Part 16

She sunk down before me, quite helpless and unnerved.

“Patty,” I said, “you have never ceased to love and trust your sister?”

“Never, never--you are before all the world to me. Diana! You will find a way!”

“If you are strong--yes. I have been alert and watchful, child, while you never knew it. But he did; and he means to separate us; to rid himself of the watch-dog, that he may seize the lamb. He has but this moment told me I must go--with what coarseness and insult I will not soil your ears by repeating. If you love your honour, as I love and have sacrificed myself to save it, you must come with me.”

“I will come”--she rose hurriedly to her feet. “How can I ever repay you, sister? The old, wicked man! At once--Diana! let us fly at once!”

“Hush! We must be circumspect. You don’t know-- There, child, I will die to save you.”

She clung to me, in a gush of silent tears. Hastily I instructed her--it was necessary in escaping to leave no trail--in my plan. It was that, in an hour’s time, she should order out her barouche (there was one put at her disposal), and, having driven to Grosvenor Gate, alight and dismiss it, as if with the intention to walk in the park. Thence she was to make her way on foot to Mrs. Trix’s toy-shop in Piccadilly, and, having asked very privately to be shown into the parlour, await me there, in whatever company she should find.

She obeyed, heedful, in her panic, to the last details. Luckily, my lord, being gone abroad to his lawyers, there were no prying eyes to criticise her. No sooner was she driven off than--having collected into a stocking all our jewels, and whatever money I could lay hands on, which I hung from my waist out of sight--I stole forth by the back way into the stables, and thence to the street, where I found a hackney coach, and drove after my friend.

I found her, as I had hoped, with Mr. Roper. He looked mighty serious over our escapade, but informed me that he had loyally attended to my instructions, and procured us a lodging, as for two country ladies who had come up to view the sights, in as distant a part of the town as he could compass on short notice. We went out immediately by a side door, and, having all got into a coach that was in waiting, were driven to Holborn, where we alighted, and thence, for precaution, walked to a quiet house in Great Coram Street, near the Foundlings, where our handsome escort left us, promising to call, at discretion, in a few days, and recommending us in the meanwhile to lie as close as rabbits in a furrow.

He was as good as his word, coming in a week later, after dark, with a face as long as a lawyer’s writ.

“Well, madam,” he said, “you have cut the ground from under your own feet with a vengeance.”

I laughed.

“You have been reading ‘Angélique’s’ Last Testament?”

“Pray the Fates it may not be so indeed,” he said gravely; and, pulling a paper out of his pocket, began to refer to it.

“Why, do you not know,” said he, “that others besides our _Volpone_ are reported interested in that strange disappearance of a one-time heir-presumptive to _Volpone’s_ own title?”

“Perfectly.”

“And yet you go and put your head into the lion’s mouth?”

“I would do more to expose a villain. I would go all lengths to right an injured man. He is no more mad than I am.”

“That seems probable.”

He unfolded a second paper from the other, and pointing silently to a paragraph, handed it to me.

“The king” (I read from the _Gazette_) “has bestowed the vacant garter upon the newly created Marquis of Synge;” and a little lower down: “It is stated that the Earl of Herring has been relieved, at his own request, of all offices which he held under the Crown. His lordship is understood to have long contemplated a complete retirement from public life.”

I shrieked with laughter. I danced about the room, waving the paper over my head. The noise I made brought up one of two gentlemen who lived below. He put his head in at the door, with a leer and a grin: “O, a thousand pardons!” said he; “I thought you was alone, and that something had happened”--and he vanished.

“He thought something had happened!” groaned Bob dismally; and, taking the paper from me, he read out elsewhere: “His Majesty’s final decision is supposed not unconnected with the _esclandres_ of a certain notorious lady, which have exercised the public curiosity for some time past, and which culminated on Saturday sennight in an attack too obvious in its direction to be overlooked.”

I heard, glistening.

“Well, I told him I recognised my debt, and should pay him,” I said.

Bob folded the papers, and returned them to his pocket. His mouth and eyes were set in a kind of suffering smile.

“You may know best how to play your hand for yourself,” he said. “God preserve your partner, that’s all.”

“What have you to fear?”

