Dick was greatly surprised when, on going out to take the air the next day, he was met by one of his acquaintance—a young Mr. Vere, who shook him warmly by the hand, offering him his congratulations.
“’Twas very spirited of you so to take up the quarrel of your brother, Mr. Sheridan; that is what every one in Bath is saying to-day,” cried Mr. Vere. “I give you my word, sir, there is not one who ventures to assert that you were not fully justified in sending the challenge.”
“’Tis most gratifying to me, I am sure, that people take so lenient a view of an affair of which I have heard nothing up to the present moment,” said Dick.
“I refer to your duel, Mr. Sheridan. Surely that incident, trifling though it may be to a gentleman of your experience, has not yet escaped your memory?” said Vere.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Vere,” said Dick, “I have got a very short memory for incidents that have not taken place. Pray, what duel do you refer to, and what had I got to do with it? Pardon my curiosity, sir; ’tis rather ridiculous, I allow, but my nature is sufficiently inquiring to compel me to ask you if I was a principal in the duel or merely one of the seconds. I hope you do not consider me impertinent in putting such a question to you.”
Mr. Vere stared at him for a few moments, and then laughed.
“You carry it off very well, I must confess,” said he. “But there is no need for you to affect such complete ignorance. I give you my word that every one acquits you of blame in the matter—nay, I am assured that the meeting was inevitable; but I doubt not there is no one more ready than yourself to rejoice that your adversary was not severely wounded.”
“’Tis a source of boundless satisfaction to me to learn so much from your lips, sir,” said Dick. “And if you could see your way to add to my obligation by making me acquainted with the name of my antagonist, I would never forget your kindness.”
“Upon my soul, you carry it off very well! I dare swear that Mr. Garrick, for all his reputation, could not do it much better,” said Mr. Vere. “But your acting is wasted, Mr. Sheridan; I tell you that the general opinion in Bath is that your act was highly commendable. Pray, Sheridan, tell me in confidence what was the exact nature of the affront put upon your brother—apart, of course, from the question of the lady; I promise you that ’twill go no further!”
“Look you here, Mr. Vere,” said Dick, “I do not mind being made a fool of up to a certain point—there is no positive disgrace in being a fool in Bath, one finds oneself in such congenial company,—but I tell you, sir, I will not suffer any one to go beyond a certain distance with me, and you are going perilously close to my frontier with these compliments of yours. Come, sir, tell me plainly, what do you mean by suggesting that I have been concerned in a duel, and with whom do you suggest I have been fighting?”
“What, sir, do you mean to say that you have not just fought a duel with Mr. Long on behalf of your brother?”
“Yes, sir, I have no hesitation in affirming that I havefought no duel with Mr. Long or with any one else, either on behalf of my brother or any one else.”
“Heavens! you surprise me, sir. Why, all Bath is talking——”
“Talking nonsense—that is the mother tongue of Bath; and so far as I can gather, you do not stand in need of a course of lessons in this particular language, Mr. Vere, and so I wish you good-morning, sir.”
Mr. Vere’s jaw fell. His usual alertness of manner disappeared before Dick’s energetic rebuff. He did not even retain sufficient presence of mind to take off his hat when Dick made such a salutation, and walked quietly on.
But when Dick had gone something less than twenty yards on his way, a sudden thought seemed to strike young Vere. Hurrying after him, he cried:
“Look here, Mr. Sheridan, if you did not fight Mr. Long, how does his arm come to be wounded,—tell me that?”
“Mr. Vere,” said Dick, stopping and turning to the other,—“Mr. Vere, unless your story of Mr. Long’s having sustained a wound be much more accurate than much of what you have just been telling me, it stands in great need of verification.”
He walked on, leaving the young man to recover as best he could from his astonishment.
But Dick had scarcely resumed his walk before he encountered his friend Nat Halhed, who almost threw himself into Dick’s arms, so great was his emotion at that moment.
“My dear Dick—my dear Dick, you are unhurt!” he cried. “Thank Heaven for that—thank Heaven! I hear on good authority that ’tis only a flesh wound, and that he will be out of the house by the end of the week. But ’twas unkind of you not to ask me to be your friend in this affair, Dick. Sure, you might have given me your confidence.”
“I was afraid of that wagging tongue of yours, Nat,”said Dick; “I was afraid that you might be the dupe of some of the scandal-mongers who have become the curse of Bath.”
“Nay, Dick, this is unkind,” said Nat reproachfully. “You know that I am the soul of discretion, and that nothing would tempt me to talk of any matter of the accuracy of which I was not fully assured.”
