LOVE DRAMAS OF ROYAL COURTS.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 40, 16 February 1929, Page 6 (Supplement)

LOVE DRAMAS OF ROYAL COURTS.

(By THORNTON HALL.)

In the dars, of our second Charles there were fev prouder men in England than Richard Jennings, the jovial, foxhunting squire of Sandridge, near St. Albans. He was proud of his broad land.«, on which his family had been so comfortably seated for many a century; and he was proud of his long line of ancestors, men of no great distinction, it is true, but of unimpeachable character—plain country gentlemen like himself, fond of sport and good living, '}\p nest, of hosts and comrades.

But he ivas far prouder of his two daughters, Frances and Sarah, the loveliest girls, by common consent, not only in the whole county of Hertford, but in the Royal Court of Whitehall, to which the fame of their beauty and Charms had carried them. Already France* was the acknowledged Queen of the Court, driving every gallant there to distraction by her coquetry, playing havoc even with the hearts of the "Merry Monarch" himself and his brother of York, and well on her way to the Duchess' coronet that was to be hers; and Sarah was now following in her sister's footsteps to conquests no less brilliant.

But of his two daughters, Sarah, the younger, had held chief place in the squire's pride and affection ever since the glorious 29th of May, in the year IrtGO, the day on which his idol, the exiled Charles, had come at last to his crown. For it was on that very day, as the hope of the Stuarts was riding under the flowery arches and fluttering pennons of London's streets, to the clanging of joybells and the booming of cannon, with a procession twenty thousand strong behind him, that Squire Jennings' second daughter had first opened her eyes on the world in which she was destined to play so brilliant a part.

No birthday, indeed, could have been more auspicious than this, which saw the restoration of a nation's hope; and the sun •which flooded it with splendour was typical of the good fortune that was to gild the lifepath of the Sandridge baby. Playing the Madcap.

While Frances was coquetting with coronets and playing the madcap at tne Court of Whitehall, her younger sister Sarah had been growing to girlhood in the rustic environment of Hertfordshire, perfectly happy with her toys, her pony and her dogs, and giving no thought to her beauty, to which each year that passed was adding its touch of grace. She knew nothing and cared as little for the baubles that made up the life of that very fine lady, her sister; and wished nothing more than to be left to the country life she loved. But such days of innocent delights were not to last long; for one day, when she had barely passed her twelfth birthday, her sister came in a gorgeous Court carriage and whirled her off to London, where a very different life awaited her.

She was too young as yet to enter the splendid circle of the Court, though she was to be on its fringe and to catch many a glimpse of it. Meanwhile the roJe assigned to her was that of companion and playfellow to the Duke of York's youngest daughter Anne, a shy, awkward unattractive girl, who suffered from an affection of the eyes, which practically closed books and the ordinary avenues of education to her.

Nor was it long before the timid, clinging princess became the very slave of tiie vivacious, romping, strorg-willcd daughter of the squire; and thus was begun that union between the strong and the weak, which in later years was to make Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, virtual Queen of England, while her childish playfellow, Anne, wore the crown.

/ Thus a few years passed for the squire's daughter, during which she blossomed into yoting womanhood, and into a loveliness greater even than that of her sister—a beauty, moreover, to which were allied a clever head and tongue, and a strong, imperious will.

While Sarah had thus been spending her days with her royal companion and playfellow, John Churchill, who was fated to play so important a part in her life, had already climbed several rungs of the ladder, at the summit of which he was to find a duke's coronet. The son of a West Country knight, who had fought gallantly for the first Charles, and had wrecked his small fortune in the Stuart cause, he had come to court at a page-boy; and by his handsome face and courtly and ingratiating manners had won the hearts of all the ladies and the favour of his king.

At sixteen he had donned the uniform of an officer of the Guards; and after years of gallant fighting in Holland and elsewhere, had returned to England a full-blown colonel, crowned with laurels won on many a battlefield. Idol of the Court.

If, as a boy, John Churchill had been the pet of the court, he waa now its idol. His good looks, his graces of person and powers of fascinating, allied to his character of hero, wrought sad havoc in the breasts of the Court ladies, from my Lady Castlemaine, who sought to enslave him by ber coarse, middle-aged charms, to the youngest maid-of-honour fresh from the innocence of her country home. But to the amazement and consternation of them all, he turned a cold, unresponsive eye on all their allurements. The young Lothario they had known a few years earlier had developed into a veritable iceberg, whom no charms or coquetry could thaw. The solution of this mystery, however, was not long in being revealed to all. The returned warrior, it was found, had actually lost his heart, and his head too, to the country girl who was Princess Anne's companion. On the very first day of his return to Court, he had seen her moving with queenly grace and dainty freshness at a Royal ball, her proud, well-poised head rising above those of the other ladies as a lily towers over meaner flowers. And—such are the strange ways of love—from that first glance he had been fascinated by her as no other woman had power to fascinate him. The man who carried an untouched heart through a hundred love affairs had succumbed at first sight of a country girl who had only just set her foot within the Court circle. W 2* e . " ou & h t an introduction to "ve. S. . ght "P irit that 8ho "e in her quickly f£ V S r A on S ue nTvI P'aciousness SSd y ti hS l h V hai "* which he was »•» * wonSS. h ,\ B life ' B end - Seldom *> *«•« mnffSJg*™ * «*ve birth , - * wysa and enduring.

lII.—THE ICEBERG THAWS.

