His Highness was plainly disturbed. He sat awhile pondering, a gloomy frown knotting his forehead. Presently he looked up, with a deep sigh.
“Well,” said he, “you have already proved your title to my favour. I will consider of this matter; and, in the meantime, keep, you, as silent as the grave.” He rose, put a finger to his lips: “Not a word to any one,” he said. “You shall hear from me again.” And he led her to the door, smiled on her, hesitated, laughed away the temptation, and bade her go.
And then he returned to his seat, and sat gnawing at his nails for the next half-hour.
CHAPTER XVII
On the morning succeeding the conversation last recorded the following anonymous communication was received by three of the individuals most concerned in this history—
An assignation (vizards) with Kit is arranged for 8.30 this evening in the Mulberry Garden. The parties to it will be distinguished by, in the gentleman’s case, a green scarf about the hat, in the lady’s, a green bow at the bosom.
A Well-wisher.
This note, in facsimile and in a palpably feigned hand, was delivered by the twopenny post—through its recent establishment in Cloak Lane near Dowgate Hill—to his lordship the Earl of Chesterfield, to my lady Countess his wife, and to Mr. George Hamilton, my lady’s kinsman. Each, in its private turn, pooh-pooh’d over it, each concluded that it was without question the work of Mrs. Davis, and therefore not worth consideration in any shape, and each decided, after long and irritable reflection, that it would lose nothing by going to verify the falsehood or accuracy of the report. And to each, in conclusion, succeeded the same inspiration (was it possible that perspicacious Mrs. Moll had clearly foreseen that contingency?), which was to adorn itself with the fateful badge, with a view to surprising such secrets as might reveal themselves to that verdant enigma.
His lordship considered: “This may be nothing but the hussy’s retaliation on me for my rejection of her advances. And yet—curse it!—how can she afford to be so definite in her facts without some ground to go upon? ’Tis my lady that’s meant—that’s sure. There must be something in some way in it; and, if so, how to surprise and expose them? Ah! by God, I know.”
My lady thought: “Is she really by chance telling the truth? And is this her way of revenging herself on me for my reflections on her character? Yet, if it is all an imposition? A barren vengeance that would be, defeating its own object. No, there must be something at the bottom of it, some mischief, some wickedness. ’Tis my lord that’s meant, without question, and in that case I have a right, a duty, to perform in being present. But how to penetrate such perfidy, supposing it to exist? O, I know what I will do! If only I can be there first, and lead him to betray himself!”