Part 28 (1/2)
”I thought you were a Puritan, Lord Fareham.”
”I am a man; and I know what it is to suffer the h.e.l.l-fire of jealousy.”
”Jealousy, yes! I never was good at hiding my feelings. He treats me shamefully. Come, now, you take me for an abandoned profligate woman, a callous wanton. That is what the world takes me for; and, perhaps, I have deserved no better of the world. But whatever I am 'twas he made me so. If he had been true, I could have been constant. It is the insolence of abandonment that stings; the careless slights, scarce conscious that he wounds. Before the eyes of the world, too, before wretches that grin and whisper, and prophesy the day when my pride shall be in the dust. It is treat ment such as this that makes women desperate; and if we cannot keep him we love, we make believe to love some one else, and flaunt our fancy in the deceiver's face. Do you think I cared for Buckingham, with his heart of ice; or for such a snipe as Jermyn; or for a low-born rope-dancer? No, Fareham; there has been more of rage and hate than of pa.s.sion in my caprices. And he is with Frances Stewart to-night. She sets up for a model of chast.i.ty, and is to marry Richmond next month. But we know, Fareham, we know. Women who ride in gla.s.s coaches should not throw stones. I will have Charles at my feet again. I will have my foot upon his neck again. I cannot use him too ill for the pain he gives me. There, go-go! Why did you tempt me to lay my heart bare?”
”Dearest lady, believe me, I respect your candour. My heart bleeds for your wrongs. So beautiful, so high above all other women in the capacity to charm! Ah, be sure such loveliness has its responsibilities. It is a gift from Heaven, and to hold it cheap is a sin.”
”There is nothing in this life can be held too cheap. Beauty, love-all trumpery! You would make life a tragedy. It is a farce, Fareham, a farce; and all our pleasures and diversions only serve to make us forget what worms we are. There, go-to cards-to supper-as you please. I am going to my bed-chamber to rest this throbbing head. I may return and take a hand at cards by-and-by, perhaps. Those fellows will game and booze till daylight.”
Fareham opened the door for her, as she went out, regal in port and air. She had moved him to compa.s.sion, even while she owned herself a wanton. To love pa.s.sionately-and to see another preferred! There is a brotherhood in agony, that brings even opposite natures into sympathy. He pa.s.sed into the gallery, a long low room, hung with modern tapestries, richly coloured, voluptuous in design. Cl.u.s.ters of wax tapers in gilded sconces lit up those Paphian pictures. There were several tables, at which the mixed company were sitting. Piles of the new guineas, fresh from his Majesty's Mint, shone in the candle-light. At some tables there was a silent absorption in the game, which argued high play, and the true gambler's spirit; at others mirth reigned-talk, laughter, animated looks. One of the noisiest was the table at which De Malfort was the most conspicuous figure; his periwig the highest, his dress the most sumptuous, his breast glittering with orders. His companions were Sir Ralph Masaroon, Colonel Dangerfield, an old Malignant, who had hibernated during the Protectorate, and had never left his own country, and Lady Lucretia Topham, a visiting acquaintance of Hyacinth's.
”Come here, Fareham,” cried De Malfort; ”there is plenty of room for you. I'll wager Lady Lucretia will pa.s.s you her hand, and thank you for taking it.”
”Lady Lucretia is glad to be quit of such dishonest company,” said the lady, tossing her cards upon the table, and rising in a cloud of powder and perfume, and a flutter of lace and brocade. ”If I were ill-humoured I would say you marked the cards! but as I'm the soul of good nature, I'll only swear you are the luckiest dog in London.”
”You are the soul of good nature, and I am the luckiest dog in the universe when you smile upon me,” answered De Malfort, without looking up from his cards, as the lady posed herself gracefully at the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulder to watch his play. ”I would not limit the area to any city, however big.”
Fareham seated himself in the chair the lady had vacated, and gathered up the cards she had abandoned. He took a handful of gold from his pocket, and put it on the table at his elbow, all with a somewhat churlish silence, that escaped notice where everybody was loquacious. De Malfort went on fooling with Lady Lucretia, whose lovely hand and arm, her strongest point, descended upon a card now and then, to indicate the play she deemed wisest.
Once he caught the hand and kissed it in transit.
”Wert thou as wise as this hand is fair it should direct my play; but it is only a woman's hand, and points the way to perdition.”
Fareham had been losing steadily from the moment he took up Lady Lucretia's cards; and his pile of jacobuses had been gradually pa.s.sed over to De Malfort's side of the table. He had emptied his pockets, and had scrawled two or three I.O.U.'s upon sc.r.a.ps of paper torn from a note-book. Yet he went on playing, with the same immovable countenance. The room had emptied itself, the rest of the visitors leaving earlier than their usual hour in that hospitable house. Perhaps because the hostess was missing; perhaps because the royal sun was s.h.i.+ning elsewhere.
Lackeys handed their salvers of Burgundy and Bordeaux, and the players refreshed themselves occasionally with a brimmer of clary; but no wine brightened Fareham's scowling brow, or changed the glooiay intensity of his outlook.
”My cards have brought your lords.h.i.+p bad luck,” said Lady Lucretia, who watched De Malfort's winnings with an air of personal interest.
”I knew my risk before I took them, madam. When an Englishman plays against a Frenchman he is a fool if he is not prepared to be rooked.”
”Fareham, are you mad?” cried De Malfort, starting to his feet. ”To insult your friend's country, and, by basest implication, your friend.”
”I see no friend here. I say that you Frenchmen cheat at cards-on principle-and are proud of being cheats! I have heard De Gramont brag of having lured a man to his tent, and fed him, and wined him, and fleeced him while he was drunk.” He took a goblet of claret from the lackey who brought his salver, emptied it, and went on, hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion. ”To the marrow of your bones you are false, all of you! You do not cog your dice, perhaps, but you bubble your friends with finesses, and are as much sharpers at heart as the lowest tat-mongers in Alsatia. You empty our purses, and cozen our women with tw.a.n.ging guitars and jingling rhymes, and laugh at us because we are honest and trust you. Seducers, tricksters, poltroons!”
The footman was at De Malfort's elbow now. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a tankard from the salver, and flung the contents across the table, straight at Fareham's face.
”This bully forces me to spoil his Point de Venise,” he said coolly, as he set down the tankard. ”There should be a law for chaining up rabid curs that have run mad without provocation.”
Fareham sprang to his feet, black and terrible, but with a savage exultation in his countenance. The wine poured in a red stream from his point-lace cravat, but had not touched his face.
”There shall be something redder than Burgundy spilt before we have done!” he said.
”Sacre nom, nous sommes tombes dans un antre de betes sauvages!” exclaimed Masaroon, starting up, and anxiously examining the skirts of his brocade coat, lest that sudden deluge had caught him.
”None of your -- French to show your fine breeding!” growled the old cavalier. ”Fareham, you deserved the insult; but one red will wash out another. I'm with your lords.h.i.+p.”
”And I'm with De Malfort,” said Masaroon. ”He had more than enough provocation.”
”Gentlemen, gentlemen, no bloodshed!” cried Lady Lucretia; ”or, if you are going to be uncivil to each other, for G.o.d's sake get me to my chair. I have a husband who would never forgive me if it were said you fought for my sake.”