Not twenty minutes' walk from Lady Lavinia's house in Queen Square resided a certain Madam Thompson--a widow--who had lived in Bath for nearly fifteen years. With her was staying Miss Elizabeth Beauleigh and her niece, Diana. Madam Thompson had been at a seminary with Miss Elizabeth when both were girls, and they had ever afterwards kept up their friendship, occasionally visiting one another, but more often contenting themselves with the writing of lengthy epistles, full of unimportant scraps of news and much gossip, amusing only on Miss Elizabeth's side, and on the widow's uninteresting and rambling.
It was a great joy to Madam Thompson when she received a letter from Miss Beauleigh begging that she and her niece might be allowed to pay a visit to her house in Bath, and to stay at least three weeks. The good lady was delighted at having her standing invitation at last accepted, and straightway wrote back a glad assent. She prepared her very best bedchamber for Miss Beauleigh, who, she understood, was coming to Bath principally for a change of air and scene after a long and rather trying illness.
In due course the two ladies arrived, the elder very small and thin, and birdlike in her movements; the younger moderately tall, and graceful as a willow tree, with great candid brown eyes that looked fearlessly out on to the world, and a tragic mouth that belied a usually cheerful disposition, and hinted at a tendency to look on the gloomy side of life.
Madam Thompson, whose first meeting with Diana this was, remarked on the sad mouth to Miss Elizabeth, or Betty as she was more often called, as they sat over the fire on the first night, Diana herself having retired to her room.
Miss Betty shook her head darkly and prophesied that her precious Di would one day love some man as no man in her opinion deserved to be loved!
"And she'll have love badly," she said, clicking her knitting-needles energetically. "I know these temperamental children!"
"She looks so melancholy," ventured the widow.
"Well there you are wrong!" replied Miss Betty. "'Tis the sunniest-tempered child, and the sweetest-natured in the whole wide world, bless her! But I don't deny that she can be miserable. Far from it. Why, I've known her weep her pretty eyes out over a dead puppy even! But usually she is gay enough."
"I fear this house will be dull and stupid for her," said Madam Thompson regretfully. "If only my dear son George were at home to entertain her--"
"My love, pray do not put yourself out! I assure you Diana will not at all object to a little quiet after the life she has been leading in town this winter with her friend's family."
Whatever Diana thought of the quiet, she at least made no complaint, and adapted herself to her surroundings quite contentedly.
In the morning they would all walk as far as the Assembly Rooms, and Miss Betty would drink the waters in the old Pump Room, pacing sedately up and down with her friend on one side and her niece on the other. Madam Thompson had very few acquaintances in Bath, and the people she did know were all of her own age and habits, rarely venturing as far as the crowded fashionable quarter; so Diana had to be content with the society of the two old ladies, who gossiped happily enough together, but whose conversation she could not but find singularly uninteresting.
She watched the monde with concealed wistfulness, seeing Beau Nash strut about among the ladies, bowing with his extreme gallantry, always impeccably garbed, and in spite of his rapidly increasing age and bulk still absolute monarch of Bath. She saw fine painted madams in enormous hoops, and with their hair so extravagantly curled and powdered that it appeared quite grotesque, mincing along with their various cavaliers; elderly beaux with coats padded to hid their shrunken shoulders, and paint to fill the wrinkles on their faces; young rakes; stout dowagers with their demure daughters; old ladies who had come to Bath for their health's sake; titled folk of fashion, and plain gentry from the country--all parading before her eyes.
One or two young bucks tried to ogle her, and received such indignant glances from those clear eyes, that they never dared annoy her again, but for the most part no one paid any heed to the unknown and plainly clad girl.
Then came his Grace of Andover upon the stage.
He drew Diana's attention from the first moment that he entered the Pump Room--a black moth amongst the gaily-hued butterflies. He had swept a comprehensive glance round the scene and at once perceived Diana. Somehow, exactly how she could never afterwards remember, he had introduced himself to her aunt and won that lady's good will by his smoothness of manner and polished air. Madam Thompson, who, left to herself, never visited the Assembly Rooms, could not be expected to recognise Devil Belmanoir in the simple Mr. Everard who presented himself.
As he had told his sister, Diana was cold. There was something about his Grace that repelled her, even while his mesmeric personality fascinated. He was right when he said that she feared him; she was nervous, and the element of fear gave birth to curiosity. She was intrigued, and began to look forward to his daily appearance in the Pump Room with mingled excitement and apprehension. She liked his flattering attention, and his grand air. Often she would watch him stroll across the floor, bowing to right and left with that touch of insolence that characterised him, and rejoiced in the knowledge that he was coming straight to her, and that the painted beauties who so palpably ogled and invited him to their sides could not alter his course. She felt her power with a thrill of delight, and smiled upon Mr. Everard, giving him her hand to kiss, and graciously permitting him to sit with her beside her aunt. He would point out all the celebrities of town and Bath for her edification, recalling carefully chosen and still more carefully censured anecdotes of each one. She discovered that Mr. Everard was an entertaining and harmless enough companion, and even expanded a little, allowing him a glimpse of her whimsical nature with its laughter and its hint of tears.
His Grace of Andover saw enough to guess at the unsounded depths in her soul, and he became lover-like. Diana recoiled instinctively, throwing up a barrier of reserve between them. It was not what he said that alarmed her, but it was the way in which he said it, and the vague something in the purring, faintly sinister voice that she could not quite define, that made her heart beat unpleasantly fast, and the blood rush to her temples. She began first to dread the morning promenade, and then to avoid it. One day she had a headache; the next her foot was sore; another time she wanted to work at her fancy stitchery, until her aunt, who knew how she disliked her needle, and how singularly free from headaches and all petty ailments she was wont to be, openly taxed her with no longer wishing to walk abroad.
They were in the girl's bedroom at the time, Diana seated before her dressing-table, brushing out her hair for the night. When her aunt put the abrupt question she hesitated, caught a long strand in her comb, and pretended to be absorbed in its disentanglement. The clouds of rippling hair half hid her face, but Miss Betty observed how her fingers trembled, and repeated her question. Then came the confession. Mr. Everard was unbearable; his attentions were odious; his continued presence revolting to Mistress Di. She was afraid of him, afraid of his dreadful green eyes and of his soft voice. She wished they had never come to Bath, and still more that they had not met him. He looked at her as if--as if--oh, in short, he was hateful!
Miss Betty was horrified.
"You cannot mean it! Dear, dear, dear! Here was I thinking what a pleasant gentleman he was, and all the time he was persecuting my poor Di, the wretch! I know the type, my love, and I feel inclined to give him a good piece of my mind!"
"Oh, no--no!" implored Diana. "Indeed, you must do no such thing, Auntie! He has said nought that I could possibly be offended at--'tis but his manner, and the--and the way he looked at me. Indeed, indeed, you must not!"
"Tut, child! Of course I shall say nought. But it makes me so monstrous angry to think of my poor lamb being tormented by such as he that I declare I could tear his eyes out! Yes, my dear, I could! Thank goodness we are leaving Bath next week!"
"Yes," sighed Diana. "I cannot help being glad, though Madam Thompson is very amiable! 'Tis so very different when there is no man with one!"
"You are quite right, my love. We should have insisted on your father's staying with us instead of allowing him to fly back to his fusty, musty old volumes. I shall not be so foolish another time, I can assure you. But we need not go to the Assembly Rooms again."
"I need not go," corrected Diana gently. "Of course you and Madam Thompson will continue to."
"To tell the truth, my love," confessed Miss Betty, "I shall not be sorry for an excuse to stay away. 'Tis doubtless most ill-natured of me, but I cannot but think that Hester has altered sadly since last I saw her. She is always talking of sermons and good works!"
Diana twisted her luxuriant hair into a long plait, and gave a gurgling little laugh.
"Oh, Auntie, is it not depressing? I wondered how you could tolerate it! She is so vastly solemn, poor dear thing!"
"Well," said Miss Betty charitably, "she has seen trouble, has Hester Thompson, and I have my doubts about this George of hers. A worthless young man, I fear, from all accounts. But, unkind though it may be, I shall be glad to find myself at home again, and that's the truth!" She rose and picked up her candle. "In fact, I find Bath not half so amusing as I was told 'twould be."
Diana walked with her to the door.
"'Tis not amusing at all when one has no friends; but last year, when my cousins were with us and papa took a house for the season on the North Parade, 'twas most enjoyable. I wish you had been there, instead of with that disagreeable Aunt Jennifer!"
She kissed her relative most affectionately and lighted her across the landing to her room. Then she returned to her room and shut the door, giving a tired little yawn.
It was at about that moment that his Grace of Andover was ushered into the already crowded card-room of my Lord Avon's house in Catharine Place, and was greeted with ribald cries of "Oho, Belmanoir!", and "Where's the lady, Devil?"
He walked coolly forward into the full light of a great pendant chandelier, standing directly beneath it, the diamond order on his breast burning and winking like a living thing. The diamonds in his cravat and on his fingers glittered every time he moved, until he seemed to be carelessly powdered with iridescent gems. As usual, he was clad in black, but it would have been difficult to find any other dress in the room more sumptuous or more magnificent than his sable satin with its heavy silver lacing, and shimmering waistcoat. Silver lace adorned his throat and fell in deep ruffles over his hands, and in defiance of Fashion, which decreed that black alone should be worn to tie the hair, he displayed long silver ribands, very striking against his unpowdered head.
He raised his quizzing glass and looked round the room with an air of surprised hauteur. Lord Avon, leaning back in his chair at one of the tables, shook a reproving finger at him.
"Belmanoir, Belmanoir, we have seen her and we protest she is too charming for you!"
"In truth, we think we should be allowed a share in the lady'th thmileth," lisped one from behind him, and his Grace turned to face dainty, effeminate little Viscount Fotheringham, who stood at his elbow, resplendent in salmon-pink satin and primrose velvet, with skirts so full and stiffly whaleboned that they stood out from his person, and heels so high that instead of walking he could only mince.
Tracy made a low leg.
"Surely shall you have a share in her smiles an she wills it so," he purred, and a general laugh went up which caused the fop to flush to the ears, as he speedily effaced himself.
He had been one of those who had tried to accost Diana, and gossip-loving Will Stapely, with him at the time, had related the story of his discomfiture to at least half-a-dozen men, who immediately told it to others, vastly amused at the pertinacious Viscount's rebuff.
"What was it Selwyn said?" drawled Sir Gregory Markham, shuffling cards at Lord Avon's table.
Davenant looked across at him inquiringly.
"George? Of Belmanoir? When?"
"Oh, at White's one night--I forget--Jack Cholmondely was there--he would know; and Horry Walpole. 'Twas of Devil and his light o' loves--quite apt, on the whole."
Cholmondely looked up.
"Did I hear my name?"
"Ay. What was it George said of Belmanoir at White's the night Gilly made that absurd bet with Ffolliott?"
"When Gilly--oh, yes, I remember. 'Twas but an old hexameter tag, playing on his name: 'Est bellum bellis bellum bellare puellis.' He seemed to think it a fitting motto for a ducal house."
There was another general laugh at this. Markham broke in on it:
"Who is she, Tracy?"
His Grace turned.
"Who is who?" he asked languidly.
Lord Avon burst out laughing.
"Oh, come now, Belmanoir, that won't do! It really will not! Who is she, indeed!"
"Ay, Belmanoir, who is the black-haired beauty, and where did you find her?" cried Tom Wilding, pressing forward with a glass in one hand and a bottle of port in the other. "I thought you were captivated by Cynthia Evans?"
Tracy looked bewildered for the moment, and then a light dawned on him.
"Evans! Ah, yes! The saucy widow who lived in Kensington, was it not? I remember."
"He had forgotten!" cried Avon, and went off into another of the noisy laughs that had more than once caused Mr. Nash to shudder and to close his august eyes. "You'll be the death of me, Devil! Gad! but you will!"
"Oh, I trust not. Thank you, Wilding." He accepted the glass that Tom offered, and sipped delicately.
"But you've not answered!" reminded Fortescue from another table. He dealt the cards round expertly. "Is it hands off, perhaps?"
"Certainly," replied his Grace. "It generally is, Frank, as you know."
"To my cost!" was the laughing rejoinder, and Fortescue rubbed his sword arm as if in memory of some hurt. "You pinked me finely, Tracy!"
"Clumsily, Frank, clumsily. It might have been quicker done."
The Viscount, who had been a second at the meeting, tittered amiably.
"Neatetht thing I ever thaw, 'pon my honour. All over in leth than a minute, Avon! Give you my word!"
"Never knew you had fought Devil, Frank? What possessed you?"
"I was more mad than usual, I suppose," replied Fortescue in his low, rather dreamy voice, "and I interfered between Tracy and his French singer. He objected most politely, and we fought it out in Hyde Park."
"Gad, yes!" exclaimed his partner, Lord Falmouth. "Why, I was Devil's second! But it was ages ago!"
"Two years," nodded Fortescue, "but I have not forgotten, you see!"
"Lord, I had! And 'twas the funniest fight I ever saw, with you as furious as could be and Devil cool as a cucumber. You were never much of a swordsman, Frank, but that morning you thrust so wildly that stap me if I didn't think Devil would run you through. 'Stead of that he pinks you neatly through the sword-arm, and damme if you didn't burst out laughing fit to split! And then we all walked off to breakfast with you, Frank, as jolly as sandboys. Heavens, yes. That was a fight!"
"It was amusing," admitted Tracy at Fortescue's elbow. "Don't play, Frank."
Fortescue flung his cards face downwards on the table. "Curse you, Tracy, you've brought bad luck!" he said entirely without rancour. "I had quite tolerable hands before you came."
"Belmanoir, I will thtake my chestnut mare 'gaintht your new grey," lisped the Viscount, coming up to the table, dice-box in hand.
"Stap me, but that is too bad!" cried Wilding. "Don't take him, Devil! Have you seen the brute?"
The four players had finished their card-playing and were quite ready for the dice.
"Trust in your luck, Belmanoir, and take him!" advised Pritchard, who loved hazarding other men's possessions, but kept a tight hold on his own.
"Ay, take him!" echoed Falmouth.
"Don't," said Fortescue.
"Of course I shall take him," answered his Grace tranquilly. "My grey against your chestnut and the best of three. Will you throw?"
The Viscount rattled his box with a flourish. Two threes and a one turned up.
With a hand on Fortescue's shoulder, and one foot on the rung of his chair, Tracy leaned forward and cast his own dice on to the table. He had beaten the Viscount's throw by five. The next toss Fotheringham won, but the last fell to his Grace.
"Damnathion!" said the Viscount cheerfully. "Will you thtake your grey againtht my Terror?"
"Thunder and turf, Fotheringham! You'll lose him!" cried Nettlefold warningly. "Don't stake the Terror!"
"Nonthenth! Do you take me, Belmanoir?"
"Certainly," said the Duke, and threw.
"Oh, an you are in a gaming mood, I will play you for the right to try my hand with the dark beauty!" called Markham across the room.
"Against what?" asked Fortescue.
"Oh, what he wills!"
The Viscount had cast and lost, and his Grace won the second throw.
"It appears my luck is in," he remarked. "I will stake my beauty against your estates, Markham."
Sir Gregory shook his head, laughing.
"No, no! Keep the lady!"
"I intend to, my dear fellow. She is not your style. I begin to wonder whether she altogether suits my palate." He drew out his snuff-box and offered it to his host, and the other men finding that he was proof against their railing, allowed the subject to drop.
In the course of the evening his Grace won three thousand guineas--two at ombre and one at dice--lost his coveted grey hunter and won him back again from Wilding, to whom he had fallen. He came away at three o'clock in company with Fortescue, both perfectly cool-headed, although his Grace, for his part, had imbibed a considerable quantity of burgundy, and more punch than any ordinary man could take without afterwards feeling very much the worse for wear.
As my Lord Avon's door closed behind them, Tracy turned to his friend:
"Shall we walk, Frank?"
"Since our ways lie together, yes," replied Fortescue, linking his arm in the Duke's. "Down Brock Street and across the Circus is our quickest way."
They strolled down the road for a few moments in silence, passing a linkman on the way. Fortescue bade him a cheery good-night, which was answered in a very beery voice, but the Duke said nothing. Frank looked into his dark-browed face thoughtfully.
"You've had the luck, to-night, Tracy."
"Moderately. I hoped entirely to repair last week's losses."
"You are in debt, I suppose?"
"I believe so."
"To what extent, Tracy?"
"My dear fellow, I neither have, nor wish to have, the vaguest notion. Pray do not treat me to a sermon!"
"I shall not. I've said all I have to say on the subject."
"Many times."
"Yes--many times. And it has had no more effect upon you than if I had not spoken."
"Less."
"I daresay. I wish it were not so, for there's good in you somewhere, Tracy."
"By what strange process of reasoning do you arrive at that?"
"Well," said Fortescue laughing, "there's nearly always some good in the very worst of men. I count on that--and your kindness to me."
"I should be interested to know when I have been kind to you--beyond the time when I was compelled to teach you to leave me and my affairs alone."
"I was not referring to that occasion," was the dry answer. "I had not seen your act in that light. I meant well over the episode."
"You could not damn yourself more effectually than by saying that," said his Grace calmly. "But we wander from the point. When have I done you an act of kindness?"
"You know very well. When you extricated me from that cursed sponging-house."
"I remember now. Yes, that was good of me. I wonder why I did it?"
"'Tis what I want to know."
"I suppose I must have had some sort of an affection for you. I would certainly never have done such a thing for anyone else."
"Not even for your own brother!" said Frank sharply.
They had crossed the Circus and were walking down Gay Street now.
"Least of all for them," came the placid response. "You are thinking of Andrew's tragic act? Most entertaining, was it not?"
"You evidently found it so."
"I did. I wanted to prolong the sensation, but my esteemed brother-in-law came to the young fool's rescue."
"Would you have assisted him?"
"In the end I fear I should have had to."
"I believe there must be a kink in your brain!" cried Fortescue. "I cannot else account for your extraordinary conduct!"
"We Belmanoirs are all half-mad," replied Tracy sweetly, "but I think that in my case it is merely concentrated evil."
"I will not believe it! You have shown that you can behave differently! You do not try to strip me of all I possess--why all those unfortunate youths you play with?"
"You see, you possess so little," the Duke excused himself.
"Neither do you sneer at me in your loathsome fashion. Why?"
"Because I have hardly ever any desire to. I like you."
"Tare an' ouns! you must like someone else in the world besides me?"
"I can think of no one. And I do not exactly worship the ground you tread on. The contemplation of my brothers appals me. I have loved various women, and shall no doubt love many more--"
"No, Tracy," interposed Fortescue, "you have never loved a woman in your life. 'Tis that that might save you. I do not allude to the lustful passion you indulge in, but real love. For God's sake Belmanoir, live clean!"
"Pray do not distress yourself, Frank. I am not worth it."
"I choose to think that you are. I cannot but feel that if you had been loved as a boy--Your mother--"
"Did you ever see my mother?" inquired his Grace lazily.
"No--but--"
"Have you ever seen my sister?"
"Er--yes--"
"In a rage?"
"Really, I--"
"Because, if you have, you have seen my mother. Only she was ten times more violent. In fact, we were a pleasant party when we were all at home."
"I understand."
"Good Gad! I believe you are sorry for me?" cried Tracy scornfully.
"I am. Is it a presumption on my part?"
"My dear Frank, when I am sorry for myself you may be sorry too. Until then--"
"When that day comes I shall no longer pity you."
"Very deep, Frank! You think I shall be on the road to recovery? A pretty conceit. Luckily, the happy moment has not yet come--and I do not think it is like to. We appear to have arrived."
They were standing outside one of the tall houses where Fortescue lodged. He turned and grasped his friend's shoulders.
"Tracy, give up this mad life you lead! Give up the women and the drink, and the excessive gaming; for one day, believe me, you will overstep yourself and be ruined!"
The Duke disengaged himself.
"I very much object to being man-handled in the street," he complained. "I suppose you still mean well. You should strive to conquer the tendency."
"I wonder if you know how insolent is your tone, Belmanoir?" asked Fortescue steadily.
"Naturally. I should not have attained such perfection in the art else. But pray accept my thanks for your good advice. You will forgive me an I do not avail myself of it, I am sure. I prefer the crooked path."
"Evidently," sighed the other. "If you will not try the straight and narrow way, I can only hope that you will fall very deeply and very honestly in love; and that the lady will save you from yourself."
"I will inform you of it when it comes to pass," promised his Grace. "And now: good-night!"
"Good-night!" Frank returned the low bow with a curt nod. "I shall see you to-morrow--that is, this morning--at the Baths?"
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was the smiling rejoinder. "Sleep soundly, Frank!" He waved an ironic farewell and crossed the road to his own lodgings, which stood almost directly opposite.
"And I suppose you will sleep as soundly as if you had not a stain on your conscience--and had not tried your uttermost to alienate the regard of the only friend you possess," remarked Frank bitterly to the darkness. "Damn you, Tracy, for the villain you are!" He walked up the steps to his own front door and turned the key in the lock. He looked over his shoulder as a door slammed across the street. "Poor Devil!" he said. "Oh, you poor Devil!"
