She took the case in her handsShe took the case in her hands.[page326.
She took the case in her hands.
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“There is no need for either, Betsy. There is no need for pain, even though the one whom you loved showed himself to be unworthy of you. Ah, my dear, if you mourn until you find a man worthy of your love, you will pass a melancholy lifetime. Listen to me, my sweet one, while I tell you what was my dream. When I came here for the first time and found you in the midst of danger, surrounded by unscrupulous men—men who were as incapable of appreciating your real nature as—as—well, as incapable as was your father; when I perceived that you were like a white lily that slowly withers when brought out of the gladness of the garden to be stifled by the air of a dark room; when I perceived that, in order to avoid the shame of facing the public from the platform of a concert-room, you might be led to give your hand to some one who would lead you into misery and dishonour—then, for her sake—for the sake of the angel whom I loved in my boyhood and whom I love now in the autumn of my life—I made up my mind that I would try to help you.”
“And you did—indeed, you did help me. Ah, I should have known what you meant—I might have known how good and unselfish you were. ’Tis true that sometimes I fancied—something like what you have told me now. Yes, I felt that you were too fond of me to love me. That sounds absurd, but I think you understand what I mean.”
“You have put the sentiment into the best phrase: I was too fond of you to be in love with you or to look for you to love me with the love of a girl for her lover. I wondered who it was you did love in that way, and I believed that the truth was revealed to me. I saw Dick Sheridan in the same room with you, and I saw the light that came into your face.”
“Alas—alas!”
“The chance that I told you of when he came to my help, enabled me to see a good deal of him, and I felt sure that it would be given to me to have my dearest wish realised—to see you happy by the side of a man who adored you and who could appreciate the beauty of your nature. Alas! I was disappointed. Instead of earning my respect by his constancy to the sentiment of love—constancy to that idealof love which I believed he could appreciate—he has earned my contempt.”
“Ah, no—not contempt!” she cried almost piteously.
“Why not contempt?” he said. “I tell you that in giving himself to that woman—he confessed to me that he was going to marry her—he has earned my contempt and yours.”
“No, ’tis not true. I love him and he loves me!” she cried. “Ah, you should spare him—you should spare him!”
“Why should I spare him? He is worthy only of contempt.”
“No, no! he is to be pitied—only pitied. Do not be hard on him: he did it because he loved me.”
And now the girl was sitting looking up with dry eyes to the face of the man who had sprung from her side the moment she had spoken, and was standing a yard or two away from her. She saw that, although the words which she had spoken had sent him to his feet in an instant, he now felt that he had perhaps been too hasty. She saw that there was a puzzled look on his face. She did not wait for him to put a question to her. She perceived that her explanation needed to be explained. It is unusual, she thought, for a man to ask a woman to marry him simply because he loves another woman.
“Indeed, he did it all for me,” she said. “I sent for him more than a week ago to ask him to plead with Mrs. Abington to break with my brother, whose infatuation for her was ruining his career, and he promised to do this for me. The day that my brother returned I knew what Dick Sheridan had done—all for me—all for me!”
“Is it possible that you suggest that the woman stipulated with him to release your brother only if Dick Sheridan took his place?” he asked.
“I am as certain that she did so as if I had heard her making a compact with him,” said Betsy. “She had an old infatuation for Dick; Mr. Garrick told my father so two days ago. Had I known that, I would not have broughtDick here to beg of him to help us. But he came and this is the result of his coming.”
“I have treated him unjustly—God forgive me!” said Mr. Long. “I went to him and—you can imagine what I said to him. But he did not say a word about—about anything that you have told me.”
“No, he would not do that. He showed me, when I stood before him, how unselfish he could be. And yet once—once—ah, how long ago it seems!—I had a feeling that his whole aim in life was to excel others—to shine as a man of fashion. Like you, I did him an injustice.”
“Ah, my dear, he had not then learned what ’tis to love. You it was, my Betsy, who taught him that the spirit of love—the truest love—the only love—is self-sacrifice.”
“Then would to Heaven he had never learned the lesson!” cried the girl passionately. “I have ruined his life, and my life is over! But what is my life? It matters nothing about my life.”
“Dear one,” he said, “I cannot hear you say that. Nay, my Betsy, I shall live to look on my happiness through his eyes. The position of affairs, though desperate, is not irretrievable. You do not know the world, my child. You do not know the sordid world. Thank Heaven that I have money enough to compensate even the most avaricious of actresses for depriving her of a caprice on which she had set her heart! Betsy, all will yet come right: ’tis merely a question of money.”
But her instinct was truer than all his worldly wisdom.
“Now you are doing her a great injustice,” she said.
“Not I!” he cried. “Though I am pleased to think that I have never had a proof of the exact extent of the rapacity of such as she, yet——”
She laid her hand upon his arm.
“Dear friend, remember that you are speaking of one of us,” she said.
“One of you!—one of—— Heaven forbid! You are as far removed from her as heaven is removed from—from Bath.”