“Your prudence, first of all--not a very trustworthy asset, if one may judge by your apparent confidence in your fellow-lodgers.”

“O! him that looked in!” I said. “I will answer there with my life.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, that is the point,” said he. “Do you quite realise what you have done, Diana?”

“O, quite!”

“Well, that is a comfort. It gives me a sort of confidence in my future. So long as I can be played as live-bait for your capture, I shall be spared, no doubt.”

He came up to me, and spoke very earnestly--

“Do you understand? He will try to trace you through me. If he succeeds”--

“There is an end of both of us,” I said cheerfully.

“Well,” he answered, with admiration, “you are a game little partlet. But remember, at least, that revenge which evokes retribution misses the best half of itself. For that reason, if for no other, I must keep away from you. This visit to-night, even--I only dared it after infinite precautions. If you want me, write: I will risk some means to see you. For the rest, live close as death, till some of this, at least, is blown over. Your friend, the pretty simpleton, where is she?”

“In bed and asleep.”

“Keep her there. Make a dormouse of her. My Lady Sophia is nosing for her tracks, as my lord her brother for yours. Did you suppose she would acquiesce quietly in the abduction of her handmaid? I tell you, she has got wind of the truth; and there has been tempest in the house of Herring. Keep her close. Above everything, cut all further communication with the _World_--as you love yourself, and me a little, perhaps, Diana.”

“As I love the truth,” I said; and went up and kissed him.

“Ah!” he sighed, “that is very pretty. But, believe me, the truth, as represented by His Majesty, wishes your love at the devil before it meddled in his family affairs.”

XXIV. I FIND A FRIEND IN NEED

You know the truth, _mon ami_--that the face which looked in at my door was the face of my father. O, heavens, the reunion, so wonderful, so pathetic! and the sequel, so interesting! Truly, through our living fidelities do the gods chastise our worldliness.

We had not been a day in the house when I ran across him in a passage. He was, it appeared, one of two gentlemen who lodged below. He was plainly, almost shabbily dressed; bloated a little; prematurely aged: but I knew him instantly. Though eleven years had gone since my childish eyes had last acknowledged and adored him, the instinct of nature was too sure to be deceived. I gasped, I trembled, as he stood ogling me; finally I threw myself into his arms.

“Papa!” I cried; “papa!”

“Hey!” he responded; “is that all?”

“Do you not remember your little Diana?” I implored, in an ecstasy of emotion.

“Wait,” he said, and put a hand to his forehead. “It may be on my notes. I’ve a damned bad memory.”

The door of a room hard by stood open. He led me in, closed it, and seated himself officially at a table.

“Now,” he said, “what mother?”

The shock, my friend! I had remembered him so strong and gallant--wicked, if you will; but then I had always pictured myself the cherished pledge of his wickedness. And now, it appeared, I was only one of a large family. Without a word, I turned my back upon him.

“Don’t go,” he said, disturbed at that. “What name did you say?”

I confronted him once more, sorrow and disdain battling in my face.

“I said Diana.”

“Of course,” he answered, beating his forehead; “the child of”--

After all, it was a long lapse of time. I told him my mother’s name.

“She was my one real love,” he said, shedding tears. “I recall her among the peats of Killarney as if it were to-day. When she died (she is dead, isn’t she?) I buried my heart in her grave. I have never known a moment’s happiness since. Speak to me of her, Dinorah.”

He followed me up a little later, when Patty was sitting with me, and peeped round the door.

“May I--daughter Di?” he said. I believe he had really in the interval been looking among his notes, or letters, and with such benefit to his memory that he felt secure, at least, in that monosyllabic compromise. Blame my fond heart, thou _fripon_. I was softened even in my desperate disillusionment by this half recognition. With a father, fashionable and well-connected, possibly rich, to safeguard my interests, I need no longer fear the light.

Receiving no answer, he sidled himself into the room, and to a sofa, on which he sat down. Patty, dropping her work, looked at him with all her might of astonishment.

“And is this dear child your sister?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered; “from the very first.”

“Twins?” he exclaimed. “I am very sure there is no such entry.”

He sat frowning at the carpet for a little. Then, “Wait,” he said. “It is my misfortune to serve small beer.” And with these enigmatic words laid himself down and fell asleep.

With his first snore, Patty flew over to me.

“Who is it?” she whispered, frantic.

“_It_ is a wise father that knows his own child.”

“_Father_?” she said.

“Hush!” I answered; “yes.” And would say no more till he woke.

He came to himself presently, in a properer sense of the word. During the interval I had been curiously observing his condition. It was very different in seeming from that of the spark of eleven years since. It showed an assumption of finery, it is true; but the trappings were tawdry and soiled, and the materials cheap.

He sat up with a prodigious yawn, his face, in the midst, lapsing into a watery, paternal smile. But it was evident at once that something of the thread of memory was restored in him; and he began questioning me much more shrewdly and to the point.

“Why, ecod,” said he presently, “was it a fact that the sweep had stole you? If I’d only learnt the truth before Charlie Buckster put a bullet in himself. I’d a double pony on it with the man.”

Then we got on famously. He cried much over his poor lost love, and was so tender with me that he completely won me from my reserve, and I ended by recounting to him the whole tale of my fortunes, even up to the present moment.

“That Herring!” he said: “a fine guardian to my girl! I knew the stoat well in my time. Let him beware, now that she has found her natural protector.”

He swelled with indignation, as I with pleasure.

“You have gifts, presents from him, no doubt,” he said fiercely. “What do you say to my taking them all back, and throwing them in his face?”

“I say, certainly not,” I answered.

“Ah well!” he said, “you have got them, anyhow; and the thought will wring his covetous soul.”

At this moment a great voice roared, “Johnson, you devil!” down below somewhere.

My father got quickly to his feet.

“Ay,” he answered, to my look; “’tis me, Di--the pseudonym I go by. Fact is, child, I’m temporarily under a financial cloud, and forced to eke out a living, while awaiting the moment of my complete restoration to fortune, by service--that is to say, by taking it, hem!”

“By taking service?”

“Exactly. A sort of elegant cicerone and social introducer to a damned old parvenu curmudgeon, who wants to learn at what lowest outlay to himself he can pose as a gentleman. ’Tis tiresome, though in its way amusing; but I really think I shall have to cut the old rascal on his taste in liquor. For a palate like mine, you know--small beer and blue ruin, faugh! You haven’t change for a guinea, my angelic?”

“Johnson!” roared the voice again.

“Coming, sir, coming!” cried my papa; and, seeing me unresponsive, skipped out of the room.

He was with us continually during the fortnight after our arrival; and I had no least idea of the consequences awaiting me, when one afternoon a hastily scribbled note, dated “_en route_ for the Continent,” was delivered at the house door by a porter, and sent up to me. I read it, shrieked, and sank half fainting into a chair.

“I have taken, dear daughter,” it said, “the entire responsibility for our monetary affairs upon my own shoulders. To live on one’s capital is, like the self-eating pelican, to devour the substance of the unborn generations. Seeing how you appeared quite unaccountably callous to the natural claims of your prospective family (for, with your attractions, you cannot hope to escape one), I, as its prospective grandfather, have asserted my prerogative by appropriating our principal to its properest uses of investment. The stocking you will find still reposing in its secret _cache_ behind the hangings of your dressing-table; but you will find it empty. Do not blame me, but console yourself with the conviction that in a few weeks I shall be in a position to return you your principal _at least trebled_. In the meanwhile, accept the assurances of my love and protection.”

Half dazed with the shock, I tottered, with Patty’s assistance, into our bedroom. It was too true. The desperate wretch, seizing his opportunity by night while we slept, had robbed us of everything. He had left us not a sixpence. We were ruined.

I tore my hair. I uttered cries and imprecations. I cursed Heaven, my own fond gullibility, the cruelty of the fate that would not let me live and be honest. Patty, poor fool, tried to calm me. I drove her away with blows, and, in a reaction to fury, rushed downstairs and into the room of the remaining lodger.

“Where is my money, where are my jewels?” I shrieked. “You are his accomplice. I will swear an information against you unless you tell.”

He was a gross, coarse man, of a violent complexion.

“Ho-ho!” he bellowed; “blackmail is it? Wait, while I call a witness.”

He pulled the bell down, summoning our landlady. When she came, there was an outrageous scene. Quite cowed in the end, I retreated to our apartments, where, however, I was not to be left in peace. Within an hour the harridan appeared with her bill, an extravagant one, which of course I was unable to settle. The next morning, driven forth with contumely, we were arrested at her suit, and carried to a sponging-house. Thence, quite self-collected now in my desperation, I despatched a note to Mr. Roper, who, without delay, good creature, waited upon us. I told him the whole unreserved truth.

“Very well,” he said, “I will quit you of this, child; and, for the rest, find accommodation for you in humbler quarters till you can help yourself. With your genius, that should not be long. You know my circumstances, and that I cannot afford luxuries.”

“I will work my fingers to the bone,” I said, with tears in my eyes.

“Not quite so bad as that,” he answered. “Bones ain’t negotiable assets. Have you ever thought on the stage, now, for a living?”

“I believe, without much study, I could make an actress,” I said.

“With none at all,” said he confidently. “I have a friend in Westley of Drury Lane, and will see if he can put you in the way to a part. I should fear the publicity, i’ faith, but that my lord has taken his grievances to the Continent for an airing, and in the interval we are safe to act.”

Good loyal friend! He found us pretty snug quarters over a little shop in Long Acre, where, keeping to our pseudonym of the Misses Rush, we bided while he negotiated terms for me. He was successful, when once I had been interviewed by the management; and, to cut short this melancholy story, I made my first appearance on the boards as the fairy Primrose in the Christmas masque of the _Dragon of Wantley_. I had a little song to sing about a butterfly, which never failed to bring down the house; and altogether, I was growing not unhappy in the novelty of the venture, when that, with almost my life, was ended at a blow.

But first I must relate of the most surprising _contretemps_ that ever I was to experience, and which had the strangest and most immediate bearing on my destinies.

I had noticed frequently that the hind legs of the dragon would linger unaccountably, when the absurd monster, on his way off the stage, happened to pass me standing in the wings. This would lead to much muffled recrimination from the forequarters, which, exhausted by their antics, aimed only at getting to their beer; the consequence being that one eventful night, what between the haulings and contortions, the back seam of the creature split, and out there rolled before my eyes--Gogo.

He picked himself up immediately, and stood regarding me silently, with a most doleful visage. My dear, I cannot describe what emotions swept my soul in a little storm of laughter--the astonishment, the pity, the bewilderment! In the midst, too confounded to arrange my thoughts, I turned away, affecting not to recognise him; seeing which, he uttered one enormous sigh, and stumped off to face the battery of the stage-manager’s indignation.

I must have put a world of feeling that night into my little song about the poor butterfly, that was stripped of its wings by a cruel boy, and so prevented from keeping its assignation with the rose, insomuch that it moved a very beautiful lady, who was present in a private box, to send for me that she might thank me in person.

We had all of us, of course, heard of, and some of us remembered, perhaps, chucking under the chin, the ravishing Mrs. Hart, who, from pulling mugs of beer to the pinks of Drury Lane, had risen to be _chère amie_ to his excellency the British Ambassador at Naples, and, quite recently, his lady. She had lately come to London, _à travers tous les obstacles_, to be made an honest woman of, and it was she who craved the introduction, to which you may be sure I responded with as much alacrity as curiosity. I could have no doubt of her the moment I entered the box, and made, with becoming naïveté, my little curtsey. She was certainly very handsome, in spite of her twenty-seven years and her large feet, though, I thought, lacking in grace. But her face was beautifully formed, with a complexion of apple-blossoms, and red lips a little swollen with kissing, and, to crown everything, a great glory of chestnut hair. There were tears in her fine eyes as she turned impulsively to address me--

“La, you little darling, you’ve made me cry with your butterflies and things. Come here while I buss you.”

There was a gentleman sitting by her, foremost of two or three that were in the box, and he made room for me with an indulgent smile. He was a genial, precise-looking person, with a star on his right breast, and the queue of his wig reaching down his back in long curls that were gathered into a ribbon. I took him, rightly, to be Sir William, the husband, and made him my demure bow as I passed. His lady gave me a great kiss, in full view of the house, and taking a little jewel from her bosom, pinned it into mine.

“There,” she said, “wear this for Lady Hamilton, in token of the only reel feeling she has come across in your beastly city.”

Sir William put his hand on her arm.

“My dear,” he said.

She fanned herself boisterously. She had been disappointed, everyone knew, in her designs to be received at court, and was to leave England in a few days missing the coveted honour. Somehow she reminded me of the “bouncing chit” that our gentlemen call a champagne bottle--she so gushed and sparkled, and was a little large and loud.

I made my acknowledgments quite prettily, and left the box; and, once got outside, leaned for a moment against the wall, with a feeling of mortal sickness come over me. For, as I retreated, I had come face to face with those seated at the back--_and one of them was the Earl of Herring_.

Had he recognised me? He had not appeared to lift his eyes, even, as he sat at discussion with his neighbour. And that might be the most deadly sign of all.

I don’t know how I got through the rest of my part. But that night I clung to Patty as if she were my only support in a failing world.

Morning brought some reassurance; and so, for a further evening or two, finding myself still unmolested, I struggled to convince myself that he had not seen, or that I was forgotten, and my fault passed over. But all the time the terror lay at my heart.

On the third evening, as I was entering the theatre, I encountered a poor creature standing by the stage door. I went to him; I almost fell upon his breast in my agitation.

“Gogo!” I said, “Gogo!” and stood dumb and shame-stricken before him.

He threw up his hands with that odd familiar gesture, with that tempestuous sigh which found such an immediate response in my soul.

“Are you not coming in?” I faltered.

He shook his head.

“You are dismissed?”

“I spoiled their dragon for them.”

I burst into tears.

“It was for me, dear. Do you see to what I have come? Forgive me, Gogo.”

“I can’t help myself,” he groaned. “You are my destiny.”

“Gogo, I am frightened; I am in danger. Help me, Gogo.”

The poor fellow smiled.

“In everything but running away, Diana.”

“And that is just where I want your help. Come to me: come and see me to-morrow, Gogo, will you? O, Gogo, will you?”

“Don’t be foolish, Diana. At what time?”

“You know my address?”

“Of course I do.”

“As early as early, then; the moment I am out of bed.”

Strangely comforted, and looking to see if we were alone, I dropped a tiny kiss on his rough cheek, and ran in gaily, wiping my eyes as I went.

That night I sang my little song with renewed feeling, and ended to a burst of applause. As I was standing at the wings, flushed and radiant, a note was put into my hand. I opened it, and read: “_You are in danger. Don’t go home._”

I never learned who had sent it; some one, probably, from amongst the few friends I could still number in that wicked household. It had been handed in at the stage door by a messenger, and that was all I could discover. The lights of my triumph were darkened. I knew myself at last hunted--and alone. Why had I not bid my monster wait for me? But it were idle now to moan. Despair gave me readiness. I finished my part quite brilliantly, without a stumble, and chatted gaily, while disrobing, with the poor pretty little _coryphée_ who was my chief friend in the dressing-rooms. By one pretext or another I detained her until we were alone. Then, “Fanny,” I said, “keep mum; but I think it unlikely I shall come here again.”

She looked at me with her large grey eyes. We were much of a figure, and not unlike in features.

“O, Miss Rush!” she whispered. “And I’d ’oped always to ’ave you for a friend.”

“So you shall, Fanny,” I said: “but there are contingencies--you understand?”

Her lip was trembling. I think she wanted to tell me to keep good.

“And so,” I said hastily, “as I have liked you so, I want to exchange little presents with you, as a remembrance, if you will.”

The poor child had often cast admiring eyes on a calash which it was my habit to wear to the theatre, and which was indeed a very becoming thing of crimson velvet and cherry-coloured lining, with a frame of costly fur to the face. It had been given me by Bob, and certainly nothing short of my present desperation would have brought me to part with it; but it was, more than anything I wore of late, associated with me; and necessity has no conscience.

Fanny’s eyes sparkled against her will, as I held the thing out to her.

“O no, miss!” she entreated; “it’s too good for me, and I can’t give you nothing the same in exchange.”