But the young Lothario and warrior was quick to discover that Mistress Sarah was no maid to be easily won, even by a lover so skilled as himself in the arts of conquest. She knew all about his prowess in battle —she had heard of his reckless bravery at the Siege of Nimebuen, which had won the praise of Maestrieht, in which he had so narrowly escaped losing his own life while saving that of the King's son the Duke of Monmouth. She yielded to none in her admiration of his handsome exterior and his courtly graces. But she also knew of his many love affairs, some of which were little to his credit; especially the story of that ludicrous incident when King Charles, unexpectedly opening the door of Lady Castlemaine's boudoir, was just in time to see his youthful rival in the lady's favour disappearing through an open window.

She thus knew what value to place on the sighs and vows of such a lover. Whatever others might be, she at least was no flower to be worn and flung aside at his pleasure; she was not unwilling to coquet with him as with any other man; but to his flatteries she would, pay as little heed as to his protestations of love.

When to all his advances, Mistress Sarah presented a smiling and untroubled front, his astonishment was as great as his sense of failure. No man was ever more unprepared for such treatment For years he had basked in women's smiles, often unsought and undesired; he had but to look to conquer. To coldness and indifference he was a complete stranger; and that such indifference should come from a girl so obviously inexperienced in love, was a severe shock to his pride. But it only served, as became a soldier, to make him more resolved on victory. She was an iceberg—well, he would thaw her.

When he realised that a subtle tongue and a handsome person made no impression on the frigid beauty, he had recourse to his pen, and inundated her with letters breathing undying devotion, and craving for at least a smile or a look of kindness. No Power to Break the Chain.

"I know now," he pleaded, "that at least you are not quite indifferent to me, and I swear that I will never love anything but your dear self, which has made so sure a conquest of me that, had I the will, I have not the power ever to break my chains. Pray let me hear from you and know if I shall be so happy as to see you to-night." When days passed and no word of answer came to his pleading, no sign even that she had received his letter, he resolved to appeal to her pity, since she was so deaf to his appeal for love. He wrote to inform her that he was "extremely ill with the headache," and craved a message of sympathy as humbly as a beggar asks for a crust. "By all that is good," he vows, "I love you so well that I wish from my soul that, if you cannot love me, I may die, for life would be to me one perpetual torment. If the Duchess," he adds, "sees company, I hope you will be there; but if she does not, I beg you will let me see you in your chamber, if it be but for one hour. If you are not in the drawing room you must send me word at hour I shall come."

Another long interval of silence follows before at last she deigns to throw him a crumb of comfort—and then, to his amazement, she accuses him of the very coldness and neglect from which he was suffering so much at her hands. "Your not writing to me," Bhe wrote, "made me very uneasy, for I was afraid it was want of kindness in you, which I am sure I will never deserve by any action of mine."

Was ever woman more tantalising and unjust; or ever man more ill-used. For weeks he had been sending her letters, breathing the most abject devotion, and craving for a little love, even a little pity, to none of which she had deigned a word of answer. Now she assumes an air of injured innocence, and accuses him of the very unkindness she had inflicted on him!

Even when at last she consents to see him, she cannot refrain from qualifying the concession with a gibe. "That," 6he says, with delicious, if cruel, satire, "would hinder you from seeing the play, which I fear would be a great infliction to you, and increase the pain in your head, which would be out of anybody's power to cure until the next new play. Therefore, pray, consider, and without any compliment to me, send me word if you can come to me without any prejudice to your health."

At any rate the sphinx had spoken, and shown that she had some feeling, if only that of pique and unreason; and the despairing lover was able to take a little heart. After all, coquetry, even if carried to the verge of cruelty, holds more promise than Arctic coldaass. Heiress to Land and Gold.

I But, alas, for the course of love! No sooner had it thus begun to trickle than all hopes that it would ever run smoothly seemed to be dashed to the ground. Whatever designs John Churchill might have for his future, his father was determined that at least he should make a good marriage, that would help him to realise his ambitions; and for this purpose had chosen as his bride the daughter of his old friend, Sir Charles Sedley, a lady, it is true, of uncertain age and faded charms, but heiress to much gold and many broad acres. It was all very well for his son to flirt with pretty and penniless maids-of-honour; but he must marry a woman who could bring to him the money that wag so necessary for his career.