“Nay, nay, she is a woman; and indeed I think that between the best of us and the worst there is no great gulf fixed. If you go to Mrs. Abington on the errand which you have in your mind, you will be putting upon her a gross affront—yes, and upon Dick Sheridan as well, and much will be lost and nothing gained.”
“Then I will not speak to her of money; I will make the appeal to her generosity to set Dick free. Now, you shall not forbid me to make an appeal to her generosity; to do so would be to put an affront on her far more gross than you perceived in my first intention!”
He rose from where he was sitting on the sofa, and began pacing the room thoughtfully. After some time he stopped before her, saying in a low voice:
“Betsy, my child, I fear that I must confess that the design which I had planned out for you, for bringing about your happiness, has been frustrated. My hope was to save you from the evil fate which I feared would overtake you, and the only way that seemed to me to promise well was the one which I took. Was I wrong, dear one, to ask you to give me that promise, knowing, as I did, that it would be a crime on my part to hold you to it?”
“No, no—a thousand times no!” she cried. “You hoped to save me from all that I abhorred, and you succeeded. Indeed you were right. If you had not come to my help, who can tell what might have happened? I knew not in what direction I had a friend who would be true to me, and you know that my father favoured that man, Captain Mathews; he urged upon me to listen to him.... Ah, you saved me!”
“But for what—for what have you been saved?” he said.
“I have been thinking much on that point for some days,” she replied. “I seem to have lived through many years of life in those singing days of mine, and now the feeling that I have is a feeling of weariness. Oh, I am tired—tired to death of the struggle—the artifices—the world! How long ago is it since I heard the boys in the choir sing those words, ‘O for the wings of a dove to fly away and be at rest’? That is the anthem which my heart is singing now. ‘The wings of a dove.’ I want to be at rest—to take no part in the struggle going on in the world—the sordid troubles—the jealousies that make life seem so petty. Dear friend, I have my heart set upon a place of rest. Elizabeth Sheridan told me of it—a place where the peace of God dwells for evermore. It is a convent at Lille, in France, and its doors are open to those wayfarers through the world whose feet have become weary, and who seek rest. Will you lead me thither? I will trust to you to lead me. I hear the voice that calls from there in the silence that follows the ringing of the Angelus, ‘Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.’ You will take me thither for the sake of her whom you love—her whose face I looked upon. Oh, she—she has found rest! Would to God that I had found the same rest!”
She flung herself down on her knees at the sofa, and buried her face in her hands.
The man stood by without a word. He was too greatly overcome to be capable of speech. Only now did he perceive how she had been suffering in silence for weeks—only now, when she had broken down, unable to control herself any longer. And he had no word of comfort to say to her.
He remained by her side in silence for some minutes (she had not risen from her knees), and then left the room and the house.
He went straight in search of Dick Sheridan. He did not succeed in finding him at home. Mr. Sheridan had gone out some hours before, the maid said; and forthwith Mr. Long concluded that Dick was visiting Mrs. Abington. His judgment was not at fault. Dick had been dining with the lady; but he did not stay for more than half an hour afterwards, consequently he was met by Mr. Long at the corner of York Street.
“I have been seeking you,” said Mr. Long. “I have done you a great injustice, sir, and I live only in the hope of being able to make amends for my grossness of thought. You will grant me five minutes with you in private, Mr. Sheridan?”
Dick raised his hat gravely, but without speaking, and Mr. Long walked with him back to the Sheridans’ house. Dick bowed him into the hall and into the room which Mr. Sheridan the elder called his study. It was obvious that the young man wished his visitor to understand that he was being received with ceremony.
“I feel honoured by your attention, sir,” he said, offering Mr. Long a chair.
“O Dick, Dick,” said Mr. Long, “I fear that I have made some terrible mistakes; but I hope they may not prove irretrievable.”
“So far as I am concerned, sir,” said Dick, “the error into which you fell need cause you no uneasiness. Indeed, I rather regret that you have discovered your mistake as to my motives in—in the matter to which you referred. I trust that you have not come hither to re-open the subject, Mr. Long?”
“But that is just why I have come,” said Mr. Long. “Dick, my boy, will you not aid me to make matters come right?”
“Is there any need for one to trouble oneself in the attempt to control the inevitable, sir?” asked Dick coldly.“Have you any reason to complain of the direction in which matters have shaped themselves, Mr. Long? Because I can assure you that I see no particular reason for interference, so far as I am concerned. Here am I, a penniless man, a man without a profession, brought in contact accidentally with people of wealth and position. It was my father’s wish that my brother and I should cut a figure in this world of fashion to which he led us; but unhappily, however meritorious may be one’s ambition in this direction, it needs a fortune to achieve it and another fortune to maintain it. Now, sir, I trust that you perceive how great is the reason I have for feeling satisfied at the turn for the better which my affairs have taken. I am about to be married to a lady whose charms are acknowledged all over England, and whose ability enables her to earn such sums of money as should satisfy all but the most extravagant. Egad, sir! I do not think that many people would be disposed to call me unlucky or to suggest that my affairs stand in need of being shaped in a new direction. Now, sir, I will listen to you with deference.”
