A Lady of Quality<br />Being a Most Curious, Hitherto Unknown History, as Related by Mr. Isaac Bicke by Frances Hodgson Burnett (world of reading .TXT) 📖

talked of her guests of the afternoon, and was charming and witty in her speech of them; she repeated the mots of the wits, and told some brilliant stories of certain modish ladies and gentlemen of fashion; she had things to say of statesmen and politics, and was sparkling indeed in speaking of the lovely languisher whose little wrist was too delicate and slender to support the loaded whip.  While she talked, Mistress Anne’s soft, dull eyes were fixed upon her with a sort of wonder which had some of the quality of bewilderment; but this was no new thing either, for to the one woman the other was ever something to marvel at.

“It is because you are so quiet a mouse, Anne,” my lady said, with her dazzling smile, “that you seem never in the way; and yet I should miss you if I knew you were not within the house.  When the duke takes me to Camylotte you must be with me even then.  It is so great a house that in it I can find you a bower in which you can be happy even if you see us but little.  ’Tis a heavenly place I am told, and of great splendour and beauty.  The park and flower-gardens are the envy of all England.”

“You—will be very happy, sister,” said Anne, “and—and like a queen.”

“Yes,” was her sister’s answer—“yes.”  And ’twas spoken with a deep in-drawn breath.

After the repast was ended she went back to the Panelled Parlour.

“You may sit with me till bedtime if you desire, Anne,” she said; “but ’twill be but dull for you, as I go to sit at work.  I have some documents of import to examine and much writing to do.  I shall sit up late.”  And upon this she turned to the lacquey holding open the door for her passing through.  “If before half-past ten there comes a message from Sir John Oxon,” she gave order, “it must be brought to me at once; but later I must not be disturbed—it will keep until morning.”

Yet as she spoke there was before her as distinct a picture as ever of what lay waiting and gazing in the room to which she went.

Until twelve o’clock she sat at her table, a despatch box by her side, papers outspread before her.  Within three feet of her was the divan, but she gave no glance to it, sitting writing, reading, and comparing documents.  At twelve o’clock she rose and rang the bell.

“I shall be later than I thought,” she said.  “I need none of you who are below stairs.  Go you all to bed.  Tell my woman that she also may lie down.  I will ring when I come to my chamber and have need of her.  There is yet no message from Sir John?”

“None, my lady,” the man answered.

He went away with a relieved countenance, as she made no comment.  He knew that his fellows as well as himself would be pleased enough to be released from duty for the night.  They were a pampered lot, and had no fancy for late hours when there were no great entertainments being held which pleased them and gave them chances to receive vails.

Mistress Anne sat in a large chair, huddled into a small heap, and looking colourless and shrunken.  As she heard bolts being shot and bars put up for the closing of the house, she knew that her own dismissal was at hand.  Doors were shut below stairs, and when all was done the silence of night reigned as it does in all households when those who work have gone to rest.  ’Twas a common thing enough, and yet this night there was one woman who felt the stillness so deep that it made her breathing seem a sound too loud.

“Go to bed, Anne,” she said.  “You have stayed up too long.”

Anne arose from her chair and drew near to her.

“Sister,” said she, as she had said before, “let me stay.”

She was a poor weak creature, and so she looked with her pale insignificant face and dull eyes, a wisp of loose hair lying damp on her forehead.  She seemed indeed too weak a thing to stand even for a moment in the way of what must be done this night, and ’twas almost irritating to be stopped by her.

“Nay,” said my Lady Dunstanwolde, her beautiful brow knitting as she looked at her.  “Go to your chamber, Anne, and to sleep.  I must do my work, and finish to-night what I have begun.”

“But—but—” Anne stammered, dominated again, and made afraid, as she ever was, by this strong nature, “in this work you must finish—is there not something I could do to—aid you—even in some small and poor way.  Is there—naught?”

“Naught,” answered Clorinda, her form drawn to its great full height, her lustrous eyes darkening.  “What should there be that you could understand?”

“Not some small thing—not some poor thing?” Anne said, her fingers nervously twisting each other, so borne down was she by her awful timorousness, for awful it was indeed when she saw clouds gather on her sister’s brow.  “I have so loved you, sister—I have so loved you that my mind is quickened somehow at times, and I can understand more than would be thought—when I hope to serve you.  Once you said—once you said—”

She knew not then nor ever afterwards how it came to pass that in that moment she found herself swept into her sister’s white arms and strained against her breast, wherein she felt the wild heart bounding; nor could she, not being given to subtle reasoning, have comprehended the almost fierce kiss on her cheek nor the hot drops that wet it.

“I said that I believed that if you saw me commit murder,” Clorinda cried, “you would love me still, and be my friend and comforter.”

“I would, I would!” cried Anne.

“And I believe your word, poor, faithful soul—I do believe it,” my lady said, and kissed her hard again, but the next instant set her free and laughed.  “But you will not be put to the test,” she said, “for I have done none.  And in two days’ time my Gerald will be here, and I shall be safe—saved and happy for evermore—for evermore.  There, leave me!  I would be alone and end my work.”

And she went back to her table and sat beside it, taking her pen to write, and Anne knew that she dare say no more, and turning, went slowly from the room, seeing for her last sight as she passed through the doorway, the erect and splendid figure at its task, the light from the candelabras shining upon the rubies round the snow-white neck and wreathed about the tower of raven hair like lines of crimson.

CHAPTER XIX—A piteous story is told, and the old cellars walled in

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