there, and everywhere, I heard that my Lord Sandford had been seen as
near as Edgeware, and that he had been asking something about a horse.
More I cannot find out; but it is enough for me. There is devilry in
the matter, and Barty Dumaresq and Lord Sandford are both mixed up in
it. I have come to town to see you first, and then to get some
knowledge of his lordship's stables, and I'll wager I'll find out before
very long where the Don is hidden away."
Grey's eyes flashed with anger. Was it possible that this man should
sink to plotting a common theft? Or was it his kinsman who had stolen
the horse, and sold him for a great sum to the young nobleman, who had
always coveted the creature? This was most probably the truth, for the
recluse of Hartsbourne had plainly feigned illness to get Dick and Jock
out of the way. The whole thing was a dishonourable conspiracy, and he
could only hope that Lord Sandford's part in it had been merely that of
purchaser. If he had stooped to plot a theft with the old miser, he
would be a worse and a meaner villain than Grey would willingly believe,
since it was already the talk of the town that he would wed with the
Lady Geraldine Adair so soon as the spring-tide should come.
Master and man discussed the matter for some time, and Grey agreed that
Dick should carry out his plans, and report to him of the result at
intervals. It was above a week since the horse had vanished; but the
state of the roads had prevented the man from attempting the walk to
London before, and he did not desire to be burdened with his own horse,
as he knew not where he might have to lodge, or what was likely to turn
up.
"Our fortunes are at a low ebb just now, good Dicon," said Grey as they
parted. "You have but a few gold pieces left, and our exchequer is
almost bare. But we must hope that Dame Fortune, who has shown a
frowning face of late, will treat us to some of her smiles again. For
the world is a harder place than once I thought it, and life a sorer
struggle."
"But you have the Duke's token still, sir?" spoke Dick eagerly. "You
need not despair whilst that remains. They say he is in London now.
Why not take it boldly to him, and remind him of yourself and his
promise? They say he has a kindly heart, as well as a gracious manner."
"I believe that is true," answered Grey with a smile. "Yes, why not go
to him? Why not? Ah, Dicon, I would that life looked as simple to me
as it does to you. But perhaps--perhaps-- Who knows what may next
betide? At least, so long as the token remains, I have still a card to
play; and who can tell but that the last card shall take the trick and
win the game?"
The sunlight had faded by the time Grey reached the attic, and the fire
had burnt itself out to a handful of ashes. Wylde was turning
restlessly upon his bed, coughing more than he had done of late; and
Grey reproached himself with his long absence, though he quickly had
things comfortable and bright again. But the old man must needs hear of
his journey to the theatre; and though he professed himself in no wise
astonished, it was plain that the blow struck home.
His _protege_ had been set aside for another. They ceased to regard him
as a power. He was laid upon the shelf, and another had stepped into
his place. His word carried no weight. No one cared whether he lived or
died. He had brought success and prosperity by his talents to others,
but he was to be left to die in obscurity and want. Ah well, better men
than he had been treated just so. He desired of Grey to leave him to
die alone, and to go forth and make his own way in the world that had no
room for a feeble and broken man whose work was done.
Grey soothed him as well as he was able, but he could not find much to
say that was hopeful or encouraging. He dared not speak of any promise
of help from the theatres, lest the old man should wrathfully refuse to
receive alms, where justice was denied. So he represented that there was
still money left in their purse, which was in a measure true; but the
funds were so excessively scanty that in a few days they would be quite
exhausted. And when the old man at last passed into slumber, Grey went
carefully over all his possessions, which had increased somewhat of
late, and carefully detached from his clothing any ornaments which might
be sold for small sums to eke out their subsistence till something
should turn up. For it was evident that Wylde must not be left long by
himself, as this day's experiment had proved. And how was Grey to obtain
any sort of paid work, were he to be tied to this attic and to almost
constant attendance upon his old friend and master?
How the next days passed by Grey scarcely knew, for the Old Lion had a
relapse, medicines had to be obtained, together with food such as his
condition required; and although a small sum of money had been sent by
Mr. Butler, with an intimation that the same amount should be paid
weekly for the present, it had soon melted away, and there came a night
when Grey had not so much as a penny left in the purse, and he himself
was almost faint for want of food.
But the old man lay sleeping peacefully; the fire burned clear and
bright. The night was fine and cold, and Grey slipped forth into the
streets, wrapping himself well up in a voluminous cloak belonging to his
friend, which completely disguised him.
A strange desperation seized him, and he cared not what he did. He
entered tavern after tavern, singing a roundelay in one, telling a story
in another, reciting a speech or a part of a dramatic scene in another,
and once going through the whole dialogue of "Time and the Youth,"
taking both parts himself, but so changing his aspect from moment to
moment that his audience was electrified, and silver coins as well as
coppers were his portion on this occasion.
He had now enough for two days' needs. He had supped well, and now must
return home. He felt as though he had passed through a strange black
dream; but he had learned how at a pinch the next day's wants might be
supplied--at least until he had been the round of all the taverns and
coffee-houses, and men were tired of him. But he would not think of
that yet.
He, Sir Grey Dumaresq, had sunk to playing the buffoon in pot-houses, to
earn coppers from the idle sots who frequented such places. He laughed
aloud as the thought presented itself to him thus. Dame Fortune had
proved a sorry shrew so far as he was concerned. Was there any lower
turn in her wheel that he must presently experience?
He had wandered some distance from home, since after having supped he
had been fired to try his luck at some of the more fashionable resorts
of the day; and his last performance had been given at a coffee-house in
one of the better localities, though for the life of him he could not
exactly tell where he was.
It was long since he had walked in these wider streets, and the night,
though starlight, was very dark. Suddenly a sound as of blows and cries
wakened him from his reverie. Instinctively he started to run in the
direction whence they came, and almost directly he met some fellows
wearing livery fleeing helter-skelter, as for dear life, from a band of
young Mohawks or Scourers, as they termed themselves, who made the
terror of the town at night. In the distance there was still some
tumult going on, and Grey, half guessing the cause, rushed onward, not
heeding the pursuit he passed. A lamp dimly burning over a house showed
him the outline of one of those chairs in which ladies of fashion were
carried to and fro from house to house. Plainly the liveried servants
in charge of the chair had been chased away, and its occupant was now at
the mercy of the half-drunken young bloods against whom Father Time had
inveighed so eloquently.
Grey understood in a moment, and with a cry of rage and scorn he flung
himself into the heart of the fray, intent upon the rescue of the lady
in the chair, whoever she might be.
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*A NIGHT ADVENTURE.*
The all-important Duchess of Marlborough had taken one of her sudden and
somewhat vehement and exacting likings for the Lady Geraldine. This was
a matter of no small gratification to Lord and Lady Romaine,
notwithstanding the fact that the mother felt some jealousy and vexation
that her daughter should have been singled out for this distinguished
lady's favour, whilst she herself was entirely passed over. Still she
was woman of the world enough to accept the situation with philosophy.
She always declared freely that the Duchess bored her to death, and that
she would never be able to put up with her temper and her autocratic
ways. But she was glad enough to let Geraldine visit at Marlborough
House whenever an invitation (or rather summons) came for her; and
Geraldine herself was glad and thankful to go, for here at least she was
safe from the unwelcome and ever more pressing attentions of Lord
Sandford. And above and beyond this, her parents were disposed to treat
her with more respect since she had been "taken up" by the Queen's
favourite. When she begged of her father not to make any promise to
Lord Sandford regarding the disposition of her hand, he laughingly
consented to wait awhile; for in his heart he began to wonder whether
his beautiful daughter might not do better for herself. Lord Sandford's
reckless expenditure was becoming the talk of the town, and unless he
had larger reserve funds to draw upon than were known, he might possibly
find himself in awkward straits. In the house of the Duchess, Geraldine
might possibly meet admirers with more to recommend them or at least
with prospects more sound and secure. It is true that Lady Romaine
still upheld her favourite Sandford's suit as warmly as ever; but Lord
Romaine was quite willing to accede to his daughter's request, and to
let things take their own course without bringing matters at once to a
climax. Lord Sandford was not to be dismissed; but Geraldine was not to
be coerced.
It was natural that the girl should welcome with pleasure and gratitude
a friendship which brought her immunity from what promised to become
something very like persecution. Her occasional visits to Marlborough
House formed the brightest spots in her present life.
If the Duchess were proud, capricious, autocratic, and uncertain in
temper, as her detractors declared, at least she possessed warm and deep
feelings, and could be infinitely agreeable and kindly when she chose.
To Geraldine she was uniformly gentle and sympathetic. Perhaps she
already felt that she had passed the meridian of her days of power. The
kinswoman, Abigail Hill (now Mrs. Masham), whom she had first introduced
to the Queen, was rapidly rising in royal favour, and seemed likely to
prove not only a rival, but a supplanter. It had not come to that yet;
and the return of the Duke, covered with glory and honour, averted for a
while the calamity already overshadowing her. But so clever and astute
a woman could not be altogether blind to the Queen's waning affection;
and perhaps the consciousness of her own faults and shortcomings, and
her unguarded temper, helped at this juncture to soften the asperities
of this rough but sterling nature, and disposed her to take pleasure in
the sincere and undisguised affection and admiration of this beautiful
girl.
Geraldine on her part took great pleasure in the society of one who held
in a semi-masculine contempt the follies, frivolities, and buffooneries
of the present day code of manners. Of men and women alike, the Duchess
spoke with hearty scorn, her eyes flashing and her lips curling in a
fine contempt. Her influence at Court had always been on the side of
gravity, decorum, and what the fashionable dames and gallants called
"dullness." She and the Queen were at one in all these matters, as they
were at one in their ideas of conjugal fidelity and the sacredness of
the marriage bond. The Queen was as devoted to her weak-minded husband
as the Duchess to her victorious lord. Both held in detestation the
laxity which prevailed in the world of fashion, and neither cared for
the criticisms passed upon the dullness of the Court, so long as its
virtue was preserved untainted.
Geraldine, sickened by what she saw and heard at the gay routs to which
she had been taken in her mother's train, felt the solemn stately
gravity of the Duchess's house as a haven of rest. She spent her time
during her visits in the private apartment of the great lady, where the
latter came and sat whenever she had leisure to do so, writing short
notes to her husband, to be dispatched by special couriers, or talking
of him and his triumphs, or the prospects of the war or of parties at
home, to one who was eager to learn and ready to take a keen and
intelligent interest in all, and whose sincere admiration and affection,
expressed rather in looks and little unconscious actions than in words,
seemed to soothe and refresh her not a little, accustomed as she was to
full-mouthed flatteries to her face, and the scheming of jealousy behind
her back.
With the return of the Duke came a break in these pleasant visits. But
the break was not final in any sense of the word, and Geraldine received
many little affectionate notes, expressing a hope of seeing more of her
when they could escape from attendance at Court, and enjoy a season of
privacy in their own house. At first it was necessary for the Duke to
be constant in his attendance at Whitehall or Kensington Palace, and the
Duchess went with him. But a day came at last when Geraldine was
summoned to Marlborough House, to spend the afternoon with the Duke and
Duchess, and to remain through the evening with the latter, as the Duke
had to attend a meeting of friends at Lord Halifax's house, and the
Duchess desired to keep the girl, asking that her chair might not be
sent for her until eleven o'clock.
Geraldine was pleased and excited by this prospect; for as yet she had
never seen the Duke at close quarters, though from all she had heard of
him from his wife and others she felt as though he were familiar to her,
and her admiration for him was very great. She had heard of his weakness
where money was concerned, and she knew that he had more than once
changed sides in his politics, and even in his loyalty. But those were
days of change and confusion, when it was often difficult to see the way
clear before one, and when the outlook varied so continually with
changes of dynasty and of foreign and domestic policy that a perfectly
consistent and straightforward walk in life was a thing almost
impossible of achievement. The girl was not disposed to criticise him or
suspect him of overmuch self-seeking. Still less so when the charm of
his personality was brought to bear upon her. She well understood all
she had heard respecting his powers of fascination, and felt that she
could have listened for ever to the music of his voice, watching the
changing expressions of his handsome, mobile features, and the graceful
telling gestures of his beautiful white hands.
They enjoyed a little quiet dinner in their private apartments, almost
unattended by servants. And it was as they sat with wine and dried
fruits before them, awaiting the moment when the Duke must take his
leave, that he suddenly addressed his wife,--
"Ha, Sarah! There is a question I have wanted to put a hundred times,
but ever when it sprang to my lips the moment was not favourable. Tell
me, has a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance ever presented
himself to you with my amethyst ring as token of his good faith? I did
surely tell you of the narrow escape I had at the battle of Ramillies,
and how that I was saved and helped by the timely assistance of a
gallant young English traveller."
"You did, my good lord; and I have greatly desired myself to see and to
thank this young gentleman for the service rendered. You did warn me
that you had bidden him come to me, if in need of any favour or
influence. A warm welcome should have been his at any time, but he has
never presented himself."
"Let us hope, then, that he has prospered without our aid," spoke the
Duke. "He did tell me somewhat of himself, and I do remember how that I
thought his future something uncertain. But the details of his story
have escaped my memory, and I fear even his name is not clearly
remembered. It was Grey--the Christian name--that do I recollect; for
he said it was that of a kinsman of his whom I had overthrown at
Sedgemoor in the days of the rebellion in the west. Grey, Grey--yes,
that is clear; but for the rest--"
"Could it have been Sir Grey Dumaresq?"
Geraldine's was the voice which broke in here. They turned and looked at
her. Her face was flushed: her eyes were bright. The Duke smiled as he
made instant reply.
"Grey Dumaresq--that was the name. Say, fair lady, is this man known to
you? I would fain renew my acquaintance with him, and show him some
token of gratitude."
"I know not where he is now," answered Geraldine. "For a while he was
dwelling with Lord Sandford, as his friend and comrade. But they say
that they had some quarrel. Strange stories were told of them. And Sir
Grey disappeared--no man knows whither. Many whispers and rumours have
gone forth concerning him, even to the one which said that he had taken
the part of the Youth in the representation you did witness, your Grace,
at the theatre."
"It was not Grey Dumaresq whom I did see afterwards," spoke Marlborough
quickly. "I do not forget faces. I should have known him instantly.
That report could not be true."
Geraldine's face was changing colour every moment; her breath came thick
and fast. Heretofore she had spoken no word of this matter, which had
been on her mind night and day for long. Now an impulse of speech came
over her.
"Ah, but the actors have changed," she said. "I did hear from our
servants that the old man who played Father Time was taken ill the very
night that they played at our house; and your Grace doth know," turning
to the Duchess, "how that my dress caught fire, and how that the young
actor did spring down and extinguish the flames, escaping away ere we
could call him back to thank him. It was then that I made sure. I had
suspected it before; but when I saw his face so near, I could not doubt.
It was he."
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed the Duke. "How could things have come to
such a pass with him? Why had he not sought you out, and told of his
adversity? To be sure, many a gentleman born to fortune falls upon evil
days, sometimes through no fault of his own. But with my token--well,
there was no need for this. I must consider what should be done. Have
you seen him since, Lady Geraldine?"
"Nay; and he has not been acting of late. Two strangers, or rather two
other actors, have been playing the parts since that night. I did ask
of my mother leave to send and seek him out, that we might at least give
him thanks for the service rendered me; but she would not believe I had
recognized him aright--she said it was but my fantasy; and for the rest,
if the man wanted a guerdon, he had but to come and ask for it. Hence,
nothing has been done."
"Well, 'tis a strange story; and yet, as I saw that representation at
the theatre, I did say within myself that some eye-witness of the battle
of Ramillies must have planned and written it. We will think and speak
more of it anon. Stranger things have befallen ere this. It would
please me well to befriend a gallant and chivalrous youth, too proud or
too noble to ask favours for himself. I told him he had something of
the poet in him. He may have a career before him yet. Well,
sweetheart, I must needs be going now; but I will return ere midnight,
and Lady Geraldine will beguile the hours of my absence."
He rose, and kissed his wife with a lover-like devotion which sat
gracefully upon him, and which to Geraldine seemed in no wise
ridiculous, notwithstanding the fact that this couple had grown-up
children, married themselves. It was a beautiful thing, she thought, to
see how their love survived, and grew in depth and intensity. She was
able to speak of the Duke, when he had gone, in terms which brought
smiles of pleasure to the wife's face.
It was a happy evening for Geraldine; for the flame of hope leaped up in
her heart, and she felt as though something bright and beautiful had
come into her life. The Duke had shown interest in the subject of the
young actor, who had saved her from injury on the night of the
performance at their house. He did not gibe at her half-formed fancy.
On the contrary, he seemed disposed to examine for himself the possible
truth of the tale. He would seek out Grey--for Grey, she knew, it was.
He would raise him out of obscurity and poverty into the position to
which he was born. There seemed no end to the possibilities of good
fortune which might come to him with the favour and gratitude of the
Duke. The girl passed a happy, dreamy evening, these fancies weaving
themselves into a background for her thoughts, whilst she talked with
the Duchess of the Duke's magnificent reception, of the palace of
Blenheim being erected at the cost of the nation for a residence for
him, and of the honours to which he was likely to attain through his
genius and the favour of her Majesty.
She was in the same happy frame of mind when she got into her chair
shortly before midnight; for the Duchess kept her talking till past the
time arranged, and it never occurred to her to be afraid of the darkness
of the ill-lighted streets. She had her bearers--her father's liveried
servants. And, after all, the distance to traverse was not so very
great.
She had not proceeded far, however, before she was aroused from her
pleasant reverie by the sounds of shouts, yells, and hurrying steps.
She felt her own bearers break into a run, and the chair swayed from
side to side in a fashion that was alarming. Something struck sharply
against the panels, then a shower of missiles seemed to rattle against
its side. Her own men yelled aloud in fear or pain, and next moment the
chair seemed to be heavily dropped, and the air was rent with sounds of
strife, the fall of weapons, and cries of pain and terror. There was no
mistaking what had happened. She was the object of some attack from the
street bullies; but whether by a luckless chance or by premeditation and
design, the frightened girl could not guess. The thought of Lord
Sandford and his unscrupulous ways flashed into her mind, and a shudder
ran through her frame. She could see little or nothing of what was going
on without. Her breath had dimmed the window-panes; there was scarcely
any light in the streets. Never was any creature more helpless than a
lady shut into one of the cumbersome chairs of the period. She could by
no means get out, or even let down a window from within; and before many
minutes had elapsed, the girl was perfectly certain that her bearers had
run wildly away to save their own skins, and that she was left to the
mercy of one of the lawless bands of street marauders, the terror of the
helpless old watchmen, powerless to cope with them, the scandal of the
whole town.
For a moment it seemed as though pursuers and pursued had alike left her
alone, and she made at that juncture a frantic but useless effort to
escape from her prison. Then roars of laughter and the trampling of
feet assured her that her foes were coming back, and she closed her eyes
and set her teeth, and, clasping her hands, tried to frame a few words
of prayer, for she knew not what next would betide her. A hand seemed
fumbling with the chair. In another moment it would be thrown open. But
ere that moment had arrived a new sound arose. More footsteps came
tearing along--a fierce voice--shouts of derision--more blows--more
oaths--cries of pain and anger--fierce threats--savage recriminations.
What was going on? Had some one flown to the rescue? Oh, when would
the horrid scene end? These men were capable of doing to death any
single or unarmed man who tried to stand between them and their brutal
pastimes.
But what was this? Another sound! The roll of wheels--a commanding
voice that she knew ringing through the darkness of the night,
dominating all other sounds.
"It is the Duke--the Duke himself!" cried Geraldine, falling back almost
fainting on the cushions; but the next minute lights were flashing round
her, then the head of the chair was lifted off, and she saw the Duke
himself bending towards her, his face full of concern and anxiety.
"What! The Lady Geraldine! Then, indeed, I come in good time. Are you
hurt, sweet lady? Answer quick! For these villains shall not escape so
easily, if you are."