CATHERINE QUEENSBURY was near beside them before the two looked up from
their transport of joy and grief. ’Twas in Diana’s character that she
drew not her hands from him away as though ashamed or fluttered, but
stood a moment, then dropped her curtsey to the great lady that never
looked greater than then. Her tall stature—her fine commanding face, a
something soft yet proud, set her off almost to majesty. ’Twas natural
she should speak first, and she addrest herself to the Duke that saluted
her and waited her pleasure in silence.
“I met my Lady Fanny a street hence and she told me you sat with Mrs.
Beswick. It hastened my return for I would speak with you.”
“Shall I go, Madam?” asks Diana gently, with a motion to the door.
“No, child. I would have you hear all I say. It concerns you.— Can you
endure that his Grace, if he will, shall tell me what hath passed
between you?”
“Madam, there is not a word hath been said, but I would gladly have you
know it. Could my thoughts be laid bare, these also should be yours.”
“I rejoice,” says the Duke, very grave, “that your Grace has had the
goodness to put this question. You shall hear all.”
He placed Diana in a chair before the Duchess and stood behind her.
“Madam, you shall know that I have repeated to this lady the words I
spoke in the infamous room where she was trapped and a prisoner. I have
told her that my heart is wholly hers, that she is so unspeakably dear
to me (as knowing her worth and honour) that were I a free man this day,
she should be my Duchess as surely as I stand before your Grace.”
“You have done well,” says the Duchess, holding her head as though it
wore a crown.
“But, Madam, since that is not my happy fate, I have said that, should
that glad day ever come, she and she only—be it today or many years
hence—shall be my wife. To this I pledge my honour, and I call your
Grace to witness.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile, Madam, we part. It can’t be otherwise. I hold my love as
high as your Grace’s self. Shall I exile her from the company of good
women?— I will not have her at the playhouse for the men and women that
are about her there. Shall I drive her back into that society again and
have the door shut upon her that your Grace’s goodness opened to one
most fit for it? No. We must part, but through your hands—my
friend’s—I will guard her future life.”
“And you, child?” The Duchess turns to Diana. With a tremble in her
voice but steadfastly, she answered.
“Madam, I love him. Could I do other than this? Look how he has chose
me—so all unworthy, for a love so great as I think never was its like.
Indeed I can scarce believe it, though told in your gracious presence,
did not my heart know it true. What my Lord Duke says I say also. Only
less dear to me than he is your Grace and my kind Lady Fanny. Madam, in
my short life I have seen so many bad women that my heart clings
naturally to the good ones. I can say no more—” her voice broke there.
“And ’twas for this love you refused my Lord Baltimore?”
“Not wholly, Madam. I could not love him.”
“His rank, his riches did not tempt you?”
“No, Madam, since they carried the man with them. They are well enough
otherwise.”
“And since you refuse my Lord Baltimore and cannot have the Duke, what
will you do?”
“I think to teach singing, Madam. I love my art.”
There was silence—Bolton regarding Diana with a tenderness
inexpressible. He looked up then at his friend as though to say—“You
see?”
“I see,” says she, replying to his look, and continued with composure.
“Were I to say to you, child, that the circumstances of your lover’s
life are so extraordinary, so pitiful as ordinary codes and morals
scarce meet them, and were I to add to this that if a good woman
sheltered him in her heart and could restore somewhat of the happiness
he deserves, I, for one, would never forsake her, what would your answer
be then?”
“I think it would be this, Madam:— There is still his wife.” The
Duchess continues:
“If to that, I replied that ’tis not a mere distaste keeps him from her
but a circumstance he learnt on his wedding day that he knows not I
know——”
“Stop there!” commanded the Duke, “I hold not the lady my wife, but she
is Duchess of Bolton, and I hear no word against my family honour. You
should not have known, or knowing should certainly be silent.”
For a moment she flashed one of her dangerous looks at him. This lady
must not be thwarted. Then halted, as if recollecting herself.
“You are right. Well, Diana,—but as I said, supposing the conditions
extraordinary beyond belief, so as I who know them, acquit you of any
crime against her Grace; supposing I assure you that my friendship and
countenance cannot fail you, and that my Lady Fanny holds with me, do
you still value your reputation higher than your love?”
