THE Duke, on leaving my Lord Baltimore with his former inamorata, strode
down into the street, and stood for a moment in deep thought. ’Twas Mr.
Rich was in his mind—that and the resolution to have done for good and
all with his former friend and follow his search alone. The woman Bishop
sickened him—Baltimore scarce less. ’Twas such a bewilderment of lies
and intrigues as an honest man scarce could cut his way through. Better
act alone, and if more slowly more certainly.
So standing a minute, he called a chair and directed the men to Rich’s
house in Bloomsbury. He had never entered it—their meeting being at the
playhouse or other haunts of amusement, and certainly this occasion on
which he made his bow there was the last he would have chose. To speak
of Mrs. Fenton to any man was as distasteful to him as if she had been
his sister—or his wife.
The comparison was strange and tingled along his veins like a draught of
strong drink. His wife. O thought undreamt of and mad! Sure it should
have been impossible for his idlest fancy to present such an image to
his mind even for a moment! He dismissed it and returned to
consideration of how he should open the matter with Rich.
The fine house astonished his Grace first as he drew up at the
portico—a portico with pillars, forsooth, and extinguishers for the
link-men to thrust their flambeaux. He knew Rich prosperous but had not
expected this.
Strange days!—When a Harlequin and a man that adventured his luck in a
playhouse could live so! We may thus observe the Duke haughty in spite
of his contempt of many of his own company. He smiled a little sarcastic
as a well-laced lacquey opened the door to the chairman’s thundering
knock, and, not knowing his visitor, announced somewhat supercilious
that Mr. Rich was private in his study.
“Take this”—says the Duke briefly, writing his name on a paper, “and
I’ll follow you.”
He directed the chair to wait and went with his quick step after the
lacquey.
Mr. Rich flew to the door to receive him.
“My Lord Duke! The joyful surprise! What kind wind brings you to my poor
shanty. ’Tis an honour I often wished, but dared not propose. The
claret, Jenkins.”
“Why, I thank you, Richie,” says the Duke, as easy as any Lord
Foppington and his levée, “You’ll welcome me the more when I tell you I
come as an ambassador of the greatest lady in London.”
“The Queen?” cries Mr. Rich, trembling with excitement. “Doth her
Majesty, honour us at the playhouse? Indeed I never dreamt— We must
soften the allusions, your Grace.”
“I forgot the Queen!” says the Duke coolly. “No, I meant her Grace of
Queensbury. She’s certainly _your_ greatest lady, Richie, if we consider
what she has done for your play.”
Mr. Rich bowed assenting, pushing his cravat into place and wishing the
Duke had gave more notice of his coming.
“Well, but it’s thus,” continues the visitor, stretching out his long
legs easily in his chair,—“Mrs. Fenton did not return to Queensbury
House last night, but sent a billet in place of her charming self. Her
Grace commissions me to ask if Mr. Rich knows aught of her doings.”
“Why, yes, my Lord Duke, and was more than a little overset for the
moment, but on consideration can’t see that ’twill affect the piece. If
she turns a stage lover into a real one ’tis the lady’s pleasure, though
I could wish she had chose better while about it.”
“We play at cross-purposes, I perceive!” The Duke sat up straight in his
chair.
“Did the little minx not tell her Grace?” Rich was fumbling in his
pocket.— “Why—where is it? O, here ’tis. I suspected nothing, being
too busy a man to watch the flirtations of my pretty players.”
Constraining himself to quiet, the Duke took the paper coolly and opened
it.
“Will my indulgent Mr. Rich forgive his Mrs. Fenton if she tells
him that when she returns to the playhouse on Monday his Polly
Peachum will be the bride of her Macheath in earnest as in play?
’Twas not necessary to trouble Mr. Rich with the affection that
is sprung up, but his worthy heart will sympathise. Indeed I’m
so persecuted with men as I must needs have a protector to stand
between me and their insults, and Mr. Rich will own I have chose
a stout one.
I present my duty and my husband’s to Mr. Rich and assure him he
shall find us as ever (united as apart) his most faithful humble
obedient servants,
“Lavina (Fenton) Walker,
“Fredk. Walker.
He laid it down.
“Of course the girl’s a fool for she might have done much better!”
continues the worthy Mr. Rich. “Walker’s a loose fish, your Grace, and
apart from all this, his reputation at the cards and bottle is none of
the most unsullied. More than once I told him he plays Macheath so well
because he hath a bit of Macheath under his own skin. But what would
you? He hath a fine person, and the women look first to that on and off
the stage. There’s a postscript—did you observe?— ‘’Tis a brief
honeymoon, for we return punctual on Monday.’”
“Read this,” says the Duke and hands him the letter to the Duchess.
Rich’s eyes all but started out of his head reading—
“The little liar! She judged her Grace would be offended at her secrecy.
Well, why not be candid, say I? I thought better of Polly than to
deceive her noble friend.”
“I judge not so,” says the Duke, rising. “Mr. Rich, both these letters
are forged. Neither was writ by Mrs. Fenton. See for yourself that both
could not be!”
“Why so it is!” Rich stared confounded at the Duke. “But what then—
Lord! You fright me, Sir. Polly’s more precious to me than diamonds.
What’s in your mind? My Lord Baltimore?”
“I know not. What’s your own opinion of Baltimore?”
“Why—I’m bewildered. She gave me a necklace he gave her, because she
would have none of it. Yet my Lord tells me and Bishop seconds him that
she’s his mistress. How shall a plain man tell what’s the truth between
them? I thought she scorned him. I have the jewels upstairs in keeping
for her, but am not certain ’twas his gift.”
It began to puzzle Mr. Rich’s brain that the Duke was himself so earnest
now. He had dropt the screen of the Duchess of Queensbury that he began
with and his careless ease went with it. ’Twas a very anxious man that
looked Mr. Rich in the face now, and cared not to hide his care.
“I begin to think we wade in deep waters,” says he. “With your kindness
we may swim ashore. Alone I cannot. My Lord Baltimore was with me today
and made the assertion you speak of, but I believed him not. I propose
now to follow all the clues given in these letters. They may be blinds
only. They may be more. Where does the player Macheath lodge?”
“That story I reject entirely—now I see the other letter,” cries Mr.
Rich. “Indeed I could but half believe it before. I never saw a sign or
token of the girl giving him a look more than needful on the stage. He
moved his lodging two days ago and I know not the new one.”
“Who should know?” asked the Duke.
“Scawen—old Scawen. She knows all the players’ business, even to which
has herrings for breakfast and which beef and ale. Let us to Scawen, my
Lord Duke. I’m with you heart and soul. I would not lose my Polly for
anything in earth or heaven.”
“I thank you, Sir,” the Duke said briefly. He stood while Mr. Rich was
cloaked by his lacquey and another chair spoke for, and then the two
were off, swinging down the street, each secluded from further
conversation.
’Twas not far from the elegance of Bloomsbury to the somewhat sordid
respectability of Mrs. Scawen’s house, and at the window,—it now being
six of the clock—they espied the good woman preparing the table for her
Scawen’s supper, with a steaming dish of stew before his place and a
tankard of home-brewed. She opened the door in the utmost astonishment
to see her visitors, wiping her hands hastily on her apron and dropping
almost as many curtseys as words in her agitation.
“Why, Mr. Rich, why, my Lord—anything I can do—indeed it’s an honour.
Won’t you please to be seated? Scawen will be in any minute. Sure a
glass of home-brewed, though but a poor offering, won’t hurt either the
one or the other of you.”
The Duke put his lips to the tankard sooner than disoblige the good
lady. Mr. Rich came straight to the point—Walker’s new lodging.
“’Twas but two days ago he moved in and the landlady and husband went
off junketing for a week to her mother at Hampstead village,” cries Mrs.
Scawen, who indeed knew everybody’s business.— “Like a good-natured
gentleman, which I always found him, Mr. Walker said he would eat at the
coffee houses till they returned. Number 4, Wooton Street, ten minutes
from here. Take the first turn to the right and to the right again and
there you are. But what’s this about my dear Mrs. Fenton, Mr. Rich? I
hope no harm——”
For these questions however they could not stay and told her so, leaving
her curtseying still like a puppet and with one eye on the couple of
guineas Bolton left on the table.
Outside, Mr. Rich halted.
“Your Grace, I had best not go with you to Walker’s, for this reason. I
believe the man’s name has been traded on as well as Mrs. Fenton’s. He
dare not meddle with her. Depend on’t ’tis my Lord Baltimore, and you’re
on a wrong scent. Now I don’t want to quarrel with Walker unless needs
must. Look how my company’s melting away! Mrs. Bishop gone, Walker
hanging in the balance, if he don’t hang in a worse place, and my
Polly—the Lord knows where! Ask yourself how I’m to face the public
tomorrow, and spare me Walker if you can.”
The Duke acknowledged it reasonable.
“True. I’ll see him alone,— But, Rich, I tell you this for truth also.
If I find him mixed up in this scoundrelly business you may whistle for
your Macheath, for I’ll deal with the villain.”
On this they parted.
During the ten minutes of his walk to Wooton Street, Bolton turned the
question of Baltimore over and over in his mind, but could see no
light—so dense was now the maze of intrigue and falsehood. He suspected
all about him—only one person stood clear above it. Whoever he might
doubt he never doubted her. There was a look in her honest eyes that
spoke for her as true as a dog’s speak when he looks up in his master’s
face, and he could as soon suspect her of windings and treachery. But
his thoughts were bitter. What a world for honest men and women to move
in! Did the great Dr. Swift say too much against the race of human
beings when he depicted them as foul and filthy Yahoos in his terrible
book that Bolton had read from cover to cover, finding food in it for
his own scorn and melancholy? Diana—yes, but she moved like the Lady in
Mr. Milton’s “Comus,” a virginal figure solitary amid the rabble rout of
lust and hatred. And he—what could he do for her, but drag her down as
low as any of them in their basest will? God in Heaven!—what a world!
And still he strode on, and the women in the street fell back from his
set face and wondered.
Arrived at the door, the house was dark but for a faint light on the
first floor, where a rotten wooden balcony hung against the wall. There
was no knocker. Clearly those that went in and out had their own keys.
He stood dead silent listening. A man’s voice he could not distinguish
in the distance. Now a word from a woman equally indistinguishable.
Growing impatient, he shouted aloud.
“Mr. Walker. A word with you on Mr. Rich’s behalf,” and repeated this
twice in vain. The street was empty and quiet on the Sunday night and
the people at their suppers, but he spied a big hulking fellow at his
door, watching him with some curiosity and the Duke marches straight up
to him.
“My good sir, I want that door burst in, and there’s a guinea for any
man will help me to do it. Are you that man?”
The man grinned and slowly detached himself from the door post.
“What about the watchmen?” says he.
“Why, that I take on myself. ’Tis for the rescue of an innocent young
woman.”
“There’s no young woman there. But I’m your man. Come on.”
They set their shoulders and knees to the door that offered but little
resistance from age and bad hanging, and in five minutes the way was
open. Bolton, halting with the utmost punctilio, pulled out the guinea.
“I recommend you, Sir, to keep a close tongue and prop the door so as it
shan’t attract attention. I am the Duke of Bolton. Five guineas more are
at your service if you are at mine.”
’Twas agreed, and in the dark he felt his way upstairs, till a rim of
light beneath a door stopped him. He put his hand on the catch and
walked in.
My Lord Baltimore faced him.
For a second he saw nothing else than this crowning justification for
hatred and suspicion, and then became aware that Diana, her hands and
feet bound, lay on the sofa behind. Like lightning his sword flashed
from the sheath and he advanced on Baltimore.
“Liar! Villain!” He said no more, for his enemy’s sword leaped to meet
his, and the two clashed in air as each man put himself in the fighting
posture.
“Twice you’ve insulted me. It’s death for you or me!” cries Baltimore,
and then, their teeth grinding, their eyes wild with hate, the battle
began. The woman’s voice, for she could move neither hand nor foot, came
between them.
“Your Grace— You’re mistook. O, cease—cease. He did not bring me here.
He did not bind me. O, hear me, I beseech.”
She wept and entreated, but still the fierce swords thrust and parried.
As soon stop a tiger in his leap.
“A hit!” cries the Duke, red for joy and fury,—his sword had slipt
through Baltimore’s right arm,—the springing blood dyed the gay velvet
and gold. He raised it frantically and thrust once more at Bolton, but
his heart was stronger than his arm. It dropt and the sword fell
clashing on the floor useless as a child’s toy. In bitter rage and shame
he flung himself into a chair and covered his eyes with the other.
“Liar! Coward!—Trapper of women, you have your deserts,” says Bolton,
in a voice the more awful because low as a woman’s. He turned then to
Diana almost fainting on the sofa.
“Madam, I can’t decipher the story, but I know you pure as light. Have
patience till I unbind you.”
He knelt by her, with gentle and skilful hands unknotting the cruel
bandages that had left great marks about her wrists and feet. He
supported her in his arms, and, white as a ghost at cockcrow, she sat up
leaning perforce upon his shoulder, half-dead from terror and long
fasting.
“Don’t speak!” he said tenderly. “Rest. ’Tis all over now, and you are
safe. I beseech you, don’t speak.”
“But I must speak! O hear me, I implore you. This gentleman is innocent.
He came but ten minutes since and would have released me. Indeed ’tis
true, your Grace. ’Twas Walker and Mrs. Bishop misused me. I have told
his Lordship that I have been bound here all night and this day. O let
me rise that I may bind his arm. Look how he bleeds.”
“If his attention is more welcome to you than mine——.” The Duke was
stiff and haughty once more, bewildered to the last degree.
“Pray, Madam, incommode not yourself for me. ’Tis but a scratch. A flesh
wound!” cries Baltimore. “Curse the blood! Reach me that bandage, my
Lord Duke.”
His Grace pushed it with his foot and a look of scathing contempt. My
Lord picked it up and kissing it with gallantry because it had bound
Diana’s wrists, proceeded to knot it, one-handed and holding it in his
teeth as best he could.
“I can’t see that!” says Diana, rising, wavering with weakness, to her
feet. “Your Grace, you are a Christian and a gentleman. I tell you he is
innocent. If you won’t bind it, help me to him that I may bind it
myself.”
“You shall not need, Madam. Your rebuke is just,”—says the Duke coldly.
“I will do it, and will then leave you to his Lordship’s company.”
Dead silence while he knotted it dexterously about the arm, first
slitting the sleeve and cambric shirt beneath, my Lord submitting in
silence and with something of a smile in his eyes. This done, the Duke
wiped his sword, took up his hat and bowed to Diana.
“I leave you now, Madam, to the fate you have chosen for yourself. We
shall not meet again. I wish you happy.”
Diana looked despairingly at him, but was silent. My Lord took up the
word, sitting very much at his ease in the chair—the Duke pausing to
lean on his sword, looking on the ground.
