This was a time, indeed, which I hope Heaven in its mercy will not again inflict upon me. What I endured, would, I can assert, have wrecked a woman of less fibre and tenacity. Nearly all my thoughts were centred in the cell of the condemned; and at least their concentration spared them something of the bitterness of another matter, which must otherwise have keenly hurt them—I mean the cruel behaviour of the world in which I dwelt. No equipages drove up to our house in Bloomsbury. No chairmen laid their burdens down before our doors. If I took a short excursion in the park, the most intimate of my acquaintances either saw me not, or, seeing me, bowed stiffly and passed on in a studied silence. In particular my kind women friends appeared to derive a sincere happiness from what they pleased to call my downfall. The scornful gladness of their looks was wonderful, and yet also terrible; for alas! what could be the condition of the stony hearts from which they did proceed? Then it was that I remembered how short a time ago I was one of these contemptibles.
“Emblem,” says I, on the execution eve, with hope born apparently of misery’s excesses, “I have done with town and the Court, and all this ridiculous world of fashion. They are very barbarous affairs! When I wed my Anthony I will be the pattern of an attentive spouse. I will be his cheerful slave and his most devoted friend. But I’ll not forego ambition neither. I will train and educate him until he doth become a veritable power in the realm. For I mean to be the wife of my Lord Secretary Dare, and then, my Emblem, I’ll turn all these dear women friends of mine just green with jealousy. Yet, in my pride, I will not trample on them, as they trample now on me, but will deal with ’em graciously, and ask ’em to my routs among the ambassadors and potentates, and prove thereby that I am not a cherisher of malice, but a creature of a gentler temper than themselves.”
Yet here, having indulged these harmless speculations to the full, I recalled with terror the most horrid condition of my case. What would the morrow bring? Death, perhaps, and the shattering of my hopes. But these cold forebodings I determined to avoid, and contrived to do so in a measure, for a new matter had come lately to my ears which wooed my mind a little from its dark premonitions. The fact that I had been a supreme favourite, and a trifle arrogant, perhaps, in the hour of my pride, had caused the whole town to exult at my disfavour. The cause of that disfavour was well known to be rooted in my behaviour towards the desperate rebel whom on the morrow the King was going to hang. And it was further argued that his death of shame would aggravate my humiliation.
Judge, then, of the sensation that was created when it was positively known that I had engaged the largest and most adjacent window in the square that I might be present at the execution! Yea, and in the desperation of the hour I even went a point farther. I issued invitations to as many of my friends as the window would accommodate to come and share the gruesome sight with me. This was a very thunderbolt. And though they said among themselves: “The brazenness of Lady Bab really is incredible,” they were quite unable to resist the fascination and delightfulness of the whole affair. Therefore they accepted with alacrity. And though I knew this to be by far the boldest stroke I had ever played, not for an instant did I falter, nor doubt my native resolution.
CHAPTER XXI.
I COME TO TYBURN TREE.
“Seven of the clock, your la’ship!”
I opened my heavy eyes, saw Emblem’s pale face, then shuddered.
“Hope you’ve slept well,” says the maid, in a way that told me that, whatever I had done, she certainly had not.
“Remarkably,” says I, determined to practise for the terrible exhibition of fortitude that I must display. “If all those dear friends of mine have slept as properly, they will need to have less powder on than usual. And now, my Emblem,” says I, taking the cup of chocolate from her, “mind that you dress me to the utmost of your art. Not a stitch must be out of place. My head-dress must be a marvel of perfection, and put ’em in a towering rage. And I’ll wear the plum-coloured taffety, faced with pink. Or stay, I’ll have a more sanguine colour; I think it should well consort with an interesting paleness.”
“You have a black velvet that will do beautifully, my lady. Yet you do not wish to wear a mourning air?”