The Fortunes of Lal Faversham

  “Pooh!” cried Killigrew. “Before to-morrow all London will have heard that which I have told you. What say you of it, Lal?”

  “Say?” I answered. “That ‘tis vastly ill-done, and worthy of none but a fop of Sir Charles Sedley’s kidney. You may tell him that Lal Faversham says so,” I added, and with that I rose and took my leave of them, full of indignation at what I had learned.

  Now, by a curious chance I had not gone far along the Strand when of a sudden I came face to face with Kynaston.

  A singularly handsome lad was this actor—who could not at that time have numbered over eighteen years. Slight, graceful, and shapely of figure was he, with a face as noble and as delicately chiseled as any that I have ever seen on either man or woman. He wore a Camlett coat of black with silver lace, sober and simple, yet of an elegance that heightened his distinguished air. Actor though he was, I’ll swear no courtlier figure might you see at Whitehall.

  “Whither away, Ned,” was my greeting.

  “Give you good-day, Sir Lionel.” he answered, with a graceful bow. “You have heard of this morning’s affair?”

  “Even now, from Mr. Killigrew, and rat me but ’twas a cowardly business.”

  He laughed softly, and pointed with a heavy riding whip that he carried to a house across the street, bearing the sign of The Dolphin.

  “Sir Charles Sedley is in that house,” said he, “and if you’ll tarry here a while you’ll see a reckoning paid and a gentleman carried home to bed.” And he shook his whip to make his meaning clear.

  “Ned,” I cried, aghast, “this is madness!”

  My exclamation drew from him a recitation of his wrongs in that wondrously melodious voice that moved me as it had moved thousands at the play. Yet when he had done I, too, waxed eloquent, for my sympathies were all with him, and I would not have him do that for which he might be visited with chastisement far heavier than that morning’s caning. To such purpose did I talk, and to show him the folly of the step he meditated that in the end I won him to my way, and taking him by the arm. I led him thence to my lodging at Whitehall, where I kept him until the following morning. But for all that when he left me then the boy had abandoned his mad project of horsewhipping Sir Charles, he swore that he would have his reckoning in another coin, and that he would not rest until he had made Charles Sedley the mock of the town.

  But days went by, and the affair was forgotten without any further sign from the young actor, or any further allusion of his to Sedley. Meanwhile he was achieving new triumphs at the Cockpit by his wondrous playing of the part of Lady Macbeth—for it was not until some months later that women began to play female characters upon a London stage.

  Some two weeks after the Hyde Park affair, I received a letter from my old friend, Lord Chesterton, telling me, among other things, that he was newly wed to the loveliest woman in England—Caroline Brentwood. I had known Caroline in the old days, before Naseby was fought, and I recalled the little child of five for whom I had—when a lad of seventeen—made daisy garlands.

  The wars had drawn me from my Kentish home, and since then I had not seen her. Twenty years were sped since then, and Caroline must now be a woman of five and twenty, no longer a child, ‘tis true, yet too young by at least a generation to be the bride of Chesterton—a widower who counted more than sixty years.

  But there was the letter, and the rest was no affair of mine. He added that he hoped soon to present the son of his old friend—my father—to his divine Caroline, since before August was well out he looked to be in London. And indeed I had the news of their arrival but a few days thereafter, and I hastened to the sumptuous house they had taken in Pall Mall, to pay my devoirs.

  I found Lady Chesterton—to whose beauty, methought upon beholding it, her husband had done no more than justice in this letter—in a state of high distress. She greeted me with the lament that scarce were they arrived than they were overtaken by a courier who had ridden after them posthaste to beg my lord to return forthwith to Allington. His brother had fallen from his horse, and sustained such hurt that the doctor said he would not live above a week.

  At length, when she had told me this and I had condoled with her, we had leisure to look at each other, and marvel foolishly at the change that twenty years had wrought in our appearances.

  “I am certain that I should have known you. Sir Lionel,” said she.

  “Madame, your memory does me too much honor.”

  “Not too much, but more, methinks, than yours doth me.”

