TWAS at this point that life became very difficult for both Miss Polly
and Madam Diana. Her company at the playhouse was not what she would
have chose, to say no more, and Mrs. Slammikin, Dolly Trull, Mrs. Vixen,
Betty Doxy and others might possibly play their parts so finely as to
charm the town because they were almost a second nature with them. She
certainly believed it so, and it stood in the way of the comradeship of
players which, however mixt with jealousies, subsists behind the scenes.
Affront her openly they dared not, for Mr. Rich’s piercing eye was
about, and his consideration for a Polly who had lined his pockets with
gold until they jingled again, prevented any open persecution. He knew
well how much he owed her, and even were gratitude lacking as it was
not, he knew that Mr. Gay had it in hand to write a sequel to this
shining success, and was in mind to call the new piece “Polly.” Where
then in all the world could it be possible to replace the lovely Polly
who had crowned the first venture, should she go off in a tiff?
Beside, the girl was the rage. Verses were made on her, and not one but
lauded her grace, her starry eyes, her voice angelic, and the Lord knows
what! Pamphlets were writ of her life with scarce a grain of truth to
the bushel. Fine ladies wore a head-dress surnamed the Polly head,—a
little cap of Quakerish demureness with a straw hat atop,—but they
loaded it with flowers and ribbons and so spoilt its simplicity. Her
figure, appealing, gentle, with claspt hands praying to her Macheath,
the violent Lucy t’other side of him, took the town with a kind of
emotion as yet untasted, the women as well as the men. They too would
pet the pretty creature and give her her heart’s desire for the sake of
those sweet virginal looks blooming like a flower in the Newgate filth
and obscenity. They laughed with her but never at her. The music was
sung everywhere and the trills and quirks of the Italian Opera utterly
forgot in favour of the fine old English tunes, “Lumps of
Pudding,”—“What gudgeons are we men,”—“London Ladies,” and so forth,
which bespangle “The Beggar’s Opera,” to Mr. Gay’s fine new words.
’Tis a strange truth but the piece made a kind of artlessness the
fashion, doubtless aided by Polly’s kind simple looks, and for
awhile—awhile only, ladies tried to drop the modish jargon that Mr.
Congreve and Captain Farquhar had made fashionable in their wicked
comedies and to look up innocently and protest a taste in primroses,
syllabubs and other country delights. ’Tis hard to unravel, but so
’twas. Indeed Mr. Pope himself composed a madrigal—
“My Polly as a primrose fair,”
set to the air of “Haycock of June,” and had Dr. Swift not laughed him
out of countenance it had been gave to the town.
The playhouse was beset by fine gentlemen shouldering for a word with
the beauty, and Mr. Rich, divided between fear of offending them and
terror of losing his Polly, became a perfect Cerberus, and would bark
furiously when so much as a harmless haberdasher left a posy for the
goddess. ’Twas remarkable how this gentleman, known for his own easy
living and morals, might, so far as Diana knew, have been a bishop for
the austere regard in which he held her personally and the manner in
which from the first he softened his somewhat gross tongue to her ear.
She had a grateful regard for him in return, and ’twas not a negligible
element in her triumph that she knew it so valuable to him.
It chanced that, standing at the wings during a performance, he noted
the scene where Lucy Lockit in her jealous rage (which Mrs. Bishop
played to the life, he thought) presses upon Polly a glass of poisoned
wine. Polly, on the alert, drinks not from it but drops it as hastily as
she may. Revolving the by-play, Rich, when the house was cleared and he
chatting with the ladies, recalled it.
“I know not, Mrs. Fenton and Mrs. Bishop, that ever I saw a scene better
played, if so well. It does the two of you infinite credit—I know not
which is more true to the passions. But one amendment occurs to me, and
if I name it ’tis with diffidence, so well is all now.”
Mrs. Bishop immediately besought his correction and Diana followed suit.
She knew, none better, how much she owed to his tutoring.
“How would you have it, Sir?”
“Why thus. At present the audience is held in no suspense. There is no
anxiety for Polly. She suspects too soon—she drops the glass, and the
attempt might as well not be made for all the effect got from it. Now I
hold that no effect but must have its full value on the stage. I would
have Polly’s face innocent as a daisy for the moment. She
knows—suspects nothing. The audience, knowing, trembles for her.”
“I see your drift. Thus!” says Polly, and instantly her expression
changed to what he desired.
“Right. That speaks to the heart. Myself who has played Harlequin knows
that gesture and expression go as far or further than words. So! Well
then, I would have Polly take the glass, hold it a moment and lift it to
her lips absently. She sips—the house watches. No—’tis bitter! She
drops it as Macheath is led in. You follow?”
