Part 19

She was undoubtedly greatly impressed by the ballad of “Auld Robin Gray,” and she at once accepted the rôle of the unhappy wife, only she found it convenient to modify one rather important line--

“I fain would think o' Jamie, but that would be a sin.”

She was fain to think on her Jamie whether it was a sin or not, but she did so without having the smallest intention of leaving her Auld Robin Gray. So whimsical an interpretation of the poem could scarcely occur to any one not under the influence of the sentimental malady of the day; but it served both for Miss Reay and her Jamie. They accepted it, and became deeply sensible of its pathos as applied to themselves. Ensign Hackman assured her that he was too high-minded to dream of making love to her under the roof of Lord Sandwich, her “benefactor.”

“Our love, the inexorable tyrant of our hearts,” he wrote, “claims his sacrifices, but does not bid us insult his lordship's walls with it. How civilly did he invite me to Hinchinbrook in October last, though an unknown recruiting officer. How politely himself first introduced me to himself! Often has the recollection made me struggle with my passion. Still it shall restrain it on this side honour.”

This was in reply to her remonstrance, and probably she regretted that she had been so strenuous in pointing out to him how dreadful it would be were she to show herself wanting in gratitude to Lord Sandwich. She wanted to play the part of Jenny, the lawful wife of Robin Gray, with as few sacrifices as possible, and she had no idea of sacrificing young Jamie, the lover, any more than she had of relinquishing the many privileges she enjoyed at Hinchinbrook by making Jamie the lover into Jamie the husband.

It is very curious to find Hackman protesting to her all this time that his passions are “wild as the torrent's roar,” apologising for making his simile water when the element most congenial to his nature was fire. “Swift had water in his brain. I have a burning coal of fire; your hand can light it up to rapture, rage, or madness. Men, real men, have never been wild enough for my admiration, it has wandered into the ideal world of fancy. Othello (but he should have put himself to death in his wife's sight, not his wife), Zanga are my heroes. Milk-and-water passions are like sentimental comedy.”

Read in the light of future events this letter has a peculiar significance. Although he became more sentimental than the hero of any of the comedies at which he was sneering, he was still able to make an honest attempt to act up to his ideal of Othello. “_He should have put himself to death in his wife's sight_.” It will be remembered that he pleaded at his trial that he had no design upon the life of Miss Reay, but only aimed at throwing himself dead at her feet.

Equally significant are some of the passages in the next letters which he wrote to her. They show that even within the first month of his acquaintance with his Martha his mind had a peculiar bent. He was giving his attention to Hervey's _Meditations_, and takes pains to point out to her two passages which he affirms to be as fine as they are natural. Did ever love-letter contain anything so grisly? “A beam or two finds its way through the grates (of the vault), and reflects a feeble glimness from the nails of the coffins.” This is one passage--ghastly enough in all conscience. But it is surpassed by the others which he quotes: “Should the haggard skeleton lift a clattering hand.” Respecting the latter he remarks, “I know not whether the epithet 'haggard' might not be spared.” It is possible that the lady on receiving this curious love-letter was under the impression that the whole passage might have been spared her.

But he seems to have been supping off horrors at this time, for he goes on to tell a revolting story about the black hole of Calcutta; and then he returns with zest to his former theme of murder and suicide. He had been reading the poem of “Faldoni and Teresa,” by Jerningham, and he criticises it quite admirably. “The melancholy tale will not take up three words, though Mr. J. has bestowed upon it 335 melancholy lines,” he tells the young lady. “Two lovers, meeting with an invincible object to their union, determined to put an end to their existence with pistols. The place they chose for the execution of their terrible project was a chapel that stood at a little distance from the house. They even decorated the altar for the occasion, they paid a particular attention to their own dress. Teresa was dressed in white with rose-coloured ribbands. The same coloured ribbands were tied to the pistols. Each held the ribband that was fastened to the other's trigger, which they drew at a certain signal.” His criticism of the poem includes the remark that Faldoni and Teresa might be prevented from making proselytes by working up their affecting story so as to take off the edge of the dangerous example they offer. This, he says, the author has failed to do, and he certainly proves his point later by affirming that “while I talk of taking off the dangerous edge of their example, they have almost listed me under their bloody banners.”

