WHEN Diana left the playhouse on the Saturday, a heavy rain was falling
through the grimy dark, and she muffled her head in her hood and stepped
swiftly from the door into the chair, her little feet splashing in the
puddled ill-lit gutter, the flambeaux dazzling in the rain. The men
lowered the roof instantly and shut the door and set off at a swinging
trot, eager no doubt to have done with the dirty night.
Her thoughts were strangely intermingled—the songs and laughter of the
playhouse still echoed among them, the gay kindness of the good Duchess,
the words of my Lady Fanny,—(“’Twas strange she should tell me, of all
women, that story of his Grace’s marriage.”)—all these things mixt with
a deep content that my Lord Baltimore had been absent this night and
indeed many nights lately. ’Twas like a cool lotion to allay a
burn—this absence! Sure it might mean he was weary of a pursuit that
could bring only rebuffs and contempt, and if so she could deal with
others, less to be dreaded.
The play had now been playing two months to crowded houses and still
there was no slackening in the rage to see it. Money was turned away
nightly, and the rows of chairs on the stage were three deep and some of
the boxes run into each other to make more room. ’Twas raging like a
fever in the provinces also and a whole regiment of pretty Pollys had
sprung up to follow her lead, but none, none like the fair original, so
swore men and women alike. A triumph to turn any girl’s head, and since
the idol was but a girl, when all’s said and done, it might easily turn
hers were it not for a stronger passion than vanity that swept over it
and submerged it and left it forgotten.
Love. What was it to be the adored of the town when the one man on whom
her own eyes waited knew her very triumph to involve disgrace?
Supposing, even supposing, that her birth equalled his own, that he were
less than a great Peer of England and she more than a poor lieutenant’s
daughter, supposing she were lovely as the fabled Helen, with all the
enchantments of Circe added, how could this or aught else rub out the
blot that she was but a puppet at whom every rake might stare and form
his loose conjectures? True, noblemen as great had condescended to the
stage for their pleasures, but that served her nothing. There was a
something in her heart that told her the man’s respect for her girlhood
would close that door for ever, nor could she wish it otherwise. While,
as for anything more, she trembled with shame that even a regret for a
thing so impossible should cross her mind. O that she had never seen him
but eyeing her on the stage with cold admiration as she played her
Newgate part to the life. Alas for the Duchess’s mistaken favour that
had taken her from her own humble sphere and set her in one in which
however her own heart made her native, her circumstances made her but a
tolerated intruder.
So far reason carried her, and then her thoughts were words no
longer—but dreams, longings, griefs. Longings for a voice best forgot,
for a face—better she had never seen it; for a friend high, gracious,
endearing, that made all others as nothing to her and to whom she
herself could be nothing but a passing thought. ’Tis the man should look
up, not the woman. Before marriage, at least, hers is the throne, but
here was this beggar-maid kneeling on the lowest step, her face hidden
in her hands for shame, whilst King Cophetua gazed beyond her into
regions she must never know.
And he himself so comfortless! There lay the sharpest sting. Suppose she
could change places with the shining and lovely lady who had talked with
her so condescending—Were she the Lady Fanny Armine—yet
herself!—might there be more than a few words of praise? So in
imagination she saw the proud eyes soften, the stern mouth relax,—the
high courtesy break into the wonderment of passion. His arms—his
lips—.
Thus lost in dreams unspeakable she past along the rainy streets, and
never heeded how the time went by. At last the chair drew up. The men at
the house must have forgot the flambeaux—so dark it was as she looked
forth. The roof was raised and, sudden, a cloth soft and blinding fell
over her head, and strong hands pulled it about her throat. In the
dreadful surprise and alarm she screamed aloud, but the wild cry was
muffled in her mouth and herself could more feel than hear it. Her hands
were grasped in two strong ones and a man dragged her from the chair.
There was a whispering, and then a door opened and in the darkness and
terror she knew she was lifted into a house and the door shut behind
them.
On the stage a girl must have swooned in such a terror. In life, her
heart beat to burst her bosom, her body shook as with an ague, but she
kept her wits, clung to them as a drowning sailor, that has but the one
frail spar betwixt him and an eternity of horror, clings to the floating
hope.
Stairs, and heavy feet of men who carried her, and now, stopping, they
released her hands a moment, then bound the wrists together, making her
captive indeed. Another door opened and she was laid on a sofa, still
blinded, and heard renewed whispering and the chink of money and then
retreating steps and the creaking staircase. Was it to be murder? She
wore about her neck the Duchess’s miniature set in pearl. But no—no!
She knew a deeper dread; should she faint, she must be utterly at his
mercy?—God forbid! She gathered every wavering sense into her agonized
heart and waited.
Hands loosed the wrappage about her head, and a dim light dazzled her a
moment till she put her arm before her eyes. It was certainly my Lord
Baltimore she thought to see, but no—a tall man of handsome person
stood with his back to her, wrapping a bandage about his own wrist as
though ’twas wounded. He turned—and a faint cry broke from her
lips—Macheath—Walker! And by the fire a woman.
Her first thought was hope. For my Lord Baltimore she had nothing but
deadly terror—the white mask of his face a language she could not read.
But this man she saw daily, had laughed, had jested with him, half
ridiculed his passion as a foolish calf-love that a girl may rally a
little if she notice it at all. She slid her feet over the edge of the
sofa, her mind clear as a dagger’s point at once.
“Mr. Walker!” says she—“You’ve rescued me, and are wounded in my
defence. Loose my hands instantly that I may help my deliverer.”
“Your deliverer indeed, my angel,” says Walker, turning very red and
walking up to her. “Haven’t I seen you persecuted night after night by
that fop that would drag you in the mud for his own pleasure, and could
a true lover like myself endure to stand by and do nothing? Not I! Here
stands one that offers you his love and no dishonour with it.—There’s a
parson below will marry us in a twinkling, and I hope I’m a man can
protect his own wife from Baltimore or any other scented essence in the
town. I’ll unbind your hands, my life, the minute I have your word to
give me them for good.”
She stared up at him incredulous. The woman had not turned nor spoke and
her capuchin was about her.
“Sir, you’re drunk or mad!” cries Diana with spirit. “What have I ever
said or done to encourage you to such an insult! I despised you always.”
“Your sweet eyes—your sweeter lips, Madam, are my best excuse”—says
the outraged lover. “They spoke more handsomely than your tongue. And if
you did despise me you take a foolish time to tell me so, for here
you’re in my power. But sure I know my Polly’s little coquettish ways
and take your pretty contempt for a lure the more.”
He approached a step nearer.
“Madam—Madam!” screams Diana—shrinking back—“You’ve a woman’s heart.
You won’t see a poor girl terrified to death. Help me, unbind my hands!
O, Madam.”
The woman by the fire turned slowly with gleaming eyes. Mrs. Bishop.
Then indeed for a moment the victim knew despair for there was that in
the woman’s face to make her tremble. Hatred, fury—every violent
passion might have been depicted from her silent look and clenched
hands. But not a word did she speak, and was the more dreadful.
“Hold your noise!” cries Macheath, very fierce and flushed with anger.
“You do but hurt your own cause. ’Tis for me to command and you to obey
and this lady is here for a witness. Hear then my purpose——”
There was a little of the playhouse rant about him as he stepped back
and flung out his fine chest with the true highwayman’s air. He was fool
enough to relish his part in the acting.
“’Tis my purpose to wed you immediately, Mrs. Fenton, and many an actor
has played lover to his own wife on the boards, and ’tis that I intend.
There’s money and love and joy in the future I offer you and many a fine
lady would leap at the chance. ’Tis perhaps unknown to you the love
letters I have by the score from handsome heiresses that know a man when
they see him. I wager yourself has not so many.”
“Stow all this talk,” says Mrs. Bishop, sharply. “Can’t you see, man,
what she needs is the whip not the honeycomb? She’s in love with my Lord
Baltimore. Is she likely to accept to be an honest man’s wife when she
can be a peer’s Miss? and rob a better woman than herself!”
“Baltimore!” Diana could scarce articulate, so terrible was the woman.
“Mrs. Bishop, you are most frightfully mistook. I loathe the man. His
mere presence oppresses me. Is it possible— O how blind I have been!
Yourself loves him? Then take him, and I’ll bless the day that rids me
of a man I hate.”
She could not clasp her hands but stretched them forth beseechingly. How
came it she had never seen nor suspected the true cause of the woman’s
jealousy? O blind that she had been! She saw Mrs. Bishop far more to be
feared than the weak handsome fool that swaggered so big and loud before
them. Her one aim must be to convince her. The man was the lesser
danger.
“Mrs. Bishop—did I ever say an unkind word or look a hard look at you?
How have I deserved this? Only—I see—because you was under a frightful
mistake. I swear to you that my best hope is never to see my Lord
Baltimore again. If he is pledged to you—but indeed that concerns me
not, only rid me of him and I’ll bless you.”
“We’ll rid you of him effectively, Madam,” interrupts Macheath, very
gloomily. “He won’t interfere with Mrs. Walker, I swear!” But Diana did
not heed him. She dragged herself to her feet and faced Mrs. Bishop.
“Madam, I now perceive I have stood in your light in more ways than one.
For my Lord, be assured there’s no effort of yours I won’t second to
escape him. For the stage—I’m sick of it. ’Tis no place for me. I’ll
throw up my part tomorrow, and earn my bread in any way that gives me
peace. I swear it.”
“Can you give me back my Lord’s heart? Can you undo the disgrace put on
me when I was kicked forth from the playhouse and all for your baby
face? No, Madam. God himself can’t put back the mischief you’ve done me.
I live but to see you in the dust, and afterwards could be content to
starve.”
The duel was between the women. They scarce heeded Macheath and he stood
watching with an imprecation on his lips. Once more Diana began the
hopeless task.
“Madam, I have money and to spare. ’Tis all at your disposal and more if
you’ll aid me to leave this house. Set me but in the street and——”
A laugh was the woman’s only answer, but no more was needed. So, seeing
she did but beat on marble, she stood a moment despairing, yet
entreating some unknown Power in her soul for courage, for understanding
to protect herself. But it seemed none took pity. And as she so stood
suddenly a thought flashed the blood along her pale cheeks and sent the
light to her dimmed eyes.
“Have you thought, Sir, that I shall be missed? The hue and cry will be
raised when the Duchess knows I am not come.”
Mrs. Bishop laughed harshly.
“Her Grace’s anxiety was set at rest by a letter under your own hand to
say you was otherwise engaged tonight. No, no, Mrs. Fenton. Here you
are, and make the best of it. You leave it but as the wife of a man so
much too good for you as I wonder he honours you with the offer.”
“Madam,” says Mr. Walker with great state, on hearing this
praise,—“Mrs. Bishop says true—My offer need certainly not go abegging
when half the women in London would jump at it. I allow for modesty and
coquetry, and a rake like myself loves modesty in his women but you’ve
said and done enough now to prove you the possessor of both. Prepare for
the ceremony. The parson is belowstairs.”
He went and opened the door, calling aloud,—
“Mr. Evans, be so obliging as walk up. The lady and me are ready.”
But Diana had slipt to her knees by the sofa, hiding her face against
it, beaten down at last, hopeless of any aid or pity but what might come
from her own helpless courage. What stung her most cruelly was the
letter to the Duchess. Heavens! What might not such wretches have writ
in her name,—and the Duke would hear it and know her utterly vile. In
that moment she tasted more than the bitterness of death, and owned
herself utterly over-reached.
A shuffling step came up the stair and a man entered whom, had she seen,
she must shrink from with loathing—a dull heavy-eyed scoundrel in a
parson’s greasy gown threadbare at the edges,—one of the unfrocked crew
that hung about the Fleet, ripe for any mischief, with the smell of
drink hot on him. He took notice of the young creature on her knees, and
showed his gapped teeth in a laugh. ’Twas not the first and would not be
the last in the way of his business.
“Drag her up, Sir,”—he says to Walker. “She must stand. Let the lady
hold her up on t’other side. ’Tis the signature after that really
matters. Come on, young Madam,—Time and tide wait for no woman. I’m due
elsewhere in thirty minutes.”
But Diana did not raise her head.
“Come along, my dear. You promised to make me happy. Be as good as your
word!” says Walker, wheedling and laying hold of her arm. Then first the
man Evans observed her wrists.
“You must untie them, Mr. Walker. Sure a lady can’t take the ring with
her hands like that, and besides I mustn’t have it said I married any
woman dragged bound to the altar— Free her hands, Sir,—she can’t
escape anyhow.”
Walker seeing him in earnest took out his knife and cut the bond as her
hands lay stretched out on the sofa. But still she lay as if dead, with
her head upon them.
“Now we’re nicely!” says the horrid man. “Stand up, young lady, and
we’ll proceed with the sacred ceremony. Dearly beloved——”
Diana sprang to her feet.
“Sir, I am a young woman under the protection of the Duchess of
Queensbury and the Duke of Bolton. I’m the famous Mrs. Fenton of ‘The
Beggar’s Opera.’ And if I come to harm rest assured the doers will be
hunted to the gallows. This wicked man and woman have dragged me
here——”
“You came of your own free will”—screams Mrs. Bishop, but the girl
continued—
“And be assured if I live, I’ll drag my case before the King and have
justice though I die for it.”
’Twas gallantly said and she faced them now like her fighting father’s
daughter. A moment—and the fallen parson looked doubtfully to Walker.
“You kept this from me, Sir. I did not know the lady had powerful
friends. I understood ’twas a poor orphan. If this is the distinguished
Mrs. Fenton, the town will be up to protect her. I can’t go further till
I have satisfaction.”
Diana, seeing she was on the right track, continued earnestly.
