A Lady of Quality<br />Being a Most Curious, Hitherto Unknown History, as Related by Mr. Isaac Bicke by Frances Hodgson Burnett (e ink epub reader .TXT) 📗

Before he went away he bent low and long over Clorinda’s hand, pressing his lips to it with a tenderness which strove not to conceal itself.  And the hand was not withdrawn, her ladyship standing in sweet yielding, the tender crimson trembling on her cheek.  Anne herself trembled, watching her new, strange loveliness with a sense of fascination; she could scarce withdraw her eyes, it seemed so as if the woman had been reborn.

“Your Grace will come to us again,” my lady said, in a soft voice.  “We are two lonely women,” with her radiant compelling smile, “and need your kindly countenancing.”

His eyes dwelt deep in hers as he answered, and there was a flush upon his own cheek, man and warrior though he was.

“If I might come as often as I would,” he said, “I should be at your door, perhaps, with too great frequency.”

“Nay, your Grace,” she answered.  “Come as often as we would—and see who wearies first.  ’Twill not be ourselves.”

He kissed her hand again, and this time ’twas passionately, and when he left her presence it was with a look of radiance on his noble face, and with the bearing of a king new crowned.

For a few moments’ space she stood where he had parted from her, looking as though listening to the sound of his step, as if she would not lose a footfall; then she went to the window, and stood among the flowers there, looking down into the street, and Anne saw that she watched his equipage.

’Twas early summer, and the sunshine flooded her from head to foot; the window and balcony were full of flowers—yellow jonquils and daffodils, white narcissus, and all things fragrant of the spring.  The scent of them floated about her like an incense, and a straying zephyr blew great puffs of their sweetness back into the room.  Anne felt it all about her, and remembered it until she was an aged woman.

Clorinda’s bosom rose high in an exultant, rapturous sigh.

“’Tis the Spring that comes,” she murmured breathlessly.  “Never hath it come to me before.”

Even as she said the words, at the very moment of her speaking, Fate—a strange Fate indeed—brought to her yet another visitor.  The door was thrown open wide, and in he came, a lacquey crying aloud his name.  ’Twas Sir John Oxon.

* * * * *

Those of the World of Fashion who were wont to gossip, had bestowed upon them a fruitful subject for discussion over their tea-tables, in the future of the widowed Lady Dunstanwolde.  All the men being enamoured of her, ’twas not likely that she would long remain unmarried, her period of mourning being over; and, accordingly, forthwith there was every day chosen for her a new husband by those who concerned themselves in her affairs, and they were many.  One week ’twas a great general she was said to smile on; again, a great beau and female conqueror, it being argued that, having made her first marriage for rank and wealth, and being a passionate and fantastic beauty, she would this time allow herself to be ruled by her caprice, and wed for love; again, a certain marquis was named, and after him a young earl renowned for both beauty and wealth; but though each and all of those selected were known to have laid themselves at her feet, none of them seemed to have met with the favour they besought for.

There were two men, however, who were more spoken of than all the rest, and whose court awakened a more lively interest; indeed, ’twas an interest which was lively enough at times to become almost a matter of contention, for those who upheld the cause of the one man would not hear of the success of the other, the claims of each being considered of such different nature.  These two men were the Duke of Osmonde and Sir John Oxon.  ’Twas the soberer and more dignified who were sure his Grace had but to proffer his suit to gain it, and their sole wonder lay in that he did not speak more quickly.

“But being a man of such noble mind, it may be that he would leave her to her freedom yet a few months, because, despite her stateliness, she is but young, and ’twould be like his honourableness to wish that she should see many men while she is free to choose, as she has never been before.  For these days she is not a poor beauty as she was when she took Dunstanwolde.”

The less serious, or less worldly, especially the sentimental spinsters and matrons and romantic young, who had heard and enjoyed the rumours of Mistress Clorinda Wildairs’ strange early days, were prone to build much upon a certain story of that time.

“Sir John Oxon was her first love,” they said.  “He went to her father’s house a beautiful young man in his earliest bloom, and she had never encountered such an one before, having only known country dolts and her father’s friends.  ’Twas said they loved each other, but were both passionate and proud, and quarrelled bitterly.  Sir John went to France to strive to forget her in gay living; he even obeyed his mother and paid court to another woman, and Mistress Clorinda, being of fierce haughtiness, revenged herself by marrying Lord Dunstanwolde.”

“But she has never deigned to forgive him,” ’twas also said.  “She is too haughty and of too high a temper to forgive easily that a man should seem to desert her for another woman’s favour.  Even when ’twas whispered that she favoured him, she was disdainful, and sometimes flouted him bitterly, as was her way with all men.  She was never gentle, and had always a cutting wit.  She will use him hardly before she relents; but if he sues patiently enough with such grace as he uses with other women, love will conquer her at last, for ’twas her first.”

She showed him no great favour, it was true; and yet it seemed she granted him more privilege than she had done during her lord’s life, for he was persistent in his following her, and would come to her house whether of her will or of his own.  Sometimes he came there when the Duke of Osmonde was with her—this happened more than once—and then her ladyship’s face, which was ever warmly beautiful when Osmonde was near, would curiously change.  It would grow pale and cold; but in her eyes would burn a strange light which one man knew was as the light in the eyes of a tigress lying chained, but crouching to leap.  But it was not Osmonde who felt this, he saw only that she changed colour, and having heard the story of her girlhood, a little chill of doubt would fall upon his noble heart.  It was not doubt of her, but of himself, and fear that his great passion made him blind; for he was the one man chivalrous enough to remember how young she was, and to see the cruelty of the Fate which had given her unmothered childhood into the hands of a coarse rioter and debauchee, making her his plaything and his whim.  And if in her first hours of bloom she had been thrown with youthful manhood and beauty, what more in the course of nature than that she should have learned to love; and being separated from her young lover by their mutual youthful faults of pride and passionateness of temper, what more natural than, being free again, and he suing with all his soul, that her heart should return to him, even though through a struggle with pride.  In her lord’s lifetime he had not seen Oxon near her; and in those days when he had so struggled with his own surging love, and striven to bear himself nobly, he had kept away from her, knowing that his passion was too great and strong for any man to always hold at bay and make no sign, because at brief instants he trembled before the thought that in her eyes he had seen that which would have sprung to answer the same self in him if she had been a free woman.  But now when, despite her coldness, which never melted to John Oxon, she still turned pale and seemed to fall under a restraint on his coming, a man of sufficient high dignity to be splendidly modest where his own merit was concerned, might well feel that for this there must be a reason, and it might be a grave one.

So though he would not give up his suit until he was sure that ’twas either useless or unfair, he did not press it as he would have done, but saw his lady when he could, and watched with all the tenderness of passion her lovely face and eyes.  But one short town season passed before he won his prize; but to poor Anne it seemed that in its passing she lived years.

Poor woman, as she had grown thin and large-eyed in those days gone by, she grew so again.  Time in passing had taught her so much that others did not know; and as she served her sister, and waited on her wishes, she saw that of which no other dreamed, and saw without daring to speak, or show by any sign, her knowledge.

The day when Lady Dunstanwolde had turned from standing among her daffodils, and had found herself confronting the open door of her saloon, and John Oxon passing through it, Mistress Anne had seen that in her face and his which had given to her a shock of terror.  In John Oxon’s blue eyes there had been a set fierce look, and in Clorinda’s a blaze which had been like a declaration of war; and these same looks she had seen since that day, again and again.  Gradually it had become her sister’s habit to take Anne with her into the world as she had not done before her widowhood, and Anne knew whence this custom came.  There were times when, by use of her presence, she could avoid those she wished to thrust aside, and Anne noted, with a cold sinking of the spirit, that the one she would plan to elude most frequently was Sir John Oxon; and this was not done easily.  The young man’s gay lightness of demeanour had changed.  The few years that had passed since he had come to pay his courts to the young beauty in male attire, had brought experiences to him which had been bitter enough.  He had squandered his fortune, and failed to reinstate himself by marriage; his dissipations had told upon him, and he had lost his spirit and good-humour; his mocking wit had gained a bitterness; his gallantry had no longer the gaiety of youth.  And the woman he had loved for an hour with youthful passion, and had dared to dream of casting aside in boyish insolence, had risen like a phoenix, and soared high and triumphant to the very sun itself.  “He was ever base,” Clorinda had said.  “As he was at first he is now,” and in the saying there was truth.  If she had been helpless and heartbroken, and had pined for him, he would have treated her as a victim, and disdained her humiliation and grief; magnificent, powerful, rich, in fullest beauty, and disdaining himself, she filled him with a mad passion of love which was strangely mixed with hatred and cruelty.  To see her surrounded by her worshippers, courted by the Court itself, all eyes drawn towards her as she moved, all hearts laid at her feet, was torture to him.  In such cases as his and hers, it was the woman who should sue for love’s return, and watch the averted face, longing for the moment when it would deign to turn and she could catch the cold eye and plead piteously with her own.  This he had seen; this, men like himself, but older, had taught him with vicious art; but here was a woman who had scorned him at the hour which should have been the moment of his greatest powerfulness, who had mocked at and lashed him in the face with the high derision of a creature above law, and who never for one instant had bent her neck to the yoke which women must bear.  She had laughed it to scorn—and him—and all things—and gone on her way, crowned with her scarlet roses, to wealth, and rank, and power, and adulation; while he—the man, whose right it was to be transgressor—had fallen upon hard fortune, and was losing step by step all she had won.  In his way he loved her madly—as he had loved her before, and as he would have loved any woman who embodied triumph and beauty; and burning with desire for both, and with jealous rage of all, he swore he would not be outdone, befooled,