This shows the morbid tendency of the man's mind, though it must be confessed that nearly all the remarks which he makes on ordinary topics are eminently sane and well considered.

A few days later we find him entering with enthusiasm into a scheme, suggested by her, of meeting while she was on her way to London, and it is plain from the rapturous letter which he wrote to her that their plot was successful; but when she reached town she had a great deal to occupy her, so that it is not strange she should neglect him for a time. The fact was, as Cradock states in his _Memoirs_, that the unpopularity of Lord Sandwich and Miss Reay had increased during the winter to such a point that it became dangerous for them to show themselves together in public. Ribald ballads were sung under the windows of the Admiralty, and Cradock more than once heard some strange insults shouted out by people in the park. It was at this time that she spoke to Cradock about appearing in opera, and he states that it reached his ears that she had been offered three thousand pounds and a free benefit (a possible extra five hundred) for one season's performances.

Now if she had really been in love with Hackman this was surely the moment when she should have gone to him, suffered him to marry her, and thus made up by a few years on the lyric stage for any deficiency in his fortune or for the forfeiture of any settlement her “benefactor” might have been disposed to make in her favour. But she seems to have shown a remarkable amount of prudence throughout the whole of her intrigue, and she certainly had a premonition of the danger to which she was exposed by her connection with him. “Fate stands between us,” she wrote in reply to one of his impetuous upbraiding letters. “We are doomed to be wretched. And I, every now and then, think some terrible catastrophe will be the result of our connection. 'Some dire event,' as Storge prophetically says in _Jephtha_, 'hangs over our heads.' Oh, that it were no crime to quit this world like Faldoni and Teresa... by your hand I could even die with pleasure. I know I could.”

An extraordinary premonition, beyond doubt, to write thus, and one is tempted to believe that she had ceased for a moment merely to play the part of the afflicted heroine. But her allusion to Jephtha and, later in the same letter, to a vow which she said she had made never to marry him so long as she was encumbered with debts, alleging that this was the “insuperable reason” at which she had hinted on a previous occasion, makes one suspicious. One feels that if she had not been practising the music of _Jephtha_ she would not have thought about her vow not to marry him until she could go to him free from debt. Why, she had only to sing three times to release herself from that burden.

Some time afterwards she seems to have suggested such a way of getting over her difficulties, but it is pretty certain she knew that he would never listen to her. Her position at this time was undoubtedly one of great difficulty. Hackman was writing to her almost every day, and becoming more high-minded and imperious in every communication, and she was in terror lest some of his letters should fall into the hands of Lord Sandwich. She was ready to testify to his lordship's generosity in educating her to suit his own tastes, but she suspected its strength to withstand such a strain as would be put on it if he came upon one of Mr. Hackman's impetuous letters.

She thought that when she had induced her lover to join his regiment in Ireland she had extricated herself from one of the difficulties that surrounded her; and had she been strong enough to refrain from writing to the man, she might have been saved from the result of her indiscretion. Unhappily for herself, however, she felt it incumbent on her to resume her correspondence with him. Upon one occasion she sent him a bank-note for fifty pounds, but this he promptly returned with a very proper letter. Indeed, all his letters from Ireland are interesting, being far less impassioned than those which she wrote to him. Again she mentioned having read _Werther_, and he promptly begged of her to send the book to him. “If you do not,” he adds, “I positively never will forgive you. Nonsense, to say it will make me unhappy, or that I shall not be able to read it! Must I pistol myself because a thick-blooded German has been fool enough to set the example, or because a German novelist has feigned such a story?”

