The Jessamy Bride

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“Sir, we have orders from the management to permit no players to enter,” replied the man.

“Nevertheless, you will permit this lady to enter,” said the young gentleman. “Come, sir, open the doors without a moment's delay.”

“I cannot act contrary to my orders, sir,” replied the man.

“Nay, Mr. Hanger,” replied the frightened actress, “I wish not to be the cause of a disturbance. Pray, sir, let me return to my chair.”

“Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Hanger to his friends, “I know that it is not your will that we should come in active contest with the representatives of authority; but am I right in assuming that it is your desire that our honoured friend, Mrs. Baddeley, should enter the Pantheon?” When the cries of assent came to an end he continued, “Then, sirs, the responsibility for bloodshed rests with those who oppose us. Swords to the front! You will touch no man with a point unless he oppose you. Should a constable assault any of this company you will run him through without mercy. Now, gentlemen.”

In an instant thirty sword-blades were radiating from the lady, and in that fashion an advance was made upon the constables, who for a few moments stood irresolute, but then—the points of a dozen swords were within a yard of their breasts—lowered their staves and slipped quietly aside. The porter, finding himself thus deserted, made no attempt to withstand single-handed an attack converging upon the doors; he hastily went through the porch, leaving the doors wide apart.

To the sound of roars of laughter and shouts of congratulation from the thousands who blocked the road, Mrs. Baddeley and her escort walked through the porch and on to the rotunda beyond, the swords being sheathed at the entrance.

It seemed as if all the rank and fashion of the town had come to the rotunda this night. Peeresses were on the raised dais by the score, some of them laughing, others shaking their heads and doing their best to look scandalised. Only one matron, however, felt it imperative to leave the assembly and to take her daughters with her. She was a lady whose first husband had divorced her, and her daughters were excessively plain, in spite of their masks of paint and powder.

The Duchess of Argyll stood in the centre of the dais by the side of her daughter, Lady Betty Hamilton, her figure as graceful as it had been twenty years before, when she and her sister Maria, who became Countess of Coventry, could not walk down the Mall unless under the protection of a body of soldiers, so closely were they pressed by the fashionable mob anxious to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Miss Gunnings. She had no touch of carmine or powder to obscure the transparency of her complexion, and her wonderful long eyelashes needed no darkening to add to their silken effect. Her neck and shoulders were white, not with the cold whiteness of snow, but with the pearl-like charm of the white rose. The solid roundness of her arms, and the grace of every movement that she made with them, added to the delight of those who looked upon that lovely woman.

Her daughter had only a measure of her mother's charm. Her features were small, and though her figure was pleasing, she suggested nothing of the Duchess's elegance and distinction.