CHAPTER III
TELLETH OF MRS. ROSE, THE GUILEFUL INNOCENT
“Strip, wench, strip!” cried Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, tossing the disguising cloak into a corner of the bedchamber. “Off with your clothes, girl, off with ’em—we’re both of a size, thank heavens—so strip, Betty, strip, as I’m a-doing!”
“Yes, my lady,” sighed comely Betty, large and patient and calmly indulgent to the unexpected whims and caprices of her imperious mistress. “But pray, mam, why should us undress afore bedtime?”
“That we may dress again, sure, Bet; to-night I am you and you are me ... except that my name is ‘Rose—Rose,’ you’ll remember!” admonished her ladyship, kicking off her fine gown.
“Yes, mam,” answered placid Mrs. Betty; “but why for ‘Rose’?”
“Because ’twas the first name occurred to me. Come, tie me these strings, wench! Sir John Dering is below, and if he should demand to see me—I mean you——”
“Sir John, my lady? Dering? O lud, not—not the Sir John Dering—not him, my lady?”
“Himself at last, face to face, Bet. Help me into this gown o’ yours.... O gad, what an infinity of buttons! Fasten me in, child! See, you are bigger in the waist than I, Bet ... and devilish tight above here ... I vow I can scarce breathe! Nay, button away, girl, I’ll endure it.... I must breathe prettily, pantingly. My Lady Felicity Flyte hath the trick on’t and ’tis much admired, so I’ll e’en pant and endure! Now, one o’ your mobs, girl, a cap with ribbands to’t ... aye, this shall serve—so! Now, how am I?”
“Ravishing, my lady! O mam!”
“Why, your things become me, I think.”
“Vastly, mem! O my lady!”
“Now,’tis thy turn, Bet. Shalt wear my yellow lute-string wi’ the panniers.”
“O my lady, but you ha’ wore it but once!”
“No matter,’tis thine, Betty. Come, out with it and on with it. Nay, first your hair must be powdered and pomatumed, your cheeks smeared wi’ rouge—yourself sufficiently pulvilled——”
“But, O mam, why must I——”
“In case Sir John desires speech with you—that is to say, with me. He may not and yet again he may, and you must be prepared.”
“O mem,” quavered Betty. “O my lady—suppose he stare at me?”
“Stare back at him, for sure—like any other lady o’ fashion!”
“But what must I say?”
“As little as possible! So long as you look sufficiently handsome and stare bold enough, ’twill serve. Now, let me look at you! Cock your chin, girl—so! Gad’s life, but you’re a handsome creature and look as haughty a fine city-madam as need be. Now mind to be sufficiently disdainful of all and sundry and especially of me——”
“Nay, my lady, ’twere impossible! I shall be calling you mam and madam, for sure.”
“Zounds no, Bet, ’twould ruin all! You must be mighty short with me, rap my knuckles with your fan and rail on me if possible——”
“Rail on thee, my dear lady—oh, I couldn’t!”
“You must, girl! And if you could swear a little ’twould be pure!”
“Swear, mem—me? Who at?”
“At Sir John Dering if possible.”
“But I don’t know how to swear, mem.”
“You’ve heard me often enough!”
“Aye, but I could never swear so sweet and ladylike as you, mem.”
“Why, then,” sighed her ladyship, “we must forgo your swearing, I suppose, though ’tis pity. But hark’ee, Bet, and mark this well! Should Sir John come endeavouring to persuade you to return to England, you will raise your eyebrows—so! Droop your eyelids—thus! and say: ‘Howbeit, sir, ’tis my pleasure to journey on to Paris!’ Then turn your back on him and send me to command your coach to the door——”
“Aye—and when it comes, my lady?”
“Why, get in and drive away, sure!”
“But where to, mem?”
“Towards Paris, silly wench—or anywhere you choose——”
“And you, madam? You will come along o’ me?”