Mr. Long looked at him and there was no feeling except of pity in his heart. He understood the impulse in which Dick had spoken. He could appreciate the bitterness underlying all that he had said. But it was also plain to him that Dick’s pride would not allow him to sanction any scheme that might be proposed for his release.
Mr. Long stood before him as silently as he had stood over Betsy when she had been sobbing on her knees. What could he say to a man who took up such an attitude as Dick had assumed? How could he tell Dick that he was anxious to consult him in respect of the sum of money which he meant to offer Mrs. Abington for his release? Dick’s pride would, Mr. Long knew, cause himto open the door, and to show his visitor into the street whence he had come with such a suggestion.
It was plain to him that, however bitterly Dick Sheridan might feel the humiliation of his position as the penniless young man about to marry an actress who was at least ten years older than himself, and whose reputation for beauty and taste was the only one that she retained, he was too proud not to regard as a gross affront any suggestion to the effect that he was about to make himself contemptible in the eyes of honourable people.
“Dick,” said he after a long pause—“Dick, it was Betsy who told me that you had done this for her sake, and I am here now to say to you that, whatever may happen, I honour you more than any man of my acquaintance. I take pride in being your friend, Mr. Sheridan, if you will allow me to think of myself as such.”
“Sir,” said Dick, “you do me great honour; but I cannot permit even so valued a friend as yourself to suggest that, in taking this step, I was actuated by any motive except of regard and esteem for the lady who is about to honour me with her hand. I will have you know that, Mr. Long.”
Mr. Long looked at the younger man, who stood up before him dignified and self-respecting. But he did not fail to detect a shake in his voice and, when he had ceased speaking, a quivering about his lips.
“Give me your hand, Dick Sheridan,” he cried. “You are a man!”
He grasped the hand that Dick offered him, and held it for a long time in his own, with his eyes fixed upon the young fellow’s face. Dick’s eyes were cast down. It was not until Mr. Long had released his hand that he said in a low tone:
“It was from you, sir, I learned what ’tis to be a man. God help me if I fall short of all that I should be! Now,sir, pray leave me to myself. Ah, will you not have pity on me and leave me? Cannot you see that this moment is too much for me? Cannot you see that in your presence the struggle in which I have taken part is telling on me? Ah, go, for God’s sake, go!”
His fingers were interlaced in front of him, and he was pacing the room with bowed head.
“My poor boy—my brave boy, remember that whatever may happen I am your friend,” said Mr. Long, with his hand on the door.
Dick did not seem to hear him. He had thrown himself into a chair, and his back was turned to the door. He was unaware of Mr. Long’s departure.
Mr. Long was a man of courage. On leaving Dick he made up his mind that he would pay a visit to Mrs. Abington. But his bravery had its limits; he did not pay the visit. Before he had reached the actress’s lodgings he had come to the conclusion that he was upon a fool’s errand. What could he say to her that would have the smallest influence upon her determination to marry Dick Sheridan? It would be much more to the point to consider what he could offer her to release Dick Sheridan, and of this fact he was well aware, consequently he addressed himself to the task of calculating his resources available for this purpose.
Money—he had said to Betsy that, in regard to such women as Mrs. Abington, such a matter as he had to discuss with her was nothing more than a question of figures. But Betsy’s instinct had told her that the rapacity of Mrs. Abington was something altogether different from that with which other actresses with a liking for adventure were accredited—or discredited; and Betsy was right. Mrs. Abington had never, so far as he could remember—and he knew a good many of the traits of the distinguished people of his time—been accused of having a mercenary tendency. On the contrary, she was known to be generous to a fault, and, unlike Mrs. Clive and Miss Bellamy, to refrain from clamouring for a higher salary and more liberal benefits. To be sure, she was the idol of the playgoers, and Mr. Colman paid her more than Mr. Garrick had ever paid a member of his company, so that she had little cause for complaint. But to have no cause for complaint and to refrain from complaining did not mean exactly the same thing in the minds of most actresses, Mr. Long knew; so that he could not but feel that Mrs. Abington’s reputation for generosity was well founded. She would laugh at his offer of money, he now felt; and what else had he to offer her in exchange for Dick Sheridan?
He had come to the end of his resources available for negotiation with the lady when the question ceased to be one of money. He could not pretend to himself that he would have any chance of success with her were he merely to go to her with the assurance that Dick Sheridan and Betsy Linley loved each other and would be happy together if she, Mrs. Abington, were to release Dick from the promise she had obtained from him. He knew that her generosity would not be equal to such a strain as he should put upon it, were he to make such a suggestion to her. She was a woman, and he had an idea that women have a tendency to place an extravagant value upon what other women show themselves anxious to possess. The fact that Miss Linley was in love with Dick Sheridan would only cause Mrs. Abington to chuckle over the bargain she had made with Dick. It seemed clear to him that he could gain nothing beyond that chuckle by his visit to the actress. To be sure, she would take care that it was a purely artistic suggestion of something rather more than content, andit would be made worthy of the attention of the most exalted order of critics; still, it would represent to Mr. Long (he knew) something rather more humiliating than the failure of his mission, and it was his fear of this chuckle that caused him to abandon his enterprise and to shape his steps in the direction of his own house.