But it would appear that she knew the man's nature better than he himself did, for she quickly replied: “The book you mention is just the only book you should never read. On my knees I beg that you will never, never read it!” But if he never read _Werther_ he was never without some story of the same type to console him for its absence, and he seems to have gloated over the telling of all to her. One day he is giving her the particulars of a woman who committed suicide in Enniskillen because she married one man while she was in love with another. His comment is, “She, too, was _Jenny_ and had her _Robin Gray_.” His last letter from Ireland was equally morbid. In it he avowed his intention, if he were not granted leave of absence for the purpose of visiting her, of selling out of his regiment. He kept his promise but too faithfully. He sold out and crossed to England without delay, arriving in London only to find Miss Reay extremely ill.

His attempts to cheer her convalescence cannot possibly be thought very happy. He describes his attendance upon the occasion of the hanging of Dr. Dodd, the clergyman who had committed forgery; and this reminds him that he was unfortunately out of England when one Peter Tolosa was hanged for killing his sweetheart, so that he had no chance of taking part in this ceremony as well, although, he says, unlike George S.--meaning Selwyn--he does not make a profession of attending executions; adding that “the friend and historian of Paoli hired a window by the year, looking out on the Grass Market in Edinburgh, where malefactors were hanged.” This reference to Boswell is somewhat sinister. All this letter is devoted to a minute account of the execution of Dodd, and another deals with the revolting story of the butchery of Monmouth, which he suggests to her as an appropriate subject for a picture.

At this time he was preparing for ordination, and, incidentally, for the culmination of the tragedy of his life. He had undoubtedly become a monomaniac, his “subject” being murder and suicide. His last lurid story was of a footman who, “having in vain courted for some time a servant belonging to Lord Spencer, at last caused the banns to be put up at church without her consent, which she forbad. Being thus disappointed he meditated revenge, and, having got a person to write a letter to her appointing a meeting, he contrived to waylay her, and surprise her in Lord Spencer's park. On her screaming he discharged a pistol at her and made his escape.”

“Oh love, love, canst thou not be content to make fools of thy slaves,” he wrote, “to make them miserable, to make them what thou pleasest? Must thou also goad them on to crimes?”

Only two more letters did he write to his victim. He took Orders and received the living of Wiveton, in Norfolk, seeming to take it for granted that, in spite of her repeated refusals to marry him, she would relent when she heard of the snug parsonage. This was acting on precisely the same lines as the butler of whom he wrote. When he found that Miss Reay was determined to play the part taken by the servant in the same story, the wretched man hurried up to London and bought his pistols.

The whole story is a pitiful one. That the man was mad no one except a judge and jury could doubt. That his victim was amply punished for her indiscretion in leading him on even the strictest censor of conduct must allow.

THE COMEDY AT DOWNING STREET

IT was possibly because she was still conscious of having occupied the commanding position of one of the royal bridesmaids, in spite of the two years that had elapsed since King George III married his homely Mecklenburg princess, that Lady Susan Fox-Strangways, the daughter of the first Earl of Ilchester, became so autocratic during the rehearsal of the Downing Street Comedy. A pretty fair amount of comedy as well as tragedy--with a preponderance of farce--has been played in the same street from time to time, but the special piece in which Lady Susan was interesting herself was to be played at the house of Sir Francis Délavai, and its name was _The School for Lovers_. It had been originally produced by Mr. David Garrick at Drury Lane Theatre, an occasion upon which a young Irish gentleman called O'Brien, who had disgraced himself by becoming an actor, had attained great distinction. The piece had drawn the town during its protracted run of eight nights, and Sir Francis Delaval's company of amateurs perceived that it was just the play for them. It was said by the critics that, for the first time for many years, an actor had been found capable of playing the part of a gentleman of fashion as if to the manner born. They referred to the acting of Mr. O'Brien, about whose gentlemanly qualities there could be no doubt. Even his own brother actors affirmed that no such perfect gentleman as that of O'Brien's creating had ever been seen on the stage. So said Lee Lewes. Another excellent judge, named Oliver Goldsmith, declared that William O'Brien was an elegant and accomplished actor.

