It is, indeed, strangely easy in the great world for a man to lose his
importance, and from having been the target for all eyes and the subject
of all conversation, to step from his place, or find it so taken by some
rival that it would seem, judging from the general obliviousness to him,
that he had never existed. But few years before no fashionable gathering
would have been felt complete had it not been graced by the presence of
the young and fascinating Lovelace, Sir John Oxon. Women favoured him,
and men made themselves his boon companions; his wit was repeated; the
fashion of his hair and the cut of his waistcoat copied. He was at first
rich and gay enough to be courted and made a favourite; but when his
fortune was squandered, and his marriage with the heiress came to naught,
those qualities which were vicious and base in him were more easy to be
seen. Besides, there came new male beauties and new dandies with greater
resources and more of prudence, and these, beginning to set fashion, win
ladies' hearts, and make conquests, so drew the attention of the public
mind that he was less noticeable, being only one of many, instead of
ruling singly as it had seemed that by some strange chance he did at
first. There were indeed so many stories told of his light ways, that
their novelty being worn off and new ones still repeated, such persons as
concerned themselves with matters of reputation either through conscience
or policy, began to speak of him with less of warmth or leniency.
"'Tis not well for a matron with daughters to marry and with sons to keep
an eye to," it was said, "to have in her household too often a young
gentleman who has squandered his fortune in dice and drink and wild
living, and who 'twas known was cast off by a reputable young lady of
fortune."
So there were fine ladies who began to avoid him, and those in power at
Court and in the world who regarded him with lessening favour day by day!
In truth, he had such debts, and his creditors pressed him so
ceaselessly, that even had the world's favour continued, his life must
have changed its aspect greatly. His lodgings were no longer the most
luxurious in the fashionable part of the town, his brocades and laces
were no longer of the richest, nor his habit of the very latest and most
modish cut; he had no more an equipage attracting every eye as he drove
forth, nor a gentleman's gentleman whose swagger and pomp outdid that of
all others in his world. Soon after the breaking of his marriage with
the heiress, his mother had died, and his relatives being few, and those
of an order strictly averse to the habits of ill-provided and extravagant
kinsmen, he had but few family ties. Other ties he had, 'twas true, but
they were not such as were accounted legal or worthy of attention either
by himself or those related to him.
So it befell that when my Lady Dunstanwolde's lacquey could not find him
at his lodgings, and as the days went past neither his landlady nor his
creditors beheld him again, his absence from the scene was not considered
unaccountable by them, nor did it attract the notice it would have done
in times gone by.
"He hath made his way out of England to escape us," said the angry
tailors and mercers--who had besieged his door in vain for months, and
who were now infuriated at the thought of their own easiness and the
impudent gay airs which had befooled them. "A good four hundred pounds
of mine hath he carried with him," said one. "And two hundred of mine!"
"And more of mine, since I am a poor man to whom a pound means twenty
guineas!" "We are all robbed, and he has cheated the debtors' prison,
wherein, if we had not been fools, he would have been clapped six months
ago."
"Think ye he will not come back, gentlemen?" quavered his landlady. "God
knows when I have seen a guinea of his money--but he was such a handsome,
fine young nobleman, and had such a way with a poor body, and ever a
smile and a chuck o' the chin for my Jenny."
"Look well after poor Jenny if he hath left her behind," said the tailor.
He did not come back, indeed; and hearing the rumour that he had fled his
creditors, the world of fashion received the news with small disturbance,
all modish persons being at that time much engaged in discussion of the
approaching nuptials of her ladyship of Dunstanwolde and the Duke of
Osmonde. Close upon the discussions of the preparations came the
nuptials themselves, and then all the town was agog, and had small
leisure to think of other things. For those who were bidden to the
ceremonials and attendant entertainments, there were rich habits and
splendid robes to be prepared; and to those who had not been bidden,
there were bitter disappointments and thwarted wishes to think of.
"Sir John Oxon has fled England to escape seeing and hearing it all," was
said.
"He has fled to escape something more painful than the spleen," others
answered. "He had reached his rope's end, and finding that my Lady
Dunstanwolde was not of a mind to lengthen it with her fortune, having
taken a better man, and that his creditors would have no more patience,
he showed them a light pair of heels."
Before my Lady Dunstanwolde left her house she gave orders that it be set
in order for closing for some time, having it on her mind that she should
not soon return. It was, however, to be left in such condition that at
any moment, should she wish to come to it, all could be made ready in two
days' time. To this end various repairs and changes she had planned were
to be carried out as soon as she went away from it. Among other things
was the closing with brickwork of the entrance to the passage leading to
the unused cellars.
"'Twill make the servants' part more wholesome and less damp and
draughty," she said; "and if I should sell the place, will be to its
advantage. 'Twas a builder with little wit who planned such passages and
black holes. In spite of all the lime spread there, they were ever
mouldy and of evil odour."
It was her command that there should be no time lost, and men were set at
work, carrying bricks and mortar. It so chanced that one of them, going
in through a back entrance with a hod over his shoulder, and being young
and lively, found his eye caught by the countenance of a pretty,
frightened-looking girl, who seemed to be loitering about watching, as if
curious or anxious. Seeing her near each time he passed, and observing
that she wished to speak, but was too timid, he addressed her--
"Would you know aught, mistress?" he said.
She drew nearer gratefully, and then he saw her eyes were red as if with
weeping.
"Think you her ladyship would let a poor girl speak a word with her?" she
said. "Think you I dare ask so much of a servant--or would they flout me
and turn me from the door? Have you seen her? Does she look like a
hard, shrewish lady?"
"That she does not, though all stand in awe of her," he answered, pleased
to talk with so pretty a creature. "I but caught a glimpse of her when
she gave orders concerning the closing with brick of a passage-way below.
She is a tall lady, and grand and stately, but she hath a soft pair of
eyes as ever man would wish to look into, be he duke or ditcher."
The tears began to run down the girl's cheeks.
"Ay!" she said; "all men love her, they say. Many a poor girl's
sweetheart has been false through her--and I thought she was cruel and
ill-natured. Know you the servants that wait on her? Would you dare to
ask one for me, if he thinks she would deign to see a poor girl who would
crave the favour to be allowed to speak to her of--of a gentleman she
knows?"
"They are but lacqueys, and I would dare to ask what was in my mind," he
answered; "but she is near her wedding-day, and little as I know of
brides' ways, I am of the mind that she will not like to be troubled."
"That I stand in fear of," she said; "but, oh! I pray you, ask some one
of them--a kindly one."
The young man looked aside. "Luck is with you," he said. "Here comes
one now to air himself in the sun, having naught else to do. Here is a
young woman who would speak with her ladyship," he said to the strapping
powdered fellow.
"She had best begone," the lacquey answered, striding towards the
applicant. "Think you my lady has time to receive traipsing wenches."
"'Twas only for a moment I asked," the girl said. "I come from--I would
speak to her of--of Sir John Oxon--whom she knows."
The man's face changed. It was Jenfry.
"Sir John Oxon," he said. "Then I will ask her. Had you said any other
name I would not have gone near her to-day."
Her ladyship was in her new closet with Mistress Anne, and there the
lacquey came to her to deliver his errand.
"A country-bred young woman, your ladyship," he said, "comes from Sir
John Oxon--"
"From Sir John Oxon!" cried Anne, starting in her chair.
My Lady Dunstanwolde made no start, but turned a steady countenance
towards the door, looking into the lacquey's face.
"Then he hath returned?" she said.
"Returned!" said Anne.
"After the morning he rode home with me," my lady answered, "'twas said
he went away. He left his lodgings without warning. It seems he hath
come back. What does the woman want?" she ended.
"To speak with your ladyship," replied the man, "of Sir John himself, she
says."
"Bring her to me," her ladyship commanded.
The girl was brought in, overawed and trembling. She was a country-bred
young creature, as the lacquey had said, being of the simple rose-and-
white freshness of seventeen years perhaps, and having childish blue eyes
and fair curling locks.
She was so frightened by the grandeur of her surroundings, and the
splendid beauty of the lady who was so soon to be a duchess, and was
already a great earl's widow, that she could only stand within the
doorway, curtseying and trembling, with tears welling in her eyes.
"Be not afraid," said my Lady Dunstanwolde. "Come hither, child, and
tell me what you want." Indeed, she did not look a hard or shrewish
lady; she spoke as gently as woman could, and a mildness so unexpected
produced in the young creature such a revulsion of feeling that she made
a few steps forward and fell upon her knees, weeping, and with uplifted
hands.
"My lady," she said, "I know not how I dared to come, but that I am so
desperate--and your ladyship being so happy, it seemed--it seemed that
you might pity me, who am so helpless and know not what to do."
