“Until the babblers flock in to chatter7 of the modes and playhouses,” she said, “all will be as quiet as the grave. Then I must stand near, and plan well, and be in such beauty and spirit that they will see naught8 but me.”
In the afternoon ’twas the fashion for those who had naught more serious in their hands than the killing9 of time to pay visits to each other’s houses, and drinking dishes of tea, to dispose of their neighbours’ characters, discuss the playhouses, the latest fashions in furbelows or commodes, and make love either lightly or with serious intent. One may be sure that at my Lady Dunstanwolde’s many dishes of Bohea were drunk, and many ogling10 glances and much witticism11 exchanged. There was in these days even a greater following about her than ever. A triumphant12 beauty on the verge13 of becoming a great duchess is not like to be neglected by her acquaintance, and thus her ladyship held assemblies both gay and brilliantly varied14, which were the delight of the fashionable triflers of the day.
This afternoon they flocked in greater numbers than usual. The episode of the breaking of Devil, the unexpected return of his Grace of Osmonde, the preparations for the union, had given an extra stimulant16 to that interest in her ladyship which was ever great enough to need none. Thereunto was added the piquancy17 of the stories of the noticeable demeanour of Sir John Oxon, of what had seemed to be so plain a rebellion against his fate, and also of my lady’s open and cold displeasure at the manner of his bearing himself as a disappointed man who presumed to show anger against that to which he should gallantly18 have been resigned, as one who is conquered by the chance of war. Those who had beheld19 the two ride homeward together in the morning, were full of curiousness, and one and another, mentioning the matter, exchanged glances, speaking plainly of desire to know more of what had passed, and of hope that chance might throw the two together again in public, where more of interest might be gathered. It seemed indeed not unlikely that Sir John might appear among the tea-bibbers, and perchance ’twas for this lively reason that my lady’s room was this afternoon more than usually full of gay spirits and gossip-loving ones.
They found, however, only her ladyship’s self and her sister, Mistress Anne, who, of truth, did not often join her tea-parties, finding them so given up to fashionable chatter and worldly witticisms21 that she felt herself somewhat out of place. The world knew Mistress Anne but as a dull, plain gentlewoman, whom her more brilliant and fortunate sister gave gracious protection to, and none missed her when she was absent, or observed her greatly when she appeared upon the scene. To-day she was perchance more observed than usual, because her pallor was so great a contrast to her ladyship’s splendour of beauty and colour. The contrast between them was ever a great one; but this afternoon Mistress Anne’s always pale countenance seemed almost livid, there were rings of pain or illness round her eyes, and her features looked drawn22 and pinched. My Lady Dunstanwolde, clad in a great rich petticoat of crimson23 flowered satin, with wondrous24 yellow Mechlin for her ruffles25, and with her glorious hair dressed like a tower, looked taller, more goddess-like and full of splendid fire than ever she had been before beheld, or so her visitors said to her and to each other; though, to tell the truth, this was no new story, she being one of those women having the curious power of inspiring the beholder26 with the feeling each time he encountered them that he had never before seen them in such beauty and bloom.
When she had come down the staircase from her chamber, Anne, who had been standing27 at the foot, had indeed started somewhat at the sight of her rich dress and brilliant hues28.
“Why do you jump as if I were a ghost, Anne?” she asked. “Do I look like one? My looking-glass did not tell me so.”
“No,” said Anne; “you—are so—so crimson and splendid—and I—”
Her ladyship came swiftly down the stairs to her.
“You are not crimson and splendid,” she said. “’Tis you who are a ghost. What is it?”
Anne let her soft, dull eyes rest upon her for a moment helplessly, and when she replied her voice sounded weak.
“I think—I am ill, sister,” she said. “I seem to tremble and feel faint.”
“Go then to bed and see the physician. You must be cared for,” said her ladyship. “In sooth, you look ill indeed.”
“Nay,” said Anne; “I beg you, sister, this afternoon let me be with you; it will sustain me. You are so strong—let me—”
She put out her hand as if to touch her, but it dropped at her side as though its strength was gone.
“But there will be many babbling29 people,” said her sister, with a curious look. “You do not like company, and these days my rooms are full. ’Twill irk and tire you.”
“I care not for the people—I would be with you,” Anne said, in strange imploring30. “I have a sick fancy that I am afraid to sit alone in my chamber. ’Tis but weakness. Let me this afternoon be with you.”
“Go then and change your robe,” said Clorinda, “and put some red upon your cheeks. You may come if you will. You are a strange creature, Anne.”
And thus saying, she passed into her apartment. As there are blows and pain which end in insensibility or delirium31, so there are catastrophes32 and perils33 which are so great as to produce something near akin15 to these. As she had stood before her mirror in her chamber watching her reflection, while her woman attired34 her in her crimson flowered satin and builded up her stately head-dress, this other woman had felt that the hour when she could have shrieked35 and raved37 and betrayed herself had passed by, and left a deadness like a calm behind, as though horror had stunned38 all pain and yet left her senses clear. She forgot not the thing which lay staring upward blankly at the under part of the couch which hid it—the look of its fixed39 eyes, its outspread locks, and the purple indentation on the temple she saw as clearly as she had seen them in that first mad moment when she had stood staring downward at the thing itself; but the coursing of her blood was stilled, the gallop40 of her pulses, and that wild hysteric leaping of her heart into her throat, choking her and forcing her to gasp41 and pant in that way which in women must ever end in shrieks42 and cries and sobbing43 beatings of the air. But for the feminine softness to which her nature had given way for the first time, since the power of love had mastered her, there was no thing of earth could have happened to her which would have brought this rolling ball to her throat, this tremor44 to her body—since the hour of her birth she had never been attacked by such a female folly45, as she would indeed have regarded it once; but now ’twas different—for a while she had been a woman—a woman who had flung herself upon the bosom46 of him who was her soul’s lord, and resting there, her old rigid47 strength had been relaxed.
But ’twas not this woman who had known tender yielding who returned to take her place in the Panelled Parlour, knowing of the companion who waited near her unseen—for it was as her companion she thought of him, as she had thought of him when he followed her in the Mall, forced himself into her box at the play, or stood by her shoulder at assemblies; he had placed himself by her side again, and would stay there until she could rid herself of him.
“After to-night he will be gone, if I act well my part,” she said, “and then may I live a freed woman.”
’Twas always upon the divan48 she took her place when she received her visitors, who were accustomed to finding her enthroned there. This afternoon when she came into the room she paused for a space, and stood beside it, the parlour being yet empty. She felt her face grow a little cold, as if it paled, and her under-lip drew itself tight across her teeth.
“In a graveyard,” she said, “I have sat upon the stone ledge49 of a tomb, and beneath there was—worse than this, could I but have seen it. This is no more.”
When the Sir Humphreys and Lord Charleses, Lady Bettys and Mistress Lovelys were announced in flocks, fluttering and chattering50, she rose from her old place to meet them, and was brilliant graciousness itself. She hearkened to their gossipings, and though ’twas not her way to join in them, she was this day witty51 in such way as robbed them of the dulness in which sometimes gossip ends. It was a varied company which gathered about her; but to each she gave his or her moment, and in that moment said that which they would afterwards remember. With those of the Court she talked royalty52, the humours of her Majesty53, the severities of her Grace of Marlborough; with statesmen she spoke54 with such intellect and discretion55 that they went away pondering on the good fortune which had befallen one man when it seemed that it was of such proportions as might have satisfied a dozen, for it seemed not fair to them that his Grace of Osmonde, having already rank, wealth, and fame, should have added to them a gift of such magnificence as this beauteous woman would bring; with beaux and wits she made dazzling jests; and to the beauties who desired their flatteries she gave praise so adroit56 that they were stimulated57 to plume58 their feathers afresh and cease to fear the rivalry59 of her loveliness.
And yet while she so bore herself, never once did she cease to feel the presence of that which, lying near, seemed to her racked soul as one who lay and listened with staring eyes which mocked; for there was a thought which would not leave her, which was, that it could hear, that it could see through the glazing60 on its blue orbs61, and that knowing itself bound by the moveless irons of death and dumbness it impotently raged and cursed that it could not burst them and shriek36 out its vengeance62, rolling forth63 among her worshippers at their feet and hers.
“But he can not,” she said, within her
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