“I know that you have just been repeating a story which had its origin only in the imagination of some gossip-monger,” said Dick.
“What—I—I? Pray, what story do you allude to?”
“To the story of my duel. I have been concerned in no duel. But mark my words, Nat, if I hear much more about this business, I shall be engaged in several duels.”
“Do you mean to deny the fact of your having had an encounter with Mr. Long two days ago—a secret encounter, because of his having accused you of the attempt to turn away from him the affections of Miss Linley?”
Dick became pale with anger.
“I tell you what it is, sir,” he cried; “I have had no encounter with Mr. Long on any question; and let me add, for your benefit and the benefit of your associates, that if any one wishes to provoke me to a duel, he can accomplish his purpose best by asserting in my hearing that I am capable of making such an attempt as that which you say has been attributed to me. That is all I have to say to you, my friend Nat.”
Halhed gasped, and Dick walked on.
Before many seconds had elapsed he heard Halhed’s voice behind him.
“If you had no duel with Mr. Long, pray, how does he come to have that ugly wound on his wrist?” cried the young man.
“Why not ask him?” said Dick. “What am I that I should be held accountable for every scratch that onereceives at Bath? Are there not cats enough at Bath—in the Pump Room, and the Assembly Rooms, and other schools for scandal—to account for all the scratches upon a man’s wrist or reputation that he may sustain in the course of the season?”
He hastened on, leaving young Halhed still gasping.
It now appeared quite clear to Dick that the gossip-mongers had somehow got to hear that Mr. Long had sustained a sword-wound on the wrist, and they were not slow to invent a story possessing at least some elements of romance to account for it. It seemed that a course of the waters had as stimulating an effect upon the imagination as it had upon a sluggish liver. Some of the visitors were such clever naturalists and had had so large an experience of fossilised deposits, that they had become adroit in the construction of a whole mammoth fabric if only a single tooth were placed at their disposal. Dick had heard of such feats being performed by persons who combined a knowledge of geology with an acquaintance with zoology, supplementing the two by as much imagination as was necessary to achieve any result at which they aimed. Learning that Mr. Long had his left arm bound up, these professors of social zoology had proved themselves fully equal to the task of accounting for his wound.
What Dick could not understand was why they should associate him with the imaginary duel. It was not until he heard his name called out by a lady in a splendidly painted chair—the chair is still in existence, though the splendidly painted occupant is no more than the dust of one of the pigments used in painting a bit of a picture of the brilliant society of a century and a half ago—and found that Mrs. Cholmondeley was looking eagerly through the window, beckoning to him with her fan, that he learned how it was that his name became mixed up with the story.
He bowed to the ground before the beautiful structure soelaborately built up within the cramping limits of the chair; and the bearers, at a signal from the lady, came to a halt and raised the roof on its hinges.
“Oh, Mr. Sheridan,” she cried, “you gave us all such a shock! But we are so glad that you are safe!”
“Safe, madam?” said he. “Heavens! what man in Bath can consider himself safe when Mrs. Cholmondeley turns her eyes upon him? Dear madam, ’tis sure ungenerous of you to jest at the expense of one of your most willing victims.”
“Jest, sir? I vow ’twould have been no jest to Bath if you had been wounded instead of Mr. Long,” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley. “And you kept the whole business so secret too; you did not give any of us a chance of interfering with you, you hot-headed young Achilles! Of course, you did not inflict a severe wound upon the poor gentleman! We Irish are generous by instinct. And ’twas like you to sit with him for more than an hour yesterday, and then go straight home, never leaving the house all the night, though you must have known that you would have been well received at the Rooms had you put in an appearance there. But you ever showed good taste, sir—that is another Irish trait.”
“Madam,” said he, “I cannot doubt that the infatuation which, alas! I have never been able to conceal for the beautiful Mrs. Cholmondeley has gained for me a reputation for taste; I trust, madam, that I did not altogether forfeit it by omitting to visit the Rooms last night, where, I hear, she was as usual the cynosure of the most brilliant circle.”
“A truce to compliments, Mr. Sheridan,” said she. “Young men shaped after Apollo have no need for them. Compliments are the makeshifts of the elderly to call away attention from their spindleshanks. Confidences, and not compliments, are what we old women look for from such asyou; so prithee, Dick, tell me all about the matter—’twill go no further, I promise you.”
“At no more adorable shrine need I ever hope to confess my virtues, madam,” said he; “but in this matter——”
“Oh, sir, the man who has only virtues to confess soon ceases to interest a confidante,” said she. “But it may be that you consider fighting a duel to be praiseworthy?”
