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) 📖

“’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,