by H. C. Bailey
CHAPTER XV
MRS. BOYCE
It was a time of wild plots. The long war of Marlborough had left Englandimpregnably triumphant, and France ambitious of nothing but peace. Nofear remained that foreign arms would carry James, the Pretender by rightdivine, to his sister's throne. Who should reign when Anne's growingweakness ended in death was for England alone to decide, and English lawgave the succession to Prince George of Hanover. But there was a party,or at least the leaders of a party, who saw more profit to themselves inimporting the Pretender.
Harley and Bolingbroke, they had thrust out of the Queen's confidence andthe government the friends of Hanover. They had undermined the authorityof Marlborough at home and abroad, and were now ready, honourably ordishonourably, to put an end to the war which made him necessary. If hewere dispatched into ignominy or exile, there could be no one strongenough, they believed, to prevent them driving England the way theychose. What that way would be no one clearly knew, themselves, perhaps,least of all. But together and singly they set going many strange secretschemes which were to make a new king, a new England, and newmagnificence for themselves, singly or together. All which the mass ofEngland watched with shrewd, incurious eyes. It could not long be asecret that plots were afoot. To shoulder out of power all who werecommitted friends of the lawful order was a confession of designs againstit. As if that were not enough, Bolingbroke and Harley so managed theirbusiness that everything they did was wrapped in a mist of trickery andintrigue. And yet, though they were vastly mysterious over what couldhave borne the light without much shame, they contrived to let the agentsof their deeper treachery blunder into notice and fill the air withrumours of untimely truth. Still England gave no sign.
"Under which King"--Hanoverian or Pretender--perhaps there were few inEngland who cared. If the Pretender was bred French and a Papist, PrinceGeorge was a German born. Some of those who had joined heartily indriving out his father began to put it about that the son would be abetter king for that lesson. George of Hanover had the right of law, butthe Parliament of to-morrow might undo what the Parliament of yesterdayhad done. Who could be ardent for the right of an unknown foreigner overEngland? And few were ardent, but there were many who, caring nothing forPretender or Hanoverian, had a solid resolution that England should notbe torn in the cause of either. Whatever was done, must be done quietlyand in good order. Since it seemed that the Hanoverian had no need tochange anything in law or State or Church, best that he should be king.As for the devious politics, the tricks, and the mystery of Harley andBolingbroke, they were of no account to plain men.
There was yet another party not content to watch and wait till theplotters lost themselves in their own mysteries. The men whom Harley andBolingbroke had driven from power had no mind to submit to impotence.They well knew what they wanted: the Hanoverian, the lawful, limited kingupon the throne and themselves as his ministers. They were not delicateabout the means they used. Since there were treason and plots, they tooturned their hands to plotting and with a vigour and ruthless resolutionof which the other camp was innocent.
So the wise and eminent were busy while Harry Boyce and his Alison madetrial of their marriage. Harry lived in a dream of bewildered happiness.He had counted on nothing but the need of his passion, hoped for nothingbut its ecstasy in her beauty, and at its wildest the strain of gloom inhim had bade him dread what lay beyond. She gave him a miracle of maddelight. A new force of life was born in him while he enjoyed her joy. Itwas a discovery of intoxicating power that he could wake that rare,consummate creature to such eager exultation as his own. In thosewonderful hours it seemed that they passed out of themselves into a worldwhere every part of their being was one and in the happiness of unboundedstrength. So passion and she kept faith with him and something more. Butthe miracle of passion in her arms had less enchantment than the joy ofthe quiet hours. It was with this that she bewildered him. Before sheyielded to him, he would have jeered at the hope that she might bring thegift of peace in her bosom. As the first days of marriage passed helearnt that all his placid loneliness had been the mere endurance ofhunger. He had stayed himself with the husk of life. She satisfied himwith the fruit. For she too could be calm, delighting in the little dailythings, utterly happy with nonsense. To share all that with her was tofind in it a strange, lulling enchantment of content.
