was three years old and stole
my first cake.
“’Tis a heart now, Kitty,—not a cake—and perhaps not so sweet,
and less wholesome. ’Tis my Lord Baltimore’s. I think, I guess,
I doubt, that his Lordship hath cast the eye of affection on a
certain young widow—the Lady Fanny Armine. I _think_. I do not
know. It is certain that he distinguishes me in every company,
and that his words are— O, Kitty, honey, sugar—nectar perfumed
with ambrosia! Indeed they are! But I would not build on that
for indeed he is a male flirt if I mistake him not hugely.
No—my girl,—words!—what are words? ’Tis his looks—a sort
of—what shall I say? His fine eyes soften, he hesitates, dare I
say he _fears_ when he is in company with me, he whose looks
never fall before the greatest sovereign in the world. When he’s
with another I find his looks seek me and hover about me, when—
“But how do you interpret all this, Kitty? For heaven’s sake
tell me! for I, who have dismissed—without vanity I may say as
many lovers as any woman in London, can’t trust my own judgment
where my Lord Baltimore is in question. I dread to be most
unfashionably kind to him. . . . I keep my eyes dropt lest he
should read in them more than I mean, and for the life of me I
can’t tell my own meaning. What do I mean? Interpret for me. I
would not be rash, Kitty. Do but consider my position. Free as
air, a handsome fortune (’Tis as well perhaps to marry a miser
since I am now repaid for all my Timon’s economies!), the high
world’s admiration, cards, beaux, routs, drums, ridottos,
masquerades. What more could he or any man give me? To be an
American Princess—the Queen of Maryland? Yes, but, Kitty, what
a figure should I cut among the savages! with half a dozen
provincial ladies to dump curtseys to me? However ’tis not this,
’tis the sex—the sex! His Lordship makes an adorable lover that
all the world envies. Indeed, I fear he is a better lover than
ever he would be a husband. He is in my power now—Should I put
myself in his? I took occasion to make some approach to this
subject in regard to Mrs. Greville, married not long since:
“‘She had every good thing the world can show,’ says I somewhat
melancholy. ‘And here she has made herself a slave to Mr.
Greville whose temper is the shortest part of him (he measures
near seven feet) and what’s to become of the poor lady now?
Marriage! ’tis to walk into a prison and shut the door on
oneself. Who should know but I that have escaped by the skin of
my teeth, as the Apostle says!’
“He unfurled my fan, smiling as if to himself.
“‘Why she has but engaged a new servant, Madam, the foremost and
most heartfelt of them all. There’s nothing of the devil in Mr.
Greville. He has a heart as fine as his coat and a rent roll as
long as his legs. He will not quarrel with his wife for a
trifle. ’Twill be a scene of conjugal bliss from morning till
night and night till morn. She has but to please him——’
“‘Please him!’ cries I, ‘Ah, that’s the rub! And suppose she
misses the way! And will he study to please her?’
“‘Some ladies need but be themselves to please universally and
for ever. I know one!’ says he, bowing.
“All very fine, my dear, at Court,—but at home, by the
fireside! I would have said more, but Princess Emily past and
stayed a minute. I never saw her look more becoming. She had a
glorious stiff-bodied gown of orange and gold stuff with gold
ribbons and diamonds in her head. My Lord Baltimore very
gallantly got her a seat, we standing.
“‘I know I intrude,’ says her Royal Highness very gracious, ‘For
whenever a gentleman is in talk with Lady Fanny he has the air
of desiring to murder any third person who dares approach. Calm
yourself however, my Lord, I design but a moment’s stay.’
“‘I beseech it may be all night, Madam,’ says I, ‘my Lord
Baltimore is dull. He sympathizes with poor Mr. Rich, the
manager that can’t find a player-woman for Gay’s new piece, and
such is his sensibility he can talk of nothing else. Mr. Rich is
distracted.’
“‘Why, there are plenty and to spare of such wenches!’ says the
Princess.
“‘Indeed yes, Madam, but they’re all so confounded ugly.
Excepting only Mrs. Oldfield who is so engaged with her General
at present that she won’t look at Mr. Rich, there is not one
handsomer than the Duchess of Bolton.’
“So saying he shot a look at that lady across the room and just
then the Duke entered, very magnificent in purple
velvet,—vastly grave and fine, and goes up to his wife, bowing
low.
“‘Madam, how does your Grace? I trust I see you pure well?’
“The invariable ceremony! She rose and curtseyed,
“‘I thank your Grace. I do extreme well. I hope I see you the
same?’
“He bowed and slid off to us. The strangest wedlock sure!
Polite, but frosty as December. ’Tis thus and only thus they
meet. I wonder would the American Prince and myself come to this
favour after a year of wedlock? O Kitty, is not the risk too
high for any woman? But supposing a woman loved him?—Supposing
there was an emptiness in her heart every time he turned his
back. Supposing she hated every woman under fifty that came near
him! Kitty, I don’t say ’tis myself I speak of, but if it
were—what would you say?
“Well, the crowd was so great after this that we were almost
drove apart, and I declare I had been smashed and buffeted and
my manteau almost torn off my back had it not been that the two
gentlemen put their arms before me. Later, Princess Emily came
up past me again, very pretty in her orange and gold and
whispers, ‘When shall we give you joy, Lady Fanny? No question
but my Lord Baltimore is caught and his fine wings clipt to some
purpose. Half the world is chattering of those conquering eyes
of yours. Give me the first news, your Ladyship!’ She looked
very whimsically upon me and would not stay one minute for my
denial, but slipt on to where the Queen stood with Sir Robert
Walpole beside her—the two of them so deep in affairs of state
that neither had a look for the butterfly world about them. A
gay surface, but much below it that catches not the eye. She has
suffering in her face, too. I doubt we have her great mind with
us long, and then for the foolish pepper-headed old King with
that fool Mrs. Howard to rule him, and Sir Robert’s day done! It
sobered me a little, Kitty, in spite of my flutteration. Sir
Robert’s a great man for all his gross tongue and his insolence
to my Kitty Queensbury.
“The night closed with his Lordship squiring me to my chair. He
prest my hand, and once I was seated and the roof let down, he
kissed it. I could feel his lips hot upon it. I leaned
forward—I would have spoke, but the chairmen saved me. They
broke into a trot and so I left him standing bareheaded, among
the flambeaux.
“O, were he as good as he’s handsome, Kitty!—and yet if he
were, should I not weary of him as I should of sops and caudle.
What do I want? I know not. I think I want a lover, but not
aught so terrible as a husband. I should die of a harsh word
from his lips. I want the brilliance of a bad man and the
constancy of a good one. Arrant fool that I am!
“For news:—The King asked me how I had passed my time at the
Bath, and stayed not for the answer. He was hobbling very gouty
on a stick. The Queen had upon her half the di’monds she wore at
the Coronation and was a blazing figure indeed. Lady Fanny
Shirley had the prettiest dress at Court—a satin embroidered in
roses—if ’twas not your humble servant’s, as some were fond to
say. And that’s my pride, and here’s Lady Carteret thundering at
the door and I’ve denied myself.
“That makes my news, Kitty, my dear, and in return I require a
full and true account of all yours, and desire you will speech
it handsomely for me to your worthy Sir Richard and bestow a
kiss for me on the little heir. May he grow up to resemble his
dear parents in all that is worthy.
“But counsel me, Kitty.
“Your affectionate cousin and humble servant to command,
“Fanny Armine.”
“He is called here among the topping ladies the Basilisk on
account of his killing looks. In future when I write ‘Bas’ my
Kitty will know my meaning.”
This written, the beautiful Frances, spoilt minion of fortune, laid down
her quill and looked about her at the room wherein she sat. Her white
brow with the bright chestnut hair rolled back from it and a certain
alertness in her eyes bespoke her however something better—a woman who
could reflect with shrewdness, and speak much to the point, and all this
was her seductive ladyship and more. She had a mind as well as a face
and, as she began terribly to suspect, a heart as well as both, but what
shall a lady do with a heart in a society which mocks at such a rustic
possession? Indeed, as may be seen by her letter, she could scarce tell
what to make of it. And ignorance may lead a woman into a sad quandary
from which ’tis impossible to extricate herself. Was there a man in
London to whom she had chose _not_ to be attracted, Charles, Lord
Baltimore, was that man? For why? Because Lady Fanny knew well that
hearts hovered about him in hordes that he could scarce endure. His life
was a hurry of gallantry, equipage, feathers, smiles, ogles, love and
courtship. He was spoilt by women, if favours flung before his feet
could spoil him. ’Twas said and believed his last voyage to his province
was to escape the frantic pursuit of a lady whose rank shall make her
nameless, and that relays of weeping charmers lined all the roads down
to the port whence he sailed. He had fought three duels with jealous
husbands and each time pinked his man, and got off himself for all three
with a light thrust in the arm. His history might indeed be read by the
light of sparkling eyes, and set to the music of sighs. And out of such
charming flimsy stuff to make a good homespun husband! Fie!
No doubt but he distinguished Lady Fanny beyond any other, but O the
helplessness of a woman! Was it dependable? What did his Lordship when
he strolled off with the Duke of Bolton? Where did they go? How were his
hours past? How shall a woman know? She sees what she sees, she hears
what she is told, but what is behind the scenes so cunningly set, she
cannot tell.
Unusual tears stood in Lady Fanny’s blue eyes as she considered her
case.
The door opened and her maid came in with a billet in her hand and a
posy of flowers:
“My Lord Baltimore’s gentleman left it, Madam, and enquired how your
Ladyship had slept.”
“Does he wait?”
“No, your Ladyship.”
She laid the sealed billet by her lady and went off with a curious eye
at it over her shoulder. Indeed Lady Fanny’s hand shook a trifle as she
opened it.
“_Madam_, I purpose a water-party two days hence and it will be
no pleasure to the host if you are not of the party. Therefore,
I entreat you to reserve Saturday in my favour. If, as on the
last occasion, you make conditions for acceptance, I need only
say that that soft, that white, that all-commanding hand shall
write its own conditions and I accept them unknown. You know
very well that in your absence life darkens for me. When you
come it is sunshine. If my tongue did not say it ’tis to be read
in my eyes, the reflection of a heart that cannot lie to my
lady. More I will not say because I am jealous of this paper
that kisses your hand, but more, much more I will say when we
meet, if I have permission to open my heart to my sovereign.
“Your most humble obedient servant,
“Baltimore.”
“P.S. Rich writes me word this morning that he hath found the
paragon he sought, so my Lady Fanny Armine shall not be
disappointed of her play. But the paragon is not so fair as my
own choice, I dare swear.”
She read the letter greedily, scarce heeding the postscript and knew
not, poor lady, that the sting, like a scorpion’s, lay in the tail.
“Is it love, is it love?” she murmured to herself, “or is it but the
desire to insult his rivals and carry off what they call a prize? And
for me—is it but the delight to see the heart that so many bleed for
bleed at last for me? And could either of us endure the arrogance of
conjugalities? Can I dwindle into a wife or he into a husband?”
She sat long musing, but when she caught up the quill again ’twas to
accept of the water-party.