DIANA still bound by the Duchess’s command sat where my Lady Fanny left
her, her mind full of what had passed. So that was the story. ’Twas a
chivalrous one to take a girl’s fancy, it must be owned, and none the
less if her fancy were already engaged by his chivalry to her. How he
must suffer? Can such a woman hear of suffering without the desire to
soothe it? She might well estimate the consolation of rank, wealth,
health, youth at too low a worth in considering the trouble that
obscured them all. But what indeed could she guess of a life that moved
on an orbit so high above her own? This, she told herself and though her
mind asserted it, her heart denied it, saying—“You comprehend him. And
he you.”
And even as she thought thus, he stood beside her. The door had unclosed
so softly that she did not hear aught, nor yet the light step on the
velvet piled carpet. She turned suddenly and her heart’s sensibility
rushed in a betraying wave of crimson to her pale face. But this he did
not see.
She, woman-like, saw everything; his manly courageous bearing, his head
held high, the splendour of dress, and the blue ribbon that crost his
breast and exprest royal favour. It almost made her heart to die within
her, so far apart it set him. What, save in the way of dishonour, could
so great a prince have to do with a girl whose profession was the next
thing to a woman of the town’s,—to act, to simper, to win, attract and
simulate. Perhaps, she thought with bitterness, that was why nearly all
of them went the way they did—the step between the two being so narrow.
He bowed as he might to her Grace.
“Do I see Mrs. Fenton better? And may I have the happiness to call her
by her true name, and hope that Mrs. Beswick’s her charming self again?
The Duchess has been in great concern and Mr. Gay well-nigh distracted.
Not to speak of the whole town bereft of its idol.”
“My Lord Duke, I thank your Grace, I am quite recovered. Tomorrow I
return to my part. I would that you or any one could tell me how to
express to her Grace my grateful heart for her unending goodness.’
“She is very little known even in her own world,” says the Duke, leaning
against the table, “for she is called cold, variable, proud, whereas I
have never known her forget a friend or weary in a kindness. But I think
in your case, Madam, it came very natural to her. This, however, is not
what I would say. Mr. Gay hath brought a rumour from the playhouse that
hath seriously disquieted him and all your friends. May I name it?”
She fluttered and bowed, pressing her handkerchief against her lips.
Could it be of Lord Baltimore?
“Madam, the report is—but Mr. Rich said he knew nothing of it—that in
a storm of jealousy the woman Bishop who plays Lucy hocussed your wine,
and that you had an escape of your life. Certainly her dismissal gives
some colour to this.”
“Sir, I don’t know!” cries Diana eagerly.— “But sure it can’t be
possible. I know her to be jealous of my success, but that’s a poor
reason for murdering a woman, and she has no other.”
“Has she not?” he said, looking gravely down upon her. “You walk in the
midst of perils and see them not. Mrs. Bishop has a reason far deeper
than the one you name, and though I can’t tell, I imagine this is why
Mr. Rich hath dismist her. Be open with me, Mrs. Fenton. I am your
friend.”
“I know it—don’t I rejoice in it? But I know nothing more. I think—I
believe the wine was tampered with, but am not certain and may do her a
fearful injustice. Mr. Rich tells me she left on a better proposal. And
I know of no reason whatever for her hate.”
There was a long hush, Bolton debating within himself whether he should
or should not enlighten her ignorance. Would she walk the safer for the
knowledge? At last, with a sigh, he broke the silence.
“Mrs. Beswick, I would you were done with the playhouse. You have won
your laurels—I would you could rest on them. ’Tis no place for you. Do
you love it very dearly?”
“I hate it!” she cries, with tears. “But what shall I do? ’Tis my
living, and not only so but ’tis as natural to me to sing as to speak.—
And further, her Grace and Mr. Gay talk of nothing but the new ‘Polly’
and my part in it, and how could I forsake them?”
“Will you permit a word of counsel from one who is your friend?”
“O most willingly and gratefully. I have none to counsel me in all the
wide world. I have not a relation but my mother and she not in London
now.”
“Then, Mrs. Beswick, it can’t but be that you have many offers of
marriage. I hear of hearts by the dozen at your feet. I counsel you to
take some good man for a husband and leave the stage for those who have
a very different inclination from yours.”