His fortune seemed too good to be real. For he possessed all that everfancy had pretended was worth coveting: his life was a perfect happiness.No doubts from within, no troubles from without, had power to assail him.All the old, reasonable, practical fears were become ludicrous cowardice,only remembered for Alison to tease with. As for other people, and whatthey said and thought and did, some folks were kind and were welcome, nofolks were of account. He and she deliciously sufficed themselves. Andthere was no dread of change, save in age and death, infinitely distantand insignificant--no matter but to glorify the power of life. Sometimeshe was aware that the wonder of passion must grow faint and fail, but hesaw nothing which could take from him the quiet, exquisite, daily joys.Was it real, or a charmed dream, this perfect fortune of content? Indeed,nothing was real in those days but the delight in being with her.
Alison had her share. He did not deceive himself. She had her ecstasiesand her exultations, she thought herself even madder than he was. And inthese days, perhaps, her passion was deeper and stronger than his. Shewas satisfied, she felt herself accomplished, and gloried in her newpower with a more profound, a more secret delight than his. She had givenhim eagerly all that she had, and in the giving found herself more thanever her own. For all the union, the deepest, truest self in her stoodaloof in a mystery. It was not of her will, for she desired to deny himnothing. She did not reckon him weak in failing to take all of her. Thismust needs be the way of life. No man's passion could be stronger thanhis. Doubtless he too had his secret soul apart. And indeed it wasglorious not to lose self in love, to stay always, through the ecstasies,aloof, to give always anew of will and choice--never to merge helpless insome unknown double being and become only half a body, half a soul,capitulating always to the rest, to the other.
This self-glorious pride of hers gave her for a while that zest in allthe trivial common things which made her a companion so delightful toHarry's temper. But she enjoyed them in a spirit different from his. Allthe bread-and-butter business of living was to him delightful in itselfand for itself. He was born to want no better bread than is made ofwheat. She played with it, made a dainty mock of it, amused herself withit, and at the back of her mind despised it.
So they lived, and you imagine Mrs. Weston's dim, wistful eyes watchingthem with a great tenderness. For she understood them no better thanthey themselves.
It was Alison who first grew tired. Not of love or passion, but of thetrivialities and the quiet life at Highgate. She had ambitions, orthought she had. It had been just rediscovered that women could beleaders in the world--at least in politics and the tricks of statecraft.Women were the fiercest partisans and their voices powerful in thewarring parties. It was a woman, his termagant duchess, who had givenMarlborough his ascendancy in England, made him dominate all Europe. Itwas a clever woman who had contrived Marlborough's downfall and given hisenemies the government of England. It was a woman--another duchess--whobeat Swift. You need not suspect Alison, who had some humour, ofimagining Harry Boyce a Marlborough. But he did believe him able to makea noise in the world, and coveted much the sensation of owning him whilethe world listened. She did not see herself controlling queens and kingsand parties, but she was well aware of her beauty and its power, and hada mind to use it widely. She was hungry for excitement.
So Mrs. Alison determined to set her man upon a larger, busier stage. Thedecree went forth that old Tom Lambourne's house in the Lincoln's InnFields was again to be inhabited. Harry was asked for his adviceafterwards. Perhaps he would have been wiser if he had begun their firstquarrel then. But he was enjoying her too much to deny her her ways orher whims, and he only laughed at her. He was
not pleased, to be sure. Hehad a taste, which cannot have come from his father, for copse andfield. He never found anything in the town which was worth the living inother folk's smoke. He disliked crowds and in particular crowds of fineladies and gentlemen. So with some horror he saw before him a vista ofpolite splendours, and said so.
"Oh Lud, sir," says she, "if I had wanted to sleep my life away I shouldnot have married you. And if you wanted to sleep out yours you should nothave married me."
"I was born for innocence and green fields. You'll make me a bull in achina shop."
"I'll love you the better, child. Faith, Harry, I would be very glad tohave you break something."
"Madame's heart, _par exemple_?"
"That would be an adventure."
So you find them arrived in the Lincoln's Inn Fields as the first stepto the conquest of the world. The world was not as excited as Alisonthought fit. Her father, old Tom Lambourne, had commanded reverence inthe City and some respect even as far west as St. James's by sheerweight of wealth. A rare capacity for living hard had won him an army ofdiverse friends. But neither his business nor his pleasures provided himwith many who could be bequeathed to his daughter. Her mother, born abaker's daughter in Shoe Lane, having died in giving Alison birth, hadleft her nothing besides her admirable body but some grumbling objectsof charity. It remained for Alison to make her own way in the world offine ladies and gentlemen. Since she was by certain fame an heiress ofgreat possessions, her way might have been easy if she had not foundherself a husband. The taint of the city, if she had borne herselfhumbly, need not have made her quite intolerable to people of birth. Butsince her money was already married she could only be reckoned as a citygoodwife; pretty enough, indeed, to be game for fine gentlemen, but tofine ladies a nobody.
Folks were slow in coming to the grand house in Lincoln's Inn Fields;slower still, if they had houses of elegance, to ask Mrs. Alison back. Itsuited Harry very well. He would, as his wife complained, go mooningacross the fields to Islington almost as happily as through the woods atHighgate. His books had almost as good a savour in town as in thecountry. When she dragged him to hear Nicolini or Wilks or theBracegirdle, he could console himself by gentle jeering over the factthat in a playhouse where everybody knew everybody not a creature had abow for him or her. Of course she smarted. Day by day he chose to affectastonishment over her failures, believing with infatuated content that hewas slowly driving her back to the country and sanity, though he was butdriving her away from him. And she, choosing to feel humiliated, blamedhim for the shame of it.
"Why, child," says he in his supercilious way, "'tis not failing to be inthe _beau monde_ that's ridiculous, but wanting to be."
To such monitions she began not to answer back--a symptom very dangerous.
She set up a basset table. That, if anything could, must proclaim her awoman of fashion--a woman, indeed, who had a fancy to be a trifledaring. There's no doubt that Alison about this time and afterwards didwant to dabble in danger. She was not her father's daughter for nothing.She encouraged high play. For herself, she enjoyed the excitement of it,having no need to care if she lost. She wanted to have about her peoplewho affected heavy stakes, believing in the innocence of her heart thatthey were exhilarating company. So she made for herself a queer society,which Harry to her angry disgust defined as a mixture of sheep andwolves. There were good wives and lads from the city anxious to make ajingling show with the funds of the family counting-house, there werehungry beaux and madames from the other end of the town seeking theirfortune impudently wherever it might be found.
To one of these happy parties there was introduced a Mrs. Boyce. Shewas a faded, handsome creature much jewelled about lean shoulders.Alison, who hardly heard her name in the rout, took no account of itand little of her. But on the next day this Mrs. Boyce came early andcaught Alison alone.
She began with such a fuss about apologizing for her earliness thatAlison set her down for an ill-bred, tiresome creature. She had a highvoice which, like the rest of her, was a trifle faded. "I protest, ma'am,I have long desired to know you better." Alison languidly mutteredsomething civil. "Let me make myself known first, I beg. I am the nieceof Sir Gilbert Heathcote."
Alison, of course, had heard of Sir Gilly--one of the chiefs of highfinance--but cared nothing about him. "I am vastly honoured, ma'am. I wasonly born Thomas Lambourne's daughter."
"There is no need; ma'am." A long, lean hand was waved. "I wonder if weare in some fashion connected. We are both called Mrs. Boyce. The Boycesof Oxfordshire, ma'am?"
Alison's laugh had something of a sneer in it, "Of nowhere that I know,ma'am. My husband is Mr. Harry Boyce, son of Colonel Oliver Boyce."
The lady fluttered her fan, settled herself afresh in her chair,rearranged her close-fitting lips. Alison was reminded of a hen preeningitself. "I had heard so, ma'am. And my husband is Colonel Oliver Boyce."
"La, ma'am, do you mean the same?" Alison cried.
Mrs. Oliver Boyce gave a lifeless smile. "That is why I did myself thehonour of giving you my confidence, ma'am. I think there are not twoColonel Oliver Boyces. The younger son of one of the Oxfordshire family."
"Oh Lud, how should I know? I never looked into the grandfathers."
"No, ma'am?" The tone was patronizing contempt. "You might have been thewiser of it. Colonel Oliver Boyce--he has taken the title lately--when Iknew him he was something in the service of the Duke of Marlborough. Oh,a fine man to the eye, ma'am, and very splendid in his talk."
"Why, that's his likeness," Alison laughed. "And what then, ma'am? Haveyou come seeking the Colonel? He is the Lord knows where. Or isit--faith, you don't tell me Harry is your son?"
"No, ma'am. At least I was spared bearing children."
"Oh--why, give you joy if you would have it so. But how can I serve you?Maybe your Colonel is not my Colonel after all. At least he and Harry arefather and son heartily enough."
"It may be so, ma'am," said the lady heavily, and here Harry came in.
Alison looked up laughing and then frowned. Harry would not ever dressfine. His wig was still unfashionably small, he wore some sombre stuff,and to her eye (as she said) looked like a mole. "Here's Mr. Boyce,ma'am. Harry, Mrs. Oliver Boyce, who is come to say that you never hadfather nor mother."
"Your obliged servant, ma'am." Harry opened his eyes. "Pray, has myfather married again?"
"You'll find, sir, that Colonel Boyce has only been married once."
"If you please, ma'am," said Harry blandly. "Pray, are you blaming him?Or--" a gesture expressed his complete ignorance of what she was doing.
The lady seemed to force herself to laugh. "Oh, fie, sir. Sure it is notfor me to blame him."
"No, ma'am?" Harry was first interrogative then acquiescent. "No, ma'am.I wonder if you could give me the Colonel's direction."
"I, sir? You are pleased to amuse yourself."
"I vow, ma'am, I was never less amused."
"Colonel Boyce was pleased to leave me five years ago. I have notforgotten it, if you have."
"Faith, this is very distressing," Harry protested in bewilderment. "Butyou do me injustice, ma'am. I have forgotten nothing about my father. ForI never knew anything."
"As you please, sir," the lady drawled. "I was talking, by your leave, toMrs. Boyce."
"Oh, ma'am, a hundred pardons," Harry took himself off in a hurry. Hischief emotion over the lady seems to have been satisfaction that shewanted nothing to do with him. As for her story of being his father'sdeserted wife, he had long supposed his father capable of anything. Asfor the lady herself, he wrote her down a tiresome busybody and perhapshe was not far wrong.
Alison too was much of the same opinion, but it was unfortunatelyhampered by a natural curiosity to hear what the lady could tellabout the mystery of Harry and his father. "You had something to sayto me, ma'am?"
"I count it my duty, ma'am, to give you warning of Colonel Boyce."
Alison stood up. "Duty? I know nothing of your duty, ma'am. But I thin
kit is mine not to listen to you."
"I protest, I should have said the same," the lady drawled. "I too hadspirit once, child. That was before I suffered. I would I had known youearlier. And yet perhaps I may do something to save you even now."
"I cannot tell how, ma'am."
"Listen, if you please!" the lady said dramatically. "I was something ofan heiress as you are and maybe something of a toast too. The worse forme. I choose to believe it was not only my money which brought OliverBoyce upon me. He took all I could give him and very soon gave menothing, not even common courtesy. When I began to be careful he began tobe brutal. But for my family--I told you that Sir Gilbert Heathcote wasmy uncle--he would have stripped me of every penny. When they stepped into save me some rag of my fortune, my good Mr. Boyce left me. I havenever had a word from him since. Pray, child, take warning."
"If it is so, I am sorry for it," said Alison coldly, "I believe I hearcompany." She began to walk to the outer room.
Behind her, "As for your Harry Boyce," said the lady, "oh, I make nodoubt he's Oliver's son, though certainly he is none of mine."
Alison made as if she did not hear, and she was spared more by the comingof some of her guests. The card tables filled. There was no more dangerof being private with Mrs. Oliver Boyce. Indeed, the lady, as if she haddone all she wanted, took her leave early. She was affectionate about it,for which Alison liked her none the better. Through most of that evening,amid the flutter of cards and the clatter--"Spadillio, on my life! What,it's Basto, is it? Did you hear of Mrs. Prue? She'll not show for amonth. We win the Codille, ma'am. They say the Duchess and she pulledcaps"--Alison was telling herself over and over that the creature was adetestable low thing who only wanted to make mischief. It should, youthink, have needed no effort to believe that. But the obvious malice hadpower to annoy a mind already discontented. Alison could not stopwondering what the mystery was about Harry's birth and his father.Perhaps Harry knew more than the little he professed. Perhaps he was notthe careless, indolent fellow he chose to seem, but something morecunning and less lofty. What if he were just such another as the womanpainted his father--a fellow on the hunt for an heiress, who, once he hadher and her money, cared no more about her? To be sure there was someevidence for that. Since they had come to town, he was always off byhimself. If she wanted him with her, she had to plead and plague him. Aproud office! Why, that very night monsieur did not please to appear atthe card tables. He was too fine for her and her company. So she frettedand rubbed the poison in. And naturally, she fared ill at the card table.Her cards were bad and she made the worst of them. She was not a goodloser and it was a wife much inflamed who, when her guests were gone,sought out her husband.
Harry sat with Mrs. Weston, who was at needlework and, if Alison had beenable to see, looked very benign. But it was he who demanded all thewife's angry eyes. His wig was on the table beside him. He had a pipe inhis mouth. He was lolling in the deeps of a chair and smiling to himselfover a book. "You might be in an ale-house, you look so slovenly."
Harry grinned up at her. "Oh, madame wife hasn't been winning to-night.Tell me all about it."
"Faugh! Your pipe," Alison coughed. "For God's sake keep it to thetavern. It's enough that you reek of it without making my housereek too."
Harry gave a great sigh and put the pipe down. "We were so comfortabletill you came. I am glad to see you, dear."
"I was comfortable till you came." Alison snapped.
"Pray, mother Weston," says Harry, "forgive our public caresses. We havenot long been married."
Alison looked ice at him. "Weston dear, would you leave us? I havesomething to say to Harry." Harry opened his eyes. Mrs. Weston looked ather anxiously, bade them a nervous good-night, and hurried out.
"Harry--who was your mother?" Alison stood stern over the lollinghusband.
"Egad, what's this? Have you been brooding over your bony friend?Who is she?"
"She says she is your father's wife; and says he left her."
"Well, if she is his wife, I wager he did leave her. Faith, she was madeto be deserted."
"What do you know of her?"
"Nothing, by the grace of God. Why should I? If my father got drunk andmarried her, he would not want to talk about it when he was sober."
"I despise you when you talk so," Alison cried.
"And yet you listened to her, child."
"She says that he took all her money before he left her."
"Oh! Pray, why has she so much to say, and to you?"
"She wanted to warn me against Colonel Boyce."
"And against his son, I think. And you were so kind as to listen. Egad,ma'am, I am obliged to you. Well, now you know what to do. You have themoney and I have none. Pray, lock up your purse to-night."
"You are childish," said Alison with lofty scorn. "Harry--who wasyour mother?"
"Oh, I thought your kind friend told you I had none. I dare say it's astrue as the rest."
"You don't know?"
"I never saw her."
"She said--" Alison hesitated.
"Oh Lud, don't be squeamish now."
"She said your father had never been married except to her."
"Odso! That is what you had to tell me. I am a bastard, am I?" He laughedand turned in his chair. "Give you good-night, madame wife."
"Harry--"
"Oh, God save you!" He took up his pipe. "I am no company for you. And,by God, you are no company for me."
She looked at him a moment, hesitated, went slowly out.