MY LORD SPENCER IT happened that when Lady Clancarty came back from her visit to the house in the forest, weary and tear-stained but happier and more peaceful, she found herself in trouble. She had been gone a long time and unhappily her absence had been noticed and commented upon. Faithful and devoted as Alice was, she was not quickwitted enough to invent excuses, and was, indeed, thoroughly frightened and distressed by her mistress’ absence which she could not help connecting in some way with Lord Clancarty. There had been, in consequence, a great hubbub at the Lion’s Head, and men were running hither and yon; while the servants, who had carried her chair, to save themselves from blame had not failed to give a highly colored account of her meeting with a strange man in the lane and her disappearance in his company. When Lady Betty came quietly back through the garden, hoping to “Permit me, madam, to escort you to our mother,” he said so suavely that the culprit shivered. “I can go quite well alone, Charles,” she replied passing him with a careless manner that was scarcely a faithful indication of her mood; “I am too weary to drink tea or play gleek,” she added yawning; “faith, ’tis tiresome to walk in the fields.” “Extremely so,” replied my lord, as smooth as silk, “especially when you bring wood briars back upon your farthingale.” “Pull it off, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Nay, I fear the thorns,” he replied, with distant politeness. She plucked it away herself with a little grimace. “You are wise, Charles,” she said, “’tis well to keep your fingers out of other people’s troubles.” He bit his lip, giving her a furious glance as she tripped up the stairs ahead of him. But, though he followed more deliberately, he entered Lady Sunderland’s room but a moment after her, and in time to hear her reply to his mother’s sharp inquiry. “I walked a little way in the meadows, madam,” said Betty, with delightful mendacity; “you know you recommended it for my complexion.” “A fine diversion,” remarked Lord Spencer, with a sneer, “but who, pray, was your companion?” Lady Betty gave him a sidelong look that spoke volumes. “Faith,” she retorted, with a shrug, “the world would be a dull place with no men in it.” “You choose a fine subject for a jest,” he said; “I would have you know, madam, that my sister cannot run about Newmarket with a groom!” Then Betty turned upon him like a fury. “Do not dare to say that to me again,” she cried, her bosom heaving with passion; “you forget to whom you speak! Do you think—do you dare to think—that I am not as capable as you of defending my own honor and dignity? More, sir, I would have you know that I am accountable to none but my father and—my husband!” and she swept past him and out of the room like a whirlwind. The older countess sank back in her chair and giggled like a girl. “La!” she exclaimed, “her spirit!—I’d give ten guineas to see her do that over again,—and you deserved it, Charles, my love.” Her son gave her an exasperated look. “That fellow is Clancarty—I am sure of it,” he said fiercely, “and the minx is in communication with him—but, by Saint Thomas, I’ll break it up—if I have to break his head!” “Fudge, my love,” replied the countess Lord Spencer’s eyelids drooped lower. “I’ll see that she never has the opportunity, madam,” he said, in a cool voice that had the effect of making Lady Sunderland shiver much as Betty had. Meanwhile, Lady Clancarty poured out her hopes and fears and half-formed plans to Alice Lynn. The first thing to be done was to get the wounded man into a place of comfort, where he would also be secure, and in this Alice could help more than her mistress had dreamed. The girl had an uncle living in Cambridge, a mercer, and a man with Jacobite leanings, and she at once suggested his house as a possible shelter for Lord Clancarty. After some discussion, her mistress eagerly accepted this opportunity, especially as she must leave Newmarket soon for London to join her father, and Cambridge would be near. There were many secret missives passing to and fro between the house in the woods and the Lion’s Head, but Betty found herself too closely watched by Spencer to dare another visit, and by the end of a week Lord Clancarty was By this time the races were over, and the stream of people had poured back to the capital, where Parliament had been opened by the king, and Newmarket was empty and quiet. Lady Sunderland went to Windsor, leaving her daughter to go on to London to the earl’s house, where Sunderland and Spencer had preceded her. Lady Clancarty went up to London, therefore, with her two women, Alice and Melissa Thurle, and tried to wait with patience for an opportunity to see her husband again. She was cheered and solaced, however, by frequent secret messages that assured her, not only of his safety, but that he was mending rapidly. He had even been able to write her one letter himself, which she kept hidden in her bosom by day and under her pillow by night, though it was only a meagre little letter, written while his hand was still unsteady. “Dear heart,” he wrote, “was it a dream—that lovely vision in the dark cabin? Were those soft kisses immaterial too? Or did I But the time came, at last, when it was even dangerous to receive or send these missives, for Lord Spencer was watchful and suspicious still, and for Clancarty’s sake Betty forced herself to be patient,—the sharpest trial of all. The weeks passed and the cold Saint Agnes weather was upon them. Parliament was in the depths of its wrangles over the military establishment, but the House of Commons, though never more unruly than in these last years of William the Third, was in a somewhat milder mood—alarmed by the threatened difficulty of the Spanish Succession—and it permitted the ministers to put the most favorable interpretation upon the law and retain ten thousand fighting men. Further, it expressed its attachment to the sovereign’s person by suspending the benefit of the Habeas Corpus Act twelve months longer from Bernardi and the other conspirators involved in the late Assassination Plot. Lord Sunderland was Meanwhile, Lady Clancarty fretted her heart out because she could neither see Clancarty nor get a message from him. Her suite of rooms at Leicester House—which was now the town house of the Earl of Sunderland—were never so dreary. She paced them day and night in her anxiety, and struggle as she would to hide it, there were signs of it upon her face. Yet she played her part well as the mistress of her father’s house, and she had never been more lovely or more courted. Her receptions were always crowded, and at every ball she was the centre of a lively group of admirers and friends. But with it all her heart ached. It was one evening, the night of my Lord Bridgewater’s ball at his house in the Barbican, that Lady Clancarty stood looking at her own reflection, all dressed for the rout. Her gown, a wondrous affair of silver lace and white brocade, became her well, and her luxuriant hair was deftly dressed with one large diamond flashing like a star amidst the curls. She turned away from the glass smiling—she could not help a certain pleasure in the picture—but the next she sighed and looked about for Alice. Her mood changed swiftly; a moment before she had thought of herself and of the ball—now she stood dejected, her head bowed, tears in her eyes. “Ah, if I only knew how he was,” she murmured softly, “if I could only see him well!” As she spoke the door opened gently and Alice looked in, glancing around the room. “What ails you, Alice?” asked her mistress, “you wear the face of a conspirator; where have you been?” Alice laid her finger on her lips and withdrew—to Betty’s infinite astonishment—and the next instant the door opened wider and a tall man, cloaked and booted for riding, crossed the threshold. Betty uttered a strange little cry; her beautiful India fan fell on the floor and broke in a thousand pieces. Lord Clancarty sprang toward her and caught her in his arms in time to keep her from falling. “My darling!” he said, “I came too unexpectedly—I have done wrong.” “Ah, Betty darling!” he whispered, covering her face with kisses, “I have been dying for this—to come to you again!” “And you came here!” she said, a little catch in her voice, “here, in this house,—oh, the danger of it! Spencer hates your very name, darling; how dared you come?” He caressed her soft hair, smiling. “How dared I, Betty?” he replied, “ah, my child, you do not know me. Are you glad to see me even here?” “Am I glad?” she murmured, tears in her eyes. “Ah, Donough, the days have seemed like weeks—the weeks eternities!” “I am not worthy of you,” he said, laying his cheek against her soft one, “I am not worthy of you; but above all else I love you—ay, better than my own soul!” |