I
As all hearts are captivated by the most charming Mistress Barry, so it
is my hope that all souls will be captivated by her picture,” cried Sir
Godfrey, bowing low between his palette which he held in one hand and
his sheaf of brushes which he held in the other. His pronunciation of
the word charming--he said “sharmink”--had a suggestion of his native
Lübeck about it; but his courtliness was beyond suspicion. None of his
distinguished sitters could complain of his having failed to represent
them on his canvases with dignity and refinement, whatever their candid
friends might think of the accuracy of the portraitures.
“I only ask to be painted as I am, Sir Godfrey,” said Mrs. Barry, when
she had risen after her courtesy in acknowledgment of Sir Godfrey's
gallant compliment.
“As you are, madam? Ah, your ladyship is the most exacting of my
sitters. As you are? Ah, my dear lady, you must modify your conditions;
my art has its limitations.”
“Your art, but not your arts, sir. I protest that I am overwhelmed by
the latter, as I am lost in admiration of the former,” said the actress,
adopting a pose which she knew the painter would appreciate. “Alas,
Sir Godfrey,” she added, “you do not well to talk to an actress of the
limitations of art. What a paltry aim has our art compared with yours! I
have had cravings after immortality--that is why I am here to-day.”
“'T is surely, then, the future of the painter that you have had at
heart, my dear madam; you come with immortality shining in your face.”
“Nay, sir; Sir Godfrey Kneller will live forevermore in his long line of
legitimate monarchs--ay, and others, perhaps not quite--”
“For God's sake, Mistress Barry! These are dangerous days; pray remember
that I am the queen's limner.”
Sir Godfrey Kneller spoke in a whisper, touching her arm with the
handles of his brushes as he glanced apprehensively around the
painting-room of his house in Great Queen Street.
Mrs. Barry looked at him with a reckless gaiety in her eyes.
“What, have I said anything treasonable, anything to compromise the
Court painter?” she cried.
“Walls have ears, my dear,” whispered the painter.
“And what matters that, so long as they have not tongues?” laughed the
lady. “Ah, my dear Sir Godfrey, you do your art an injustice to fancy
that any one could utter a word of treason in this room surrounded by so
many living faces.” She pointed to the easels on which were hung several
portraits approaching completion. “They are all living, my friend. I vow
that when I entered here just now I felt inclined to sink in a courtesy
before Her Grace of Marlborough.” She indicated the portrait of the
duchess which Sir Godfrey had all but finished--one of the finest of all
his works.
Sir Godfrey smiled.
“Ah, who, indeed, could talk treason in the presence of Her Grace?” he
said.
“None, save His Grace, I suppose,” said the actress. “And now I am ready
to sit to you--unless you have any further courtly compliments to pass
on me. Only, by my faith, I do not choose to place myself nigh to Her
Grace. Those eyes of hers make me feel uneasy. Prithee, Sir Godfrey,
permit me to turn my back upon the duchess; the act will, I protest,
give me a feeling of pride which will speedily betray itself on my
face. People will say, 'Only an actress, yet she turned her back upon
a duchess'--ay, and such a duchess! They say their Graces have lost
nothing by their adherence to the Queen.”
Mrs. Barry had now posed herself, flinging back her hair from her
forehead, so that her broad, massive brow was fully shown, and the
painter had begun to work upon her picture.
“Ah, people say that? And what reason have they for saying it, I
wonder?” remarked Sir Godfrey.
“The best of reasons, my good friend. They say that their Graces have
lost nothing by standing by the Queen, because if they ran a chance of
losing anything they would quickly stand by the King--His Majesty over
the water.”
Sir Godfrey laughed. “I vow, Mistress Barry, that your gossips have
failed to interpret as I would the expression upon the face of Her Grace
of Marlborough,” said he. “Great heaven, madam, cannot one perceive a
pensiveness upon that face of hers?--nay, prithee, do not turn your head
to look for the expression. I want not to lose your expression while you
are endeavoring to catch that of Her Grace.”
“The Sad Sarah! And you mean to reproduce the sadness, Sir Godfrey?”
“Not sadness--only pensiveness.”