“Sir, if you’ll take me to Queensbury House or to Mr. Rich’s house in
Bloomsbury you’ll receive a hundred guineas. I promise it. Less it
shan’t be and more it may. This portrait on my neck assures you of what
I say—’tis her Grace, the Duchess. Take it as an earnest.”
She tore it off and thrust it in his hand. He looked at it doubtfully
and in much fear. A small ducal coronet surmounted it, and all the town
riff-raff knew the handsome haughty face beneath the pearls. He clutched
a greedy hand on it.
“Madam, I can’t break faith with my employer. One gentleman don’t betray
another, so you must not expect I shall take you from his care, but all
the same I won’t marry you, so I won’t, for the Church requires the
woman shall say ‘I will’ and mean as well as say it. But I’m convinced
that a little private talk between yourself and the handsome groom will
soften your heart, and then I’m your man. I recommend the lady to leave
the young couple together also and descend with me, and I’ll wager all
will be well.”
He looked with a leer on Walker, and on Mrs. Bishop, and the woman
rising threw on her capuchin and pulled the hood over her head.
“The reverend gentleman says well,” she cried, “and I’m much mistook if
when we return tomorrow morning we find you not as keen for the ceremony
as now set against it. That’s the only salve for a woman’s honour, Mr.
Evans. Will you lead the way?”
Diana caught his arm, entreating, praying not to be left with Walker. He
loosed her hands laughing—
“Why, Madam, you’ve your remedy. Let the ceremony proceed, and the
veriest prude need not shudder to be alone with her husband. Shall I go
or stay?”
Mrs. Bishop was already at the door, looking darkly back upon her.
“You’ve but a moment to make your choice,” says she,—“Marriage or
worse. Come, Mr. Evans.”
He looked back, Diana made a spring for the door, but they thrust her
back and Walker caught her.
“Choose!” cries the man, opening his eyes at her and laughing as if her
pain pleased the devil in him. She drew away from Walker and faced them
all.
“I choose,” she said with her cheeks pale as death and her eyes
glittering. ’Tis then a woman is dangerous!— “Go. Since there’s no help
for me in God or man I’ll protect myself. Go!”
“Take notice,” cries Mrs. Bishop shrilly, “that she requests to be left
alone with him. Mr. Walker, I wish you a good-night. Madam, I wish you
the same with your lover.”
“Madam and Sir, your Servant!” says the reverend gentleman. The door
banged and their steps were heard descending. The hall door opened and
shut. They were heard to pass along the street.
“Won’t my charming creature lay aside her reserve now?” says Walker,
approaching her once more. “We’re alone in the house, and if ’twas
necessary to mislead others my Mrs. Fenton can be at her ease with her
faithful lover. Let me have the joy to announce at the playhouse
tomorrow that we’re man and wife. There’s many a man would speak no more
of marriage after your refusal and you in my hands, but I’m my lovely
creature’s most devoted, and will be as ready to send for the parson
tomorrow morning as I was but now.”
He made to put his arm about her gallantly but she sprang back, a pair
of scissors in her hand that she caught up from the table. He laughed
contemptuous:
“You don’t fright me with that toy, child. Put it down.”
She held it up.
“I’ll plunge it in my own throat if you come nearer,”—she cried—a
white fury with a line of gleaming teeth showing through her white lips.
A mask of hatred that struck him dumb.
Not a brave man, though a showy, he tried to temporize.— After a
minute’s hesitation—
“Put it down, my girl—put it down. I won’t frighten you. You’ll hurt
yourself.”
She said no more, but stood rigid. A moment and Macheath flung out his
arm suddenly to catch the weapon from her. She sprang aside, and he
tripped his foot on the claw of the table and sprawled over it. Like
lightning she rushed to the window and flung up the sash.
“Help—all good people! Help a poor girl trapped and held here by a
villain!”
Her screams rang through the street, and a kind of terror that was half
hatred seized the man lest she ruin him outright. He sprang at her, and
holding her with the strength of fear and fury, bound her wrists once
more, and when he had her helpless, bound her ankles also, and lifting
her, flung her on the sofa.
“Lie there till I loose you,” he cries. “Hunger tames beasts and may
tame a wild cat like you. I leave you here till tomorrow, and if you
come not to your senses when I return with the parson, ’twill be the
worse for you.”
He took a third strip of stuff and bound it over her mouth, then stood a
moment looking at her.
“You’ve yourself to thank for this rough usage. I would have dealt
otherwise with any but a fury. Learn wisdom now, before ’tis too late.”
He extinguished the light, leaving her in darkness and went out, locking
the door behind him, to seek counsel of Mrs. Bishop. The affair had
reached a point that terrified him, and he knew not how to go back nor
forward. Flight, not love, was his present inclination, and he thought
never to return.
So she passed the night of Saturday and the day of Sunday.