Her ladyship leaned forward in her chair, her elbow on her knee, her chin
held in her hand, to gaze at her.
"You come from Sir John Oxon?" she said.
Anne, watching, clutched each arm of her chair.
"Not _from_ him, asking your ladyship's pardon," said the child,
"but--but--from the country to him," her head falling on her breast, "and
I know not where he is."
"You came _to_ him," asked my lady. "Are you," and her speech was
pitiful and slow--"are you one of those whom he has--ruined?"
The little suppliant looked up with widening orbs.
"How could that be, and he so virtuous and pious a gentleman?" she
faltered.
Then did my lady rise with a sudden movement.
"Was he so?" says she.
"Had he not been," the child answered, "my mother would have been afraid
to trust him. I am but a poor country widow's daughter, but was well
brought up, and honestly--and when he came to our village my mother was
afraid, because he was a gentleman; but when she saw his piety, and how
he went to church and sang the psalms and prayed for grace, she let me
listen to him."
"Did he go to church and sing and pray at first?" my lady asks.
"'Twas in church he saw me, your ladyship," she was answered. "He said
'twas his custom to go always when he came to a new place, and that often
there he found the most heavenly faces, for 'twas piety and innocence
that made a face like to an angel's; and 'twas innocence and virtue
stirred his heart to love, and not mere beauty which so fades."
"Go on, innocent thing," my lady said; and she turned aside to Anne,
flashing from her eyes unseen a great blaze, and speaking in a low and
hurried voice. "God's house," she said--"God's prayers--God's songs of
praise--he used them all to break a tender heart, and bring an innocent
life to ruin--and yet was he not struck dead?"
Anne hid her face and shuddered.
"He was a gentleman," the poor young thing cried, sobbing--"and I no fit
match for him, but that he loved me. 'Tis said love makes all equal; and
he said I was the sweetest, innocent young thing, and without me he could
not live. And he told my mother that he was not rich or the fashion now,
and had no modish friends or relations to flout any poor beauty he might
choose to wed."
"And he would marry you?" my lady's voice broke in. "He said that he
would marry you?"
"A thousand times, your ladyship, and so told my mother, but said I must
come to town and be married at his lodgings, or 'twould not be counted a
marriage by law, he being a town gentleman, and I from the country."
"And you came," said Mistress Anne, down whose pale cheeks the tears were
running--"you came at his command to follow him?"
"What day came you up to town?" demands my lady, breathless and leaning
forward. "Went you to his lodgings, and stayed you there with him,--even
for an hour?"
The poor child gazed at her, paling.
"He was not there!" she cried. "I came alone because he said all must be
secret at first; and my heart beat so with joy, my lady, that when the
woman of the house whereat he lodges let me in I scarce could speak. But
she was a merry woman and good-natured, and only laughed and cheered me
when she took me to his rooms, and I sate trembling."
"What said she to you?" my lady asks, her breast heaving with her breath.
"That he was not yet in, but that he would sure come to such a young and
pretty thing as I, and I must wait for him, for he would not forgive her
if she let me go. And the while I waited there came a man in bands and
cassock, but he had not a holy look, and late in the afternoon I heard
him making jokes with the woman outside, and they both laughed in such an
evil way that I was affrighted, and waiting till they had gone to another
part of the house, stole away."
"But he came not back that night--thank God!" my lady said--"he came not
back."
The girl rose from her knees, trembling, her hands clasped on her breast.
"Why should your ladyship thank God?" she says, pure drops falling from
her eyes. "I am so humble, and had naught else but that great happiness,
and it was taken away--and you thank God."
Then drops fell from my lady's eyes also, and she came forward and caught
the child's hand, and held it close and warm and strong, and yet with her
full lip quivering.
"'Twas not that your joy was taken away that I thanked God," said she. "I
am not cruel--God Himself knows that, and when He smites me 'twill not be
for cruelty. I knew not what I said, and yet--tell me what did you then?
Tell me?"
"I went to a poor house to lodge, having some little money he had given
me," the simple young thing answered. "'Twas an honest house, though
mean and comfortless. And the next day I went back to his lodgings to
question, but he had not come, and I would not go in, though the woman
tried to make me enter, saying, Sir John would surely return soon, as he
had the day before rid with my Lady Dunstanwolde and been to her house;
and 'twas plain he had meant to come to his lodgings, for her ladyship
had sent her lacquey thrice with a message."
The hand with which Mistress Anne sate covering her eyes began to shake.
My lady's own hand would have shaken had she not been so strong a
creature.
"And he has not yet returned, then?" she asked. "You have not seen him?"
The girl shook her fair locks, weeping with piteous little sobs.
"He has not," she cried, "and I know not what to do--and the great town
seems full of evil men and wicked women. I know not which way to turn,
for all plot wrong against me, and would drag me down to shamefulness--and
back to my poor mother I cannot go."
"Wherefore not, poor child?" my lady asked her.
"I have not been made an honest, wedded woman, and none would believe my
story, and--and he might come back."
"And if he came back?" said her ladyship.
At this question the girl slipped from her grasp and down upon her knees
again, catching at her rich petticoat and holding it, her eyes searching
the great lady's in imploring piteousness, her own streaming.
"I love him," she wept--"I love him so--I cannot leave the place where he
might be. He was so beautiful and grand a gentleman, and, sure, he loved
me better than all else--and I cannot thrust away from me that last night
when he held me to his breast near our cottage door, and the nightingale
sang in the roses, and he spake such words to me. I lie and sob all
night on my hard pillow--I so long to see him and to hear his voice--and
hearing he had been with you that last morning, I dared to come, praying
that you might have heard him let drop some word that would tell me where
he may be, for I cannot go away thinking he may come back longing for
me--and I lose him and never see his face again. Oh! my lady, my lady,
this place is so full of wickedness and fierce people--and dark kennels
where crimes are done. I am affrighted for him, thinking he may have
been struck some blow, and murdered, and hid away; and none will look for
him but one who loves him--who loves him. Could it be so?--could it be?
You know the town's ways so well. I pray you, tell me--in God's name I
pray you!"
"God's mercy!" Anne breathed, and from behind her hands came stifled
sobbing. My Lady Dunstanwolde bent down, her colour dying.
"Nay, nay," she said, "there has been no murder done--none! Hush, poor
thing, hush thee. There is somewhat I must tell thee."
She tried to raise her, but the child would not be raised, and clung to
her rich robe, shaking as she knelt gazing upward.
"It is a bitter thing," my lady said, and 'twas as if her own eyes were
imploring. "God help you bear it--God help us all. He told me nothing
of his journey. I knew not he was about to take it; but wheresoever he
has travelled, 'twas best that he should go."
"Nay! nay!" the girl cried out--"to leave me helpless. Nay! it could not
be so. He loved me--loved me--as the great duke loves you!"
"He meant you evil," said my lady, shuddering, "and evil he would have
done you. He was a villain--a villain who meant to trick you. Had God
struck him dead that day, 'twould have been mercy to you. I knew him
well."
The young thing gave a bitter cry and fell swooning at her feet; and down
upon her knees my lady went beside her, loosening her gown, and chafing
her poor hands as though they two had been of sister blood.
"Call for hartshorn, Anne, and for water," she said; "she will come out
of her swooning, poor child, and if she is cared for kindly in time her
pain will pass away. God be thanked she knows no pain that cannot pass!
I will protect her--aye, that will I, as I will protect all he hath done
wrong to and deserted."
* * * * *
She was so strangely kind through the poor victim's swoons and weeping
that the very menials who were called to aid her went back to their hall
wondering in their talk of the noble grandness of so great a lady, who on
the very brink of her own joy could stoop to protect and comfort a
creature so far beneath her, that to most ladies her sorrow and desertion
would have been things which were too trivial to count; for 'twas
guessed, and talked over with great freedom and much shrewdness, that
this was a country victim of Sir John Oxon's, and he having deserted his
creditors, was ready enough to desert his rustic beauty, finding her heavy
on his hands.
Below stairs the men closing the entrance to the passage with brick,
having caught snatches of the servants' gossip, talked of what they heard
among themselves as they did their work.
"Ay, a noble lady indeed," they said. "For 'tis not a woman's way to be
kindly with the cast-off fancy of a man, even when she does not want him
herself. He was her own worshipper for many a day, Sir John; and before
she took the old earl 'twas said that for a space people believed she
loved him. She was but fifteen and a high mettled beauty; and he as
handsome as she, and had a blue eye that would melt any woman--but at
sixteen he was a town rake, and such tricks as this one he hath played
since he was a lad. 'Tis well indeed for this poor thing her ladyship
hath seen her. She hath promised to protect her, and sends her down to
Dunstanwolde with her mother this very week. Would all fine ladies were
of her kind. To hear such things of her puts a man in the humour to do
her work well."