TWAS a se’nnight later and Diana, recovered but pale enough still, sat
in the Duchess’s library and tried to read in a book but could not, so
pressing was her own history.
For, it had been notified to her by her Grace that the long run of “The
Beggar’s Opera” was over. With the three leaders changed it struggled on
a few nights as on crutches, but a meeting between the patentees of the
playhouse and Mr. Gay had decided it should now be laid on the shelf
till the next season. So the walls that had echoed so often to her voice
were now unfaithful and echoed as blithely to others and the fickle
public laughed, applauded and forgot her.
’Twas a wounding thought. However she might dread certain things the
playhouse brought her it had been her grand triumph, and re-made her
life into a marvel she herself could scarce understand. Wonderful
figures, the Duke, her Grace, my Lady Fanny Armine, and many more now
walked in her world familiar and kindly. While she lay abed weak and
sad, my Lady Fanny visited her, sometimes alone, sometimes with her
friend, brought her posies, rare fruits, talked with her softly,
surrounded her with delicate cares, until she won Diana’s heart and her
languid eyes brightened when she heard the little high-heeled step come
tripping to her door.
’Twas very wonderful. Wonderful beyond all speech that these great
ladies should so obligingly bestow any of their time and thought upon a
stranger whose fate had drifted her into their sight as the sea drifts
its weeds, to be borne away on the next tide.
For the hour was now arrived when she must bid farewell to Queensbury
House that was grown so dear to her heart. As she lay in the red velvet
bed gazing upon the room grown so familiar, she had spent much time
considering in what most dutiful and grateful terms she must take her
farewell of the Duchess.
Her Grace being absent at Kensington that day and my Lady Fanny entering
unexpected, she resolved to consult her Ladyship. She now sat in a great
library chair with the Duchess’s paper-cutting in her hand, a pastime
all the mode and introduced at that house by the gifted Mrs. Pendarves,
cousin to her Grace. With pointed scissors Diana snipped the paper into
little rosy figures, urns, and temples in the Greek taste for decorating
mantels and boxes in colors on a black background. Mr. Pope himself, the
famous poet, had been pleased to direct the production of certain of
these scenes from his own rendering of the “Iliad” and “Odyssey,” and to
commend Diana’s skill.
“Our device shall be joyous, Madam,” says he. “You are too young and
fortunate to represent the grief of Andromeda and Hecuba, or the rape of
Helen. No,—Mrs. Fenton with her little sharp weapon, shall depict the
Princess Nausicaa playing at ball with her maidens, or the divine
Calypso singing as she speeds her golden shuttle, till all the woods
ring to that celestial harmony. And, if you please, Madam, I would have
the Princess to resemble the lady who reproduces her features, since no
more youthful and lovely model can be. And Calypso also, since her
melody cannot excel Mrs. Polly’s.” For even Mr. Pope diluted his venom
when he spoke with her, and gazed with pleasure on a creature of such
obliging sweetness.
She rose and curtseyed to my Lady and drew a chair, and presently
displayed her little works to the critic.
“But you haven’t obeyed Mr. Pope, Diana. This Grecian Princess is more
like Mrs. Pendarves than the model chose by Mr. Pope, and Calypso—who
is she? I suspect this Hermes to be——”
She stopt suddenly, a little confused, but Diana, untroubled by
knowledge of her thoughts, replied calmly.
“Madam, I thought of my Lord Baltimore in snipping it. My kind wishes
attend his Lordship. I hope his wound heals.”
’Twas said with such a complete serenity and absence of any second
meaning that my Lady could accept of it with the same tranquillity.
“You think of him then kindly?” says she. “I have heard the story. Don’t
fear to speak.”
“Without doubt, Madam. I feared his Lordship at one time, but ’tis long
past, and he hath made amends so generous as blots out all offence.
What!—do not we all err? and shall we not ask pardon? He hath a
generous heart that would pay a debt with interest.”
“And if you think thus, is your forgiveness not akin to pity and pity to
love? Did he not swear to wait until all hope was past?”