“Let any one cast an aspersion upon Mrs. Cholmondeley in my presence, and I shall prove that a duel is one of the cardinal virtues, madam,” said Dick.
“’Twas not about me you fought Mr. Long at dawn yesterday,” she cried.
“Madam, you may venture on that statement, being aware that Mr. Long is alive to-day,” said Dick.
“I perceive that you and he have entered into a compact to keep the affair a secret,” said she. “Well, though I think that you might make an exception of me, I cannot but acknowledge that you have good taste on your side.”
“I have the mirror of good taste at my side when Mrs. Cholmondeley honours me by stopping her chair while I am in the act of passing her,” said Dick.
“Oh, sir, you are monstrous civil. But if you think that you can keep the details of your duel secret at Bath, you compliment yourself rather than your acquaintance in this town.”
“Faith, Mrs. Cholmondeley, my acquaintance seem to know a good deal more about this duel than I do,” said Dick.
“You will make me lose patience with you,” said she. “But I will be content if you give me your word that you will not tell Mrs. Thrale or Mrs. Crewe what has occurred. You will promise me, Dick? I should die of chagrin if either of that gossiping pair were to come to me with a circumstantial account of the duel.”
“I can give you that promise with all my heart,” said he. “But if you assume that my reticence will prevent either of the ladies from being able to give a circumstantial account of this incident, about which every one seems to be talking, you will show that you know a good deal less about them than you should.”
“You are quite right; they are the grossest of the scandal-mongers—ay, and the least scrupulous,” she cried. “Why, it was only last night that one of them—I shall leave you to guess which—asserted that she had the evidence of her own eyes to prove to her that it was the younger of the Sheridan sons, and not the elder, who was in love with Miss Linley, although the other talked most of his passion. And by the Lord, sir, she was right, if my eyesight be worth anything.”
Dick was always on the alert—as, indeed, he required to be—when engaged in conversation with Mrs. Cholmondeley and the other ladies of the set to which she belonged; but the impudence of her suggestion, made in so direct a fashion, startled him into a blush. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and before her chairmen could comply with her signal to take up the chair, he was smiling most vexatiously, while he said:
“’Twere vain, dear madam, to make an attempt to dissemble before such well-informed ladies. You are fully acquainted not only with the particulars of a duel which never took place, but also with the details of a passion which exists only in the imagination. Ah, Mrs. Cholmondeley, we men are poor creatures in the presence of a lady with much imagination and few scruples.”
He bowed, with his hat in his hand.
“You do well to run away, sir,” said the lady, with a malicious twinkle.
“’Tis the act of a wise man,” said he. “The cat that only scratches a man’s hand, one may play with, but the catthat scratches a man’s heart should be handed over to the gamekeeper to nail upon the door. I, however, prefer to run away.”
He had gone backward, still bowing with profound respect, for half a dozen yards, before she had recovered from the strongest rebuff she had ever received.
Then she asked her chairmen, in a tone that had something of shrillness in it, if they intended leaving her in the road for the rest of the day.
She was very angry, not only because she was conscious of having received a rebuke which she had richly merited, but also because she had failed to find out whether or not there was any truth in the story of the duel between Mr. Long and Dick Sheridan, which had been discussed all the day in the least trustworthy of the many untrustworthy circles in Bath.
She herself had had her doubts as to the accuracy of the story. Mr. Horace Walpole had shown himself to be too greatly interested in it to allow of any reasonable person’s accepting it without serious misgivings; for she knew that the leading precept in Mr. Walpole’s ethics of scandal was, “Any story is good enough to hang an epigram on.” But in spite of the fact that Walpole was highly circumstantial in his account of the duel, its origin, and its probable results, Mrs. Cholmondeley thought that there might be something in it. This was why she had stopped Dick so eagerly. She thought that she might trust to her own adroitness to find out from him enough to place her friends in the right or in the wrong in respect of the story; she would have liked to have it in her power to put them in the wrong, but hers was not a grasping nature: she would have been quite content to be able to put them in the right.
Well, it was very provoking to be foiled by the cleverness of that young Sheridan. He had been impudent, too, and had actually shown that he resented her cultured curiosityon the subject of his affairs. This she felt to be insufferable on the part of young Sheridan.
Happily, however, though she had learned nothing from him—except, perhaps, that there were in existence some young men who objected to their personal affairs being made the subject of public conversation by people who knew nothing about them—she did not despair of being able to make herself interesting to her friends when describing herrencontrewith Dick; and, setting her imagination to work, she found that she could serve up quite a palatable and dainty dish out of the story of how she had overwhelmed him with confusion. She did not at that moment remember what were the exact phrases she had employed to compass this end, but she had every confidence in the power of her imagination to suggest to her before the time for going to the Assembly Rooms the well-balanced badinage which she had used to send him flying from her in confusion.
And Dick, as he walked homeward, without feeling that he had vastly enjoyed his walk, knew perfectly well just what was in the lady’s mind. He had no illusions on the subject of her scrupulousness. He was well aware that she would not hesitate to give her circle any account that suited her, respecting her meeting with him. He had an idea, however, that the members of her circle would only believe as much of her story as suited themselves. How much this was would be wholly dependent upon the piquant elements introduced into the story by Mrs. Cholmondeley. He knew enough of the world to know that people would give credence to the more malicious of her suggestions without weighing the probability of the matters on which they bore.
But what he thought about most was the reference which she had made to Betsy and himself. Up to that time it was only the most jealous of Betsy’s many suitors who had looked on him as a rival. Very few persons in Bath haddiscovered his secret, and it had certainly never been spoken of seriously. An exceedingly poor man has always, he knew, a better chance than the man of means of evading the vigilance of the gossip-mongers; therefore he had escaped having the compliment paid to him of being referred to as a possible suitor.
It was becoming clear to him, however, that there were some people in Bath whose experience of life had led them to believe that the lack of worldly means was not a certain deterrent to the aspirations of a young man with talent—assuming that talent means making the most of one’s opportunities: a very worldly definition of talent, but not the less acceptable on that account to the fashionable people of Bath.
The reflection that his secret was no longer one annoyed him, but not greatly. His consciousness of vexation had disappeared before he turned the corner of Orange Grove into Terrace Walk.
And then he entered his house and almost walked into the arms of Mrs. Abington, who was waiting for him on the first lobby.
“Oh, Dick, Dick! safe—safe! Thank Heaven!” she cried, putting out both her hands to him and catching him by the arms.
Her form of greeting him had about it more than the suggestion of a clasp.
He was not angry—what was there to be angry about? The greeting of a beautiful woman (with the suggestion of a clasp) when one expects to meet only a sister may contain the elements of surprise, but rarely those of vexation.
Dick was surprised—in fact, he was slightly alarmed, but he retained his self-possession.
“Safe?” he cried. “Why should not I be safe, unless”—he recollected that not half an hour before he had been greeted by a lady with the same word, and he had replied to it with great glibness: could he do better than repeat himself? He thought not—unless—— “Ah, madam, what man is safe when such beauty——”
“Do not talk to me in that way. Is this a time for compliments—empty—obvious—odious?” she cried, loosing his arms with such suddenness as almost to suggest flinging them from her.
Before she went in a whirl into the room beyond the lobby, he had seen that her face—it had come very close to his own at one moment—was white.
He followed her slowly into the room.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said. “Pray forgive me; I did not realise that you were in earnest. I cannot understand. Some one else greeted me just now with the same word—safe. Why——”
“And you made the same reply to me that you made toher, and doubtless she was completely satisfied, and you paid me the compliment of taking it for granted that the same compliment would repay me for all that I have suffered? Dick, you are—oh, I have no words—you are—a man—I know you—I know men.”
“The retort is just. I assumed, for the moment, that you were like other women. I was wrong. I see now that you were really concerned—for some reason—for my safety; Mrs. Cholmondeley was not.”
“Mrs. Cholmondeley? Who is Mrs. Cholmondeley that she should have any thought for you? Curiosity—oh, yes—tattle—scandal—the material for a pretty piece of scandal, no doubt—that’s how she looked at the whole affair. I know her—a woman—a very woman—I know women.”
“I do not. I admit that I do not understand woman. I fancied—— But every woman is a separate woman. She has an identity that is wholly her own.”
“That is the first step a man should take if he seek to understand us. But philosophy—what is philosophy at such a moment as this? I cannot take your safety philosophically, Dick—thank Heaven—thank Heaven!”
“That is wherein I differ from you. I take my safety philosophically; I bear it with equanimity. Has it been imperilled? Not that I know of.”
She looked at him; a puzzled expression was on her face.
“A young philosopher shows his wisdom only if he is a young fool,” she said. “But you are not so foolish as to be a philosopher at your time of life, Dick. Equanimity—there’s a word for you! But you never felt in peril. Mr. Long is an old man. Do you fancy that Betsy Linley will forgive you for fighting him?”
“Mrs. Abington,” said Dick, “you have been like several other people in this town—the victim of a very foolish and malicious piece of gossip which seems to have been most persistently spread abroad. I have been concerned in noduel, and I swear to you that for no earthly consideration—not even if my own honour were in peril—would I fight Mr. Long. I have a greater respect—a deeper affection—for Mr. Long than I have for any living man.“
The lady stood before him speechless. She was breathing hard. The hand that she had laid upon the upper lace of her bodice rose and fell several times before the expression that had been on her face gave place to quite a different one. The new expression suggested something more than relief, and so did the long sigh that caused her hand to remain for some moments poised above her lace, like a white bird on the curve of a white wave.
She sighed.
Then she gave a laugh—a laugh of pleasant derision—the tolerant derision that one levels at oneself, saying, when things have turned out all right, “What a fool I have been!” Those were her very words.
“What a fool I have been, Dick! I was told that—— But I was a fool to believe anything that came from such a source! Did Mr. Walpole invent the whole story merely out of malice? He is quite equal to it. Or was it a woman? Most likely it came from a woman; but, lud, if you were to try to find the woman who started the lie you would be overcome, for there’s not one of the whole set that wouldn’t take a pleasure in’t. I’m so sorry, Dick! But the story at first was that you had received an injury. What a state I was in! And then some one came with the news that ’twas your opponent who was hurt. Oh, the liars! liars all! But you are not hurt—I mean, you are in no way hurt, my Dick, by this silly story?”
“Hurt? Why, I am overwhelmed with conceit at the thought that my condition should cause so much concern to my friends,” said Dick. “’Tis a great feather in my cap that I should become all in a moment, and without doing anything for it, the topic of the day in a town which isfastidious in its choice of topics. You were talking a few nights ago of my writing a comedy. Well, here is one scene in it ready-made. Scene: A room in the house of Lady—— What shall we call her—Lady Sneerwell or the Countess of Candour? The members of the Senate of the College of Scandal have met. ‘What, you have surely heard of the duel? Oh, lud! is’t possible that you have not heard it? Where can your ladyship have been living? Oh, faith, ’tis but too true. They met in Kingsmead Fields by the light of a lovely moon last night, and, after a pass or two, Mr. Thompson’s sword pierced the lungs of old Sir Simon, and——’ ‘No, no, sir, you are wrong there; ’twas with pistols they fought,’ cries another gentleman, who enters hurriedly. ‘Pistols, sir? Swords, as I heard it.’ ‘Nay, sir, you cannot believe all you hear. They fought with pistols, I give you my word. They exchanged seven shots apiece, and two of the seconds and one of the surgeons fell mortally wounded; it was the seventh broadside that struck a knot in the third lowest branch of a pollard ash at one side of the ground, and glancing off at an acute angle, passed through a thrush’s nest in a Westphalian poplar containing four eggs, three of them speckled and one of them, strange to say, plain, all within six days and two hours of incubation. The bullet smashed one of them, containing a fine hen bird, to atoms, but without disturbing the mother, who continued sitting on the clutch, and, touching the third button on the left-hand side of the peach-coloured coat, made by Filby, of London, and not yet paid for, of one of the onlookers, glanced off to the right shoe-buckle of Sir Simon, and cut off the great toe of his left foot as clean as if it had been done under the surgeon’s knife.’ ‘Nay, sir, you are sure in error. ’Twas Mr. Thompson who sustained the wound, and let me tell, sir, that ’twas his right ear that was cut off.’ ‘With respect, sir, ’twas the elder gentleman.’ ‘Nay, sir, I should know; ’twas theyounger, I assure you.’ ‘Sir, you take too much upon you.’ ‘And you, sir, are a jackanapes!’ Enter Sir Simon and Mr. Thompson, arm in arm. There’s the scene ready for rehearsal. Oh, I should feel extremely obliged to my kind traducers for suggesting it all to me.”
Dick had bustled through the imaginary scene with the greatest vivacity; and Mrs. Abington perceived that he did it very well and that he had acquired something of the true spirit of comedy, though he exaggerated everything, after the manner of the schoolboy who takes the clown as his mentor. But after she had greeted his performance with a laugh, she pouted and protested that he had offended her. She seated herself on the sofa, and turned her head away from him with the air of the offended lady.
Dick watched her performance critically, and fully appreciated the delicacy of her comedy—all the more as he was elated with the scene which he had just invented. He hoped that he would have a chance of introducing something like it in a comedy, and he had such a chance a few years later, nor did he forget to put Mrs. Abington on in that scene.
“Why should you be offended, you beautiful creature?” he said, leaning over her from behind.
“I am offended because you are making a mock of my concern for your safety,” she replied. “Oh, Dick, if you knew what I suffered, you would not make a mock of me.”
“Believe me, dear lady, ’twas not my intention to say a word in that spirit,” said he. “Nay, I give you my word that, however I may be disposed to regard the remarks made by Mrs. Cholmondeley and the rest of her set in respect of this ridiculous affair, I can only feel touched—yes, deeply touched and honoured—by the concern you showed on my behalf.”
“No, you do not feel touched; you only think of me as a silly old woman,” she cried.
“Nay, you do me a great injustice,” he said. “I was affected by what you said to me on the evening of your arrival; it showed me how good and kind was your heart, and now—well, I can say with truth that my feeling has been increased by the additional evidence you have given me of your—your kind heart.”
“Ah, that is just the limit of your feeling for me!” she said in a low voice—a voice that coaxed one into contradiction—while her eyes, cast downward to the point of her dainty little shoe, coerced one into contradiction.
Most men were quite content to be coaxed, but there were an obstinate few who required coercion.
But she had a point still in reserve. She knew it to be irresistible in an emergency.
Dick yielded to the coaxing of her voice.
“Nay,” he said, “I have not yet expressed all that I feel of regard for you, Mrs. Abington. I shall not make the attempt to do so.”
“Regard? Regard? Regard is the feeling that a miss has for her governess,” said she. “You should have no special trouble expressing your regard for me, sir. ’Tis usually done through the medium of a book of poetry—schoolroom verses writ solely for the sake of the moral in the last stanza. Will you buy me such a volume, Dick?”
“Now ’tis I who have reason to complain of being mocked,” said he.
She started up and stood face to face with him. It seemed to him that she was full of eagerness to say something. She had her fingers interlaced in front of her; there was a tremulous movement about her lips suggesting a flood of emotion about to be released in words.
And the flood came.
“Good-bye!” she said.
And then he understood her.
He took the hand which she had flung out to him and bowed his head down to it.
There was a silence while he laid his lips upon it. And then she gave a derisive laugh.
“You are the greatest fool I ever met in my life!” she cried. “You are a fool, Dick. Any man is a fool who kisses a woman’s hand when he might kiss her lips.”
“That is not as I have read the history of the world from the days of Queen Dido of Carthage down to the days of Queen Diana of Poictiers,” said Dick.
“And you call yourself an Irishman!” she cried, with affected scorn.
“As seldom as possible,” he said. “Only when ’tis needful for me to make an excuse for an indiscretion. I do not feel the need to call myself one to-day.”
“I have always paid you the compliment of thinking of you as very human,” she said.
“And now you have proved the value of your judgment,” said he.
She took a step toward the door, still keeping her eyes upon his face.
“Human?” she said sadly. “Human, and yet you drive me from your presence like this? That is where you err.”
“To err is human,” said he.
She was back again in a flash.
“Oh, Dick, are you not a fool?” she cried. “Why will you continue troubling yourself about a girl who has passed away from you—who treated you with indifference—when there are others within reach who would make your fortune—who would spend all their time thinking—thinking—thinking how to make you happy—and who would succeed, too? Do you prefer a dream of love to the reality, Dick?”
“I do not understand you,” said Dick. “Nay, do not make any further attempt to enlighten my dulness, I entreatof you. I prefer remaining in ignorance of your meaning, because I like you so well, Mrs. Abington, and because I never mean to forget your kindness to me, and because I think the woman of impulse is the most charming of all women; I think her so charming that I hold in contempt the man who does not stand between her and her impulses.”
“And I hold in contempt the man who, when a young girl has given her promise to marry another man, continues to love her and to remain in her neighbourhood instead of behaving reasonably and as ordinary self-respect should dictate. Self-respect, did I say? Let me rather say as ordinary respect for the young woman should dictate. I have a contempt for the man who fails to do the young woman the justice of giving her a chance of forgetting him, as she should when she has made up her mind to marry his rival. Richard Sheridan, if you were desirous of treating Elizabeth Linley fairly you would leave Bath to-day and not return until she has become the wife of Mr. Long and has gone with him to his home and her home. I looked on you as a man of honour, Dick—a man who liked to see fair play; but I am disappointed in you. Your brother is a truer man than you are; he had the decency to take himself off when he found that the girl had made her choice. That is all I have to say to you, Master Richard Brinsley. I have spoken in a moment of impulse, you will say, no doubt; and in that reflection you will probably find a sufficient excuse for disregarding all that I have said. Now good-bye to you, my friend. I never wish to see your face again.”
She flashed through the door before he could say a word; but for that matter he had no word to say. He stood for a few moments where she had left him in the middle of the room; then he seated himself on the sofa where she had sat.
He was disturbed by what she had just said to him—more disturbed than he was by the thought of all that she had said in the early part of their interview, though that could not be said to have a tranquillising influence upon a young man whose emotions were not always under his control.
She had told him that if he had any self-respect—if he had any regard for Betsy Linley, he would hasten away from Bath and not return until she had left it.
That would be doing only what was fair to Betsy and to the man whom she had promised to marry, Mrs. Abington had said; and Dick could not but feel that there was some show of reason in this view of a matter that concerned him deeply.
"Oh Dick, my own dear Dick, forgive me"“Oh, Dick—my own dear Dick, forgive me for what I have said!”[page223.
“Oh, Dick—my own dear Dick, forgive me for what I have said!”
[page223.
He wondered if she had not spoken wisely—if she had not given him the most sensible advice possible, and at the same time the most philosophical—the two are not always the same thing. To be sure, she had assumed that Betsy Linley loved him, and that, therefore, his presence near her could not fail to be a menace to the girl’s peace of mind—could not fail to tend to make her thoughts dwell upon the past rather than to look into the future; and perhaps this was assuming too much. He did not know that Betsy had ever loved him. But still Mrs. Abington’s words made their impression.
And then he began to think of the bitter words which she had spoken. The room still seemed to ring with those words which had whirled from her when she had stood with her hand on the door:
“I never wish to see your face again!”
Those were bitter words; and he felt that she meant them. She meant them. He could not doubt that. Yes, she meant....
And then the door was thrown open, and before he could raise his head, which was bent forward, his chin resting on one hand, she had flung herself on her knees before him, and was kissing his face, holding a hand on each of his cheeks, sobbing at the intervals.
“Oh, Dick—my own dear Dick, forgive me for what I have said—forget all that I have said! You are the only good man that I have met, Dick, and I will not go back to London without knowing that you have forgiven me. Say that you do, Dick; I am only a poor woman—it is so easy to forgive a woman, is it not, Dick?”
He kissed her on the forehead, and then on one of her cheeks, where a tear was glistening.
“You have no business with tears,” said he.
But that was just where he made a mistake.
Yes, but had she not given him good advice?
This was the question which she had left him to think over, and it was one which excluded every other thought for some days.
She had suggested to him in her own way—he remembered the flashing of her eyes and her attitude in front of him, with a denunciatory forefinger pointed at him—that he was behaving basely by remaining in Bath after Betsy Linley had given her promise to marry Mr. Long. He should have shown his brother an example in this respect, rather than have allowed his brother to make the first move.
He thought again, as he had thought before—in the interval between Mrs. Abington’s hasty exit from the room and her unexpected return to him—that the value of this counsel was wholly dependent on the assumption that Betsy loved him; and he felt that it would be a piece of presumption on his part to take so much for granted. He reflected that he had really no absolute proof that she had ever entertained a thought of him as a lover. To be sure, when they were children together they had been sweethearts; but since they had passed out of that period, neither of them had ever referred to the promises of constancy which they had exchanged. He could not deny to himself, nor did he make the attempt to do so, that hisaffection for Betsy had been continuous; but this was not a point that had any bearing upon the question of whether he was doing right or wrong in remaining in Bath.
So far as he himself was concerned, he felt that, though he loved Betsy as deeply as ever, he could trust himself to be near her. His love had been chastened, purified, exalted since that evening when she had kissed him and told him what love really was. He felt that he had acquired a share of her unselfishness, a sense of the glory of self-sacrifice.
He would stay.
He would not suggest that he had a doubt as to the stability of her purpose. He would not suggest that his vanity was so great as to make it impossible for him to conceive of her not being in love with him. His flying from Bath at such a time would certainly tend to give her pain. It would be equivalent to an impudent suggestion on his part—the suggestion that his staying would be too much for her—the suggestion that his flight would be an act of mercy shown by him to her.
He would stay.
He would not assume even in confidence with himself that Betsy loved him; and as for himself, had not Mr. Long’s parting words to him opened up before his eyes a new vista of the influence of love—that love which seeks not a reward—that love which is in itself the reward of loving? Mr. Long had not urged him to abandon as an idle dream the love that he had for Betsy Linley: he had rather exhorted him to continue steadfast in his love, since its influence upon him would be wholly for good.