Nor was John Churchill himself blind to the lure of gold thus offered to him, However unattractively he had set his heart thus early on rising in the world, and he knew how helpful, even necessary, money wag to make his way smooth. He dallied for a few weeks with the temptation; he had progressed as far as the marriage settlements; and rnmour had it that the match was as good as made. Handsome Jack Churchill, who might have picked and chosen among the most beautiful women in England, was to marry » plain, angular woman- much older than himself for the sake of her money-bags! No sooner had news of her lover's treachery come to Mistress Sarah's ears than she flew into a towering rage; and, sitting down at her desk, she poured ont the vials of her wrath and scorn on his head. "Marry a shocking creature for money!" she raved; "and this is what all your passionate protestations amount to I As for seeing you, I am resolved

I never will, in private or in public, if I can help it. And as for the last, I fear it will be some time before I can order 60 as to be out of your way of seeing me. But surely you must confess that you have been the falsest creature on earth to me. I must own that I believe I shall suffer a great deal of trouble; but I will bear it, and give thanks to God, though too late I see my error."

Was ever man so creully treated? For months he had been the most humble of suppliants at her feet, imploring her vainly for a word of hope, a look of encouragement, deluging her with letters to which she returned no answer but a taunt; and yet the very moment he dares to turn his eyes to some other woman, he is the basest of traitors, and she the most outraged woman who ever staked happiness on a man's constancy. But at least her anger served the purpose of bringing Churchill back to his allegiance more promptly than smiles would have done. He who had never yielded a foot to an enemy on the field of battle, quailed before the tornado of his lady's anger. He broke off the negotiations for his marriage with Miss Sedley, and came back to the feet of his outraged lady on bended knees.

Conceive his amazement when, instead of finding some sign of pleasure at the prodigal's return to his allegiance, he found her still more cold and unapproachable than ever. At sight of him she turned her head away in aversion; whenever it was possible she avoided his approach. In his despair he again had recourse to letters, vowing that he adored her even more in her anger than in her indifference. " I vow to God," he wrote, " you do so entirely possess my thoughts that I think of nothing else in the world but your dear self. I do not expect in return that you should either write or speak to me. I only beg that you will give me leave to do what I cannot help, which is to adore you as long as I live, and in return I will study how I may deserve though not have your love." Despair Met With Gibes.

For days he waited for an answer, and when at last it came it was only to inform him that he had merely written to amuse himself and *' to make her think that he had an affection for her when she was assured he had none."

Thus, in growing despair on one side, and coldness, punctuated with gibes, on the other, a few more weeks passed before Sarah at last thawed sufficiently to his importunity to consent to see him, warning him, however, that "if it be only to repeat those things which you have said so often I shall think you the worst of men and the most ungrateful. And 'tis to no purpose to imagine that I will be made ridiculous to the world."

When, however, he saw her, he found her no less cold and inscrutable than ever, and he had begun to abandon all hope when she wrote to him, in answer to his protestations that he " loved and adored her with all his heart and soul ": "If it were sure that you have this passion for me which you say you have, you would find out some way to make yourself happy—it is in your power."

At last he had received a crumb of real encouragement, rud it was with a light step and buoyr:it heart that he went the following <\ :y to the Duchess' drawing room to pursue in person the advantage her letter suggested. But the very moment he entered the room by one door his capricious mistress left it by another. And when in his anger at such cavalier treatment he wrote to ask the meaning of it, she left him in no doubt by answering that she did it " that I may be freed from the trouble of ever hearing from you more." Thus week after week she drove him to distraction by her alternate coldness and vague encouragement. One day she would deign to speak to, even smile on him; the next she would avoid him in a manner so marked that it became the talk of the Court and brought him into ridicule. And when at last in his despair he stooped to beg her maid to intercede for him with her hard-hearted mistress, she assumed again an air of wounded innocence, vowing that since he evidently had such a poor opinion of her she wa? angry that she had too good a one of him.

"If I had as little love as yourself," she wrote, " I have been told enough of you to make me hate you, and then I believe I should have been more happy than I am like to be now. However, if you can be bo well contented never to see me, as I think you can by what you say, I will believe you, though I have not other people."

But even this arch-coquette recognised that the most devoted lover's forbearance has it? bounds, and she was much too clever a woman to strain them too far. When she had brought him to the verge of suicide by her caprices, she saw that the time of surrender had come. And when her lover's arm was at last round her waiet, and her head on his shoulder, she declared, with tearful, upturned eyes, that she had loved him from the first and had never meant to be unkind!

(To be continued-)