“Madam, give me leave to say I think your Ladyship does not wholly
understand him. I judge that he is one who pursues with such ardour that
he will not be hindered. Let any obstacle be in his way and it shall be
destroyed. But gained—the dust is then bruised on the butterfly’s wings
and he will cast it aside and chase another. When his generous heart
made that surprising offer ’twas because he saw his poor prize torn from
him. At that moment the world would not have been overmuch to give. But
supposing my vanity believed him stable there would be a rude awakening.
If we could read now his Lordship’s thoughts I doubt not but he rejoices
at his escape. He is one whose mind and inclinations will ever be
stronger than the motions of his heart. He will not again risk refusal.”
“You are a philosopher in hoop and gown, child. Will you not allow him a
lover?”
“A lover of the chase, Madam. I think no more where I am concerned.
Whether one day he shall meet his true mate, ’tis not for me to say. But
I doubt.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“With me, Madam, trust and love go hand in hand. I don’t love my Lord
Baltimore, but wish him extreme well. I am willing to have hopes of him
however if he find the lady I imagine.”
“Describe her, child.”
“She should, Madam, be beautiful of face and person, swift-witted and
therefore able to meet and counter him on all points. He must not have
any superiority allowed him. Her parts must out-top his, so that at all
times he knows her superior though he won’t admit it. Yet must all this
be tempered with a charming sweetness, with gentle glances and endearing
approaches, and over it must be thrown the veil of dignity and modesty.
See the drawing the gifted Madam Pendarves hath made of the chaste
Penelope. That is what my poor words would express but cannot.”
She unrolled a classical drawing of Penelope confronting the lawless
suitors, and Lady Fanny gazed at it.
“She moves a goddess,” said she. “But where are these paragons, Diana?
Sure my Lord must go unwedded to his grave if he waits for this!”
“No, Madam. My Lord has not eyes to see and he will marry as most men
marry and be the worse for it. ’Tis only such a woman could endure and
temper his failings. Another were mad to attempt it.”
“I think, child, you say very true,” replied her hearer and fell into a
musing. Presently—
“Diana, have you ever loved a man? What is love?”
“I know so little that my thought is not worth words.”
“Then you have thoughts?”
“Yes, Madam. Sure every woman must.”
They were both silent. Her Ladyship then resumed, not looking in the
girl’s face.
“I heard the whole story, child, and with me ’tis safe. Dare I say that
what touched me the most sensibly (next to your own sufferings) was my
Lord Duke’s? Sure he spoke from his heart! He can do no other.”
“His Grace spoke on a very noble sensibility, Madam. ’Twas designed to
comfort a poor distrest nearly-undone girl with the thought that she
might still hold the respect of a man of honour. I took it no other.
Your Ladyship will remember ’twas a scene very moving, and such draws
words that overtop the more sober judgment.”
“You are wise, Diana, as your sister goddess Minerva, yet I think you
mistook here. Suppose, however, his Grace might mean to the full what he
said, what would your heart reply?”
“That, Madam, I could only tell to his Grace,” says the girl softly,
“’twould be dishonourable else. Shall I drape Calypso’s robe from the
right or left shoulder?”
Her gentleness was a rebuke, and my Lady admired and wondered at the
grace and dignity that gave it. Indeed she had learnt much and swiftly
in the society of such perfectly well-bred women and men as she lived
with in Queensbury House. Good manners are an infection not to be
resisted by gentle and pliable natures and they were native to her
inclinations, and did but adorn a fine heart.
“Your Ladyship,” says she presently, “I beg your counsel. I must leave
here very shortly and I would do all in the way that best should testify
my grateful heart to her Grace. What should I say? or write?”
“Who can teach you, child! All you do must be pleasing. But I think she
will not have you go. What are your hopes?”
“I shall play no more. I could love it if men and women would let one
be, but this they will not. I have spoke with Mrs. Pendarves and ’tis
her opinion I could teach singing. Her goodness has promised me pupils.”
“Yes—but, child, when you leave the Duchess—I would have you visit
with me for awhile.”
She looked up with the glowing smile that won all hearts.
“I thank you indeed, Madam, though ’tis of a piece with all your
kindness in my sickness. To be with you cheers the heart like
sunshine,—and how shall I merit such goodness?”
“But ’tis for my own selfish sake!” cries Lady Fanny. “Mine is a
solitary life, and I think I could comprehend a friend. Yes—_friend_,
child. Don’t look so frightened. We are both women and young, why may I
not choose a friend!”
She had not intended it. She was not easy won and her Ladyship’s pride
was a fortress, but at this silver summons she surrendered like others,
and indeed forgot the grand scheme. She desired Diana about her very
earnestly, and the Duke’s advancement slipt from her thoughts.
“If her Grace will part with you, come to me!” says she eagerly. “I will
do my utmost for your happiness, and you shall set my posies for me,
sing to me, counsel me, for indeed I see you very capable of it. What
say you?”
Diana would have spoken, but for a moment astonishment hindered her, and
ere she could reply the door swung open and the Duke of Bolton entered.
He had not seen her since the dreadful Sunday that even now poisoned her
dreams.
Curtseys from the ladies to his Grace, bows of the courtliest ere he
would seat himself beside them. Her Ladyship’s dream blew away like a
gay-coloured bubble in a breeze that must shatter it. A dream indeed.
There was another future in store for the young creature beside her and
she herself was pledged to it.
“You come very seasonable!” says she, gathering up her fan and
gloves,—“for I am expected at my Lady Carteret’s for basset and
scandal. At least four reputations will escape with scarce a scratch if
I am absent. ’Tis me for the death-blow!”
She drew her gay glitter over her face as quick as her capuchin over her
damask gown. It needed the time and the place for my Lady to disclose
the unmodish truth that among her other possessions she ranked a heart
and a true one. Bolton however needed not testimony.
She kissed Diana on the cheek at parting, and turning on her little
heel, made to go. At the door she paused, Bolton leading her.
“Diana,” says she, “for a moment I will play Mr. Pope’s oracle at
Delphi. Happiness has wings. When she alights, capture her that moment.
Cage her, close the door on the lovely thing, for if she flies she flies
for ever. Be wise in time!”
She curtseyed once more and tripped downstairs all gaiety, touching his
hand with but the tips of her fingers. As he handed her down the great
steps she paused a moment more, and said softly:
“Were I a man and such a woman within my reach, I would win her if I
died for it.”
“And I,” said he, “if I did not bring her dishonour for my first lover’s
gift.”
“I think—” says my Lady deliberately, “that honour and dishonour are
words we play with. Honour is a thing of the soul. It resides within and
none but ourselves shall judge for us. The world cannot.”
She looked strangely at him, and was gone.
“I have done my part by Kitty, but how about Diana?” says she to
herself, watching him reascend the steps.
Being much at his ease in that house he went up again unannounced and
Diana, thinking him gone for good, was still in her chair, snipping away
patiently at the Duchess’s little figures. She spent much time in
catching up with her Grace’s cast needleworks and others, for ’twas
Kitty’s way to snatch at a pleasure and forsake it almost instantly for
the next, Diana or another following in her wake to gather the
fragments.
So he found her, leaning pensive over her paper gods and goddesses.
“I rejoice I find you alone, Madam,” say he, standing very tall and
troubled before her—“I would hear how you do. You are still
pale—almost as when I saw you in that cursed room. O, ’tis too much to
think on what you suffered. But are you indeed well?”
She looked up and would have spoke, but he was instantly at her feet.
“If to have dreamed of you nightly and thought of you the live-long day
deserves compassion, grant it to me, and answer me one question—one
only!”
Does a woman think in these moments of sweet madness? Not she—how
should she, with the one voice in her ears, the one face pleading,
quivering before her. In that sudden passion she could not speak nor
look. Her hands clasped in her lap, she gazed down on them and all her
being was to hear.
He did not touch her, but leaned from his chair so that he appeared to
kneel. Certainly the man’s heart knelt as before a shrine.
“What I would know is this— Why did you reject Baltimore? I know no
other woman that had done it. Is your heart so hard? Could you not
forgive the man? Men err and women should pardon.”
She never raised the veil of her lashes, only her hands trembled a
little. Was he pleading for the absent?
“Since I saw you this question hath torn me. Is your chastity so cold,
Diana, that you only cannot pity the flame you inspire? You saw him
falsely changed, wounded, repentant, and yet you refused him. Tell me
why, I beseech you.”
“I pitied him. I would have bound his wound,” she said at last, very
low.
“Then why—why?” says he urgently. “Pity is near love, they say.”