“Your Grace, I will be the lady’s spokesman. She is overwearied. I have
pursued Mrs. Fenton for many weeks with intentions the most
dishonourable. To my fire she opposed frost. I have made no way with
her. She is chaste as ice and pure as snow. I have lied like a poltroon
in saying she favoured me, and entreat her forgiveness for this and all
else. Also your Grace’s. What mad schemes I have had to bend her to my
will I need not tell, for they have all come to nothing. This day I
heard she was gone, and of all that circumstance your Grace knows the
truth. I swear it on my honour as a peer, as a gentleman. We sought her
together, and you left me with Mrs. Bishop. Your Grace knows her for my
cast mistress, and ’twill explain her rancour. Left alone with her, with
alternate threats and promises, I dragged out the truth of Walker’s plot
against the lady’s honour. I know not how far she encouraged it, but it
seems Walker came to her in terror, too frightened to proceed further,
and for all I knew they might leave this innocent here to die that they
might save their skins. I have my own methods with Mrs. Bishop and she
gave me the keys. She will not offend again. As for Walker, I know not
where the base scoundrel is fled. So I came here on Mrs. Bishop’s
guiding. This is the whole truth. In this I have done honestly. In the
lie I told, I have done so as I can neither forgive myself nor expect
forgiveness.”
Silence. Diana looked steadfastly at the Duke, her heart all but
pausing, as it were, to hear. He came slowly forward to my Lord.
“Though I think your pursuit of this lady execrable, knowing her what
she is—and at present can in no way bring myself to pardon the lie that
has smirched her fame to another as well as to myself, I have in this
matter done you an injustice, and therefore apologize and bitterly
regret that I was mistook.”
My Lord raised himself in his chair, with something of dignity.
“Your Grace, I forgive you freely and again ask your pardon and better
opinion. Your censure is most just. In your presence I will amend my
crime. I have aspersed the lady’s honour. I put mine in her hands.” He
rose and advanced towards Diana, pale as death, but stately and
beautiful, a touch of triumph in his aspect.
“Mrs. Fenton, I entreat your forgiveness for the sufferings I have
caused you consciously and unconsciously. I honour the ground you walk
on, for there is no purer woman in all the world. And because this is
so, I ask you before this gentleman to be my wife, and I swear that I
will hold you as the light of my eyes until death darkens them for
ever.”
’Twas a fine motion and my Lord knew it, though at the moment he was
sincere. He stretched his unwounded left arm to clasp her hand, but she
shrank away from him toward the Duke.
“Madam, you must answer,” says he briefly, still looking on the ground,
and at this command her voice broke very low and trembling upon the room
and her two hearers.
“My Lord, I thank you. For the honour you do me I thank you. And I
refuse it though I forgive and will forget your aspersion on me.”
Amazement, incredulity on my Lord Baltimore’s face. The Duke had turned
aside; his was hid.
“Madam, you surely have not considered. I repeat my offer. The marriage
shall take place tomorrow.”
A pause, and then—
“Madam, you still distrust me. I swear amendment. Cannot you love me a
little? In offering all, do I offer nothing? Have you no forgiveness?”
’Twas the bitterness of wounded pride. The real man spoke at last
through his formality. To have stepped down so far and to be scorned! He
held his arms to her as if they were alone. The blood stained his
bandage.
She uttered a little womanly cry.
“Your poor arm! O, Sir, pray be seated. Don’t ask me any more, I beseech
you. I like you better than ever I thought to do. Indeed I pity your
wound—indeed I do, with all my heart. But I don’t love nor esteem you.
Marry some great lady that can. This is my last answer. Press me no
more.”
He frowned and flushed, turning to the Duke.
“You have heard. Tell it to the town, your Grace, that Baltimore was
rejected. I see not that I need be ashamed.”
“I shall tell nothing to the town, my Lord, save that you are a man of
honour. You have done right,—and for the step you have taken now—were
my hand as free as my heart I would lay my own name at this lady’s feet,
so do I love and honour her. My case is hopeless. This being so, yours
is a happier one and may one day meet its reward. But if you shall one
day succeed——”
His voice broke on it, Diana speechless between the two and Baltimore
staring spellbound. The Duke recovered himself first from this strange
scene. He spoke hurriedly!
“She’s half fainting, and we think but of ourselves. Stay with her,
Baltimore, while I get a coach.”
He sprang down the stair, and Diana, slipping back upon the sofa,
covered her face with her hands, Baltimore almost as white and stunned
as she.