“Perchance I may and perchance not. Mayhap I shall run away—disappear at the last moment—I’m not decided on this yet——”
“O my dear lady——”
“If I should think fit to run away, you will drive as far as St. Pol, then turn back to Dieppe, where you shall probably find me at the ‘Eperon d’Or’—Giles knows it——”
“But, my lady—O mem—what o’ yourself?”
“So long as I am myself I shall be safe, child. I’ll play my part, do you play yours! Remember, should you meet the gentlemen below, swim in your walk, tilt your chin, say nothing—and stare. Stare above ’em, below ’em and through ’em, but never at ’em. And now I’ll go order supper—in private, for thy sake, Bet. Lud, but I’m famished!” And a-down the creaking stair tripped my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, as dainty a waiting-maid as ever was or ever will be.
Then it chanced that Sir John, rolling his eyes in the throes of poetical composition, suddenly beheld her standing radiant in the doorway, all fresh, shapely young womanhood from ribbanded cap to trim shoe; and struck by her air of modesty and all the shy-sweet beauty of her, he sighed, closed his tablets and slipped them into his pocket.
“Ah, Rose,” said he, “thou flower of innocence, sure no words of mine may do thee justice; thou’rt beyond my poor poesy. Come hither, child, and tell me, is your mistress still for Paris?”
“’Deed, yes, sir, she seems mighty set on’t.”
“Alas, sweet Rose!”
“Is Paris so tur’ble wicked, sir?”
“’Tis no place for the like o’ thee—thou gentle innocent!” At this, my Lady Herminia glanced at him shy-eyed, drooped her lashes, pleated a fold in her neat apron and contrived to become the very perfect embodiment of all that ever had been, was or possibly could be virginally shy and sweet and innocent.
“But I do hear ’tis a mighty fine place, sir,” said she softly, “and I do yearn to see the ladies and grand gentlemen. And, if ’tis so wicked, naught harmful can come anigh me by reason I do ever wear this—night and day, your honour!” And she drew from her bosom a small, plain gold cross suspended about her shapely throat by a ribband. “’Twas my mother’s, sir, and ’tis good against all evil ... and I shall say my prayers!”
Now at this, Sir John must needs call to mind certain unworthy episodes of the last five years: his keen gaze wavered and he sat, chin on breast, staring into the smouldering fire.
“And so d’ye see, sir,” she continued, finding him silent, “I shall not fear anything, nor any one—no, not even though he be wicked as—as the ‘wicked Sir John Dering’ himself!”
“Child,” said Sir John at last, “go ask your lady to favour me with five minutes’ conversation.”
“Yes, your honour!” she answered, curtsying, and departed obediently forthwith.
Thus Sir John was presently ushered upstairs and into the presence of a tall, handsome creature, magnificently attired, who acknowledged his profound obeisance with a curt nod, and thereafter stared at him from head to foot and sniffed.
“Madam,” quoth he, a little startled, “I come to reassure you as to the welfare of Viscount Templemore.”
The lady stared haughtily at his dusty boots. “I am happy to tell you,” continued Sir John, “that the meeting will not take place——” The lady, tilting dimpled chin, stared fixedly at the topmost curls of Sir John’s peruke. “If, therefore,” he proceeded, “you contemplate returning immediately to England, my friend and I shall be honoured to escort you.”
The lady shook her handsome head, shrugged her dimpled shoulders and sniffed louder than ever, so much so that Sir John retreated somewhat precipitately.
“Tush, sir, fie and no!” she exclaimed. “I’m minded to go to Paris an’ to Paris I’ll go!”
Sir John opened his eyes a little wider than usual and bowed himself out forthwith.
“O my lady,” cried Betty so soon as the door had closed, “O mem, did I do it right?”
“’Twas admirable, Bet! Didst see him blench and flush? You dear, clever creature! There is that taffety gown—’tis thine, child—aye, and the neck-chain with the pearl pendant! He flushed—he blenched! Come kiss me, Betty!”