FROM Miss Polly’s troubles to Madam Diana’s is but a step and not a long
one.
She was took back in a coach to Queensbury House, and the Duchess being
at Court heard nothing of the affair until next day, and then sent very
obliging inquiries.
The girl lay very heavy and ailing all that day, not well able either to
control nor examine the thoughts that roamed through her brain. She
would have sent for her mother but Mr. Rich, on his guard against any
attempts of Mr. Fenton’s to make his profit out of Miss Polly, had
advanced money to get him out of the coffee house, and put him in a fair
way to pay his debt upon it, provided he would retire to the suburbs.
Mrs. Fenton willing to be clear of the temptations of the town for her
husband joyfully seconded him, and at present they had a lodging at
Gravesend.
So ’twas a stranger who watched with Diana, and this gave her time to
resolve on silence as to her suspicion of Mrs. Bishop though her terror
of the woman was such as she knew not how to face the meeting with her.
’Twas a sensible relief when a missive from Mr. Rich bid her have no
uneasiness about her part until she should be quite recovered, adding in
a careless postscript that Mrs. Bishop on a better proposal had left him
at short notice and Mrs. Parker would be answerable for Lucy Lockit.
“And let me beg my admired Miss Polly,” concluded he—“to take the
necessary rest and return to us in the bloom and beauty she alone is
possest of in such abundance.”
’Twas very kind and she was sensible of it and sent an obliging message
in return. That day she past in solitude but for her attendant, feeling
her strength revive at every moment, and the next morning was able to
rise and walk about her room, but still unvisited. She received the
Duchess’s commands to attend her in the library in the evening of the
next day. She could scarce believe so short a time could so have changed
her looks when she saw herself in the glass before proceeding thither.
Pale and with purple shadows beneath the eyes, the dark hair piled about
her face made it appear as though carved in ivory, and even the fresh
coral of her mouth was faded. The white muslin folds of her _negligée_
without a hoop fell loose and flowing about her and outlined her
graceful limbs and bosom with an elegance which even she herself might
at another time admire though now too wearied to give a thought to her
looks. A tender and moving figure.
So she went slowly to the library, and, the door opening, was surprised
to see her Grace magnificent in a white satin gown embroidered in
silver, the petticoat covered with a trimming answerable, and a necklace
of rubies like roses about her glorious throat. Lovely as when Prior
wrote of her—
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,
Kitty at heart’s desire,
Obtained Love’s chariot for a day
And set the world afire.”
She swam forward to meet Diana and touched her kindly on the shoulder,
motioning her to a chair.
“I would see with my own eyes how Miss Polly does,” says she. “I was
full of regrets to hear of so unfortunate an accident and was it not
that the apothecary enjoined quiet, I had gone yesterday to enquire in
person for Mrs. Diana. But my woman and your own obliging message
reassured me.”
“I thank your Grace,” says Diana with the tears of weakness welling to
her eyes, “and am your bounden servant to my life’s end in gratitude for
this and all your other immeasurable favours. If I could think I should
live to testify it better than in words——”
“My dear, you repay me double in the satisfaction and pleasure you have
bestowed on my good Mr. Gay and myself, and the delight your charming
air must carry wherever ’tis known. This evening I receive company in
the gold and white drawing-room and must leave you, but before I go
would ask privately between you and me—have you any suspicions that
there was any foul play with you that you dropt so sudden after drinking
the wine from Lucy’s hand?”
“Madam, to you I can tell my heart. I know not—how should I—but indeed
that woman terrifies me beyond measure, though I can’t believe that a
mere stage jealousy could carry her to so fearful a length, and other
grudge against me she has none.”
“How know you that?” cries the Duchess with one of her bright rapid
flashes. “Let me tell you, Mrs. Di, that I know better, and though I may
not be more particular (for reasons) I entreat you to avoid all men at
the playhouse, and keep yourself very secluded there. I had a word with
Mr. Rich to that effect, and can assure you he thinks as I do. There’s a
better fate for you, Mrs. Di, than to be a playhouse trull, and since
you are none by nature, close every approach that may make you one by
force or persuasion.”
Diana all but slid from her chair on her knees before the radiant figure
that towered over her in so majestic a height.
“Madam—Your Grace, my heart beats responsive to every one of your
words. I’m beset and persecuted at the playhouse, though not so much of
late. And Mr. Rich himself is all goodness, but what can he do? Sure the
place swarms with bold young men—so audacious as your Grace can scarce
believe. Indeed, when the run of the piece is over I would give all but
my life to retire from the stage and play no more. I hate the
playhouse.”
Now this did not suit the Duchess neither, for ’tis to be remembered,
she desired the girl for the Polly of Mr. Gay’s succeeding piece. She
might not have said so much had she known the bitterness in her heart.
She pulled a chair for herself.
“Mrs. Di, you make me bold to ask—Have you any other living than the
stage?”
“None, Madam. So I see not how to leave it, yet loathe my living. And
yet—the stage itself—the joy and delight to sing, to act—to attract
kind looks and sunshiny smiles—how beautiful, were it not for the bad
men and women that make it a torment!”
“My dear,” says the Duchess, touched by this simple grief, “you are a
good girl. So continue and fear not. You have powerful protection. If I
say it of myself I say true, and I will add that his Grace the Duke of
Bolton is, after his haughty fashion, your sworn knight. Mr. Gay also,
and in the playhouse Mr. Rich is a kindly watch-dog. And I could name
more. Whatever life you might choose there would be dangers and
displeasures with your figure and lack of fortune,—and you would not
there have the protection you have now. Be of good courage—and dispense
not with the utmost prudence and I predict a shining future. And now
must I go, but will return in an hour to see you for a moment.”
She extended her hand graciously and Diana kissed it. She knew the words
were truth. Then watching until the great lady swept out of the doors,
she took a book of prints from Mr. Hogarth’s pictures and supporting
them on a table began to look them through. And time went by.
Meanwhile in the white and gold drawing-room lit up with the magnificent
lustres and hundreds of wax candles, a minuet was dancing by fair ladies
and four gallant gentlemen, and the rest sat by to see, the Duchess a
little apart with the Lady Fanny Armine. ’Twas a scene from some
exquisite French pastoral in delicate rose and blue—the ladies like
Watteau shepherdesses in high-drest hair garlanded with wreaths of
little roses on one side and hooped skirts disclosing miracles of small
feet beneath them—the beaux, magnificent Damons and Celadons in pink
and violet satin coats and breeches. The couples passed and re-passed,
bowing, smiling, garlanded heads held high, swords, fans, all playing
their parts in the pretty measure, a scene of grace and high breeding
indescribable, and fitly set in the noble rooms.
“Fops! Fools!” said the Duchess suddenly—half laughing, half
melancholy. “What a world do we live in, Fanny! Is there a touch of
truth or reality in it all? See my Lord Govan there—you and I know his
history. Should he be in any decent woman’s house? Yet there he smirks
and struts! See my Lady Deloraine. Is there a fish-fag in St. Giles’s
with a tongue as foul as hers? Shall I tell you the story of her speech
with his Majesty at the last basset party at Kensington Palace?”
“You don’t need! Sure I have nothing here to wash my ears with! After
half an hour of Lady Deloraine I go home and make the attempt, but all
the perfumes of Araby won’t sweeten them. But is there none you can say
a better word for? Look yonder, your Grace.”
She motioned with her head to a corner where the Duke of Bolton sat in
earnest talk with Lord Hervey—the Queen’s faithful attendant—a pale
handsome man, most sumptuously drest.
“Lord Hervey?” asked the Duchess. “No—I meant not him, though I think
him a devoted servant. ’Tis Bolton you would say. A great and gallant
gentleman, and not a day passes but I swear at Fortune that tied him to
that toad of a woman and he scarce more than a child when ’twas done.
You also respect him, Fanny? I like you the better for it.”
“I love him,” says the lady, softly beating time with her fan to the
music.
“As how?” the Duchess swept one of her rapier glances at her.
“As I need not be ashamed to tell you nor all the world, Madam. As a
true friend—faithful and kind. If I could see Bolton content and happy
with a deserving woman I’d mark the day with a white stone in my
calendar.”
“Why, so would I! I did not think any woman but myself had plumbed his
deeps. I sometimes think that excepting my poor Queensbury, he’s the
only man I know that in this gross age hath any respect or tenderness
for women. Fanny, I knew one like him when I was a child—I have sat on
his knee! And when I was a girl of fourteen I would tell Mary Granville
and all my cousins, “I have seen the man I would marry, and if he’ll
wait two years more I’m at his service. I have not since seen his
like—unless ’tis Bolton.”
“Who was he, Kitty?” says Lady Fanny softly.
“Colonel Harry Esmond—and ’tis a long story, too long for a minuet. But
he was the true Marquis of Esmond and—No, the story’s too long. But the
man himself—I dreamt of him as a girl. Dark, noble, with manners that
did but reflect his mind, wise but with a kind of gentle humour that
played upon the surface as sunlight upon the sea. Tender, and courteous
to all women, young or old, high upon the point of honour, brave, proud
so that none dare take a liberty with him more than with the King at his
coronation.— O Fanny—there was none like him! He went to the American
colonies—I think ’twas Virginia,—in 1715—but I treasure a little
letter I had once from him and when I think of truth and honour I think
of Colonel Esmond, who was old enough almost to be my father though I
worshipt him as a girl does and forget him never.”
Her beautiful eyes grew large and dark with thought. The minuet,—the
white and gold walls lifted and dispersed like dreams. She saw the hero
of her youth— Had he waited, had he understood, she had perhaps had a
different life. So she dreamt, foolishly and fondly as women will.
Lady Fanny’s voice recalled her.
“I saw him once,” she said. “The Carterets knew him well. But I was too
young. Duchess, in talking t’other day with Bolton I said I wished he
might find a woman with all the virtues and graces that should fill his
sore and lonely heart. Was I wrong? Do you blame me to turn an advocate
for—what shall I call it?”
“Why, Fanny,”—says her Grace, with a shining smile—“How should I blame
you? What choice has a man in Bolton’s case? Either he must take the
vile pleasures of the town, or sink into a soured loneliness, or make a
home with some woman kind and tender that will keep youth and joy green
in him. Can I trust you, Fanny—if I say something in my mind? I don’t
speak idly, as you know.”
“You can trust me. I tell you I love Bolton—and—I don’t wholly hate
your Grace!” says Lady Fanny, smiling also. She stretched her hand
behind her painted fan, and the Duchess quickly claspt and dropt it.
Little did the Duke know what those fair creatures plotted as he glanced
their way idly. How should he? But indeed like all men of his sort he
had a great faith in the sex and was very amenable to the guidance of
the good among them though he did not know this himself.
The fine couples past and re-past in their minuet, and the Duchess sunk
her voice to a thread.
“Fanny, when you came in long since with my Lord—let us say Bas—you
came very inconvenient, and I nearly tiffed with you that day. I wanted
you gone.”
“Didn’t I see it? Didn’t I go?”
“Yes, to both! I never knew you fail in tact and breeding. Well—was you
surprised that day at my company?”
“Astonished. I could make neither head nor tail of it, and still less
when I saw her on the stage as Polly. Lord, what could I think but that
’twas one of the Kitty escapades, and that her Grace was eclipsed in
Kitty for the moment?”
“Kitty’s not a bad sort neither when you know her,” says the Duchess
laughing. “At all events she has a certain method in her madness. Well,
but to return. Fanny, I bid you disengage yourself from this mob for a
moment and find your way to the library. There you shall find the woman
I destine for Bolton. And, as you love him, so I bid you treat her. Now
I can’t talk with you longer. The minuet is all but over, I trust you,
your Ladyship, and you shall be my helper if you will, though the Church
will not bless our enterprise.”
She glided off to receive a new entry of guests and Lady Fanny sat
amazed. As yet the matter was not clear in her mind. She did not know
whom to expect, nor what might be the Duchess’s intention. But the
curiosity of a true woman built on the foundation of her friendship for
Bolton and the Duchess, made every minute seem an eternity to her as she
gradually slid towards the door, dropping a word here and there to the
gay groups she past, but permitting none to detain her. Lord preserve
us! What could be the meaning?
So it came to pass that Diana, turning the leaves of her book slowly,
heard a faint sound as one great wing of the carved door opened
sufficient to admit a strange but shining lady, fair as a rose in her
pink damask gown with stiff pointed waist and cut so low as to disclose
a lovely bosom beneath a long throat with a black velvet ribbon tied
about it and loops of pearls that were less white. So singularly clear
against the dark doors, she might almost have appeared a celestial
visitant were it not that angelic beings are allowed to be less modish
in the pictures wherewith the artists favour us. Her ladyship’s beauty
was more on the sparkling order than the pensive and religious. She came
gliding up to Diana with an easiness and grace all her own, and dropt
the prettiest little curtsey;—nothing formal nor alarming, it exprest
the friendliness it intended. Diana rose and curtseyed also, smiling, as
it were, involuntary as she might at a child, a rose, a bird.
“Madam,” says the newcomer, “I am commanded by the Duchess— Lord, ’tis
Polly!”
The fine speech fluttered off into silence and Madam stood staring at
the girl, with thoughts whirling like a windmill in her head.
Bas;—this was the woman. Then she must hate her. But no! Bolton vouched
for her purity, for her terror of his pursuit. Then she should love her,
if she could forgive her unhappy attraction for him. But a slut of a
Polly—in a Newgate rabble? Then she must despise her! But a girl like a
lily—delicate and a gentlewoman, then sure she must admire her. Indeed
’twas a dance of contradictions in her head that turned Lady Fanny
herself pale for a moment as she stared at her rival. Then, masking
herself in her armour of high breeding, she sank easily into a seat,
every sense on the alert,—every glance a weapon, every smile a shield,
beneath the face that exprest a careless languor and pleasure.
Diana, fearing nothing, knowing nothing, and therefore the stronger of
the two, awaited her Ladyship’s pleasure. Sure all that came from the
Duchess must be good.
“I knew, Madam, you were staying with her Grace but did not recall it at
the moment. ’Tis indeed a distinction to meet in private the lady whom
all the town adores. But I trust I see you recovered; for in common with
all the world I knew you ailed. I hope a mere nothing.”
“Nothing, Madam. I thank your obliging concern. I hope to resume my part
tomorrow. ’Tis condescending in you to quit the company yonder to visit
me.”
There is no mistaking the tone and air of a gentlewoman. The girl
possest these and my Lady Fanny noted it half angry. How dare she bear
the mark of a class that should not be hers. And then her charming face
so delicate and pensive. My Lady had seen her more than once on the
stage, all winsome, pleading, sparkling, singing with voice angelic. She
had hated her then, had watched her with a viperish jealousy. This pale
girl in her flowing draperies did not resemble Miss Polly. ’Twas
impossible to see her in the mind’s eye with Macheath and his company.
Sure that must be a dream and this the reality.
“’Twas by her Grace’s command I came to make your acquaintance, and my
own inclination seconded it. If I speak as a friend—are you happy in
your profession? You appear very young.”
“I shall be nineteen before very long, Madam. Yes—I thank you—I am
happy, though I must own that it has disadvantages not known across the
footlights. But her Grace’s goodness has smoothed my way. She is a
wonderful lady.”
“You say true. She has a heart as great as her face is beautiful, and
knows not fear.”
“O happy!” sighs Diana, “I would I were not afraid. But her Grace
teaches me courage.”
“You have met company here?”
“Very few, Madam. Mr. Gay, Mrs. Pendarves, Lady Granville. I think no
more.”
“You have not then met his Grace the Duke of Bolton?”
You’ll allow ’twas searching, since the fair actress evaded the name.
Lady Fanny’s keen observation marked the change in her face,—a shade of
reserve—a something difficult to record in speech.
“I have had that honour, Madam.”
“He is a friend of mine also. A gentleman kind and noble in all his
thoughts. His life more melancholy than his goodness deserves.”
There was no reply, but my Lady knew she had a listener.
“You have heard the story of his marriage?”
“Save that he is married I have heard nothing, Madam.”
“A singular case. You may turn the story into a play and act in it one
day, Mrs. Fenton, but the lady concerned does not resemble you. At the
age of fourteen his Grace was contracted by his father and hers to his
distant cousin the daughter of the Earl of Carberry—a young lady of
nineteen. He had not so much as seen her, and was then at school. Two
years later he was sent to make the Grand Tour, and at the age of
eighteen was recalled to marry,—she then being twenty-three. When he
saw her he entreated his father to release him— You will not wonder if
ever you see and know her Grace. He threatened to shoot himself sooner
than marry her. At last he flatly refused. Finally my Lord Carberry
waited upon him and told him that the best years of her life were gone
waiting for him, that she was homely, had no fortune, that her only
recommendation was her relationship to the Poulet family (his Grace’s),
that, in short ’twould be her ruin if he refused her now. Can you guess
his reply?”
“Yes,—for I know the Duke,” says Diana, lifting her head, her great
eyes fixed like stars on my Lady. “He would say—‘She shall not suffer
for me.’”
“Exactly. I see you know him. He made it plain to her father that
’twould be a ceremony and no more. And so he carried the matter through
but never lived with her.”
Silence. My Lady proceeded.
“Later, when his father died ’twas known that had his Grace acted then
it would have been possible to carry a bill through the House of Lords
to dissolve the marriage. ’Twas known also that his Majesty the last
King was favourable. His Grace was warned that ’twas then or never. He
replied that the poor lady had never offended him, that she was his wife
and to cast her off would be a dastardly action. So the chance past
never to return. He has now been married sixteen years.”
Silence still. Again my Lady Fanny spoke.
“Thus he has condemned himself to a life of misery lest another should
suffer. I know not any man else who would do the like. Do you, Mrs.
Fenton?”
A voice so low as scarcely to be heard——
“Madam, I know not any man who would do the like. I did not know such a
man could be.”
No more was said on that head. My Lady Fanny drifted the talk to Mr.
Gay, to Diana’s early days, and finally rose to leave her, satisfied
that she had done her part. She said a cordial farewell and made for the
door, smiling and waving her hand as it closed upon her. The grace of
her manner was charming. Diana, who need envy none, envied that bright
and harmless glitter like summer lightning in July.
But the smile fell from my Lady’s face as she paused a minute in the
ante-room to collect herself. So that was her rival. Surely an innocent
one—surely trembling on the verge of an interest in Bolton, if not
already over it. Yet who could tell? If she could but be certain!—If
the girl were bound hand and heart to Bolton, might not Baltimore return
to his old allegiance?
Who shall blame her if in speeding the Duchess’s plot, she helped her
own cause also. She was at that time neither wholly selfish nor
unselfish, neither true nor false, half hating, half liking the girl,
swayed with every thought that crost her brain. It takes a woman and a
passionate one to be thus complicate, and ’tis impossible a man should
write her thoughts. ’Tis much if he can record her deeds.
She looked at herself in a long glass that could not flatter the
charming truth, and set a curl to advantage and re-looped the pearls.
Then, going softly through the corridor, she entered the great
drawing-room making as though to pass by Bolton at the door.
“I thought your Ladyship was gone on to the masquerade,” says he. She
smiled at him over her shoulder.
“No indeed, your Grace. ’Twas a work of charity. I sat awhile with Mrs.
Fenton in the library.”
She went lightly on. Presently he past out.