IT was in the great white and gold withdrawing room of Queensbury House
that her Grace discoursed that Sunday night to her friends and partisans
on the insult received from the King.
“Lord!” says Lady Fanny, using her fan with as much energy as had it
been a flail descending on his Majesty’s back.— “Was ever such
treatment known to one of her Grace’s rank! These little Electoral
Princes imagine they are to come over from their bear-garden in Hanover
and insult the most ancient families of England. The Stuarts, who were
at least gentlemen, whatever their shortcomings, had never attempted
such insolence.”
Indeed many of the company were at heart partisans of the exiled Royal
family, and this was received with sympathy.
“And if rank was not sufficient one might suppose her Grace’s beauty
would secure her from such boorish rudeness,”—replies the aged Sir
Temperley Harington. “But his Majesty’s taste in women is merely
lamentable. Ah, ladies, ladies—I am old enough to remember such
beauties as can only be matcht in this room. I remember the exquisite
Mrs. Stuart, later Duchess of Richmond, in black and white, her head and
shoulders glittering like a January night with diamonds, and did I not
see his Majesty King Charles the Second of blessed memory unable to take
his eyes off that enchanting vision? I was but twelve years old, but she
fixed my standard for all time. ’Twas at a ball at Whitehall. Had that
sweet lady committed high treason he would have rather crowned her head
than severed it from her charming neck.”
Lord Carteret sauntered up in his white satin coat brocaded with gold,
the plaits sticking out from his waist nearly as stiff as the
farthingale of Queen Elizabeth.
“The beautiful Mrs. Stuart did commit a sort of high treason in refusing
the King’s advances,”—says he laughing, “and were I the King it should
be at least petty treason. Yet he did but kiss the fair hand that struck
the blow. Was Lady Castlemaine as fine a woman as our grandfathers tell
us, Sir Temperley?”
“Infinitely more beautiful, my Lord. Such a haughty grace tempered with
the most seductive languor might well excuse a monarch’s subjection. Ah,
Duchess, had you committed any crime with such a King on the throne he
had but commanded you to an assignation for punishment. But the days
when a woman was truly adored have departed along with the grand manner.
Go to Hampton Court,—look upon the beauties pictured there and honour
them with a sigh.”
He himself sighed and snuffed,—a fine enamel set in brilliants of the
divine Frances Jennings adorning his snuff-box. ’Twas whispered— But
why revive ancient scandals laid in the dust with their owners?
“For my part!” cries the Duchess’s clear ringing voice;— “I desire no
monarch’s attentions, and the corpulent German lady is welcome to such
as can be spared from his German charmers. All I ask is common justice
and civility, and depend on’t Mr. Gay’s new piece shall be printed if I
pay the cost of every letter. But was ever such a simplicity as to let
‘The Beggar’s Opera’ proceed unhindered that’s as full of skits upon
them as an egg is of meat, while they crush this new piece where there’s
nothing to hurt nobody?”
“They daren’t touch it!” says Lady Fanny— “’Twould be like when the
Queen asked Sir Robert what ’twould cost to close Hyde Park to the
public. ‘A trifle, Madam. Only three crowns!’ says he. No, she won’t do
that. But what to do next, Kitty? Write another letter?”
“Not I. But one, and that a masterpiece, was my motto. No—I have
another card hid in my sleeve!”
“Lord, what’s that?”
The company crowded about her chair. She waved her fan, imperial.
“To support the Prince of Wales.”
A chorus arose—
“Lord, my dear. He’s as bad as his father and mother combined.”—“You
don’t speak seriously,” and so forth.
“I’ll have Mr. Gay introduce a new song in his favour tomorrow—’twill
drive them mad. I’ll see Polly on it this night. Lord, I forgot!” She
stopt of a sudden.
“What, Duchess?”
“Why, she’s not here. I had the prettiest note from her last night when
the chair returned without her to notify me that her mamma was took ill
at her aunt’s house and she must go to her at once.”
“The dutiful girl!” says Sir Temperley.— “I own she’s as pretty as
sweet Mistress Nell Gwynne, and a deal more innocent, if a face can be
trusted. I wish I were her aunt.”
“Aunt? She has not a relative in the world—so Mr. Gay said when I asked
him,”—says Lady Fanny.
The Duchess, bewildered, felt in the silk bag she carried on her arm.
“Since you know better than I, hear her letter.”