It must be admitted an awful choice for the girl. Not only had she the
pride of an honest woman, but ’tis to be remembered she had lived in the
playhouse. She knew the men and the women, the foul jests, the contempt
for women’s virtue and men’s fidelity. A virtuous woman that is
sheltered may hoard her reputation as gold, but ’tis the very life-blood
of a virtuous woman that lives in the midst of rank corruption and
loathes it. That they should say she was one of them—that an affected
purity covered a venal heart—’twas bitter! What should the world know
of love? It will say, “A rich man—a Duke offers to make her his
mistress and she accepts joyfully. The little base prude that held her
skirts away from women that did no worse!” She could see, could hear it
all.
“Madam, I know not if I have the strength for it,” says she, looking not
at her, but Bolton. “I thank you for an offer most generous of your
friendship. O how to know right from wrong! If it were to be mocked at
myself I could do it for love’s sake. What shall I do? What would you
have me do, my Lord Duke?”
“Let us listen to her Grace!” says he, catching her hand—a pale gleam
of hope breaking through the darkness of his face. “Do you say, Madam,
that we should have your countenance? Why then, the world would know
’twas not effrontery and intrigue. If I could trust my girl would still
be honoured— Judge for us,—my brain whirls.”
Catherine Queensbury bent pitying eyes on the two before her. She saw
the situation strained too high, she took it in hand with her own bright
logic, and condescended to earth from the heights.
“Were it myself—I can but speak from myself when all’s said and done, I
should not trample two lives with misery. I’m as chaste as other women,
I hope,—I love my husband unfashionably. My tongue is as two-edged as
another’s where women are frail and men dishonourable. But though the
case is not my own I know it unusual in a high degree. I would not have
the thing done in a corner. I would have it announced to your wife and
openly to the world as though a thing—not to be flaunted, no!—but to
be done after consideration and openly. And I believe this done and with
my own unfailing friendship and that of others I could name, ’twill pass
for a left-handed marriage as it ought. For yourself I can’t doubt. ’Tis
only on Diana I hesitate and will persuade no woman to what she may
consider her own dishonour.”
He stared at the Duchess with a kind of amazement struggling with joy.
She continues.
“Why, Bolton, you and I know such things are done every day,—and I have
loathed them like another and could give excellent reason for my
loathing. I know your heart and hers.— The case is not ordinary. Check
me if you dare when I say I know your story from first to last, and
acquit you of any obligation to your wife. The case rests with Diana
therefore, and there I won’t persuade her. With all I can do for her,
she must still face contempt and cold-shouldering and sneers and
misjudgment from many. Her life will be uneasy and the brunt will fall
on her. I love and admire her, but know not if she has in her the stuff
to face such hardship as this. Child, I will say no more, but leave you.
Choose how you will I am your friend, and none shall say a harsh word of
you in Catherine Queensbury’s presence. So now I leave you.”
She rose from her chair and left them without a look behind. The Duke
closed the door as she went, and returned.
“Beloved, you have heard her. No man hath a right to ask such a
sacrifice from any woman. Especially if he knows himself unworthy of
such a purity and sweetness as yours. I have seduced no woman from the
path of virtue. I have kept my hearth from such as would dishonour it,
but short of this I have lived as a man amongst other men and what that
means you know. The Duchess would not fail you, but she says true—
Yours is a heart to suffer when they pierce it as they will. The case is
now before you. I counsel you to dismiss me and I will make no
complaint.”
He dropped her hand lest even the touch should move her, and went away
and stood by a great window, looking down upon the people passing. In
all his life he was never to forget the sight of the budding lilacs in
the courtyard, and the faint spring sunshine. It seemed he stood there
long—he knew not how long, and then she came softly up beside him and
put her hand in his.
“For life and death,” she said, and turning he caught her in his arms,
his stern face broken up into such joy as seemed a foretaste of heaven.
There is no pen can write of such joy. ’Tis only known to God and to
lovers—lovers also who must catch it from the heart of pain.
That night he wrote to his Duchess—
“_Madam_,
“I wish to acquaint you before any other shall know it that I
have determined to take into my house with all the rights of a
wife but only not the title, Mrs. Fenton,—whose name will be
known to you. I would not you should hear this from another. My
heart is hers. Our union will be such as God knows I wish yours
and mine could have been but is not. In entering upon this new
life I desire to ask your Grace if I can in any way contribute
further to your comfort than I have already done. I shall esteem
it a favour to be at your command in this respect and in any
other conformable with the honour and love I have for Mrs.
Fenton.
“And remain,
“Your obedient humble servant,
“Bolton.”
A strange letter, but the man himself was not ordinary, and so ’tis to
be supposed his wife knew him, for she replied strangely also—
“_Your Grace_,
“Your letter lies before me and I have the honour to reply. ’Tis
the last time you will see my living hand. I think you do right.
I wish you happy. I thank you for many benefits—so great as
there is nothing more I can ask but an occasional thought not
wholly unkind. We cannot die when we would, else I think you had
long ago been free and I also. I ask your forgiveness.
“Your obedient humble servant,
“G. Bolton.”
He read it thoughtfully, then carrying it to the fire dropped it in and
stood until the last ash fluttered away.
“The poor woman,” he said.
Diana remained with the Duchess until such time as her Grace judged
proper, and Bolton saw her on the foot, as it were, of a betrothed
lover.
On a certain evening her Grace commanded the attendance of certain of
her own friends near and valuable—my Lady Fanny among them—she only
knowing what was intended. The Queensbury clan was a large one,
especially if we count among them her own numerous cousins. The white
drawing-room, stately with wax lights, therefore accommodated a large
company of men and women that night, each a little centre of power and
influence. Among them was Mr. Gay, and Mr. Rich, much surprised to find
himself in such excellent high company, stood at his shoulder, and ’twas
noticeable also that some of the best pens of the Duchess’s party were
present—I name Dr. Swift, Mr. Pope, Mr. Thomson, and there pause,
having given the best.
The Duke of Queensbury received the visitors with his Duchess and noble
refreshments were served and music winged the hour.— So the time went
by, and at last she moved to a gilt chair at the end of the room, and
behind her stood her lord and the Duke of Bolton, both very splendid in
star and ribbon as indeed were many of the men. Diana trembled and
waited in her far-away chamber. So rising, her Grace addrest her
company—with all her own composure:
“My friends, for such I count each and all of you, there is a thing I
would say. I know well I am accused of whims and caprices and possibly
of too great a courage in flying in the face of hypocrises and cant. I
know not. I am what I am. But tonight I think there is none here will
misjudge me whatever the world may do. Hear my story. I know a man known
to you all and most unhappily wed. Call it a marriage I can’t, nor can
you. I know a woman young and beautiful, gifted beyond the common with
perfections of mind and body, alone and unprotected. These two may live
apart—and none will notice or compassionate them. If they live
together, all the hounds of scandal will drive their fangs in them.
Well,—I, Catherine Queensbury, have counselled the Duke of Bolton and
Mrs. Fenton to trust the goodness of their friends and forget the malice
of their enemies and make such a marriage for themselves as the cruel
law will admit, for marriage I must and do call it though the law and
the Prophets call it none. In Queensbury House my friends will be ever
welcome.”
Astonishment held the room breathless. Of all the mad Queensbury freaks
this sure was the maddest. In her own drawing-room! A Duchess! A player!
Lord help us! to what is the world coming? But hush!—the expectant
left-hand bridegroom speaks, laying his hand on the back of the
Duchess’s chair.
“It is to be judged how I must thank this lady that has the soul of
knighthood and chivalry with the face of an angel, for her protection
and countenance. In this matter I would have nothing done secret, so do
I honour the woman who consents to share my loneliness. To the ladies
here I say, the circumstances being so strange, I can expect nothing but
from their goodness and favour. To the men—I shall regard Mrs. Fenton
as my wife,—attention to her is shown to me, and for any insult I have
my sword. And now act as you shall determine right.”
He passed down the room and all crowded about him as he went out. There
was not one there but knew his story—perhaps very few but pitied him
sincerely. But ’twas not that. ’Twas the suddenness of the attack, the
daring, the oddness, the—what shall I say?—the insolent gallantry of
the Duchess that would uphold her friend if she died for it, that won
all hearts. ’Twas a tumult of recognition. My Lady Fanny’s clear voice
raised itself like a bird in a storm.
“For my own part, I side with her Grace. I think the Duke and Mrs.
Fenton do well, and I shall esteem it an honour to receive her in my
poor house. Those that think otherwise (and have a perfect right to
their judgments) can stay away.”
To be bidden to my Lady Fanny’s house and stay away was unthinkable. Had
she proposed to present to them Messalina, Aspasia and other celebrated
demireps, they could not for the life of them stay away, and knew it.
No, not even if Miss Sally Salisbury herself had met them at the door.
And here also the girl’s character spoke for her—all loved the charming
Polly, her voice of silver, her obliging and modest behaviour. “One
could not in a general way condone such things, ’tis true,” say the
ladies, “but this is an exception that makes no rule. It cannot so
happen again. She is a good girl, and his Grace much to be pitied.” So
the talk buzzed in corners, and at the card-tables where the game was
scarce heeded, and about the Duchess. But with no dissentient, for none
dared raise her voice, ’twas virtually agreed that the Duchess could do
no wrong and if she vouched for Mrs. Fenton, Mrs. Fenton was endurable.
Besides this was certainly better than a misalliance, take it how you
will!
Dr. Swift drew up to her when the way was clear.
“Your Grace hath courage,” says he, “yet not so much as they grant you,
for had you thrust a Wapping wench on them they had kissed your hand and
taken her. You can’t however expect the blessing of the Church on your
enterprise.”
“I never did!”—says the Duchess with one of her tosses. “I asked Dr.
Swift’s blessing that reads human nature like a book. And I think to
have it, though not perhaps in public.”
“I don’t withhold it. On conditions, however. You are not to make such
alliances general, Madam; I confine you to one. Or in default, I condemn
you to give the example yourself and set up house with Sir Robert
Walpole, the Queen’s consent granted.”
She laughed her clear hearty laugh.
“I promise, Doctor, I promise. And, in return—no sly allusions to my
pretty bird and her man. And if any lampooner thrust at them from some
dark corner I require that you pierce him to the heart with an epigram
so pointed and terrible as Jove’s own thunderbolt is not so sure.”
Sudden she changed her tone and spoke low that none might hear.
“Dr. Swift, the world that is all lies, says that you have no heart. I
know better. For the sake of one I loved and honoured, be good to my
poor young girl.”
A terrible spasm crossed his face. Of all her daring this was the
greatest, for ’twas the year before this that Stella died, and all his
joy with her. He did but look in her eyes and turn away, but she had won
him—she knew it.
Mr. Pope later in the evening waylaid her.
“Madam, what is there your Grace cannot accomplish! You have made
adultery a sentiment as well as a fashion. The ladies of London should
tear you in pieces as the Mœnads did a far less offender, for there is
not an erring husband but will run to Queensbury House to ask the
Duchess’s protection. You shoulder a heavy responsibility. Here’s an
opening for epigram!”
“I bespeak yours, Mr. Pope!” says she. “Your pen won’t desert me, and
’tis more powerful than any sword or Act of Parliament. ’Tis so known to
be employed always on the side of virtue and weakness that when it
defends my lovers (should defence be needed) detraction itself will run
to cover. Have I your protection?”
The word delighted the Wasp of Twick’nam. He bowed in the Versailles
manner.
“Your Grace needs no assurance. The town will buzz with this tomorrow,
but I’m ready, and ’twill be a delight to see what can be said in
defence of a position that cannot be defended on any pretence whatever.”
“No more it can! But it will,” agrees the Duchess, dismissing him
charmingly.
When all were gone she turned to my Lady Fanny, the sole survivor.
“’Tis done, my dear, and I know not whether I have damned them or
myself. But I’ll never do it again. No, not even for my Fanny. Therefore
be circumspect.”
“You’re a brave woman. I never admired you more!” cries Lady Fanny. “I
could not myself have done it. But you have secured them from much
grief, and if you’ve opened the way to more, ’tis not for any one to
blame you. Come up and let us tell Diana what hath past.”
They did so, and she kissed that generous hand with love and gratitude,
and trembling hope.