It stung her unbearably—somehow ’twas the last thing she expected. He
was now pacing up and down, as if restless and disturbed, and as he came
near her again in his turn, she commanded her voice sufficiently to
answer:
“Sir, shall I tell you how many offers of marriage I have had? Not one.
The other offers are beyond reckoning, but of these I need not speak.
What then shall I do?”
He stood still, looking upon her in a kind of amaze.
“What—so much beauty and sweetness of mind and body, and not one to
claim it for his own? My God, what are we men come to! Is’t credible!”
“It is true. I might marry a man below me possibly,—but I was born a
gentlewoman. The men above me, or my equals, will not marry me.”
He took a few more turns, looking down. Then turned again.
“Child, I can’t express the pity and interest I feel in you. ’Tis beyond
words. You know me a friend. May I act as one?”
“If in any way possible to me I thank your Grace with a full heart.”
“Thus then it is. I am a rich man—even burdened by possessions. If you
would prove to me that friendship is possible between man and woman,
permit me to place a yearly sum at your disposal, and to persuade you to
leave this business that will be your misery and ruin. None but you and
me shall know the matter. Let me do it as for my sister.”
She looked up at him with a sweet kindness of gratitude, that expressed
itself very sensibly in her face.
“Your Grace, ’tis very like yourself to propose this, and if I could
accept it from any ’twould be from you. But I can’t. What would the
world say to see me living in comfort and not a stroke of work to show
for it? My character would be sunk beyond hope. I thank you deeply, but
must refuse.”
He broke out into a kind of passion.
“Then I won’t rest night or day but I will think of a way. Curse me, if
I don’t! What, shall a man see a woman’s life spoilt—a woman too he
honours and—regards, and stand by idle? I say no more now. I bide my
time. Madam, you are all sweetness and goodness. You know not what is in
my heart. You know not——”
He stopt as if distracted, looking at her. Then turned swiftly and went
away, passing the Duchess at the door as though he saw her not. Her
quick eyes observed, her quick brain drew its own conclusion as she
closed the door behind her.
“Come, Mrs. Di, I was detained, and you should have been asleep long ere
this. You have had visitors, child?”
“Two, your Grace.” Diana furtively dashed the tears from her eyes. “May
I ask who was the lovely lady that came on your command and spoke so
kind.
“My Lady Fanny Armine—a beauty and toast; she is an old friend of mine,
if so young a beauty may be called old in any sense. I would have you
believe her a friend. She is to be trusted. And now to bed. Your work
begins tomorrow and you must wake fresh as a lark.”
She went obedient, and the fair Kitty returned to her guests, and was
the shining centre of them all. His Grace of Bolton had slipt away, and
my Lady Fanny in bidding her farewell whispered:
“Kitty, I’m with you heart and soul. The girl is as fresh and honest as
a lily in a cottage garden. May the plot prosper! Do we do right or
wrong? I declare I can’t tell which, but will follow where you lead.”
“We do wrong—very wrong in the letter of the law,” the tall Duchess
answered, looking down upon her, “but considering each so
friendless—she by her profession and her nature, Bolton by his most
miserable marriage, I think we may take what guilt there is on our
shoulders if we throw them together. The world has a hard name for what
we do, but I value not the world’s judgment. Good-night, Fanny, and
sleep with an easy conscience.”
My Lady Fanny did not however sleep as well as could be wished. Her
heart was away with one who had forgot her. Her thoughts worked
restlessly, considering whether if deprived of his idol he might not
turn again to her. She could not force herself to believe her image so
utterly effaced—what woman can credit that she who once was All is now
nothing?
* * * * *
Mrs. Bishop, in her lodging in Soho could scarce believe it neither.
Since we are privileged to look into her mind and read in that chaste
book it may be said that she had no notion to murder her rival, but
merely to cause her such suffering as might perhaps injure her voice and
disable her for her part during the rest of the run which sure could not
be so far distant,—the success already having out-reached all
expectation. Therefore none was more alarmed than this lady when Diana
fainted and fell so sudden on the drinking. She had not observed her to
be ailing already, or had deferred the experiment.
Now she sat, sullen, raging inwardly in such a room as may be seen in
Mr. Hogarth’s earlier pictures of the Harlot’s Progress. ’Twas not
beautiful nor desirable, yet well enough if the lady had brought content
to it. She did not, however; her mind was all of a turmoil, and on the
money side as well as the sentimental. For having lost her engagement
with Mr. Rich she could not for the life of her tell how to procure
another. He must of course be aware that the Lucy who succeeded her
played the part very flat in comparison with herself. Perhaps she had
not the spite, rage and jealousy to wing her words which seethed in Mrs.
