Thus lost in dreams unspeakable she past along the rainy streets, and never heeded how the time went by. At last the chair drew up. The men at the house must have forgot the flambeaux—so dark it was as she looked forth. The roof was raised and, sudden, a cloth soft and blinding fell over her head, and strong hands pulled it about her throat. In the dreadful surprise and alarm she screamed aloud, but the wild cry was muffled in her mouth and herself could more feel than hear it. Her hands were grasped in two strong ones and a man dragged her from the chair. There was a whispering, and then a door opened and in the darkness and terror she knew she was lifted into a house and the door shut behind them.
On the stage a girl must have swooned in such a terror. In life, her heart beat to burst her bosom, her body shook as with an ague, but she kept her wits, clung to them as a drowning sailor, that has but the one frail spar betwixt him and an eternity of horror, clings to the floating hope.
Stairs, and heavy feet of men who carried her, and now, stopping, they released her hands a moment, then bound the wrists together, making her captive indeed. Another door opened and she was laid on a sofa, still blinded, and heard renewed whispering and the chink of money and then retreating steps and the creaking staircase. Was it to be murder? She wore about her neck the Duchess’s miniature set in pearl. But no—no! She knew a deeper dread; should she faint, she must be utterly at his mercy?—God forbid! She gathered every wavering sense into her agonized heart and waited.
Hands loosed the wrappage about her head, and a dim light dazzled her a moment till she put her arm before her eyes. It was certainly my Lord Baltimore she thought to see, but no—a tall man of handsome person stood with his back to her, wrapping a bandage about his own wrist as though ’twas wounded. He turned—and a faint cry broke from her lips—Macheath—Walker! And by the fire a woman.
Her first thought was hope. For my Lord Baltimore she had nothing but deadly terror—the white mask of his face a language she could not read. But this man she saw daily, had laughed, had jested with him, half ridiculed his passion as a foolish calf-love that a girl may rally a little if she notice it at all. She slid her feet over the edge of the sofa, her mind clear as a dagger’s point at once.
“Mr. Walker!” says she—“You’ve rescued me, and are wounded in my defence. Loose my hands instantly that I may help my deliverer.”
“Your deliverer indeed, my angel,” says Walker, turning very red and walking up to her. “Haven’t I seen you persecuted night after night by that fop that would drag you in the mud for his own pleasure, and could a true lover like myself endure to stand by and do nothing? Not I! Here stands one that offers you his love and no dishonour with it.—There’s a parson below will marry us in a twinkling, and I hope I’m a man can protect his own wife from Baltimore or any other scented essence in the town. I’ll unbind your hands, my life, the minute I have your word to give me them for good.”
She stared up at him incredulous. The woman had not turned nor spoke and her capuchin was about her.
“Sir, you’re drunk or mad!” cries Diana with spirit. “What have I ever said or done to encourage you to such an insult! I despised you always.”
“Your sweet eyes—your sweeter lips, Madam, are my best excuse”—says the outraged lover. “They spoke more handsomely than your tongue. And if you did despise me you take a foolish time to tell me so, for here you’re in my power. But sure I know my Polly’s little coquettish ways and take your pretty contempt for a lure the more.”