THE playhouse in Portugal Street was rocking to an applause so frantic
that it seemed as though the walls would fall like those of Jericho.
Miss Polly, Miss Lucy and all the company stood on the stage to receive
the plaudits—Diana like to faint with her emotion. The lights, the
faces swam about her in a glittering whirl, and she saw all, yet not one
distinctly. The crowd shouted for “Polly! Polly!” and, Walker
relinquishing her hand, she stood alone a moment, the lovely mark for
all the cries and cheering. What does a woman feel when she knows
herself a queen enthroned and crowned by an adoring people? Surely
something of this triumph must a player taste that has topped her part
and outshone the stars, and knows her every smile, her every look a
conquest.
The crowd cried for the author, coupling his name with Polly’s, and Mr.
Gay, exquisitely fine in a purple coat laced with gold, came forward and
taking her finger tips led her forward to the footlights and bowed first
to her, then to the audience. Such a scene was scarce known as the two
fronted the London public and the gallery screamed till ’twas hoarse for
one song more—They would, they must hear that silver voice again. Mr.
Gay turned to her, bowing:
“Will you oblige our patrons, Madam?” and instantly the orchestra broke
forth and her clear voice out-soared it all, and she trilled and
laughed, and threw her sweet glances with a kind of surprise and joy
about the house, seeming to receive as well as give a heartfelt
pleasure. And since they still would not be quieted she stretched her
arms as if to embrace the charming persons that were so kind to her, and
then slowly and reluctant passed up the stage and disappeared from their
eyes.
Twice they recalled her, and at last when the curtain was forced to be
dropt ’twas extreme difficult to clear the house of the enthusiasts.
Behind the scenes Mr. Gay claspt the girl by both hands and in his joy
and excitement saluted her on the blushing cheek, nor did she draw back.
“My dear, I thank you cordially,” says he, “You bettered my creation.
You added graces of your own that I dreamed but could not embody in pen
and ink. You assured my success with your own.”
“And mine!” cries Mr. Rich, joining them. “Never was such a bumper
house. I saw her Grace of Queensbury break her fan applauding. And as
for the gallery—six women were dragged out fainting with the press. And
yet so far as the audience was concerned you might hear a pin drop at
any moment. Your Benefit’s ensured, Mrs. Fenton.”
They were so occupied with the young beauty that neither observed Mrs.
Bishop hovering near with a sullen air as of one neglected.
“Since Mrs. Fenton did not perform the whole opera herself, I trust,
gentlemen, to hear that the other performers did not wholly displease
you.”
They turned somewhat shamed, and Diana with them.
“Indeed, Mrs. Bishop, your voice was divine,” she cried;— “Little could
I have done but that your presence gave me confidence and the beauty of
your singing was a lesson in every note. I thank you sincerely.”
’Twas generous, for the petty malice of the woman had impeded her more
than once had she not been rather Polly than Diana all that night. The
two gentlemen expressed their acknowledgments to Mrs. Bishop and all the
company in terms so handsome as almost to satiate even the vanity of the
player—the most avid vanity of the world.
But when Diana turned away to her dressing-room she saw before her a
gallant figure with his sword by his side. At first in the flickering
candlelight she knew not the gentleman and ’twas Miss Polly greeted him
all sparkling smiles and delight, the glow of the applauding house still
upon her. My Lord Baltimore stepped forward, bowing low, and instantly
Polly vanished and Diana, cold and haughty as when the huntsman
surprised her in her forest pool, stood before him. She said not a word
and made as though to pass to her dressing-room.
“Madam, I am come for the answer to all my words writ and spoken. Give
me but a tithe of the courtesy you bestow on the public and at least
deign a reply. If I am not odious in your eyes, pity the madness that
has reduced me to this plea. I love you. Does this avowal excite no
generous emotion?”
They stood in the angle of the wall, and the players were still engaged
behind the dropt curtain with their friends who swarmed upon the stage
to rejoice with them.
How far was his Lordship sincere? Diana might ask herself this, but
’twas more than he himself could answer! He writhed in a flame of desire
but the mask of his composure hid it, and ’tis well known that desire
and the heart need have little in common unless it be rooted in a love
native to all the higher and nobler sensibilities. No woman had ever yet
flouted him. A passion of anger and incredulity that it now could be,
fanned the flame of desire and made it dangerous. Reason was routed,
honour—for he knew himself bound in honour to another—vanquished.
My Lady Fanny had been within his sight all that evening, beautiful and
glittering. He had seen her blue eyes turn his way and hastily
averted—those bright audacious eyes that never dropt before another.
But the magic of her presence was evaporated. He saw her and marvelled
that she had swept him away into an emotion he was now incapable of
feeling. Diana stood before him, and to hold that proud but shy beauty
in his arms, to know it his and his only, to have those lips against his
own, that velvet cheek pressed to his, and more than all this, to know
himself the conqueror where he had been disdained,—there was nothing in
heaven nor earth that he would not have given at that moment to bend her
to his will, and none the less because her bright graces had made her
this night the idol of the only world he valued. Her possession would
exalt him beyond all former successes. Not a man but would envy
him,—not a tongue but would tell his triumph.
He prest nearer to her.
“I loved you before your success, Madam, therefore you know my love
honest, and your success I value not because it does but give you
hundreds of lovers more to plunge me in jealousy and despair. Yet
tonight—though I had rehearsed all your charms and each a dagger in my
heart, I discovered something—O how can I name the unspeakable!—even
more bewitching. Indeed you are a jewel a King might wear in his crown.
Beloved, worshipt, O hear your adorer. My dearest life, I entreat!”
She drew herself back against the wainscot and stood there quivering,
but with a courage that surprised herself after to recall it. ’Twas the
courage of the deer at bay.
“My Lord, I have returned you no answer and you had done better to take
that as it was meant. But since it is not so I will ask you this. What
do you offer me?”
The clear candour of her tone together with her direct gaze for a moment
nonplussed him, but he recovered his coolness quickly. Aha! so the sweet
frost-piece could traffic against her virtue! Then the bargain was all
but sealed.
“Madam, my whole heart. My adoration. My entire and eternal devotion.
And more.”
“What more, Sir?”
“Madam, yourself shall write what conditions you will and this hand
subscribe them unread—even to the half of my kingdom, as another lover
said long since.”
“That lover addrest his offer to his wife, my Lord, if I remember the
Scripture rightly. Do you?”
There was a moment’s silence. It came so unexpected. His outstretched
hand fell by his side—his eye wavered. What? But no, ’twas impossible.
She was but setting her merit high that there might be margin for a
descent when the terms were fixed. To parley was the beginning of
surrender.
“My charmer knows there is nothing I can refuse her. I am acquiescent to
her lightest command. And if a mere ceremony which is nothing in the eye
of true affection can solace her timid scruples I own ’tis a matter to
be considered——”
“Your Lordship had not already considered it?”
“Why no—I own it. ’Tis love that’s all to my mind,—the true union of
two minds and bodies formed to harmonize for eternity. What should a
currish parson have to do between my charmer and me? And how could he
still further strengthen a bond that only death can end? My restless
days and miserable nights teach me that my darling is all to me. Can any
foolish ceremony bind me to more? All I have and am is yours. Take and
use me as you will.”
“In short, your Lordship offers me the position of your mistress.
Setting aside all protestations it comes to this.”
“Why that harsh name that the world misuses, my beloved? It is true you
shall be my mistress for I will be the humblest and faithfullest of all
your servants. But what I offer you is to be my heart’s empress, and
these blushing hesitating questions of yours assure me that I am not
odious to my angel.”
He prest nearer and took her hand. She twitcht it sharply away.
Certainly there was neither blushing nor hesitating on the lady’s part
whatever he might choose to call it.
“I put these questions that they might strip your protestations of
glitter and show them as they are. What you offer me is contempt and
shame and the laughter of men and the mocking of women, and to be flung
to another or to the gutter when you weary of me. I am a simple girl, my
Lord, but honest, and I refuse your offers now and hereafter. And if you
answered to my test and offered me your name as well as what you are
pleased to call your heart, I would refuse and despise it as I do
yourself.”
She flung from him magnificent, and he heard the door shut and the key
turn behind her.
Deadly pale and dangerous my Lord stood there. That he did not believe
her assertion was nothing, for he was convinced that the ring was all
she asked. For an instant he hated her, who had thus humbled him, and
then again the tide of longing rolled back upon his seared heart, with
the passion for revenge, the longing that in turn he might humble her
and see her yet entirely at his feet and in vain. ’Twas so mingled with
the sensual passion that he could not as yet tear them apart in his
distracted mind. And as he stood there, outwardly calm and composed in
appearance, a very great nobleman, Mrs. Bishop came tripping up, her
vast hoop swinging, on her way to her dressing-room.
“What, my Lord, waiting for Polly? Has she not past this way?”
There was a sneer under the lightness. The woman could recall when he
had waited there for her and not in vain.
“I have not seen her, Miss Lucy!” says he, calling her familiarly by her
stage name. “Nor did I so desire. I waited here to tell the seductive
Lucy Lockit that I have not seen nor could imagine a part better played
than that of the forlorn mistress of Macheath.”
Even such as my Lord Baltimore may fail in tact sometimes. A sullen fire
lit in the lady’s fine eyes.
“Why, my Lord, I have had such practice in the past of the deserted
one—’twas yourself taught me you know, that ’tis no wonder I should
succeed. There are Macheaths at Court as well as in Newgate though their
booty is hearts not purses.”
“Amoret—Amoret!” says he shaking his finger at her and laughing— “When
the summer is past ’tis past and the flowers drop. But you’ll own you
were happy while it lasted, and is that nothing to be grateful for? I
made you happy—you owned it a thousand times. Would you now repay me
with anger?”
“Not you—not you!” she cried with a sudden fierce tenderness— “’Tis
that partial little devil I loathe, that wins all hearts, that has stole
yours from me.”
“My dear, it left you long since. Don’t the swallows fly away with the
summer? My heart has wings. I never pretended otherwise to my Amoret.”
“You did. You swore—but why waste breath? You have no heart. You never
had. But let me tell you this, my Lord—this smooth-faced little devil
is my abhorrence. She hath pushed me down on the stage. Do you think I
didn’t see that all the world looked at her tonight and I was but her
foil? She has made a fool of Rich, of Gay, of Walker—of all the persons
who could advance or help me. If I could ruin her this minute and drag
her in the dirt with a wish, I would do it. Some day I _will_ do it,
though she be a duchess’s favourite, and a nobleman’s——”
She spit out the hateful word and made to thrust by him. He caught her
hand as she past and stared in her face.
“And some day you _may_ do it, my girl!” said he. Then released her and
walked back with his easy languid step to the stage.
When Diana’s chair set her down at Queensbury House, the Duchess, the
Duke, and Bolton were assembled in the library, and Pompey summoned her
to an audience. The excitement of the night had passed off and her
lovely brow was sweetly serene as she entered. She was much more at her
ease with the imperious Kitty now, having received much kindness from
her and understanding her moods perhaps better than did any other
creature. For others made her Grace a goddess and when that is done a
goddess the lady will be. But Diana met her with a cheerful and grateful
simplicity and a warm sunshine of affection tempered with the awe due to
such commanding rank and power. ’Twas human—that sums it up, and the
proud Duchess sought the poor player’s company in odd hours, would have
her sing for her, read to her while she worked her jonquils, and let
some crumbs of sincere liking fall from her high table to this humble
dependent. For so she considered her as yet.
“Come hither, my Polly, my charming Polly, that has made Gay Rich and
Rich Gay,” she cried, with her loud hearty laugh. “Why, what don’t I and
all the world owe to you for this success? The town is run mad over
you—’Tis Polly, Polly on every tongue, and Mr. Gay is gone to bed
perfectly exhausted with plaudits and triumph. Not but what the piece is
supreme. There is not its like in the English language. It hath a French
sparkle and—but I rave, and what I would say is that with another Polly
it could not so have smote the heart however it dazzled the brain. What
say you, Queensbury?”
The Duke, good easy man, would say nothing but what his wife said.
“My dear, you are ever in the right. A more bewitching Polly couldn’t be
imagined. In every scene Mrs. Diana triumphed. My felicitations attend
you, Madam. But won’t you come with me one moment, my dear, to the next
room, for sure you forget you desired Mr. Rich’s company to drink a
bumper to our success, and the little gift is prepared there that you
would honour him with.”
The Duchess ran off like a girl.
“Wait till I come back, Mrs. Di. ’Twon’t be long first.”
She was alone with his Grace of Bolton. He rolled a chair forward for
her and she untied her satin hood and it fell back on her shoulders. Her
face was pale now as if with fatigue and the coral of her lips showed
lovely against the ivory. A shadow under her eyes enhanced their soft
fire, and the delicatest little tendrils of hair imaginable made her
white brows whiter. Most lovely the feathering of each fine-pencilled
eyebrow that gave an air of nobility and distinction to the whole face.
The changeable girl—the infinite variety of her! Miss Polly was left in
Portugal Street and the charming creature sat there in soft remote
beauty—the chaste and gentle Diana.
The Duke approached his own chair to hers and leaned forward.
“Madam, though I be the last to express it, I am one of the most ardent
of your admirers. Tonight was a delight so high that I venture to
predict you have conferred immortality on Mr. Gay’s fine piece, and that
it will be performed and delighted in when all we who applauded tonight
are dust.”
There was always a background of sadness to my Lord Duke’s thoughts. He
could not escape the shadow of his darkened life.
Her own face saddened.
“’Tis indeed a very brief triumph,” she said, “I tasted it for a moment,
but your Grace is right. The triumph is Mr. Gay’s, for he may well be
immortal, but we players are the sparks from a dying fire. Others will
sing the songs and hear the laughter, and we in the dust.”
“O Madam, forgive me,” he cried, his dark face softening instantly.—
“Why, what a wretch am I to poison your young rejoicing with my
melancholy. Life is sweet, and sure few ever had a sweeter cup poured
than this of yours—all beauty and genius and a harvest of enchanted
hearts. Rejoice in it and forget everything but the happiness you
deserve and give.”
She looked at him with an expression that pitied him and herself though
for very different reasons. She could not be so long in the Duchess’s
house without knowing somewhat of his story, and when they had met, as
they did sometimes in her Grace’s presence, he paid her a distant but
deep courtesy that was like cold water applied to a burning wound after
the blows her self-respect must daily sustain elsewhere.
“He does not treat me as a player,” was her thought, “but as a woman
that may deserve courtesy as much as another.”
This was a foundation easy to build on. One so considerate and obliging
must be a great gentleman so to condescend to one in the position of an
actress—whose only road to the companionship of gentlemen lay through
dishonour. This man put forward no pretension to gallantry in her
favour, and she must be quick to recognize the distinction between his
Grace and the other men who buzzed about her. It is true, and she knew
it, that he had the reputation that most men of his rank have with
women, but he did not sharpen his weapons on the Duchess’s dependent. He
would have despised himself otherwise since her Grace made him welcome
to her rooms where she sat with Diana in private and ’tis strange how
natural, simple and easy the talk of these three persons, so unlike each
other, became as the days past by. Therefore his way of thinking was not
unfamiliar to her. She knew that cloud on his brow, and would have given
much to charm it away by some innocent kindness such as a sister might
bestow, were it not for the vast distance between them of rank and sex.
Still, she ventured a little, timidly.
“Your Grace, I was happy tonight, it is true, but I had scarce left the
stage when fear and trouble awaited me. And so I think it will be
always—brief sunshine and a cloud to swallow it up. I expect no better.
“Fear and trouble!” says the Duke earnestly, “but how and why? Sure
there could be none so base as spoil your hard-earned triumph. Tell me
what caused it? Now I look closer at you I see tear-marks about your
eyes. Indeed this night should have been joy unmixt and perfect.”
“When is it so?” she asked, avoiding his question— “Do I not see your
Grace that hath youth, health, riches, splendour—everything, sad enough
sometimes? Who then shall be happy?”
“Youth, health, riches, splendour!” he repeated— “Yes, but set against
them, Mrs. Fenton,—loneliness, sorrow, shame, hatred.— Do that sum in
subtraction and what is left? Nothing.”
“Yet your Grace is gay often?”
“How could a man live otherwise? But my life is desolation. O fool that
I am to talk thus and to a young and beautiful and happy woman. What
should you know, child, of care—you that have life in radiant sunshine
before you? I ask your pardon for being so selfish as to remind you that
there are clouds even in a summer sky.”
“I did not need reminding. My life is a struggle too, your Grace.”
Her eyes dropt, and her cheek flushed.
“I know your reason,” he said, looking earnestly at her. “’Tis a hard
case that men do not nor cannot distinguish a legitimate prey from one
that ’tis cruelty to attempt. There have been moments when I despised my
whole sex—not sparing myself—for our blindness and selfishness in this
respect.”
“Not you—not yourself,” she cried eagerly. “I have never heard a word
from your Grace nor seen a look that did not honour the woman you spoke
with as well as yourself. I have learnt from you what a gentleman may
be, whereas before I had only dreamt it. And I have thanked God for it
for I am very sore beset.”
She spoke with such warmth of gratitude that the water stood in her
eyes, and the Duke looked at her astonished and humbled.
“Madam, I take shame to think how little I have deserved your esteem and
it gives me a pang to know you grateful for the mere absence of
brutality. You must indeed have suffered if such is the case. You have
no brother, no father to protect you, and no man knows better than I
that your profession exposes you to insult. I beseech you to honour me
by remembering that if any man insults you my sword is at your service.
’Tis no empty proffer. I mean it.”
She looked up at him with the tears dewing her long lashes.—
“Your Grace, I thank you with all my heart. It does not surprise me.
From you I expect nothing but what is noble and generous. But ’tis
useless. What would be thought of the poor Polly if a great Duke took
sword in hand to defend her honour? What would the town say? No, I must
fight my own battle. Why, the very man against whom I most needed
protection might by chance be some intimate of your Grace’s.”
He caught her meaning instantly though ’twas not intended he should.
“And if it were so, Madam, I set right before even friendship. Call upon
me and you shall never call in vain. I have not seen you of late without
knowing that I had the honour to converse with a woman whose nature
matcht her fair face, and both incomparable.”
This suddenness startled himself and her.— ’Twas not said with the idle
floridness of gallantry and the composure that cares a fig for nobody,
but in earnest, he leaning forward and speaking with his soul behind it.
Instantly however, realizing his own manner of speaking, the Duke drew
back formally, and endeavoured with a bow and a smile to make it
lighter. But though Diana past on hurriedly to another subject the thing
was said and to be remembered. Her heart beat a quicker measure, her
spirits were hurried and uneven. She rose and but for the Duchess’s
command would have retreated.
He spoke of indifferent things for a moment and then saluted her and
departed, leaving his excuses for her Grace who received them carelessly
when she returned to dismiss Diana to her rest. She did her the honour
to kiss her on the cheek with the most obliging patronage and yet
further to clasp about her neck a beautiful miniature of herself by
Zincke set in pearl and enamel. Almost overwhelmed with such goodness,
the girl kissed the lovely hand that bestowed such favours, and then
glided away to the red velvet temple where she slept but brokenly for a
voice that dumbed all the music of the night, repeating: “A woman whose
nature matches her fair face and both incomparable,”—and dark eyes
glowing through their sadness that winged the words. How should she
rest?