  “What would you, dear Lady Chesterton? Between a pretty child of six and a grown woman of dazzling beauty, there lies a gap which imagination, not memory, must bridge. And yet something of little Caroline I’ll swear you have retained, for even as I look at you I find a something in your face that gives bridle to my recollections, and which, did I not know you, would doubtless tax my mind no less than it might tax my heart.”

  “You have profited by your sojourn in France, Sir Lionel.”

  Before I could reply, we were interrupted by the advent of Sir John and Lady Denham, into whose care it would appear that Chesterton had—in a letter penned that morning ere he had set out to return to Allington—commended his young wife.

  I took my leave shortly thereafter, and as I went, my thoughts dwelt much upon Caroline Chesterton.

  Truly there was little of a country maid about this modishly bedizened beauty. And methought that in character she was like to show as little simplicity as she did in raiment.

  Nor was I wrong, yet hardly right, for that which followed was more by far than I would have dared conjecture. Before a week was passed all London rang with talk of Lady Chesterton.

  Daily a line of chairs and coaches stood before her house in Pall Mall, and in her antechamber you might swear that you were at Whitehall, such was the crowd of courtiers that stood elbowing one another. All went, and for a season all were alike welcome, and while this endured, danger I felt was slight. But in the end that which I dreaded came to pass. Out of that crowd of courtiers she singled one to be her cavalier. Her choice, methought, could not have been more ill-advised; it fell upon the handsome, dissolute Sedley. ’Twas not his doing; ’twas hers; she drew him on with her ogling, and he, but too willing, fell a victim of it.

  Blood and wounds! Here was a pretty course for things to run! The name of my Lord Chesterton’s wife on all London’s vile lips, coupled with that of Charles Sedley.

  One evening when the air was warm, although we were in the first days of September, her guests had, after supping, strolled out into the gardens. I had followed, but no farther than the porch where I stood leaning, watching the gay scene—for the place had been prettily illuminated—and wondering how soon Chesterton would return to put an end to these mad doings. There was a balcony immediately above my head, and as I stood within the shelter of the porch, a murmur of voices was wafted down to me. At first either that murmur was indistinct or else was my mind bent on other matters, but presently the word “Caroline” smote my ears, and the voice that uttered it was Sedley’s.

  “Release my hand, Sir Charles,” came the answer. “You forget that I have a husband.”

  “I wish the devil had him, instead, sweet Caroline. Why remind me of that gout-ridden parcel of dotage and senility to whom they have fettered you. What is he to us, sweet Caroline? We who—”

  “Sir Charles,” she broke in, angrily, “you are speaking of the man in whose house you stand—of Lord Chesterton, my husband.”

  “D—n your husband, madame!”

  In their excitement they had both flung prudence to the winds and sought no longer to restrain their voices.

  “Release my hand!”

  “Caroline, your lowly slave obeys your cruel law, but first doth homage to the peerless hand for whose release you clamor.”

  There came the soft smack of a kiss, followed by another and yet another, and lastly by a smack of another fashion—the loud, crackling smack of a buffet.

  “Let that
help you to better manners in the future, Sir Charles.”

  “Perdition!” I heard him snarl, then thinking that perchance my services might be required, I turned and went within. On the stairs I met my Lady Chesterton fanning herself vigorously. She greeted me as airily as if naught had happened, asking me why I moped there while the others made merry in the garden.

  “Madame,” said I, in an undertone, “by chance I overheard your conversation on the balcony with Sedley. Your husband is not here to punish insolence, but if you’ll grant me leave I’ll take his place, and none shall know the cause.”

  She gave me a curious glance, and growing of a sudden very serious, she stood before me with knitted brows and fingers plucking at the fan on which her eyes were bent.

  “Men say, Sir Lionel,” murmured she at length, “that you play as pretty a sword as any man in England.”

  “Such as it is, madame, it is at your service. Say that you wish it so and I’ll pick a quarrel with this puppy Sedley ere the night is out. The cut of his coat will serve for a cause.”

  She pondered for a moment.