“Entirely. What thinks Mrs. Bishop?”
“Mr. Rich can’t judge amiss, and Mrs. Fenton will add a new charm to the
part.”
She bowed to him sombre-eyed, and went out with a sliding curtsey to
Polly as she past.
“My dear,” says Mr. Rich, “I would not have you too familiar with Mrs.
Bishop. She is a fine forthcoming actress and in some respects a worthy
woman, but too free with gentlemen to be your companion. Is she kind
with you?”
“Sir, she has never shown a desire for my companionship, nor have I
intruded it. But I have no unkindness to complain of. If you ask for
complaints—I wish ’twere possible to keep the dressing-rooms and the
passages leading to them more private from young men of the town. I
hate——”
“Why, so do I wish!— But what’s to be done? It might provoke a riot and
ruin the play was I to interfere, and remember also, Mrs. Fenton, ’tis
only yourself that objects. Could you find even one of the women to
second you?”
“I think not, to be honest, Sir.”
“Well, then, be your own judge! What can I do?”
“I see, Sir,” she answered and turned patiently away. Indeed she did not
complain without reason, but might have borne the rest but for my Lord
Baltimore, of whom she now almost dreamed, though not as he desired.
Night after night she would see his face in the shadows of the way to
her dressing-room, pale, handsome, with thin lips compressed and a look
indescribable in his eyes—something that threatened yet implored and
bided its time. He would speak occasionally as she past, though but of
the play, or some gossip of the town—never of love. More often, he
spoke not at all, merely bowed and waited outside till she was ready for
her chair, and when she came out cloaked and hooded, she would see him
still, standing in the shadows and watching her with white fixt face,
and burning eyes.
The chair, lined with red velvet and bearing the Duchess’s cypher, was
ever in waiting at the stage entrance, and two footmen in her liveries
handed the young lady in, and went on either side as the chairmen
proceeded. There were times when she rejoiced to know herself guarded,
remembering the fixt face that watched her.
Once she looked back in the moonlight and amidst the careless people in
the street, still discerned him, standing with folded arms and staring
after her. She drew her head in with a shudder and never lookt back
again. It made the playhouse dreadful to her for all her triumph.
The next night, before her scene with Lucy Lockit she recalled Mr.
Rich’s request to the dark sullen creature waiting to go on.
“I thought him in the right, Mrs. Bishop, did not you?”
“’Tis nothing to me either way. ’Tis your effect, not mine. But I can
have no objections.”
She said no more and moved off.
Diana ailed somewhat that evening. All day had her head ached and her
pulses throbbed. Could she have been excused from the play she would
gladly, but knowing Mr. Rich leaned on her, and her understudy, though a
pretty girl and letter-perfect, by no means the true Polly, she forced
herself to her part.
The play proceeded. At the due point Lucy tendered her the glass of
wine—good claret, for Mr. Rich would have it so, and innocent as a
child she put it to her lips and more than sipped, for she found herself
faint and wearied. She swallowed a mouthful and then dropt the glass. It
shattered on the ground and, putting her hand to her head, she sank
sideways and fainted dead away. In an instant a gentleman seated on the
stage flew to the rescue with Mr. Rich and they carried her between them
behind the scenes—my Lord Baltimore! Indeed he almost lived at the play
at this time and was as well known as Macheath himself to the audience.
It gave rise to much gossip.
The understudy was immediately ready and the play proceeded amid the
whispers and confusion of the audience,—while Diana was carried to Mr.
Rich’s parlour and there reclined in a chair. My Lord Baltimore stood
beside her with Rich on the other side, her dresser hurrying for the
apothecary.
“My Lord,” says Rich while they waited assistance, “you were near Mrs.
Fenton when she fell. Was there any accident, or how?”
“She drank but a mouthful of the wine and fell instantly—almost as
though it had been poison. But that’s impossible. And yet——”
Suddenly he ceased, with a look of horror.— Rich who knew the
circumstances of the former amour as well as he, caught it and reflected
it in his own face.
“Impossible,” he repeated. “And yet—O, my Lord, a jealous
woman,—Doubly jealous, of yourself and of Mrs. Fenton’s triumph; is
anything impossible? You play with fire—I dare assure you. I had not
considered it fully before, but Mrs. Bishop is not one to trifle with.
She has carried it all so quietly that my fears were never roused.”
“If I thought this,” my Lord said under his breath, “she should repent
it the longest day she lived. But say nothing—nothing, Rich, as yet. We
don’t know. The wine was all spilt on the ground, the glass broke and no
proof left. Mrs. Fenton appeared pale and languid at the opening. Say
nothing yet, I warn you!”
They stood mute for a minute or two, she lying unconscious between
them—Baltimore unable to consider the thing for the deadly fear that
filled him, Rich in a tormenting anxiety on more counts than one.
Presently the woman returning with the hurrying apothecary, the
gentlemen were bid stand back and restoratives applied. They watched
until her eyelids fluttered and then Rich approached his mouth to his
companion’s ear.
“My Lord, resent not my entreaty that you would withdraw before she has
her senses. If she fears you——”
“Fear?” repeats my Lord haughtily. “Surely, Rich, you don’t need to be
told that a woman fears most where she loves most, especially in such a
case as hers and mine. There’s a perfect understanding between Mrs.
Fenton and myself though she conceals it. I have the right to be here.”
“If that’s so——” says Rich hesitating. He knew not enough to
disbelieve, and Polly might be as deep as others for aught he could
tell.
“_If?_” says the other, and laid his hand on his sword. Rich stared, and
at that moment the apothecary called him softly, and he went to him,
Lord Baltimore drawing back into the darkest corner of the room.
“Sir, Mrs. Fenton recovers. Oblige me with particulars that the
treatment may be answerable. I should judge she had partaken of
something unwholesome.”
From the shadow Lord Baltimore put his finger on his lip and Rich
observed the gesture.
“Why as to that,” says he, “I can’t throw much light, Mr. Meynell. The
lady was unwell when she came to play and she fainted dead away in the
prison scene. I hope ’tis a trifle.”
“Tomorrow will declare more, Sir. She has youth and a fine constitution.
If agreeable to you, Mrs. Jones and myself will convey her to the care
of her friends. ’Tis certain she can’t play tomorrow or possibly the day
after.”
She lay, conscious at last, but with closed eyes and as if too heavy for
speech while the arrangements were making. Rich stooped over her and
took her hand and she returned the kindness with a faint pressure.
“I’ll play tomorrow, fear not!” she said in a little breath, and he with
cordial warmth:
“My dear, am I a brute? Rest all you will and need. I’d sooner bilk the
play than hurt my good Polly.”
He supported her out with the apothecary, the woman following and she
had never glanced my Lord Baltimore’s way. Indeed ’twas as much as she
could do to reach the coach. Presently Rich returned, the other standing
moodily with a downcast eye where he left him.
“My Lord,” says he, “I know not the rights of this matter. ’Tis beyond
my sounding, but this I say candidly. I shall never know ease of mind
while Mrs. Bishop is in the cast with Mrs. Fenton. If what you say is
true of the relations between you and Mrs. Fenton I am the more uneasy.
’Tis very possible we have escaped a frightful calamity, and ’twould not
be the first of the kind. ’Tis not so very long since in “The Rival
Queens” that Mrs. Barry stabbed Mrs. Boutel on the stage, and had all
but done for her—the audience suspecting nothing. I’ll have no Rival
Queens here. This is the last night Bishop plays for me.”
My Lord avoided his eye.
“I can’t say but you are right, though it be painful for me to injure a
woman specially one where I’m not entirely conscience-clear. At the same
time we may suspect far too much—’tis probable we do. And I am to
request, Mr. Rich, that you will be generous in your terms with Mrs.
Bishop, for which I will be at the cost. We may be unjust in the one
matter. Let us not in the other.”
Mr. Rich agreed, then in a hesitating manner he added—
“My Lord, you have condescended to honour me with your company at the
playhouse for many a day. May I in return ask a favour?”
“Ask, man, and have, if it be possible.”
“Well—’tis this. Your presence here so often disturbs the women. I am
the last to meddle with a gentleman’s amours, but there are times and
places to be observed, and this has made much talk. Need I say more?”
Baltimore frowned on the hint, then cleared his brow.
“I take you, Sir. I think your application reasonable. I will attend
once weekly or less. Fear not that any affair between me and Mrs. Fenton
shall disturb your arrangements. She is loyal to you, and her wish is my
command. May I in return request to be present unseen when you dismiss
Mrs. Bishop. I desire to know the truth as a safeguard.”
Mr. Rich agreed, motioning to the deep closet behind his scrutoire, and
went off, his Lordship remaining behind him in deep thought.
So he remained until the noise of plaudits and then the departing
audience could be heard, and presently the players began to stream past
the door on their way to becoming sober citizens once more. Lord
Baltimore stepped within the closet and drew the door to a crack as
Rich’s voice approached together with the swish of a hoop.
“Be seated, Madam,” says Rich, pushing a chair to her when the door was
shut behind them. “I have a matter of business to settle with you.”
“Sir, your most obedient.”
My Lord could see her from where he stood. She sat pale, heavy-jawed,
handsome, her eye on Mr. Rich with a furtive watchfulness, her hands
strongly claspt in one another.
“I regret to say, Madam, that we must part. Henceforth Lucy Lockit will
be played by Mrs. Parker.”
She sprang to her feet.
“Sir, my contract——”
“Madam, you’ll find your contract does not cover such extras as your
attack upon Mrs. Fenton. Beware lest you lay yourself open to such a
charge as may make Newgate a reality to you instead of a play. I desire
not to be more particular in an affair that may ruin you, especially as
I judge it may have no serious effect. But I will risk nothing more.”
Mr. Rich’s manner was perfect, calm, judicial, severe. Mrs. Bishop’s was
equally so in its way. She was all injured innocence in a moment.
“Sir, I am entitled to ask for the charge. Hath Mrs. Fenton declared me
culpable in any matter? Am I liable because she swoons? Mrs. Allen did
it a week since and no to-do made!”
“Madam, I charge you with tampering with the wine Mrs. Fenton drunk on
the stage tonight. I charge you with a dangerous jealousy of that lady
which may lead to trouble. And because I will avert such trouble I bid
you begone. Your money affairs shall be handsomely treated with. I
counsel you to avoid such talk and noise as may damage you beyond repair
and to go quietly.”
“It would ill beseem me to risk my character in a place where such
odious accusations can be made against an innocent woman,” she cried
furiously, clutching the arm of her chair as though ’twere Mr. Rich’s
throat. Baltimore could see the knuckles stand out white as chalk. “So
I’ll go. I have no protector. But I know who’s at the back of this
business. My Lord Baltimore helped to carry off the fainting angel. He’s
her lover, Mr. Rich, her lover (a slow smile parted my Lord’s lips), and
I leave you to judge how that will affect your interests before many
days are out. That’s the mainspring of it all, and I, forsooth, must be
got out of the way because beneath a prude’s face she carries a
courtesan’s behaviour.”
Mrs. Bishop used a plainer word. She paused not, but flashed on.
“You may heed me little, Sir, because you, like others, was aware of my
Lord Baltimore’s relation to me. I care not, ’tis the truth. I own it
painful to be supplanted and by so arrant a jilt. Therefore I go with
pleasure. As to poison—for I suppose that’s your meaning, I snap my
fingers at so low a charge—so very much beneath me! you can’t prove it,
Sir, and there’s a law of libel if you make the assertion.”
“Madam,” says Mr. Rich serenely, “I propose to let sleeping dogs lie,
and you will do well to follow my example. I would recommend you on
parting to keep your opinion on Mrs. Fenton to yourself. She has
powerful protectors. Tomorrow, all money matters outstanding shall meet
with due settlement. I have now the honour to bid you farewell.”
He rose and bowed. She curtseyed, in a black supprest rage and moved
towards the door. There it broke out in one fierce sentence flung at
him—
“Look out for your favourite, Mr. Rich. I will have my revenge if I
swing for it. And when the time comes, blame yourself and his Lordship.
Not me.— Judas!”
She shot out of the room and flung the door to behind her, and her steps
were heard along the passage. A moment, and his Lordship emerged,
dusting his velvet cuffs with a laced handkerchief.
“What’s the verdict, Sir? Guilty or not Guilty? In either case you
carried it perfectly.”
“I declare I know not!” replied Rich, with an anxious brow—“But I doubt
we’ve seen the last of her yet. A violent dangerous woman. Look out, my
Lord, and for Miss Polly too.”
“A notable temper indeed. But I think myself not inexperienced with that
charming sex, and I judge this a woman’s violence come and gone like a
cat’s-paw. Good-night, Rich. You need be at no charges in the matter.”
He departed with his usual easy grace, and Mr. Rich left alone, stared
into the fire much perplexed.
“Damme if I understand the business!” he muttered to himself. “My Lord
swears and Bishop subscribes, yet I would take the innocency of Miss
Polly’s face before them both. I think she’s an honest girl in spite of
them. But who shall say where a woman’s concerned. ’Tis beyond me. Lord
send she’s on the mend tomorrow, be it as it will. Yet I think the
jewels I have in charge to be his after all. Curse the women, and the
men that won’t let them be!”