s own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so
suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward's
studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in
gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and
wrist-bands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armour
piled at his feet. What had this man's legacy been? Had the lover of
Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame?
Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared
to realise? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth
Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves.
A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar
of white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an
apple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He
knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers.
Had he something of her temperament in him? These oval heavy-lidded eyes
seemed to look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his
powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was
saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with
disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were
so over-laden with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth
century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the
second Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest
days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs.
Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and
insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked
upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star
of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of
his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred
within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady
Hamilton face, and her moist wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got
from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty
of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. There were
vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she was
holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were
still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They seemed to