“I cannot love him, your Grace. You counselled me once to marry. I could
not. My heart spoke for me and refused.”
He considered on that a moment, then continued.
“You know what followed. You heard me, and now I ask a question so mad
that you’ll do well to kill me with the scorn in those large eyes— But
answer first. Could I have said what he said—had I been free and not a
fettered slave, would you have dismist me also?”
Then, in a quick revulsion—“No, don’t answer, for I have no strength to
hear.”
He hid his face in his hands, propping them on his knee. So, quivering
in every limb, she laid hers on them and drew them gently away until his
eyes looked into hers.
“Let me answer, my Lord Duke. ’Twill ease my heart that answered for me
when you spoke. Had Lord Baltimore been you, I could have loved the very
ground he stood on—but refused.”
“And why?” Their hands were claspt now each in each, their pulses beat
one measure.
“Why? because if a woman loves her lover she will not ruin him, and I am
what all the world knows me, and you a great Prince.”
“Had I been free,” he said in a hot whisper, “and you had said that
folly I had crushed your sweetness in my arms till you had no strength
to speak, to whisper, but only to love.”
He made as though he would have done it, then dropt her hands.
“But I am not free,” he said with an infinite melancholy. “You do well
to be silent.”
“I love you—I love you,” she cried. “Is that to be silent? When you
spoke this before that man I was like to have died for joy and sorrow. O
heart of my heart, you suffer and I with you.”
She threw her head back with closed eyes, the tears slipping from
beneath the long lashes,—a pitiful fair face indeed for a lover to see.
He knelt now and gathered her in his arms with a tenderness unspeakable.
“My true love, my heart’s delight—not a look, not a word of yours now
but shall live in my soul for ever, for this hour is the first and the
last. I will not risk my treasure on the edge of a precipice. Dear,
could I make you mine tonight, could I share my dukedom with you in open
honour, it is yours as I am your man to my life’s end. But since this is
impossible put your beloved arms about me this once and then bid me go.
Drive me from Paradise into the wilderness and shut the door upon me and
forget me.”
How could she speak? She claspt her arms about him as he knelt and these
two unhappy lovers clung together in silence, with the salt of tears in
their kisses, the passion of parting to redouble the passion of love and
make it terrible as when death seizes life at its fullest and drags it
down into the dark.
She knew so little of his life—of his will, that she could plead
neither for herself nor him. If he willed it so it must be. Yet every
pulse of her beating bosom pleaded for her—and as her arms relaxed his
heart followed them.
“But let my girl hear me,” he entreated. “You shall be my care though we
may not meet. All I have is yours, and we will find a home for you. You
shall not play. You are mine always—mine only. Promise me this, my
beloved, my worship! Sweet.”
“I promise.”
Again a heavy silence. Then again he looked into her eyes—
“And if the day should ever come that death releases me from a bondage
unbearable, then I swear that before God and man you shall be my
Duchess—my Queen. And because I believe that this day shall and must
come, teach me to have courage. With your own beloved lips bid me spare
you and myself, and go.”
She clung the closer to him now.
“You will not bid me. Then where shall I find strength? In this thought
only—that if I stay I plunge my treasure into ruin. The Duchess, my
Lady Fanny,—all the chaste women you love will shrink from you, and the
day come when you could loathe me for the wrong I did you. Tell me, is
it not so?”
She could not answer. ’Tis impossible to measure the future by the
present. She too had no courage for this. Let him judge and break their
life or save it. But ’twas all shot with joy like a gold thread running
through a black warp, for her head lay on his breast, his face touched
hers, his arms encircled her. O exquisite pain,—O cruel joy—how do
creatures of mere fallible flesh and blood endure these transports of
the spirit and survive them?
“Diana—speak!” he entreated.
Still lying against his heart, she spoke at last,
“I cannot judge. I am too weak. I am in your hands for I am dearer to
you than I am to myself and as for you—I love you. But this I know for
true, that to the last hour of my life I shall remember this and be
proud that my beloved judged me worthy—were it but for this happy
hour.”
She drew herself away that she might look at him—their hands still
claspt, and as they so stood, the door opened softly, and the Duchess
came in and stopt a moment and then came forward, treading very softly.