“The one is the same as t' other. Then you will cause posterity to
affirm that Sarah was sad to find that she had not become so rich in
adhering to the Queen as she might have if she had sent her pensive
glances across to France?”
“Then posterity will do her wrong. Her Grace is truly attached to the
Queen--so truly attached that she becomes melancholic at the thought of
not being completely trusted by Her Majesty.”
Sir Godfrey's voice had sunk to a whisper as he made this revelation;
and when he had spoken he glanced once more round the room as if to
assure himself that he had no listeners beside Mrs. Barry.
“And the Queen does not trust her?” cried the actress. “Ah, well, I
suppose 't is impossible even for a Queen to be for so many years in her
company without understanding her. Ah, the poor Duke! Prithee continue
your story, Sir Godfrey. I perceive that you would fain lead one up to
the scandalous part.”
“Scandalous part, madam? Nay, if you discern not a deep pathos in the
sad look of Her Grace, the Duchess, after the key which I have given you
to her expression, no rehearsal of scandal would awake your interest in
the subject of yonder portrait.”
“Nay, sir, if you refuse to tell me further, you will have to bear with
the mockery of posterity for depicting me with a melancholic visage, as
well as your Duchess. Pray tell me the scandal, or I vow I shall have a
fit of the vapours all the time you are painting my portrait.”
“My dear lady, there is no scandal to rehearse, I pledge you my word,”
said the painter. “'T is only said that Her Majesty--”
“Is blest by heaven with excellent eyesight? Well, yes; I dare swear
that your Duchess is strongly of that opinion--that is what adds to her
melancholy. But I vow 't is most scandalous that there's no scandal. We
must try and repair this, you and I, Sir Godfrey.”
“What, does the woman fancy that all lives should be regulated on the
lines set down by the poets who write for your playhouses?”
“And why not? If our poets will not be true to nature, is it not our
duty to try to make nature true to the poets?”
“Faith, madam, that were to put an outrage upon nature, if I grasp your
meaning aright.”
“Nay, sir, 'tis no great outrage. If our writers treat of the humours
of an intrigue in high places, and if we find, on climbing to these high
places, that no scandal is to be found there but only humdrum existence,
is it not our duty to foster a scandal for the justification of our
writers?”
“_Mille tonnerres!_ Have I been cherishing a fiery flying serpent all
this time? Have I been playing with a firebrand? Why, 't is in the
aspect of Medusa I should be painting you, Mistress Barry; you should
have ringletted snakes entwined among your hair. I' faith, madam, that
is a pretty theory to propound in an honest man's house. We must become
scandalous in order to save a playhouse poet from being accounted untrue
to life?”
“And why not? Ah, Sir Godfrey, I greatly fear that you have no true
feeling for art.”
The actress spoke sadly and shook her head with such exquisite
simulation of melancholy as caused the painter to lay down his palette
and roar with laughter.
“You have a true feeling for art, beyond doubt, my Barry,” he cried.
“You have no room to reproach yourself, I dare swear. You have all the
men in town at your feet, and all their wives ready to scratch out your
eyes--and all for the advancement of art, you say. You are ready to
jeopardise your own reputation in order to save that of your poets! Ah,
what a kind heart hath the Barry!”
“Faith, Sir Godfrey, if I did not make a wife or two jealous, how could
I know what a jealous woman looks like, and if I did not know what a
jealous woman looks like, how could I act the part of a jealous woman in
the playhouse?”
“Ah, how indeed? The play-goers worship you if their wives long for
those ringlets that ensnare their husbands in their meshes. What is a
wedding-ring against a wanton ringlet?”
“'T is my duty as an actress that compels me to seek for examples of the
strongest emotions, Sir Godfrey--you perceive that that is so?”
“Ah, beyond doubt--beyond doubt, madam.”
“That rejoices me. And now touching this Duchess of Marlborough--”
“You will have to seek your examples of strong emotion outside my house,
my friend. Do you fancy that Her Grace--”
“Is a woman? Nay, she is a very woman, so far as my poor observation,
supplemented by a small trifle of experience, is permitted to judge.
Think you that her sadness of visage is due to mortification that her
spouse is still faithful to her?”
“Surely such a reflection should call for an expression of satisfaction,
my fair observer.”
“Nay, Sir Godfrey; that were to take a view of the matter in no
wise deep. Would you not have Her Grace to think as other women less
formidable think, in this wise: 'what fate is mine to be wed to a man
whom no woman thinks worth the tempting'?”
“Zounds, my Barry, that were the strangest way recorded to account for a
wife's sadness. How know you that His Grace has not been tempted?”
“I make no such charge against him, Sir Godfrey; I think not such evil
of him as that he hath not been tempted. I make but a humble attempt to
think as Her Grace may think when she has her moods.”
“That were a presumption for such as you, madam. What! you an actress,
and she a duchess, and yet you would venture--”
The laugh which illuminated the face of Sir Godfrey had scarcely passed
away before his servant entered the painting room in haste, announcing
that the coach of the Duchess of Marlborough was at the door, and that
Her Grace was in the act of dismounting.
“That means that my sitting is at an end,” said Mrs. Barry.
“And I must e'en hustle you out of the room, my dear,” said the painter.
“Her Grace is not the most patient of dames when it comes to waiting on
a painter.”
“Or on a painter's sitter, particularly when that sitter is only an
actress. Ah, Sir Godfrey, you might permit me to remain in secret that I
may know how a Duchess conducts herself upon occasions.”
“Tut--tut! Would you play a comedy in my house, you baggage?” cried the
painter, pushing her playfully to the door. “Fly--fly--before it is too
late.”
“Ah, Sir Godfrey, you are indeed unkind. Prithee how may I hope to enact
the part of a duchess in the playhouse if I am not permitted to witness
one in the life?”
“Off--off--I say! You will have to trust to your own instinct, which I
take to be a faithful enough guide in your case, my dear Barry. And
so farewell to you.” Still protesting, and very prettily pouting, the
actress suffered herself to be gently forced from the room into the
square, inner hall, which was lighted by a dome of coloured glass. Sir
Godfrey, kissing the tip of one of his fingers, bowed her an adieu, but
without speaking, as he held up the tapestry _portière_.
[Illustration: 0278]
Mrs. Barry replied with a modified courtesy, and turned as if to make
her way to the outer hall; but the moment Sir Godfrey let fall the
tapestry, she returned on tiptoe, and moving it an inch to one side,
peered through into the studio. She saw the painter hurrying from the
large apartment into the small retiring-room at the farther end, and the
moment that he disappeared she was back like a flash into the studio and
in hiding behind a full-length canvas that leant against an easel in a
dark corner.
Five seconds were sufficient to carry out the plan which she had
conceived on the impulse of the moment. Had it occupied seven she would
have been discovered, for Sir Godfrey had merely entered his wardrobe
to throw off one coat and put on another. He returned to the studio, and
immediately rang his bell. When the servant entered, he said:
“When Her Grace is ready, lead her hither.”
The servant bowed and left the studio, while Sir Godfrey arranged the
chair on the dais for his new sitter, and placed the half-finished
portrait of the Duchess on his easel. He had scarcely done so before the
rings of the _portière_ were rattling, and the Duchess of Marlborough
entered, attired for the sitting. How she looked on that day, the
painter has by his art enabled all succeeding generations to learn.
Sir Godfrey Kneller's portrait of the Duchess is, perhaps, his most
characteristic work. If the distinction which it possesses in every
feature was scarcely shared by the original in the same degree, there
was still sufficient character in the face of the great lady to make
it profoundly interesting, especially to so close an observer as Sir
Godfrey Kneller.
“Ah, my dear Kneller,” cried Her Grace, as the painter advanced to greet
her with bowed head, “I am even before my appointed hour to-day. That
glance of sad reproach which you cast at your timepiece when I last came
hither--though only half an hour late, I swear--had its effect upon me.”
“Her Grace of Marlborough is one of those rare ones for whom it might
reasonably be expected that the sun would stand still,” said the
painter.
“As it did once at the command of the Hebrew general? Ah, my Kneller,
what a pity it is that a certain great General of the moderns cannot
make his commands respected in the same direction.”
“His Grace has no need to supplement his own generalship by--by--”
“By the aid of heaven, you would say? By the Lord, Sir Godfrey,'t is
rather the aid of the opposite power our generalissimo would invoke, if
taken at a disadvantage.”
“It would be impossible to conceive an incident so remarkable as His
Grace taken at a disadvantage.”
“I would fain believe you to be right, friend Kneller. Yes, I have not
once caught him tripping. But that, you may say, is not so much because
His Grace does not trip, as because his generalship is too subtle for
such an one as I.”
“Nay, nay, madam; so ungenteel a thought could never be entertained
by one who has the privilege of knowing the Duke and of seeing the
Duchess.”
“Vastly prettily spoken, Sir Godfrey; and with the air of a courtier,
too; but, unlike t' other things of the Court, there is truth in your
words. Look you, Kneller, there's the slut who calls herself Mistress
Barry--she carries half the town away captive at her chariot-wheels--”
she pointed to the portrait of Mrs. Barry. “But think you that her
fascinations would have power to prevail against my lord the Duke? Nay,
adamant is as snow compared to his demeanour when the wretch is moving
all hearts within the playhouse. Have not I found him sitting with
closed eyes while the woman was flaunting it about the stage, and men's
swords were ready to fly from their scabbards at the throats of them
that had got a soft look from her?”
“Is 't possible?”
“Ay, sir; 't is more than possible. The insolent hussy has oft cast up
her eyes at our box in the playhouse, ogling His Grace, if you please.
The fool little knew that she was ogling a slumbering man. Nay, Sir
Godfrey, if I were as sure of my ground in other directions as I am of
His Grace, I were a happy woman.”
She took her place on the dais, and the expression of pensiveness which
appears on the face of the portrait became intensified. This fact,
however, did not prevent a dainty little fist from quivering in her
direction from the side of the full-length picture in the corner. The
Duchess had her back turned to that particular corner.
“Your Grace deserves to be the happiest of women,” said the painter.
“If only to give so admirable a limner an opportunity of depicting a
smiling face,” said the Duchess.
“Nay, madam, a smile doth not make a picture,” replied Sir Godfrey. “On
the contrary, it oft destroys one. Your painter of smirking goddesses
finds his vocation at the Fair of St. Bartolemy. I would fain hope that
I am not such.” There was a silence, during which Sir Godfrey painted
the hair upon his canvas with his usual dexterity. Then Her Grace
sighed.
“Know you the best means of bringing back an errant confidence, Sir
Godfrey?” she asked after another long pause.
“An errant confidence, madam?”
“The confidence of one whom I love, and who I think would fain love me
still, were it not for the tongue of slander.”
“Nay, your Grace, I am but a painter; no Rubens am I in the skill that
pertains to an envoy. Still, it occurs to me that the rendering of some
signal service to the one whose mood your Grace describes should bring
you to her heart again.”
The Duchess sprang from her chair and began pacing the narrow limits of
the dais, her hands clenched, and the expression on her face becoming
one of passion solely.
“Some signal service--some signal service!” she cried. “Man, have I not
grown aged in her service? Who among those around her hath shown her and
hers such service as ours has been--my husband's and mine? And yet when
she hears the rumour of a plot she taunts me that I was not the first
to warn her. Heavens! Does it rest with me to see the word 'conspirator'
branded on the flesh of one who may hap to wear a cuirass? Is there
any skill that will enable mine eyes to perceive in a man's bearing
an adherent to the family at St. Germains? By the Lord, Sir Godfrey
Kneller, I may be tried too much. Think you that if we were to turn our
eyes in the direction of St. Germains there would not be a goodly number
of persons in this realm who would turn their eyes and their coats with
us?”
“For God's sake, madam--”
“Nay, 't is but an abstract proposition, friend Kneller. I have wit
enough to perceive that the atmosphere of France suiteth best the
health of some folk. For mine own part, I like best our English air; but
if--ah, continue your painting, Sir Godfrey, and see that you make mine
eyes the eyes of one who looks not overseas for succour.”
Her Grace threw herself once more into the chair, and the painter
resumed his work in silence. He could not but reproduce the pensive
expression that once more was worn by the face of the Duchess.
At the end of half an hour she rose, complaining that she was tired. She
smiled, giving her hand to Sir Godfrey, as she said.
“I know, my good friend, that it is safe to rage in your presence; you
are discretion itself.”
“Your Grace hath never put my discretion to the test,” said the Court
painter, with a low bow.
“The Duke will mayhap visit you to inspect the portrait, Sir Godfrey,”
said the Duchess when at the door. “Pray let him know that I await him
at St. James's.”
“I shall not fail, madam,” said the painter. “And I will not ask your
Grace to sit to me until Friday. I have to be in Richmond on Thursday.”
He held back the _portière_ for her exit, and then followed her through
the domed hall to the apartment where her maid awaited her.
On his return to the studio he found himself face to face with Mrs.
Barry. For an instant he stood speechless. Then, with a glance behind
him, he whispered:
“How did you come hither, in the name of heaven?”
“In a name which you are bound to respect--the name of art,” she
replied.
“I sought but a lesson, and I have not sought in vain. A duchess! Good
Lord! These be your duchesses! The manners of a kitchen wench allied to
the language of a waterman. A duchess!”
“Madam--Mistress Barry--”
“Oh, the poor Duke! How oft have not I heard that His Grace looks
forward to the hottest campaign with joy? Oh, I can well believe it. And
the look of pensiveness on Her Grace's face--observe it, most faithful
of limners.”
She stood pointing to the portrait of the Duchess in a stage attitude
of scorn. Sir Godfrey, as he looked at her, felt that he should like to
paint her in that attitude for the benefit of posterity. Then she burst
into a scornful laugh, at which he became more serious than ever. In
another moment, however, she had introduced a note of merriment into her
laughter, and in spite of the fact that he had been extremely angry on
finding that she had been in hiding he could not help joining in her
laughter.
“The pensive Duchess!” she cried. “Nay, rather, the pensive Duke, my
friend. Paint him as 'Il Penseroso'--the Duke who had eyes only for
the graces of Her Grace--who had ears only for her dulcet phrases--who
snored in the face of the actress who was ogling him from the stage.
Grant me patience, heaven! If I fail to bring him to my feet in the
sight of that woman, may I never tread the stage more! I have a scheme,
Sir Godfrey, which only needs your help to--”
“My help! _Gott in Himmel!_ You shall not have my help! What! do you
fancy that you may turn my painting-room into a playhouse stage, and act
your farces--”
“His Grace the Duke of Marlborough.”
The servant had thrown open the door as he made the announcement.
“Ah! Heaven is on my side! I need not your help,” cried the actress, in
an aside, as she turned to a mirror to still further dishevel her hair.
The Duke of Marlborough, entering the studio, found himself confronted
by a lovely woman visibly fluttered, and apparently anxious to prevent
the lace upon her shoulders from revealing even so much of her bosom as
the painter had thought necessary for artistic purposes.
“Ha! Kneller!” cried the Duke, “I find that I am an intruder. How is
this, sir? Your fellow said that you were alone.”
“It is only my friend, Mistress Barry, your Grace, whose portrait has
become my pastime,” said Sir Godfrey.
“And Mistress Barry is of no account,” said the actress, sinking in a
courtesy. “Ah, your Grace, Sir Godfrey forces me to excuse both his own
imprudence and my impudence. When I learned that the Duke of Marlborough
was to come hither I implored him to permit me to remain in order that
the dream of my poor life might be realised.”
“The dream of your life, madam?” said the Duke.
“I dare say 't is the dream of many lives,” said the lady in a low
voice, somewhat broken by an emotion she could not repress, even though
she took one hand away from her lace to still the beating of her heart.
“And now that I find myself face to face with the one who has saved our
country's honour in an hundred fights, I protest that I am overcome with
the result of my boldness. Oh, your Grace, forgive the weakness of a
poor weak woman.”
“Madam,” said the Duke, “this moment repays me for whatever trifling
hardship I have undergone in my campaigns. To find that all the charms
of Mistress Barry on the stage are but feeble compared with those gifts
of nature with which she had been endowed, were sure an astonishment to
one who had seen her only when she was the centre of a thousand eyes.”
“Oh, your Grace is determined to overwhelm your friends with your
compliments as you do your enemies with your culverins. But I vow I am
too forward. I am presuming to include my poor self among your Grace's
friends.”
“Then think of a sweeter name, my dear lady, and I shall agree to it
without demur.”