Bishop’s bosom, but the town did not taste her so well and Mr. Rich knew
it. Mr. Gay also. But yet she was dismist, and must stomach the
knowledge that they could do without her.
The rain was falling outside in a muddy blur of London weather, and the
women, between a mixture of gay and slatternly, that filled the
neighbourhood, were hurrying home with draggled tails, when she heard a
manly step outside her door, and a resounding knock.
“Come in!” she cries shrilly, adjusting her cap in the glass, and
kicking a tawdry petticoat under the table with one swift motion.
“How can I when the door’s locked?” cries a masculine voice outside.
“Are you besieged, Mrs. Bishop, that you bolt yourself in?”
She guessed the voice and ran to the door, knowing it meant news like a
cup of water to her thirsty soul, and throwing it wide, Macheath
himself, Mr. Walker, marched in, a little ripe in liquor.
“A sight for sore eyes,” cries she overjoyed, “come hither by the fire.
The chair isn’t damask but ’tis comfortable. And now stay!—the kettle
boils. I have a drop of right usquebaugh, and a hot cup of comfort will
do my Mr. Walker good this dreary weather.”
She bustled about as she spoke, and he stretched out his long legs
watching her. She was a handsome buxom woman, and it pleased him to see
her minister to his comfort and her own, for she filled two glasses and
they steamed very pleasant in the glow of the fire. She put a cushion
behind his head and spared nothing to please him, not even drawing back
when he cried:
“How many thousand of stage kisses have I not had from my Lucy? Why not
one for friendship’s sake and to sweeten the glass?”
He flung a careless arm about her and she bestowed the kiss laughing,
then pulled up a lower chair beside the one where the Sultan sat
enthroned.
“Well—how goes all at the playhouse, Macheath? Am I missed?”
“Why, yes,” says he stirring his glass, “Mrs. Parker is as flat as a
flounder. I don’t say but what she has her merits in other parts. I have
known her a passable Cherry, a decent Lucy in “The Recruiting Officer,”
and she wasn’t a contemptible Parley. But Polly escapes her. Instead of
glaring at my bride as though she could tear her limbless on the spot,
she simpers and pouts at her.— No, ’twon’t do by any means, and Rich
knows it as well as I.”
“What? Has he said anything?”
“Nothing. But don’t we know our Rich? He looks at her furiously
sometimes, then holds his tongue as if afraid to go too far and leave
himself without even e’er a Lucy at all. That won’t do neither, you
know, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Would he be glad to see me back, think you?”
“Why, yes and no. I should judge that Miss Polly doesn’t like you,
saving your presence, and Miss Polly’s word is law in the playhouse, and
so it ought! You won’t come back while she’s there, Madam.”
“And I know,” says Mrs. Bishop sadly, “that yourself values her as high
as Mr. Rich. Alas! I have no one to take my part.”
“’Tis known to all the world that I love Mrs. Fenton, on this side
marriage however, as much as any man may! ’Tis the sweetest, softest,
most delicate little beauty that ever nestled up to a man on the stage.
No offence to you, Mrs. Bishop. I don’t undervalue your fine eyes, and
if you’ve another kiss to bestow ’tis as welcome here as flowers in
May.”
’Twas bestowed and gallantly received.
“Let us toast your inamorata!” says the lady raising her glass. “Here’s
to the beauteous Mrs. Fenton and her success. But why won’t you marry
her, Mr. Walker? Sure no woman could despise a man whose handsome leg
bears out his handsome face, and with a voice to charm the bird off a
bough. Indeed I’ve seen Mrs. Fenton look at you so soft, so
languishing——”
“Have you so? But alas! ’twas all in the part. I value not languishing
looks that are shown off to the public for a weekly salary.”
“No—no. But off the stage. In private.”
“Well, ’tis more than I’ve seen myself, and her words are as nipping as
a January day.”
“You’re too modest,” says the lady. “You underestimate your person and
qualities. Why not marry her?”
“Because— Have you another glass of the stuff, my dear? ’Tis main good,
and goes like fire through the veins. I thank you. Well, because—I’m
married already.”
“Gemini! You astound me. And when, where, and how?”
“Years since when I was playing in Durham. I won’t have her trouble me,
and she keeps away—but here am I,—noosed, hanged, done for. Were’t not
for that curst blunder I might marry a fortune.”
Mrs. Bishop mused a little on this bit of news. ’Twas to be considered
how it might affect her views. He continued:
“If ’twere not so I had offered myself long since to the lady. Indeed
she has a melting eye.”
“For Mr. Walker. Not for another,” corrected Mrs. Bishop. “I speak by
the book, for I heard her tell Mr. Rich you was the perfect lover.”
“Others have thought so also.” Again he stirred his glass reflective,
and threw up his head, expanding his manly bosom.
“If I was a man——,” says the lady, and pauses.
“If you was, my dear, Sir Harry Wildair’s self would fall behind you.”
She laughed coquettishly—
“Well, I should at least know this, that a woman likes to be forced to
compliance with her adorer when she’s too mock-modest to speak for
herself. You knew that once too, Macheath?”
“There’s very little I don’t know about your sweet sex, Madam. Yes, I
know that. And what then?”
She drew her chair nearer, and leaning on the arm of his whispered in
his ear. He listened, his face changing from curiosity, to doubt, to
pleasure, to surprise—as the whisper went on. Then she drew back and
looked at him.
“’Twould suit us both. Putting her beauty aside and I own her a pretty
girl, her voice is a fortune to the man that owns her. ’Tis to make your
future at a bound.”
Macheath stared at her suspiciously.
“You don’t propose this for nothing, I dare swear. Where’s your gain in
it? I won’t play any woman’s game blindfolded!”
“You don’t need to play mine. What I want is to get back to my part. I
was making my name in Lucy and I like ruin as little as any woman. And
if you can help me back and help yourself in doing it I’d as soon ’twas
Macheath as another. I’ve a kindness for you. We’ve been comrades for
many a day.”
He filled his glass again absently, drawing near the sentimental stage
in his cups. ’Twas a big fool of a man at best, born to be a woman’s
tool one way or another, and was besides in the melting mood.
“You think ’tis as easy as you say?”
“Easy as roasting eggs. And once she’s yours she’s the kind that will be
all tears and kisses and obedience. She’ll never look at another man, I
promise you.”
“Why then, my dearest, kindest of friends, ’tis worth doing, and I’m all
but ashamed when I think how little you ask for yourself from the
venture.”
“Little!” says she, tossing her head. “I can tell you I value it high
enough, Sir. It may be to reach the top of the tree if I get back now to
the cast. And when you bring Miss Polly back all yours I’ll warrant
she’ll thank me so sweetly for her handsome man that we’ll live like two
birds in one nest. Moreover, as you know well, Mr. Gay has another piece
in hand. We stand to win or lose a prize indeed.”
They talked long, compounding their plan, and she plied him with glass
upon glass within the limit of safety, for his part was to be
considered, and if a man’s too maudlin the public objects. But when he
left, tramping down the stair and whistling “Let us take the road,” a
pretty plot was hatcht between them. She could have wished a better
instrument, knowing there was more swagger than strength about Macheath,
but when a poor woman can’t find what she would, she takes what she may,
and there an end!
And when he was gone she sat awhile looking darkly in the fire,
revolving matters that fell outside the knowledge she intended him. If
my Lord Baltimore knew the girl unworthy—the self-chosen mistress of a
man like Walker— Well, hearts have been caught on the rebound ere
now,—and if the plot failed she could sell Macheath without mercy to
his vengeance, and take the reward due to a guardian angel of injured
innocence. If it succeeded ’twas very possible it might lead to Polly’s
dismissal with her Macheath. Good it could not do her. But in either
case Mrs. Bishop saw the road lie open before her to the playhouse. A
woman does not play in the plotting comedies of Wycherley, Vanbrugh and
their like without learning a little contrivance at a pinch.
When the time came, she went out and lurked about in the rain to see
Polly’s departure after the play. She noted the Duchess’s fine chair
draw up for her, the chairmen wiping their lips with their sleeves as
they came from the neighbouring pot-house where they waited.
She saw my Lord Baltimore stand in the doorway, his hat slouched forward
and his cloak thrown about him. She saw Polly pass him with head
averted.
And each item that she saw, she fixed in a mind wax to receive and
marble to retain.