“_Your Grace_, your humble servant presents her duty and
ventures to inform you that my mother is come up to London very
ill at my aunt Mrs. Webster’s, and I am in duty compelled to
wait upon her. Tomorrow being Sunday I will continue with her
and hope to return to the playhouse on Monday. Your bounden and
obedient humble servant to command.—
“Lavinia Fenton.”
“’Tis dated ‘Saturday, After the Play,’ and the chairmen brought it,”
she concluded. Lady Fanny was opening her mouth to speak when the door
opened and the American Prince entered seeming pale, and disturbed, and
the company parted for him to advance to her Grace’s chair, some of the
intimates looking at him in surprise. It was now a considerable time
since he had presented himself in her presence where he had never been
courted, he guessing, as is likely, that his welcome would be on the
frosty side. She rose and dropped a curtsey now, very stately, yet with
a cold smile.
“We were speaking of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales but now, my
Lord, and in a manner to glad the ears of his faithful servant.”
This news and the smile alike astonished his American Highness. What!
The Duchess hitherto had turned her beautiful back as impartially on the
Prince of Wales as on his parents. My Lord’s quick mind reviewed the
situation. This then was the outcome of the _faux pas_ made by the Royal
party in insulting her. Her support was welcome at all times, but doubly
so when Mrs. Vane was carrying public opinion with her against the
Prince. He bowed and spoke with a becoming earnestness.
“I wish my Master were present himself to hear so charming a declaration
from such lips, Madam. Even in a position so exalted as his, her Grace
of Queensbury’s approbation must be prized. A Prince of Wales must needs
be dumb on many matters he may himself disapprove, but those who know
him best know that his Royal Highness’s sympathies are ever on the side
of justice and merit.”
A whispering flutter ran through the company. Was this the signing of a
new protocol they witnessed? All heads turned to the Duchess. She looked
my Lord Baltimore in the face.
“Not even the most exalted position can save its owner from misjudgment.
But all must be judged by deeds, not words. At least ’tis thus I act.”
So! It was to be a waiting policy! Sir Temperley and other ancients drew
a relieved breath. My Lord Baltimore drew closer to the Duchess.
“Madam, may I beg your Grace for an audience of a few minutes on a
matter entirely private? It is quite apart from any public matter, I
dare assure your company in asking their pardon for withdrawing you a
moment.”
He gave her his hand to the ante-room, and to the recess at the further
end. The courtier in him was still predominant for the first moment.
“If, Madam, I may convey to my Master what you have said, ’twill be a
sensible pleasure to his Royal Highness.— I venture to assure you of
his sympathy with Mr. Gay’s genius and his horror at the insult put upon
your Grace. He spoke of it last night so as I wish you could have been
present to hear.”
She drew back a little, but not ungraciously.
“I thought the business had been private, my Lord.”
“Undoubtedly, Madam—but yet——”
“There can be no objection to your conveying my humble duty to his Royal
Highness. There is not one of the King’s subjects but should present his
duty!”
Her smile however made the message particular and the courtier was
content. He proceeded to the next item, but this time with a very
different manner. Watching him closely she could perceive that his hand
on the back of the chair shook a little. He might have laid it there to
steady it.
“Madam, I appeal to you now as the kind protectress of Mrs. Lavinia
Fenton. There’s a rumour in the town today that she did not return to
Queensbury House last night. That—in short—that the lady has been
abducted or has eloped. (Suddenly his voice broke and quivered. He
looked at her entreating)—Madam, I am very uneasy, dare I beg any
information you have?”
The Duchess gazed at him in astonishment. Never had she seen the
American Prince moved one inch before from his haughty or languid
composure. She might have pitied him but for her knowledge of Diana’s
mind and his persecution of an innocent girl. She laughed coldly.
“Reassure yourself, my Lord. Mrs. Fenton writ me fully. She is in
excellent hands—her mother and her aunt. Shall we return to the
company?”
“But Madam—Madam!” he almost caught her robe as she turned—“Are you
certain your information came from her? May I see the billet? I know her
hand well——”
“And how?” asked the Duchess, stepping back and fixing him with her
eyes.
“Because she has wrote often to me. Because she is mine—heart and body.
Therefore you will conceive my terror to hear——”
“I don’t believe it. You lie,” she said, and there was a dead silence.
What shall a man do when a lady and such a lady insults him with a word
that only blood can wash out? His habitual composure stood him in good
stead. White to the lips he faced her.
“It is a cowardice peculiar to your sex, Madam, to insult a man who can
make neither return nor defence. I pass that by, however, until you
shall appoint your champion. I assert that Mrs. Fenton is my mistress,
and on that ground, request you to tell me what you know.”