He opened the door of his parlour and found himself face to face with Mrs. Abington!
His first thought was, curiously, of the story he had heard of the man who had left London to escape the plague and had found it waiting for him at Highbury. He bowed to the ground.
“Madam,” he said, “I have never before been so honoured. My poor rooms—— But is this visit in accordance with the well-known discretion of Mrs. Abington?”
“’Tis a great risk I run, sir,” she cried, with a delightful uplifting of two shapely arms and an expression of fear such as one assumes in order to make a child laugh,—“oh yes, a terrible risk!—but I am adventurous.”
“And your example is stimulating to the timid, madam; that is why I beg of you to be seated. Pray Heaven that that fiery young Mr. Sheridan be not in the neighbourhood. Still, for five minutes of Mrs. Abington’s wit a more timid man than myself would run the chance of a duel with Colonel Thornton himself.”
This was scarcely the style of the conversation which he hoped to have with the lady when he had been on his way to her lodgings; but one does not adopt the same style with a person to whom one is about to make an appeal, as one adopts with a person who is about to be an appellant; and he felt sure that Mrs. Abington had come to him in this character.
“Dear sir, I protest that you overwhelm me with your compliments,” she cried. “The younger generation have much to learn in courtesy from the one to which you and I belong, sir.”
“Madam,” he said, “you prove the contrary when you couple me with yourself. What are all the compliments which my poor ingenuity could discover compared with that ‘you and I’ which has just come from your lips?”
“Nay, but I can prove that we belong to the same generation, sir; for are not you marrying a lady of the same age as the gentleman who is to be my husband?” she cried, with an exquisite assumption of archness.
“Against such profundity of logic ’twere vain to contend, Mrs. Abington,” he said. “I yield to it, more especially as you prove what I have spent my years trying to prove to myself. Alas, madam! is it not sad that old age should come down upon a man before he has succeeded in convincing himself that he is still young?”
“Mr. Long,” said the lady, “I couple myself with you for our mutual protection.”
“I acknowledge the honour, madam, but appreciate the danger,” said he.
“Let me explain myself, sir.”
“To explain yourself, Mrs. Abington, were to supply a key to the most charming riddle of the century. Let me paraphrase Mr. Dryden:
‘A dame so charming that she seem’d to beNot one, but womankind’s epitome.’”
“That is the wittiest turning of satire into comedy I have ever known,” she cried. “And it makes my explanation easy. Mr. Long, I desire to be your best friend; and when a woman professes a wish to be a man’s best friend, you may be sure that she wants him to stand in that relationshipto her. But you gathered, I know, that I was thinking at least as much of myself as of you when I made you that offer.”
“I give you credit for thinking most of the one worthiest of your thoughts, Mrs. Abington,” said he.
She took a step nearer to him.
“Mr. Long,” she said in a lower tone, “these young people are very well, and they make delightful companions for us, but they cannot always be depended on.”
“You mean that——”
“I mean that Dick Sheridan and Betsy Linley were once in love with each other, and that they fancy they love each other still.”
“That means that theyareto be depended on, does it not?”
“They may be depended on to lose no opportunity of making fools of themselves if we allow them, Mr. Long.”
“Does that mean that they may be trusted to marry, the one you, t’other me?”
“It means that you would do well to keep an eye on Elizabeth Linley, or you will lose her, sir.”
“What is this?”
“’Tis the truth, Mr. Long. Only to-day there came to my ears the whisper of preparations for an abduction having your Miss Linley for its object—the hiring of relays of horses along the London road, and so forth. My woman, an honest creature, gave me the hint; she had the news in confidence.”
“And in confidence transferred it to you, no doubt.”
“I am not the woman to credit every rumour that the gossips of Bath set in circulation; but this special rumour was so circumstantial that——”
“Ah, if ’twas circumstantial its falsity is assured,” cried Mr. Long. “Dear madam, can you really believe that Dick Sheridan would make the attempt to run away with MissLinley when he is still under an engagement to marry you?”
“Psha, sir!” she cried, “I know but too well that his heart is still with Miss Linley. Would my gentleman be so ready to answer my beck and call—would he be so desperately punctilious in his discharge of all the duties of lovership in respect to me, if he were not in love with Miss Linley? Mr. Long, the husband who is punctilious in his treatment of his wife is, you may be sure, not in love with her, and the lover who—— Ah, sir! I have had my experiences, Heaven help me! and I am now in the position of the doctor who knows the condition of a patient the moment he looks into his face. Sir, I have had my finger on Dick Sheridan’s pulse, so to speak, for the past week, and though he has tried hard to deceive me into the belief that he loves me, he has not succeeded. I have seen through his attentions—his constant show of devotion. O sir, I am a miserable woman! But I cannot lose him—I swear to you that I shall not lose him! And you—would you be content to lose her—to lose Elizabeth Linley?”
“I would be content to lose her if I were sure that she did not love me,” said Mr. Long.
“What? what? Ah, you do not love her!” she cried contemptuously.
“I love her so well as to have implicit confidence in her,” said he. “There will be no running away so far as Miss Linley is concerned—rest assured of that, my dear madam, and take my word for it, Dick Sheridan is too honourable to entertain such a design.”
“Ah, honourable! what does honour mean to a man when he is in love—ay, or to a woman either?” she cried.
“You are proving one of your contentions by entertaining such suspicions,” said he.
“They are well founded. Ah, when I think that heloved her so well as to give up his life only for the sake of saving her from the pang of seeing her brother made a fool of, I have a right to my suspicions. He will never love me like that. When I think of it all, I feel tempted—sometimes; the fit soon passes away, thank Heaven!—I feel tempted to let him go to her—to let him be happy with her: she would not let you stand in the way of her own happiness, you may be sure, though she has promised to marry you.”
“If you loved Dick Sheridan truly, madam, you would not stand between him and happiness,” said Mr. Long.
“And if you loved Miss Linley truly, you would not stand between her and happiness,” responded the actress, turning suddenly upon him with the stage instinct of making an effective retort.
“Nor shall I,” he cried. “Come, Mrs. Abington, let us make a compact for their happiness. I will release Miss Linley if you will do the same for Dick Sheridan.”
“No—no—no!” Her voice had almost become a shriek, and it went through the room without the interval of a second. Her head was craned forward; her hands were clenched; her eyes were half closed.
So she remained for a long time after that shriek had come from her. Then she drew a long breath. She kept her eyes fixed keenly upon his face. She went back from him slowly, step by step.
Suddenly she made a quick movement toward him with her right hand outstretched, as if about to clench a compact. But when his hand went out to hers, she snatched her own back with a cry.
“No, no, I cannot do it—I cannot do it! I cannot give him up. I have made him mine—mine he shall remain. You shall tempt me no further.”
“He never was yours—he never shall be yours! You know it, woman, you know it! That is the thought whichis in your heart just now, and that is the thought which makes your life a curse to you. Never yours—never yours! By your side, but never yours—never yours!”
With a cry she covered her face with one hand, the other was on the handle of the door. She staggered out.
“Did ever man utter words of such cruelty?” said Mr. Long when he heard the hall door close. “Poor creature! poor creature! And I trod on her—I crushed her. God forgive me! God forgive me!”
An hour later Mrs. Abington, shining out amid her jewels as a rose is resplendent amid the diamonds of a spendthrift morning, welcomed the arrival of Dick Sheridan with smiles and a gracious white hand for him to kiss. He kissed the hand, and noticed that the lady was wearing a gown which he had never before seen—something roseate and misty—the waves of dawn, out of which the goddess Aphrodite was in the act of rising; he saw her before him, and said so; he called her the Cyprian: she had been called that so often that she understood quite well what he meant.
“You have come in good time, my dear!” she cried. “If you had not come early I would have gone to you.”
“I got your note only a quarter of an hour ago,” said he.
“’Twas only writ half an hour ago,” she said, “and the express from Mr. Colman arrived within the hour. Dear Dick, we must fly to London post haste in the morning. They can do without me no longer. Mr. Colman implores of me to come. Ruin stares him in the face. I must have some pity for him.”
“The humblest thing that crawls—even the manager of a theatre—claims one’s compassion now and again,” said Dick. “Will you set out in the morning?”
“At daybreak. You can pack your trunk before you sleep to-night, and the chaise will pick it up and you astride of it when we start.”
“Heavens, my dear madam! I heard nothing about my departure! Mr. Colman does not venture to say that ruin stares him in the face if I remain in Bath.”
“Nay, he does not go so far. ’Tis only I who claim you. I shall need your escort, Dick, and I shall make arrangements for your remaining in London—some simple arrangements, Dick.”
“The simpler they are the more difficult it is for me to accept them. I do not think it would be wise for me to be your escort to London and in London, enviable though the duty would be.”
She started into a sitting posture. She had been reclining on her tiny sofa.
“What is’t you mean, sir?” she cried. “Surely if I find no fault with the arrangement you need not do so. Scandal? Psha! My name has been associated with more than one scandal in my time, and yet I do not think that I am greatly the worse for it to-day.”
“No,” he said, “but you may be to-morrow. My dear sweet creature, I perceive at once how much depends on our discretion just now; and if I were, in the absence of my father in Dublin, to desert my sisters and the household, people would call me a wretch, and they would be right, too.”
“People would call you a wretch—a wretch and—a poltroon—a—a curmudgeon, and they would be right, too, were you to stay in Bath when I—I—ask your protection on my journey to London,” she cried.
He was silent. He did not even shake his head. He saw her diamonds flashing ominously. Theirs was a summer lightning, denoting a storm taking place out of sight—a storm that might rise over the horizon at anymoment. He became conscious of a highly charged atmosphere. A flash or two came from her eyes.
“Why do you stand there dumb?” she said. “Do you not think me worthy of a word, Dick?”
“Dear lady, you are worthy only of words that will give you pleasure; that is why I am silent now,” he said.
“You have but to say one word to give me the greatest pleasure that I look for in this world, and I know that you will say it, Dick—my Dick.”
“Alas—alas!” he said.
“That is not the word, Dick; you know that that is not the word I want you to speak.”
“That is the word which we should both say, my dear, if I were even to breathe the word which you ask of me. Oh, you must surely see that it would be impossible for me to forsake all that my father has entrusted me with. My sisters are young. What sort of brother should I be were I to leave them alone at a moment’s notice? No, no! you will not ask me to do it; you have always shown yourself to be full of sensibility. You would hate me if I were to desert my sisters at such a time as this.”
She looked at him straight in the eyes for a long time—it was a searching, suspicious gaze. Then she gave a laugh—a scornful, suspicious laugh. Her scorn was not intolerable; it was tempered by the half-amused smile that flashed about the corners of her lips.
“It must be pleasant to have so strong a sense of duty, Dick,” she said,—“yes, very pleasant, when your duty and your inclination go hand in hand; nay, perhaps their relationship is closer still. Inclination puts an arm round the waist of duty, and so they go dancing down the green mead—Oberon and Titania—only without a chance quarrel. But it appears to me that if Betsy Linley were not in Bath your duty to your sisters would somewhat relax. Listen to me, Dick. You are not so near a holiday as you have been ledto believe, for, by the Lord Harry, if you refuse to come with me to London I shall remain at Bath, if only to frustrate your plans. Ay, sir, I know more about your plans than you may perhaps think.”
“If you know anything of them whatsoever, your knowledge is wider than mine,” said he.
“Oh, go away—take yourself off. I am beginning to tire of you, Dick Sheridan,” she said, leaning back in an attitude of negligentennuibetween the sympathetic arms of her sofa.
“I do not need to be told to go a second time, madam,” said Dick.
But before he reached the door the capricious creature had sprung from her seat and flashed beside him.
“Dick, my Dick, I am a fool—oh, such a fool!” she cried. “But the truth is that I am too fond of you, my beloved boy! Now, don’t go, Dick—or go if you please to go—you may do what you please; I will not think anything of it. Oh, if you could only give me a little of your love! Must she have all—all—all?”
“Do not be foolish, my dear,” said he. “And you know as well as I do that ’tis foolish to be jealous. Ah, you know that I am true to you. I need not protest to you of my truth.”
She looked at him steadfastly once more; and now there was no scorn in her look—only a nervous anxiety.
“I think,” said she, “that you are true to me, and that you detest yourself on that account; because to be true to me involves your being false to Betsy Linley. Oh, this constancy according to compact is no virtue. Honesty is no virtue on the part of a man who is cast on a desert island. But you will come with me to-morrow, Dick—my Dick?”
“Indeed, it is impossible,” he replied. “I will leave you now. Think over the matter till to-morrow, and you will agree with me, I am convinced.”
With an exclamation of impatience she went back toher sofa, wheeled it suddenly round, and then seated herself in it with her back turned to him.
He went behind her with a laugh.
“Good-bye, you beautiful, petulant, typical woman,” he said. “Good-bye, I will come to you to-morrow, when I am sure you will be polite enough to turn your face to me.”
She gave a pout and a shrug and picked up the newspaper which she had been pretending to read at his entrance. She pretended to read it again.
He responded with another laugh of good-humour, not of derision, and went to the door.
He shouted another “Good-bye!”
She made no answer. But when he had left the house she tore her newspaper to shreds and snowed them on the carpet at her feet. Then she put her face down to the pillow and wept, but only for a few minutes. She was on her feet again and tugging at the bell-pull.
Her maid was at her side before the bell had ceased to sound.
“Are you sure that ’twas the evening of to-day that was named for the rendezvous you told me of, Williams?” she asked.
“There is no mistake, madam,” replied the woman. “If it were mere gossip, I should never have mentioned it. Lud! if one gave attention to all the gossip that one hears! But this is the truth. The chaise is to wait on the London road, and the young lady is to be brought to it in a chair at nine o’clock. ’Twill then be rather more than dusk.”
“Good!” said Mrs. Abington. “You got the hint from your cousin—I think you said he was your cousin—who is confidential servant to Allen, the postmaster?”
"You will accompany me to the rendezvous"“You will accompany me to the rendezvous on the London road to-night, Williams.”[page349.
“You will accompany me to the rendezvous on the London road to-night, Williams.”
[page349.
“Yes, madam—cousin on my mother’s side. My mother married for the second time into the Cookson family, and they thought a good deal of themselves, through Cookson having been butler to a vicar; but they really wasn’t so much after all——”
“You will accompany me to the rendezvous on the London road to-night, Williams. You will hire a fly, and when we get within sight of the coach, the fly shall turn down one of the lanes, so as to excite no suspicion. We shall get out and conceal ourselves among the bushes at the roadside until the chair with my lady is brought up. I think that we shall probably surprise them, Williams.”
The maid simpered.
“And I shall wear the travelling-cloak that is quilted with the pink satin. The chaise lamps will doubtless be lighted, and I have no desire to look like a guy.”
“I vow ’twill be quite an adventure, madam!” said the woman, simpering very agreeably.
“You will see that nothing miscarries, my good Williams,” said the actress. “The most romantic adventures have been known to break down before now through so foolish a thing as a lame horse.”
“You may trust to me, madam,” said the maid.
When she was alone, Mrs. Abington stood in the centre of the room, with a smile that was not a smile on her face.
“A compact—a compact!” she muttered. “He fancied that I should be blinded by his fidelity. Oh, his fidelity was touching—ay, up to that last cheery ‘good-bye’ that he said at that door before going home to complete the packing of his trunk. By the lud! if ’twere not for the humiliation, I could e’en bring myself to let the pair of them run away together and make fools of themselves. But I will show them that I am not one to be hoodwinked.”
It was barely half-past nine that night when a fly dashed up to the door of the Sheridans’ house, and a lady wearinga travelling-cloak lined with quilted pink satin sprang to the ground and battered at the door of the house. She met Dick Sheridan in the hall.
“Dick—Dick,” she gasped, “a dreadful thing has happened! O Dick, he has got her in his power now—Mathews—a plot—a vile plot to abduct her! He is on his way to London with her now in a chaise with four horses.”
“Woman, what do you mean? Good God! Mathews—Betsy—is it Betsy, you mean?” cried Dick.
“Yes—yes—Betsy! Oh, why do you wait here like a fool? Why are you not on your way after them? Follow them, Dick!—follow them and save her for yourself. She is yours, Dick. I never was yours! Ah, man, why do you stand there? Oh, I am dead!”
She dropped into a chair, gasping.
Dick caught her hand, and when he found that it was warm he kissed it.
She laughed, and her laugh continued long after he had rushed out of the house; it went on and on, and the two Sheridan girls stood by listening in horror to that laugh.
He rushed out of the house and up the street. He was pulling wildly at the bell-handle at Mr. Long’s door in Millsom Street before five minutes had passed. He did not wait to make an inquiry of the man, but plunged into the room to the right; the door was slightly ajar, and he saw that the room was lighted.
Mr. Long was seated at the table.
“Heavens!” he cried, “what has happened?”
“Your horse—Sultan—it must be Sultan—he must be saddled—give the order—’tis life or death—nay, more—more!”
Only for a second did Mr. Long look at him. Then he was shouting to his man in the hall orders for the groom.
“Mathews has succeeded,” gasped Dick. “An abduction—Mrs. Abington brought me word of it. But I shall follow them—overtake them—or I shall never return. I swear that—I swear it!”
Mr. Long’s face had become white. He was supporting himself by the back of a chair. His lips moved, but the words did not come. He managed to stagger to agarde-vinthat stood in a corner and to take out a decanter of brandy. Dick heard how the tumbler jingled against the mouth of the bottle while some of the brandy was being poured out. Mr. Long offered him a tumbler. He refused it.
“Never fear—never fear—I’ll overtake them!” he cried, while he paced the room. “I knew that I was right to come to you, sir. You love her; and you—you have pistols. He escaped them once—only once.”
“She heard a rumour that an abduction was to be attempted; she told me so here to-day,” said Mr. Long. “She is suspicious; she fancied that you had planned it—she came to warn me. O Dick, you must be in time! By Heaven, sir, you must be in time to save her! If I were ten years younger—only ten years—but I will trust you. Here are the pistols, and you may need to reload them: you must have these bullets. Don’t bring them all back, Dick; but take care of her. Aim at one of the horses. And money—you may need money for the postboys—I have never met any that were not open to bribes. Here’s a purse. If fifty guineas is not enough—— By heavens, the horse is at the door! You have no sword—here is mine! God bless you, my boy—God bless you! I’ll look to the girths. Sultan will do his twenty miles; but spare him on the highway. You will take the short cuts through the Hampton Fields.”
All the time that Mr. Long was speaking, Dick Sheridan was pulling on a pair of riding-boots, with spurs attached, which Mr. Long’s servant had brought into the room.
He examined the priming of the pistols, he pocketed the leathern wallet heavy with guineas, and buckled on the sword. Not a word did he find it necessary to utter; even when he was in the saddle and felt the strong grasp of Mr. Long’s right hand, he did not find words, but he returned the grasp, and looked into Mr. Long’s face. Then he gave Sultan his head, and waved his hand before turning the corner.
The street was flaring with links; chairs by the score were carrying ladies and gentlemen of fashion to their supper-parties and card-parties. The sound of post-horns was heard as the mail-coaches with their splendid teams set out ontheir night journeys. It did not take Dick long to thread his way among the vehicles, reaching the first slope of the London road without having allowed his horse to break into a gallop. Sultan was quite prepared to charge the hill; he was a thoroughbred Arab, with an indomitable heart in his work. Dick held him in so long as the ground sloped up; but when the summit of the hill was gained, he sent him forward; the animal responded with a will, but Dick kept him at the trot. Not until the Hampton Fields were reached did he put the horse to the gallop. But then, leaping the ditch, he got upon the green turf, and, knowing what was expected of him, the Arab stretched himself out for a race.
The two miles of the cut across the fields was not a great journey, and after a mile’s trot along the highway, up the long hill through the village of Bathford, Dick took to the fields once more. Another flying gallop—ventre à terre—across the Downs, brought him to the Horse Jockey Inn, and Dick thought that a bucket of water would not do Sultan any harm. But he found that he could not pull him up; the horse had his head and seemed determined to keep it. By the time, however, that the vane of Atworth church gave a feeble flash in the moonlight (the moon was in her first quarter and far down in the western sky) the Arab was ready to receive a hint, and Dick brought him to a walk.
He pulled him up at the Three Cups, and awoke the elderly ostler to get a bucket of bran and water, while he himself rubbed the animal down with a damp stable-cloth.
Had the man seen a chaise and four horses going in the direction of London within the half-hour? No, no, he had seen no “shay”; but mayhap that was by reason of having been asleep since supper-time; a tedious night with the master’s heifer—mayhap the young gentleman had heard of the accident to the heifer?—having deprived him of hisaccustomed slumber. The worst was over with the heifer, Heaven be praised; but still——
The veteran was still gazing at Dick’s half-crown while Sultan was pounding away toward Melksham as fresh as he had been when taken out of his stable, although the nine miles of the journey already passed had occupied just fifty-five minutes.
And now that a long level of highway was in front of him, Dick had time to calculate his chances of overtaking the chaise. He did not know how great was the start which it had on him; but he did not think it likely that Mrs. Abington had taken longer than a quarter of an hour to come to him with the alarm. Ten minutes added to this brought him up to the moment when he had started in pursuit. Twenty-five minutes of a start!
He could not imagine the chaise travelling at the speed that Sultan had maintained. The hills along the road were in favour of a horseman. But then at the end of another seven or eight miles Sultan must be dead-beat, however willing he might be, whereas the chaise would be flying along with four fresh horses in front of it, for Mathews would certainly arrange to have relays of fresh horses at every stage, well knowing that only by this means could he evade the pursuit which he would assume must take place.
Dick perceived that he too must have fresh horses if he meant to overtake the chaise. But being well aware that some of the posting-inns on the London road had as many as a hundred and fifty horses in their stables at one time, he had no fear of a difficulty arising in the matter of getting remounts.
When he thought of Betsy Linley being in the power of that mad ruffian for another hour, he instinctively touched Sultan with the spur; and at the touch the good horse broke into a gallop, and it was in this gallop that he reached Seend Hill and climbed it as though it were level road.It needed a strong pull from Dick to bring him up at the Bear Inn.
Two coaches had just arrived from London, and the passengers were getting all the attendance the place could afford.
Dick found himself standing in the yard with Sultan’s saddle on the ground beside him, while the horse stood steaming in the light that came from the stable lantern. He showed a guinea to an ancient, hurrying groom, and the sight was too much for the man.
Had a chaise with four horses from Bath changed, and how long ago?
Not half an hour ago, if it was Captain Mathews’ shay his honour spoke of. Oh, ay, the captain had changed, and madam would not leave the shay—half an hour ago—barely—more like twenty minutes. A fresh saddle-horse? Ah, his honour must book that at the bar. Why, the London folk would be away in a quarter of an hour—mayhap ten minutes.
Dick rushed to the bar. Twenty people were between him and the landlord, who was responding with a fussy leisure to eighteen out of the twenty.
Dick rushed back to the stable-yard and found the groom still gazing at the guinea. Dick produced a second.
“You know Mr. Long, of Rood Ashton, my man?” he said. “This is Mr. Long’s horse. Look to him and put the saddle on the freshest horse in your stable. Take this guinea and don’t lose a moment. Refuse it, and as surely as you stand there like a fool, I’ll put a bullet through your head.”
“Your honour’s a gentleman,” cried the ostler, making a grasp for that hand which held the guinea as a bribe, and neglecting the one that held the pistol as a menace.
“You shall have the guinea when the horse is saddled,” said Dick. “Lead the way to the stable.”
But the man had had a second for reflection. He felt prepared to control his impulses. He began to scratch his head with the black tip of a forefinger.
“This may cost me my place,” he muttered.
“If you refuse, ’twill certainly cost you your life,” said Dick, grasping his arm. “Lead me to the stable, you rascal, and that at the top of your speed. If you try to trick me, ’twill be the last mistake of your life. Pick up the saddle and earn your guinea.”
The man certainly lost no time in obeying him; he shambled across the yard and through a stable door. Dick heard the sound of halter-rings and the fitful stamp of an iron hoof.
“That’s Hero, the best roadster in the stable,” said the man, pointing to a big roan horse. “But your honour will need to have it out with the master.”
“You’ll get your guinea and your master will get double the hire. Everybody knows Mr. Long,” said Dick.
Being aware of the instinctive cunning of these simple country people, