IN Queensbury House, the Duchess sat that night in her library to hear
the story from Bolton. Diana slept in her own room, worn out and wearied
beyond all power of speech or even of thought.
In his splendid rooms in the next street my Lord Baltimore lay in
solitude, considering the past, not entirely unhopeful for the future,
and as the Duchess heard the story of his offer, she sent a kind thought
to him, winged above the grimy house-tops that might well help to
assuage the sting of his wounded arm.
“Good blood doesn’t lie,” says she in her bright sententious manner—“A
haberdasher hadn’t acted thus, and especially before a third person. But
he made his amend like a gentleman.”
“Like a gentleman!” asserts the Duke. “I never liked him so well. But a
good woman makes men better, as a bad one drives them to the devil.”
“And which am I?” says she with her smile that none other ever matched.
“You are Kitty. There’s none like you. Nature broke her mould after she
made you, Madam, and so did she also—with another. One other. I thank
God I know the two women I love—one as a friend, the other as a
lover—incomparable.”
She prest his hand softly,—nay, even touched his face,—brushing it
like a butterfly’s wing for gentleness. There was a minute’s silence.
“I knew long since you loved her,” she said, “And indeed ’tis a fair
creature in mind and body, and, as I think, a spotless heart. What shall
her future be? Baltimore I dare swear she will never have— She’s so
simple that unlike the women of our world she thinks love the only wear!
and to be my Lady Baltimore nothing to the purpose. The little sweet
fool! How shall it end, Bolton?”
He made a gesture of despair, but said nothing.
The Duchess continued:—
“I shall hear her tale tomorrow, and perhaps decipher her heart in it,
but what then? Shall she continue at the playhouse?”
“Not if I die on the threshold. I sent a message to Rich on coming here
that I would wait on him in an hour. My way is dark before me—I know
not how things shall be, yet know certainly that on those boards she
shall never set foot again.”
“I think you in the right,” says Kitty softly. “Yet—our poor play!”
“Madam, consider. Consult your own noble heart—you that was her first
friend and she so forlorn. I know what it will reply. And consider this
also,—we know Congreve said, ‘’Twill either take greatly or be damned
confoundedly.’ Well—it has took. It has played now for fifty-eight
days—a thing unknown. ’Tis Gay’s own counsel to withdraw it soon and
hope for a renewal next season. It flies all over England like
thistle-down on a wind. What you set out to do is done. Never was such a
triumph. Spare her then, Madam, who has made it so. She is all genius,
fire, and light, yet as little fit for the grossness that must meet her
there as your own sister. Yet if you command her to continue she will,
so deep is her gratitude to her kind protectress.”
His voice, low and pleading, the care and trouble in his face, moved his
friend. She looked at him with exquisite gentleness. The world had not
known the bright cold Duchess then.
“My friend, would I add one trouble to your troubles? And I think you in
the right. After all—the play’s but a play—the girl is living flesh
and blood, and I know in any case she could not return for many days.
I’m sorry for Rich, but again—what is a Harlequin manager to the
pleasure of noble persons? Go to him. But before you go, once more tell
me—is there no thought in your mind for her future? Return to her
mother she cannot. The husband will use her worse than the playhouse.”
“It drives me near distraught that I can think of no outlet. Were my
wife other than she is—perhaps as her gentlewoman— But ’tis
impossible.”
“Impossible, and can’t you hear the town’s chatter? Besides, as soon
shut a swan in a poultry yard as make a waiting-gentlewoman of a girl
that can sing and play and look like this. She has her own throne,
Bolton. How ask her to hold her lady’s fan and gloves? Not but what I
believe she would do that also, for she is all sweetness, but ’tis a
thing unthinkable. Well—I must consider of it. Go you to Rich.”
He kissed her charming hand, and went his way, and the Duchess,
whistling her Pompey, despatched a word to the Lady Fanny Armine.
“Come to me for a council of war tomorrow morning. Great events.”
’Tis needless to describe Mr. Rich’s consternation and frenzy when the
Duke made him acquainted with the circumstances. But to do him justice,
his first thought was pity for the poor girl so cruelly trapped and
used.
“Why, my Lord Duke, if I had Walker here at this minute, I’d run him
through the body,—Stap my vitals, if I wouldn’t,—the gross cowardly
lump of flesh! Never again shall he play in company of mine, and as to
meeting Mrs. Fenton—why sure the poor Polly would die of terror at his
feet. ’Tis to be supposed he’s in hiding. The hue and cry shall be sent
after him.”
“Why no, Mr. Rich,” says the Duke, very composed and resolute. “We
choose not so. The lady’s name must not be dragged in with so vile an
adventurer, nor mentioned in a breath with a woman like Bishop. My Lord
Baltimore has dealt with her. She’s the worst offender, since she
confesses she made the fool believe that Mrs. Fenton was taken with him.
These two will trouble us no more. But—there’s a further matter. Mrs.
Fenton is very ailing with the shock and horror. Her spirits are sunk
very low. The Duchess judges as do I, that she could not return for a
fortnight or more.”
“Lord bless me—here’s a stew! What shall I do? Why the business fell
off to half when she was absent three days not long since. A fortnight!
Lord! The poor child. Well, but—we must publish a part of the story
without names, and her return in a fortnight will draw the whole town if
but to look at her! Tell her this, your Grace, and beg her to give her
adorable self all due rest.”
“You are all goodness, Sir, and your sensibility and justice are known
to us, but I regret very sensibly to tell you that Mrs. Fenton returns
no more. ’Tis fully determined and can’t be altered.”
’Tis well to draw a veil over the next ten minutes and Mr. Rich’s
agonies,—waves breaking against a rock. The Duke was patient, he
sympathized, he deplored, but held to his point immovable. Indeed it
took Mr. Rich more than ten minutes to realize his fate, and he then sat
with his hands on his knees, the very picture of despair.
“What in the devil’s name shall I do?” says he— “’Twas too good to
last. Well—there’s no more to say. I beseech your Grace to leave me for
I’m a sore bewildered man. It all comes together like, for the
sequel—“Polly” is forbid to be played and I counted on this. She hath
had two Benefits, your Grace. Indeed I have treated her well.”
“All know it,” says the Duke soothingly, “and a grateful heart is your
reward. Further, Sir,—if—(and I know you are an honest man)—you can
demonstrate to me that you are at a money loss in this regard you shan’t
be the loser—no, nor the other patentees of the playhouse. I’ll see to
that.”
Rich looked at him astonished,—then a smile more knowing than beautiful
overspread his features.
“Your Grace, I say no more. I’m answered on all points. I can but wish
my Mrs. Fenton well and happy whoever she may bless with her society. I
don’t give up hope that we may see her again one day and she as welcome
as sun in winter.”
But Bolton had marked the smile. He spoke very grave.
“Mr. Rich, I treat you as one gentleman another when I say that no
conjectures must be made, that this whole story is private to your ear
alone, and that the lady’s honour is and will be unsullied as snow.
There the matter must abide, and in your hands I know it safe, and that
your voice will repel any insinuations.”
Rich promised eagerly. What would he not have promised such a patron?
But he meant and kept his promise. Future events took the matter out of
his hands, and set loose circumstances he could not control, but so far
as man can be true, he was true.
They parted with courtesy and mutual respect and liking, and the Duke
returned a solitary and wearied man to the unloved splendours of his
dreary and empty palace. Why had she refused Baltimore? That was the
question that tormented him. Sure none but Love the almighty—the Lord
of all, could determine a poor girl to refuse a coronet, the handsomest
and most followed man in London—a man also who must adore her since he
broke down his pride and laid his all before her.
As for Mr. Rich, he plunged into affairs with all but frenzy, determined
to pull triumph from the wreck if possible. But his soul was sad too for
his Polly with her great sweet eyes. This girl had the gift to make all
love her with what love they had to give, maternal, friendly,
sisterly—manly, adoring. Excepting only a rival, she had but to smile,
and hearts were at her feet. Possibly the charm might be her own loving
heart exprest through those clear mirrors of her violet eyes. ’Tis much
to be beautiful, but goodness and beauty together, must sure be a love
philtre irresistible, and if genius be added—the lady, like another
Helen, fires another Troy.
With the morning my Lady Fanny’s chair, lined with puckered satin like a
jewel-case to hold its jewel, stopped at the door of Queensbury House,
and dainty as a newly burnished bird of paradise she alit, leaning her
arm on the footman’s, and went tripping up the great steps in the early
sunshine. A smile hovered like a sunbeam on her rosy lips—she
palpitated to taste the mystery the Duchess exprest in her letter, and
the more because her thoughts were sweetened with hope. The straying
sheep might sure be reclaimed to the fold of her heart if Bolton— But
who could tell? She tript the faster up the great shallow stairs scarce
touching the gilt balusters with her gloved hand as she went so light.
The door opened, she ran straight into the Duchess’s arms and bestowed
and took a warm and friendly kiss.
“What is’t, Kitty? Great events? I tore myself from my bed an hour early
and drove my woman crazy and here I am. Don’t delay for chocolate, but
speak. I die of curiosity.”
But Pompey and the chocolate must be waited for before the Duchess would
speak. She then commanded that none should be admitted on any pretence,
and drawing her chair to my Lady Fanny’s poured forth the story,
concealing nothing.
He who had watched,—were any man thus privileged, might have read the
progress of the story on the eager listening face. It darkened with
anger, it softened with pity as Diana’s misery, bound, fainting,
helpless, was disclosed before her.
“’Tis a cursed thing to be a woman!” she cried—“The world is against
us. What are we but a prey from beginning to end—in love, in business,
in everything. But go on!”
She struck her hands together, at the player’s insults to his victim.
“Were I a man!” she cried. Indeed ’twas a quick generous soul and the
friendship between those two women easy to understand while the one
talked and the other heard. But ’twas when the Duchess came to Baltimore
and his part in the story that a darkness clouded her bright face and
her hands claspt hard in her lap.
Not a word—not a word did she say, only listened, listened. He was
wounded,—she winced as if the sword pierced her bosom. Diana entreated
to bandage his arm—she half drew back in suspense and doubt. But ’twas
when my Lord laid his great name and person at the girl’s feet that the
beating heart sent its tide of crimson over the face, that ebbing left
it white and blank. The Duchess either not seeing or judging
friendliness lay that way, continued with her story, but ’tis doubtful
if my Lady Fanny heard for a few bitter moments.
Suddenly, the tale done, the Duchess slipt on her knees by her friend’s
chair, and put her arms about her, silently. So they continued for some
minutes, and a hot tear trickling down Lady Fanny’s cheek fell on the
Duchess’s, and yet neither spoke, only the kneeling woman’s arms
tightened about the other, and the room was still. At last, the
blackbird in the gilded cage sang loud and sweet in the sunshine, and
Lady Fanny started and looked down into the Duchess’s wet eyes.
“My dear, my dear, don’t cry for me. I’m not worth your tears,—A dream
is broke, no more! The sun shines, the night flies and its dreams with
it. But indeed my other Kitty, my Lady Desmond herself could not be more
true and kind than you. I thank you, my dearest, kindest Duchess, with a
full heart.”
“Fanny, my dear, have we not warrant to say a prodigal son may return?”
says the other very low.
“But not a prodigal lover! They never come back. The swine and the husks
and the harlots—God forgive me, I mean not the poor ill-used girl, but
we all know Baltimore’s former life,—and he would have used her the
like way had she consented.”
“Yet, Fanny, he made amends. Bolton hath told me he meant his offer in
more than words. There must be goodness in the man, and had you but
patience——”
“I have had longer patience than I would even own to myself, much less
to others. But ’tis done. Besides, Kitty—’tis a horrid shock that he
should thus trail his name in the dirt. A player! One may comprehend an
intrigue, but this is a million times lower!”
“If you say this you never loved him, my dear, and I rejoice with you
that you have found the heart you did but mislay. For love, they say,
seeks not its own, rejoices in goodness—and sure that was a good motion
in a man sufficiently worthless. If indeed he meant it.”
“Passion—no more!” says Lady Fanny, her fine lips hardening. “Bas would
give the world in haste for any trinket he wanted, and repent at
leisure, and his victims with him. Pity me no longer, my dear. I think
my tears were the distillation of anger, though indeed I scarce know my
own heart yet. Give me time to consider, and tell me what you have in
view, for surely the world turns topsy-turvey when— Heaven help us!—I
can scarce believe it! Bolton also! Do the men run mad? But he was safe
in his offer. That woman, his wife, will outlive us all.”
The Duchess resumed her seat, but took her friend’s hand.
“I had rather hear you own you loved him—I can’t tell why, but ’tis so.
Better pain than self-scorn.”
Lady Fanny laughed as sweet but not as true as the bird’s song.
“What use to give a diamond when a string of glass beads would be
preferred? And if lost, they matter much less. Rejoice with me, Kitty,
since the beads are lost, that they were glass and never saw Golconda.
Now spare my pride, and let us speak of Bolton. What would you have?”
“I would have a good man and a good woman made happy,” says the
courageous Duchess—“and if not after the world’s way, then after their
own. Bolton’s life is like a wasting river lost in the sands, Diana’s is
one of such danger and dread as I don’t like to consider.”
“Well, since rank is nothing, and good blood but to be puddled with
base, and honour a mere jest, would you have him marry her? But sure you
know he lost his chance to have the marriage dissolved, and a man that’s
_your_ friend has little chance with the King at present.”
“True for you, Fanny. No hope that way. Then I would—don’t so stare at
me! I would have them live together as man and wife and trust to the
future with hope and love to gild it.”
“A thing often done!” says Lady Fanny bitterly—“and you and I—we know
our world and how it ends. Two years at the most, tears, regrets, a
pension, and then the woman takes up with some one else. Look at Mrs.
Oldfield. First Mainwaring. Then Churchill.”
“My Lady Fanny little understands either Bolton or his Diana in speaking
thus, and I thought your wit sharp as a diamond. She is no wanton, and
he—. His heart is aching, dying for love and a home and a fond woman to
welcome him in it. He has tasted the pleasures—Yes, Fanny—but with
weariness always, with sick distaste. I know not a man more to be
pitied. And he loves this girl. He is true and tender—he would repay no
love with pain. Least of all hers. Consider! You must help me judge. You
half thought me jesting t’other night. I am in sober earnest.”
“And this lady who spurns coronets—will she take up the position you
offer, Kitty? Will he offer it? I think you talk wild. Will he bear to
see her scorned? O, let me go home! I’m sick of the world we live
in—mortally sick. A fine task for us truly to help a man to his
mistress!”
“Who was it said t’other night—‘The day that saw Bolton content with a
good woman I’d mark with a white stone in my calendar’? I think ’twas
you!”
“True. I said it. I meant it. But what part shall I play?”
The Duchess looked at her composedly.
“If she should do this, your Ladyship, would you still be her friend,—
Would you treat her as his true wife, defend her name, honour her?”
“Would you?”
“Very certainly. But from me she has stolen no Bas.”
Lady Fanny laughed sadly.
“How well you know me! You play me like a puppet. Yes—because she has
robbed me, I’m to act the noble part, am I?”
“She did it not willingly.”
“True. Well—you pull the string that makes me dance. You mean—why
should I revenge on the girl what she could not help? You ask something
of a man’s greatness of soul from me when I would hug my own little
petticoated rancours. But I’ll respond. Yes, I’ll help you to make her
the fashion and know herself not despised.”
“She cares not for the fashion. She cares for the friendship of women
she can honour.”
“And she would honour me?”
“She does.”
“O Kitty, you wheedler! You roll the bolus in honey. But I’ll swallow it
from your hand and Bolton’s. As I said t’other night when I little
suspected what ’twould cost me—I’ll follow where you lead. You may use
me as you will with Bolton. After all—the Queen receives Mrs. Oldfield
on the sly.”
“My Lady Fanny is more than the loose-tongued Queen and she will receive
Mrs. Fenton openly,” says the Duchess gravely.
“She will!” cries Lady Fanny— “O Kitty, tell me to dance on the
tight-rope at the Fair, to grin through a horse-collar, to do anything
in the wide world you bid me—and if your Grace does it, I’ll do it
unflinching also. Let us court ridicule and worse in common!”
They kissed one another on it—the Duchess very tenderly. She knew the
sore sting at her friend’s heart, for if not love in the highest, still,
love is pain and hurt pride a bitter salve for it. She knew also the
fine high-bred generosity that rings responsive when the steel of a high
call is struck upon it, and in all London there would be no aid like
Lady Fanny’s and her own for the poor lovers she would help.
“We will make them happy,” says she, “Bolton is singularly helpless
where women are in hand;—Diana but a trembling girl as yet, but will be
a fine woman. Come hither and see her soon, and be her judge—and her
angel.”
They parted on this, my Lady Fanny carrying her hurt under a gay cover,
as many of her ancestors had done a thrust through flesh and blood.
Well—shall a woman fail in courage that heeds it a thousandfold more
than any man—she that must oppose a tender unarmed bosom to the thrust?
She knew not her own heart yet—’twas so sudden a downfall.
“When I see him I shall know. But he’ll avoid me. He has not even pity—
“I have asked grace at a graceless face
And there was none for my men and me.”
she said to her own heart. Words she often used since she knew my Lord
Baltimore.
She took her pen when alone, and wrote thus to the cousin of her love:
“_My Kitty_, I have had a blow that leaves me bewildered. I
scarce can tell whether I’m alive or dead. As a man falling from
his horse picks himself up stunned and bruised and cannot say at
first whether ’tis he or another—so am I. ’Tis either death or
a cure, and for the life of me I know not which. When my eyes
can see you shall hear. But pity me, my Kitty,—I would ask no
pity but yours on whose faithful love I have reposed since I was
a child. Love me also, for I am solitary. Fie, this soft
self-pity—I loathe it. And I am embarked with Kitty Queensbury
in an adventure so odd that sure ’tis one of her oddest, and I
know not what your sedately married Ladyship would say to it or
to me. Farewell, Kitty, for today. My little painted boat is run
on the rocks, and I must try to drag her off and set my idle
sail again and salve what I can of the wreck. She was called
‘The Hope’ and I know not whether my heart was the cargo or no.
Again, when I know, I will be open with you.
“I send you my heart’s love—_that_ love at least I can never
doubt of.
“From your affectionate humble servant and cousin,
“Fanny Armine.”