’Twas a bold throw. If he could alienate her friends—if he could leave
her no refuge but himself, might not the terrified bird fly to his
breast—her only refuge? And what matter’s a player’s reputation? She
has none—’tis but a jest to laugh at. Who can destroy what has no
existence?
The Duchess, now as cool as he, considered a little before replying.
“My Lord, I make no apology for my candour for I still believe you lie
and partly see your motive, nor shall I show you the letter, neither.
She’s with her friends and will return tomorrow.”
“This is Sunday and so a difficult day,” cried he, “but I beseech you,
Madam to hear me, even if you distrust me. ’Tis said all about Portugal
Street and the neighbourhood that Mrs. Fenton entered her chair as usual
after the play, and was carried off.”
“She never did!” says the Duchess stoutly. “I have it here under her
hand. She left a billet and my chairmen brought this with them instead
of the lady. ’Tis all perfectly simple.”
“Not so, Madam—not so!” he cried, almost distracted,—“for ’tis said
she was only gone a few minutes when another chair exactly like the
first came up, for which a man waited. He gave a letter to the chairmen
and they went off as they came. ’Twas a trap—a feint to catch the poor
innocent. Whose was that first chair?”
“Her mother’s, man! Whose else!” The Duchess was growing impatient. She
turned towards the door.
“Would her mother’s chair be lined with red velvet and bear your Grace’s
arms?”—says he with fearful earnestness. “Why were there two chairs? We
trifle with precious time and more than her life may be at stake. I must
see that letter, Madam, if I force it from you.”
“I dare you to touch me,”—she said tossing up her head. “Stand back. I
believe ’tis all some vile plot of your own against the girl’s honour.
Leave my house and——”
The further door opened. A gentleman entered carelessly, looking about
him and not for a moment seeing the two in the recess.
The Duchess sprang forward with a cry.
“Bolton—Bolton! Come hither. This man insults me. He would snatch a
letter— You were never more welcome than now.”
He drew his sword instantly and stood lightly leaning on it—the lady
beside him.
“Give the word, Madam,” he said, “and I strike.”
But Lord Baltimore did not draw. He was raging, helpless before the
pair, the victim of a dreadful anxiety that left him unable to resent
what at another moment had sent him flashing against his former friend.
“Afterwards—afterwards!” he said fiercely—“I’ll meet you anywhere. Was
I ever backward? But now— If the girl is to be saved, show me the
letter. Delay is madness.”
The Duke turned calm eyes on the lady.
“What does he mean, Madam?”
“’Tis some mad tale about Diana,” she replied angrily, “and nonsense
from beginning to end. He will have it she’s carried off—I know not
what all! Whereas I have it under her own hand, she’s with her mother
and aunt.”
“May I see this letter?” The quiet voice fell like cold water on her hot
anger and the man’s. She took it instantly from the bag and laid it in
his hand. He read it, Baltimore trembling like a leashed dog in his
eagerness.
“I don’t like the letter,”—said the Duke—“the wording is suspicious
and she names no house. And I have it from Mrs. Fenton’s own lips that
her mother is her sole living dependence. Who is this aunt? Why do we
hear of her for the first time? Have the goodness, my Lord, to repeat
your story.”
He told it rapidly, but more fully than to the lady. It is easier to
deal with a man and he therefore told it better. She stared at him with
widened eyes as he finished.
“The matter is serious,” said Bolton, and stood looking on the ground
considering.
“I might have believed him”—she cried,—“but that he lied in one
particular and so may have lied in all! He asserted the girl is his
mistress! A palpable lie.”
“A palpable lie,” repeated the man beside her. “My Lord, I repeat her
Grace’s charge. You have lied.”
“I shall know how to defend my honour later,” said Baltimore—a red
fever-spot on either white cheek—“but now—I live, I breathe but to
find the girl. Let us be enemies, but at this moment, man, help me to
save her that is got into some villain’s hands. Madam, will you not
retire? This is a matter for men.”
Bolton’s eye seconded him. She curtseyed, and as the Duke held the door
open for her she whispered low:
“Beware lest it be a trap of his own. Tell me all that passes.”
They were alone, the Duke still leaning on his sword.
“I will be frank. I don’t trust you. I know your pursuit of this poor
woman to be most unmanly. It hath drove her almost to despair. Why
should I believe a word you utter?”
“For her sake!” says Baltimore, raging yet subdued by this freezing
contempt. He paused a moment—then added. “But I was a fool to come
here. I don’t want your help—yours least of all. I go my way and act as
I can. My seconds shall meet yours later.”