  “If you think—” she began, then checked herself, and broke into a laugh. “No, no, Sir Lionel, I will not have it so. Forget what you have heard. Sedley,” she added, spreading her fan before her face and glancing at me coquettishly over the top of it, “hath already suffered punishment.”

  With that, hearing a step upon the stairs, she fled, and a moment later Sedley descended with one cheek white and the other red.

  I went home that night, thinking not only that henceforth Sir Charles was like to be seen no more in her house, but also that none knew of what had passed betwixt them. Before noon next day, however, it was on every lip that Sir Charles Sedley’s ears had been boxed by Lady Chesterton—and I was vexed and puzzled to think how it could have got abroad. Before night I heard a lampoon recited in a tavern, entitled “Carolus and Caroline.”

  I went in the afternoon to Lady Chesterton, but she would not see me, and so I took a turn in the park, where I came by chance upon Kynaston. He began forthwith to talk of Sedley and of last night’s affair.

  “Rat me, Sir Lionel,” he exclaimed, “but I am sorry that Sedley hath been so soon discouraged, for methought that in this business I saw a way to pay my score.”

  “For my own part, Ned, I am glad of it. Lord Chesterton was my father’s friend, and I would not have dishonor fall upon his white hairs.”

  “So much was not necessary. It was, in fact, my own design to prevent matters from coming to such a pass as that. But there, Sir Lionel, women are fickle things, and I do not yet despair.”

  How justified he was in this I realized when on the following night I supped at Lady Chesterton’s and found Charles Sedley of the company. And so well received was he by her that I found myself again asking how soon her husband’s brother would see fit to get his dying done.

  Then one morning the news fell like a thunderbolt that Lady Chesterton had eloped with Sir Charles Sedley.

  If I could have come by a miracle into the presence of that dog Sedley, Kynaston’s wrongs would have been avenged as well as Chesterton’s.

  Touching Kynaston, Dick Talbot brought me word that afternoon that he had disappeared, and that a rumor was afloat that he was gone after the runaways. I paid little heed to the matter at the time, but chancing that evening to walk along Pall Mall, I beheld a coach standing before Lord Chesterton’s door. The jaded, steaming horses argued that they had come a journey long and swift. I had with me Dick Talbot—in whose company I had left Whitehall—beside Killigrew and young Jermyn, who had since joined us, and no sooner did we set eyes upon that vehicle than we cried out in chorus that Lord Chesterton was returned at last. Conceive, however, our surprise when, as we reached the house, the door opened, and while a lacquey held it for him, out stalked Ned Kynaston.

  He hung back in apparent hesitation, and also methought some confusion, upon beholding us, but I stepped quickly up to him.

  “What is this, Ned?” I cried. “They say that you went in pursuit of them. Is this your coach?”

  He nodded, and made shift to pass me.

  “Well, man,” I shouted, “did you overtake them?”

  “I did, Sir Lionel. In fact, I have done more. I have prevailed upon Lady Chesterton to return. She is within.” And he jerked his thumb in that direction.

  “You have done that, Ned! May God bless you!” I cried, wringing his hand.

  “Yes, may God bless you, and protect you also, for, rat me, you’ll need it when Sedley returns.” croaked Killigrew. “Where left you the gallant Charles?”

  “At Newark,” answered Ned. “But I’ll take no credit for the business; I am no protector of love-sick wenches. What I have done I have done not for love of Chesterton, but for hate of Sedley. I swore to make a mock of him, and he himself hath afforded me the means. I knew, gentlemen, of the elopement almost as soon as the pair had started, and also what road they took—how I knew it is too long a story. I followed them in disguise, and I overtook them about noon at Newark. I espied Sedley in the inn yard, and I had the good fortune to find a ruffian who for a brace of broad pieces was willing to fling Sir Charles into the horse pond. I gave him the money, and in the twinkling of an eye he had sent this Don Juan hurtling into the slimy water. Before they had realized at the inn what had befallen, my hireling had vanished, and Sir Charles stood among them, cursing lustily and dripping mud from every ribbon. Next, while the irate Sedley was changing his raiment, I gained access to the lady, and— Well, gentlemen, I am accounted something of an actor, and the rest was easy. It was a matter of moments to bundle Lady Chesterton into a coach, and here we are returned.”