He would stay.
And he did stay; and so did Mrs. Abington.
When she said good-bye to him, in a passion of repentant tears, he took it for granted that she would return to London probably the next day; but somehow, if that was her intention, she fell short of realising it. She appeared every dayon the Parade, and every evening either in one of the Assembly Rooms or at a concert, with Tom Linley by her side.
Dick heard of her from day to day, and at first he was surprised to learn that she was still in Bath; and then he became positively annoyed that she should give people an opportunity of smiling as they did when they talked about her and Tom Linley. The young man, who was reported to be a most diligent student, was enlarging his course of study, they said; but they rather thought that he was too ambitious. Was it not usually thought prudent for any one who aspired to a knowledge of Latin, not to begin with Catullus or Lucretius, but with a book chiefly made up of cases and declensions? The most rational progress toward Parnassus was by agradus, or step, they said. But there was the earnest young student beginning his knowledge of a language, previously unknown to him, with the beautiful Mrs. Abington. Faith, ’twas like setting Sappho before a youth who had not mastered the Greek alphabet; ’twas like offering a porter-house steak to a child before it has cut its teeth, the less refined of the critics declared.
But however wise these criticisms may have been, at the end of a week Mrs. Abington lingered on in Bath and young Mr. Linley lingered by her side; and then the men of the world began to shrug their shoulders and to talk—also in metaphors—of the whims of the actress. Had Mrs. Abington’s teeth become suddenly weak, they inquired, that she was compelled to take to a diet of caudle? She had mastered many a tough steak in her time, and had never been known to complain of toothache. Surely she must find caudle to be very insipid!
The ladies were the hardest on her, of course; for every morning she appeared in a new gown, and every evening in another, and they all differed the one from the other,only as one star differs from another in glory; and it was difficult to say which was the most becoming to her, though this point was most widely discussed among the men who knew nothing whatever about the matter, and showed their ignorance by admiring a simple taffeta made for a hoop, but worn without one, quite as much as that gorgeous brocade about which foaming torrents of lace fell, called by ordinary people flounces.
The ladies sneered, for not one of these gowns could be imitated. They knew that they could not be imitated, for they had tried, worrying the life out of their maids in the fruitless attempt. They sneered. What else could they do, after they had boxed the ears of their maids in accordance with the best manners of the period before the trying days of the French Revolution? They sneered, and the more imaginative ones compared her to a confectioner’s window, which is laid out with infinite pains, though it is only attractive to the immature taste of a child. That young Linley had really not got past the toffee stage, they declared; always admitting, however, that he was a pretty lad, and bemoaning his fate in being compelled to do the bidding of a lady of such experience as Mrs. Abington.
And then they called her a harpy.
But Tom Linley felt very proud to be permitted to walk by the side of so distinguished a lady; and he never seemed prouder of this privilege than when he went with her to one of the Thursday receptions given by Lady Miller at Bath-Easton, for every one of note seemed to be promenading on the lawn, and there was a flowing stream of coaches and chariots and curricles and chairs still on the road, bearing additional visitors to eat the lady’s cakes and to drink her tea, before taking part in the serious business that called for their attention.
Tom had spent half the previous night in an attempt to produce a poem that might have a chance of winning thechaplet, which was the prize for the verses pronounced the best of the day. To be able to lay the trophy at the feet of the lady in praise of whose beauty and virtue he had composed his sonnet, after the fashion of the poet Petrarch, whose works he had studied in Italy, would, he felt, be the greatest happiness he could hope for in life.
The lady whose ingenuity in devising the literary contests at Bath-Easton has caused her name to live when other names far more deserving of immortality have been forgotten, has had ample injustice done to her in every diary, and in most of the letters, of the period. Of course Walpole’s faun-like humour found in Lady Miller and her entertainments a congenial topic. Whenever there was a woman to be lied about, with wit and in polished periods, Walpole was the man to undertake the business. He could make the most respectable of ladies entertaining to his correspondents, and his sneers at the good women of whose hospitality he seemed glad enough to partake, must have formed very amusing reading when they were quite fresh. Even now, though the world has become accustomed to the taste of frozen meat, his wit, when taken out of the refrigerator, does not seem altogether insipid.
He ridiculed Lady Miller, after he had been entertained by her, with exquisitely bad taste. She was vulgar, and she was forty. Chatty little Miss Burney, too, believed her to be forty also,—actually forty; so that it seemed inconceivable how, with such a charge hanging over her, Lady Miller was able to fill her house and crowd her grounds month after month with the most distinguished men and women in England.