He made for the door, but the Duke was still beside him.
“We will go together,”—he said, and the two went down the great
staircase, the grooms of the chambers and lacqueys staring after them,
for there was a something strange and ominous in their looks and
companionship that tinged the air with doubt.
In the street, the Duke halted.
“Your plan?” he asked.
“I know not—how should I? It’s Sunday, curse it! Where does Rich go
Sundays? The playhouse is shut. ’Tis impossible to find a soul.”
“Whence then the rumour you heard?”
“My man brought it from Portugal Street.”
“Then we go there.”
In Portugal Street, the Sunday leisure set free groups of persons,
slatternly women and half drunken men to talk over all the news of the
day and of all the items the story of the last night was the most
favoured. Under the stinking oil lamps, along the gutters, about the
dirty cobble-stones the rumours, amplified now beyond recognition, flew
to and fro.
Polly was muffled and forced into the chair. She had waved her hand for
help. A man with his collar pulled up about his face was guessed to be
Sir Charles Jermyn that had long loitered about her. So it raged on, and
both men knew that ’twas all false and this but wasting precious time.
“Who shall say she did not go by her own choice?” mutters Baltimore at
last—almost under his breath as if it was wrung out of him, as they
stood by the corner to consider.
“If your Lordship had won her, yourself could answer that question,”
said the Duke. “She is no wanton.”
“The Devil knows what a woman may be.” Again he fell silent. Bolton
turned from him to a little group of women clustered at a door.
“You all know Mrs. Fenton!”
“Why yes, your Worship. God bless her pretty face. We see her come and
go daily.”
“Do you also know Mrs. Bishop?”
“Why yes, your Worship. . . . Why not? We see her as often.”
“Where is her lodging?”
“Turn up the corner, your Honour. Trenton Street, forty-five.”
The Duke walked briskly off—Lord Baltimore hesitating an instant, then
followed him. The lady in a wrapper and cap that had seen more
coquettish days herself opened the door and received the salutations of
the gentlemen with the utmost astonishment.
“You see me very unprepared for company, my Lords,” says she curtseying
and holding the door so as to bar entrance. “What’s your pleasure?”
“A word with you, Madam,” replies the Duke sternly. “We will follow you
to your room if you will be so obliging as lead the way.”
She hung on her foot a moment as if demurring, and glanced doubtfully at
Baltimore. His face was a shut door, and seeing no help, she turned and
preceded them.
The room indeed was little fit for such courtly company. Not, as I have
said, that ’twas in itself despicable, but her belongings were littered
about in most admired disorder. She must drag a satin manteau off one
chair and a sprigged gown of handsome stuff from another before she
could request them to be seated. They however preferring to stand, she
begged to know their business, perplexed beyond measure to see them in
company and striving to guess her course from Baltimore’s face so
resolutely turned away.
“My business is simple enough,” says the Duke. “Be so good, Madam, as
tell me what you know of Mrs. Fenton’s departure from the playhouse,
last night.”
“I, your Grace? Nothing. What should I know? I would have you remember I
was discharged by Mr. Rich upon some dislike Mrs. Fenton took to me. I
thought it unjust, I own. I don’t love the lady, to be plain with you.
But what’s come to her?”
“There is a doubt as to her present situation. You will be handsomely
paid for any light you may throw upon it.”
“Money? Take your money elsewhere, your Grace. And if you want news of
Mrs. Fenton, there’s one man can give it you better than any. He stands
beside you.” She pointed, like an actress, a tragedy finger at
Baltimore. Sure a man of his reputation with women could easy enough
stand a charge that would but add to his dazzle in the town. She little
thought how she served his turn however by the assertion. He stepped
forward instantly.
“My Lord Duke, this woman knows what she says. I am the man that has the
best right to Mrs. Fenton’s whereabouts. All the playhouse knows this.
But I am at sea— She is robbed from me, on the very eve of her placing
herself openly under my protection. For God’s sake, Mrs. Bishop, be open
if you have aught to tell.”
’Twas partly real, partly acting. She saw her chance to wound and sprang
at it.
“I will be open my Lord. ’Tis true she was your Polly. Your Polly, but
other men’s Polly also. And I can only suppose that she’s now gone off
with one of them. Yet ’tis possible she may take up with you again one
day if you’re prepared to share your interest in her with others.”
“She knows nothing!” cried Baltimore. “’Tis but her malicious anger.”
The Duke looked at him in silence, then left the room and strode down
the stair, leaving the pair together. For the first time he recalled the
connection between them.