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 obliviousness1 to him, that he had never existed. But few years before no fashionable gathering2 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 boon3 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 squandered4, and his marriage with the heiress came to naught5, 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 prudence6, 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 leniency7.
“’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 dice8 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 lessening9 favour day by day! In truth, he had such debts, and his creditors10 pressed him so ceaselessly, that even had the world’s favour continued, his life must have changed its aspect greatly. His lodgings11 were no longer the most luxurious12 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 modish13 cut; he had no more an equipage attracting every eye as he drove forth14, 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 strictly15 averse16 to the habits of ill-provided and extravagant17 kinsmen18, he had but few family ties. Other ties he had, ’twas true, but they were not such as were accounted legal or worthy19 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 landlady20 nor his creditors beheld21 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 besieged22 his door in vain for months, and who were now infuriated at the thought of their own easiness and the impudent23 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 rumour24 that he had fled his creditors, the world of fashion received the news with small disturbance25, all modish persons being at that time much engaged in discussion of the approaching nuptials26 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 agog27, 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 thwarted28 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 lengthen29 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 the passage leading to the unused cellars.
“’Twill make the servants’ part more wholesome31 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 mortar32. 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 countenance33 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 flout34 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 awe35 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 deign36 to see a poor girl who would crave37 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 kindly38 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 strapping39 powdered fellow.
“She had best begone,” the lacquey answered, striding towards the applicant40. “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 grandeur41 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 doorway42, 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 spoke43 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.
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