Of course this was the character, every aspiring amateur affirmed, to which a gentleman-born would do ample justice. When O'Brien, who was an actor, had represented the part with distinction, how much better would it not be played by the real thing--the real gentleman who might undertake it?

That was the very plausible reasoning of the “real gentleman” who hoped to win applause by appearing in O'Brien's part in the comedy at Downing Street. But when the piece was rehearsed with the young Viscount B-------- in the character, Lady Susan threw up her hands, and threatened to throw up her part as well.

“Lud!” she cried to her associates in the temporary green-room, “Lud! you would fancy that he had never seen a gentleman of fashion in his life! Why cannot he act himself instead of somebody else? When he comes from rehearsal he is the very character itself, but the moment he begins to speak his part he is no more the part than the link-boy.”

Every one present agreed with her--the young gentlemen who were anxious to have the reversion of the part were especially hearty in their acquiescence.

But there could be no doubt about the matter, Lord B------ was deplorably incompetent. He was not even consistently incompetent, for in one scene in the second act, where there was an element of boisterous humour, he was tame and spiritless; but in the love-making scene, which brought the third act to a close, he was awkward, and so anxious to show his spirit that he became as vulgar as any country clown making advances to his Meg or Polly.

And of course he felt all the time that he was doing amazingly well.

Lady Susan was angry at first, and then she became witty. Her sallies, directed against him in every scene, were, however, lost upon him, no matter how calculated they were to sting him; he was too self-satisfied to be affected by any criticism that might be offered to him by man or woman.

And then Lady Susan was compelled to abandon her wit and to become natural. She flounced off the stage when her lover (in the play) was more than commonly loutish, and burst into tears of vexation in the arms of her dear friend Lady Sarah Lennox.

“I never had such a chance until now,” she cried. “Never, oh, never! The part might have been written for me; and I implore of you, Sarah, to tell me candidly if Mrs. Abington or Mrs. Clive could act it with more sprightliness than I have shown in that last scene?”

“Impossible, my sweet Sue!” cried her friend. “I vow that I have never seen anything more arch than your mock rejection of your lover, only to draw him on.”

“You dear creature!” cried Lady Sue. “You are a true friend and a competent critic, Sarah. But what signifies my acting, perfect though it be, when that--that idiot fails to respond in any way to the spirit which I display? The whole play will be damned, and people who know nothing of the matter will spread the report that 'twas my lack of power that brought about the disaster.”

“They cannot be so vile,” said Lady Sarah soothingly.

“But they will. I know how vile some of our friends can be when it suits them, and when they are jealous of the acquirements of another. They will sneer at my best scenes--oh, the certainty that they will do so will be enough to make my best scenes fail. But no! they shall not have the chance of maligning me. I will go to Sir Francis and resign my part. Yes, I will! I tell you I shall!”

The indignant young lady, with something of the stage atmosphere still clinging to her, flung herself with the gesture of a tortured heroine, proud and passionate, toward the door of the room to which the two ladies had retired. But before she had her fingers on the handle the door opened and Sir Francis Délavai entered.

“A thousand pardons, my dear ladies,” he cried, bowing to the carpet. “I had forgot for the moment that when a man turns his house into a theatre he can call no room in it his own. But I should be a churl to suggest that any room in my poor house would not be made beautiful by the presence of your ladyships. After all, this is only my library, and a library is only a polite name for a dormitory, and a--but what is this? I said not a lacrymatory.”

He was looking curiously into Lady Susan's face, which retained the marks of her recent tears.

“Dear Sir Francis, you have come in good time,” said Lady Sarah boldly. “Here is this poor child weeping her heart out because she is condemned to play the part of--of what's her name?--the lady in the play who had to make love to an ass?”

“Oh, sir, mine is a far worse plight,” said Lady Susan, pouting. “It were bad enough for one to have to make love to an ass, but how much worse is't not for one to be made love to by--by--my Lord B------?”

“That were a calculation far above my powers,” said Sir Francis. “My lord has never made love to me, but if rumour and the gossip at White's speak even a soupçon of truth, his lordship is well practised in the art--if love-making is an art.”

“Sir, 'tis a combination of all the arts,” said Lady Susan; “and yet my lord cannot simulate the least of them, which is that of being a gentleman, when he makes love to me on the stage, through the character of Captain Bellaire in our play.”

“To be plain, Sir Francis,” said Lady Sarah, as though the other had not been plain enough in her explanation, “To be plain, Lady Susan, rather than be associated in any measure with such a failure as your theatricals are bound to be if my Lord B------ remains in the part of her lover, has made up her mind to relinquish her part. But believe me, sir, she does so with deep regret.”

“Hence these tears,” said Sir Francis. “My poor child, you are indeed in a pitiable state if you are so deeply chagrined at a clumsy love-making merely on the stage.”

“Merely on the stage?” cried Lady Susan. “Lud, Sir Francis, have you not the wit to see that to be made love to indifferently on the stage is far more unendurable than it would be in private, since in the one case you have the eyes of all the people upon you, whereas in the other case you are as a rule alone?”

“As a rule,” said Sir Francis. “Yes, I perceive the difference, and I mingle mine own turgid tears with your limpid drops. But we cannot spare you from our play.”

“No, you cannot, Sir Francis, but you can spare Lord B------, and so can the play,” suggested Lady Sarah.

“What, you would have me turn him out of the part?” said Sir Francis.

“Even so--but with politeness,” said Lady Sarah.

“Perhaps your ladyship has solved the problem how to kick a man out of your house politely. If so, I would willingly pay you for the recipe; I have been in search of it all my life,” said Sir Francis.

“Surely, sir, if you kick a man hard enough with your slippers on he will leave your house as surely as if you wear the boots of a Life Guardsman,” said Lady Susan timidly.

“I doubt it not, madam; but before trying such an experiment it would be well to make sure that the fellow does not wear boots himself.”

“Psha! Sir Francis. If a man were to beg leave to measure the thickness of his enemy's soles before offering to kick him there would be very few cases of assault and battery,” cried Lady Susan.

“That is good philosophy--see what we have come to--philosophy, when we started talking of lovemaking,” said Sir Francis.

“However we have digressed in conversation, sir, our minds remain steadfast on the point round which we have been circling,” said Lady Sarah.

“And that is------”

“That Lord B------must go.”

The door was thrown open and Lord B------ entered.

“A good preliminary--one must come before one goes,” whispered Sir Francis to the ladies.

His lordship was evidently perturbed. He scarcely bowed either to Sir Francis or the ladies.

“I was told that you had come hither, Sir Francis,” he said, “so I followed you.”

“You do me honour, my lord,” said Sir Francis.

“I took a liberty, sir; but this is not a time for punctilio. I have come to resign my part in your play, sir,” said his lordship.

“Oh, surely not, my lord,” cried Sir Francis. “What would the _School for Lovers_ be without Bellaire, my lord? Why only now Lady Susan was saying--what is it that your ladyship said?”

“It had something to do with philosophy and the sole of a grenadier,” said Lady Sarah interposing.

“Nay, was it not that his lordship's impersonation made you think of a scene from _Midsummer Night's Dream?_” said Sir Francis. “One of the most beautiful of Shakespeare's plays, is't not, my lord?--fantasy mingled with irony, an oasis of fairyland in the midst of a desert of daily life.”

“I know nothing about your fairyland, sir, but I have been told within the hour that her ladyship”--he bowed in the direction of Lady Susan--“has, during the three rehearsals which we have had of the play, been sneering in a covert way at my acting of the part of Bellaire, although to my face she seemed delighted, and thus----”

“Are you sure that your informant was right in his interpretation of her ladyship's words? Surely your lordship--a man of the world--would have been sensible of every shade of her ladyship's meaning?”