The Duke was beyond doubt not insensible to the charms of the beautiful
actress. She had apparently quite forgotten that the drapery about her
shoulders had fallen away more freely even than was permissible in
the exigencies of the classical art affected by the eighteenth century
painters.
“Ah, Your Grace leaves me without a voice even of protest,” murmured the
actress, glancing modestly at the floor.
“Nay, Mistress Barry has need only to protest against the limitations
of speech,” said the Duke, facing her and offering her his hand, which,
after a moment's hesitation, she took with the homage that she would
have given to the hand of a monarch. Then she dropped it with a half
stifled sigh, and turned to the door without a word.
“Wherefore fly?” said the Duke, raising the side of the _portière_ while
she made a courtesy.
“'T were better so, though I know your Grace cannot understand how
flight should ever be linked with discretion.”
“At least, let me conduct you to your chair, madam. Nay, I insist.”
They had scarcely got beneath the glass dome before she had laid her
hand upon his arm.
“I was determined to see you face to face,” she said in a rapid whisper.
“I have something of the greatest gravity that is for your ear alone.
You would step between the Queen and disaster?”
“I have done so before now,” said the Duke. “Heaven may be equally kind
to me again. Come with me in my coach now; it is already dusk.”
“No--no--that would be fatal to both of us,” she whispered. “We are
surrounded by enemies--spies--purveyors of treason--the very life of the
Queen is in danger.”
“You speak sincerely,” said the Duke. “Come to my house after the play.”
“Impossible! Your Grace little knows in what quarter the danger lies. I
lit upon it by accident myself. Let me see. Ah, I have it: Sir Godfrey's
painting room at a quarter after four on Thursday--this is Tuesday--yes,
in secret--and in the mean time, not a word to living man or woman--not
even Her Grace.”
“Why not take your seat in my coach; it has curtains.”
“Impossible! Ah, trust me to know wherein lieth safety and prudence.
Hasten back. Good Sir Godfrey must not suspect.”
“Heavens! You do not say that he is--”
“He is true; but he talks. We need those who are dumb. Not a word in
human ear.”
He looked into her face--eagerly--searchingly. She never winced. He
pressed her hand and returned to the studio.
She was halfway down the street in her chair before she burst into a
merry laugh.
“Her Grace shall have enough of plots to last her for awhile at
any rate. Our painter goes to Richmond on Thursday; he said so. Oh,
Lud--Lud! how quick the notion came to me when His Grace appeared. Ah,
Mistress Barry, thou hast not read in vain all that the poets have
writ for the playhouse. I can see that they are both wild to show their
devotion to Her Majesty. They would fain discover plots growing along
the hedgerows of St. James's Park. They will be as easily trapped as
tame pigeons.”
“What,” cried Mistress Barry on Thursday afternoon, to the servant who
opened the door for her at Sir Godfrey Kneller's house, “what! gone to
Richmond? Nay,'t is not possible. I sit to him at four.”
“My master said it would be five ere he returned from her ladyship's,
madam.”
“Oh, Lud, surely he made a mistake; or you have misheard him, sirrah. He
will be back at four, and I'll e'n wait for him in the painting-room. If
he have not returned by the half hour I will tarry no longer.”
She walked past the servant--he made no demur--and entered the studio.
Sauntering about for a few moments, she then went to the door and locked
it. She hastened to a shelf on which lay some broken chalks. In a few
moments, standing before the tall mirror, she had completely altered her
face; she had “made up” her features and complexion as those of an old
woman.
Then from apparently capacious pockets in the cloak which she wore
she brought forth a grey wig of many curls, which she put over her own
chestnut hair; and a servant's apron which completely hid her gown.
A few adroit touches transformed her into a venerable person of much
respectability--one whose appearance suggested that of an aged retainer
in a family where her services were properly valued. She surveyed
herself in the glass, saying, “Her Grace will, I can swear, recognise
the good woman whose sense of duty compelled her to address so mighty
a lady touching the vile conspiracy to which Her Grace is to be made
privy.”
While she was standing back from the glass, laughing as she kissed
the tips of her fingers to the figure who responded in like fashion,
a gentle knock sounded on the small side door that led into the arched
passage to the garden--the door by which the painter's models were
admitted to the studio without passing through the house. The actress,
giving a final smooth to her apron, hastened to open the door, but only
to the extent of an inch or two.
“What's your business, madam?” she inquired, in the quavering accents of
age, through the opening.
“I have come hither for Mrs. Freeman's frock,” was the reply in a low
voice.
“It will be ready for you in half an hour, my good woman,” said the
actress. “Meantime, enter and wait.”
She admitted a muffled and closely-veiled figure, and, when she had
closed the door, made an old-fashioned curtesy.
“You are Mrs. Smollett?” said the figure, in a low voice, after glancing
round the studio.
“Elizabeth Smollett, your Grace, is my name,” quavered Mrs. Barry. “Ah,
madam, you have had the courage to come hither.”
“Courage?” said the Duchess. “It needed none. If what your letter told
me be true, it is time that some true friend of the Queen's came hither.
Is it possible that your master, Sir Godfrey, knoweth naught of the
plot?”
“He knoweth naught, madam. The head and front of the wicked business
came to him as his _valet de chambre_ with the best recommendations. It
was only by accident that I discovered the fellow's motives. He was for
three years at St. Germains.”
“At St. Germains! The wretch! Mrs. Smollett, your devotion to Her
Majesty in this matter shall not go unrewarded. I can promise you that.
They hope to seize the Queen! Merciful heaven! Are they fools enough to
fancy that that act would further their ends? Ah, shall I now be avenged
upon mine enemies who whisper to Her Majesty! And you, Smollett--you
will bless the day you wrote to me.”
“Not so loud, your Grace,” whispered the actress. “There may be those at
hand that we know not of. This is where your grace must be in hiding.”
She led the Duchess up the studio to the curtain that hung across the
retiring room. “Your Grace will be entirely hid in the recess of the
door, and unless I am far mistaken you shall hear more than you ever
expected. Now, madam, for God's sake remain fast hid behind the curtain.
I shall return to my household duties lest I should be suspected.”
“You will bless this day,” whispered Her Grace from behind the
_portière_.
Mrs. Barry put her finger to her lips as she noiselessly unlocked the
door leading to the domed hall and then passed through.
She hastily removed all traces of her disguise, placing the wig and
apron behind a marble pedestal that bore a reproduction of the flying
Mercury. She paused at the door for some time before returning to the
studio, and when at last she opened it she did so very cautiously,
putting her head just beyond the _portière_ at first. Then she closed
the door behind her and advanced. She did not fail to notice the little
movement of the curtain at the farther end of the studio. Then she gave
a fine sigh and threw herself into a chair.
“Heigh ho!” she said, in a tone that she meant to be audible in every
part of the room. “Heigh ho! 't is weary waiting for one's love. But my
love--my hero--is worthy to be waited for by empresses. Yet, if I had
not his picture to look upon now I vow I should feel melancholic. Ah,
Sir Godfrey. He has dealt as harshly with the face of my Duke as he
hath dealt gently with that ancient harridan, the Duchess.” (She saw the
distant _portière_ quiver.) “Great heavens!” she continued, rising and
standing in front of the portrait of the Duchess. “Great heavens! is it
a matter of wonder that His Grace should be sick unto death of that face
of hers? All the flattery of the painter cannot hide the malevolence of
her countenance. The Queen perceived it long ago, and yet they say that
she hopes to regain the favour of her royal mistress!
“Poor creature! But indeed she is to be pitied. She hath lost the favour
of her Queen and the heart of her spouse. Ah, my hero--my beloved--your
heart is mine--all mine. How oft have I not heard your sweet words
telling me that--how oft? But why are you not here to tell it to me now?
Why--ah, at last--at last!”
A knock had sounded at the side door in the midst of her passionate
inquiries, and she almost flew to the door, “Ah, at last--at last you
have come!” she said in a fervent whisper as the Duke entered.
“I have come,” he replied, still holding her hand. He had no choice left
in the matter. She did not withdraw her hand after she had given it to
him. It would scarcely have done for him to cast it from him. “You are
sure that Sir Godfrey has not yet returned?”
“I am sure of it,” said she. “Would I be here with you alone if he had
returned?”
“No, no; of course not,” said the Duke. “But would I not come far if
only to press this little hand?”
His experience of women had taught him that a little flattery is never
out of place with them. He supposed it was out of sheer nervousness that
Mrs. Barry had failed to withdraw her hand.
She did not withdraw it even now, however. It was only when they had
walked side by side half way across the room that she withdrew her
hand. She saw that a large picture on an easel was between them and the
distant _portiere_.
“You have come--you have trusted me,” she murmured, with her eyes cast
down.
He looked at her. He began to fear that she was faltering. She needed
encouragement to make her revelation to him.
“I have trusted you, dear one; ah, you know not to what extent I would
trust you. I would go to the ends of the earth to hear what you have to
tell me.”
“That is what I wish,” she cried. “Could we not meet at some distant
spot where all that my heart contains might be yours? Ah, let us fly
thither without delay! Delay may make havoc of our future.”
“Pray, calm yourself,” said the Duke. He perceived that his companion
was of an hysterical type. She would need to be treated with great tact
before she could be brought to communicate anything that she knew.
“Ah, 't is easy for a soldier to be calm,” she cried. “'T is not so
easy for a poor woman who is by nature trustful and yet by experience
distrustful.”
“You may trust me, my sweet creature,” he said.
“May I? May I?” she whispered, looking into his face. “Ah, no, no; leave
me--leave me alone to die here! Mine was the fault--mine alone.”
She had put her hands before her face and gone excitedly halfway down
the apartment.
“You shall not die!” he cried, following her. “Just heaven, child, am I
nobody? Is my protection worth nothing, that you should be afraid?”
“Your protection?” She had removed her hands from her face. “What! you
will let me be under your protection?”
“I swear to you.”
“Ah, then I will trust you--forever--for ever,” cried the actress,
flinging herself into the arms of the astonished Duke and laying her
head on his shoulder.
He was much more astonished when a voice rang through the studio:
“Wretch! Infamous wretches both!”
“Oh, Lud!” cried Mrs. Barry, forsaking her resting place and standing a
yard or two apart. “Oh, Lud, who is the plain little woman that has been
eavesdropping? I vow, Duke, she was not invited to our meeting.”
“Infamous creature! I am the Duchess of Marlborough!”
“Nay, that were impossible. I happen to know that the Duchess has a
limitless faith in the Duke, especially in regard to so plain a creature
as Mistress Barry, and you have the face and bearing of a jealous woman.
Her Grace of Marlborough would not be jealous, my good creature.”
“Madam,” said the Duke, turning to his wife, “madam, you have played an
unworthy part--spying--”
“Silence, libertine!” thundered the Duchess, looking like a fury.
[Illustration: 0309]
“Faith, 't is the Duchess, after all,” said the actress. “Ah, Sir
Godfrey has returned in good time.” Sir Godfrey was standing at the
door. “Dear Sir Godfrey, Her Grace is anxious for you to paint her in
her true character--that of the jealous wife; and so I leave her in
your good hands. Adieu, your Grace. Oh, fie, to be jealous of so poor a
creature as an actress!”
She stood for a moment by the side of the painter, turning half round as
she raised the tapestry hanging. Her laughter when she had passed into
the hall, rang through the studio.
Sir Godfrey began to speak.
“I fear greatly that in my absence--”
“Sir, in your absence your house has been turned into a lover's
rendezvous!” cried the Duchess. “Your aged domestic, Mrs. Smollett,
wrote to me a confidential letter--”
“Madam, I have no aged domestic, and I know no one of the name of
Smollett,” said Sir Godfrey.
“What! Oh, the man is in the plot also! It were beneath my dignity to
converse further with him. Shame, sir--shame on both of you!”
She flung herself through the _portière_ and disappeared in a billow of
tapestry.
The Duke and Sir Godfrey stood side by side in silence in the studio. At
last the former spoke.
“Faith, Kneller, I think I begin to see how we have all been tricked.
That play-actress hath made fools of us all for her own sport.”
“I begin to fear that that is so,” said Sir Godfrey.
“Ay, sir; she hath fooled us,” said the Duke. “Methinks it will be some
space of time before the wrath of Her Grace will be appeased.”
And so it was.