  “Oddslife, ’tis the sweetest vengeance I ever heard tell of,” was Killigrew’s comment.

  The story spread like wildfire, and Kynaston’s name stood prominently in it. Too prominently, methought, for his safety, as was proven on the morrow.

  I was at The Dolphin with Killigrew, Talbot and several others, and we had Kynaston with us, when into the room came Sedley unannounced. His eyes alighted upon Ned, and his face was so altered by rage at the sight of him, and at the mocking smile wherewith the actor met his glance, that he grew ugly as the fiend.

  “You insolent dog!” he cried, in a choking voice. “I have found you.”

  He took two quick steps toward Kynaston’s chair, and raised his cane. But the actor, who had watched his approach, without relaxing his smile forestalled the attack by seizing the bumper of muscadine that stood before him, and letting fly the contents full into Sedley’s face.

  “A challenge!” cried someone, and as such Sir Charles appeared to interpret it.

  He might have caned Kynaston and refused to fight him afterward; but stomach such an insult he could not. His whole manner changed on the instant.

  “So, you fool, you prefer my sword to my cane? By Gad, you shall have it!”

  Kynaston looked about him for a friend. In an instant I was upon my feet—an action which appeared to astonish Sedley, for haply he imagined that among those present ’twas unlikely Kynaston would find a supporter in such a business.

  Talbot acted with me, while Falmouth and Etheredge represented Sedley. The meeting was arranged for the following morning at seven in Leicester Fields.

  I feared rather for Kynaston, for albeit Sedley was by no means a formidable opponent, the actor might prove still less so. He had desired us to go straight to the fields, where he would join us, and this we did, although it was unusual.

  Upon reaching the ground, a few minutes before seven, we found Sedley and his friends already there, besides a party of nigh upon a dozen gentlemen who were come to see the sport, but there was no sign of Kynaston.

  Suddenly we espied a chair approaching from the direction of St. Martin’s Lane.

  No sooner was it set down than I advanced—then stopped, and stood rooted to the ground in amazement as out of it stepped Lady Chesterton wrapped in a long cloak. My feelings undoub
tedly were shared by all who stood there, for a sudden hush fell upon the company. In no way discomposed by the sight of so many spectators, Caroline walked, calm and stately, toward Sedley, before whom she dropped a curtsy.

  “Sir Charles,” quoth she, “I am come to tell you that there will be no fighting.”

  “How, madame?” he inquired, coldly.

  “I sent word to the King last night of what was afoot, and to prevent this duel he has placed Kynaston under arrest.”

  “Oddslife, madame, what affair of yours was this?”

  “Methinks it was greatly my affair. But—” She hesitated, and for a moment some of her assurance appeared to leave her. Then, “I will explain, Sir Charles, if you will step aside with me.”

  It was his turn to hesitate, while pride, vanity and curiosity fought their battle in his soul. In the end, however, he bowed assent, and they moved away together.

  Then Caroline turned and beckoned me.

  “You also may hear my explanation, Sir Lionel.”

  A look of displeasure crossed Sedley’s face, but he said no word as I joined them.

  “Charles,” she began, when we were out of earshot of those others. “I could not endure the thought of your shedding that lad’s blood.” And she turned a melting glance upon him.

  “What is the fellow to you, madame?” asked Sedley, stiffly, his arms akimbo.

  “Naught. I was not thinking of him, but of you. You, Charles, who are so great a swordsman, so skilled and deadly, opposed to a boy who scarcely knows how to hold a weapon. Oh, fie, Charles, it would be murder. Because the town lies will you punish an innocent boy?”

  “Innocent!” he shouted in a frenzy. “Innocent! Are you mad, my lady? Did not Kynaston bring you back from Newark?”

  “Charles,” she said, slowly, “I solemnly swear to you that no one came to me at Newark yesterday; that I listened to no persuasions, and that I returned to London alone and of my own accord.”

  I stood amazed, wondering whether ’twas she or Kynaston that lied. There was a pause, then: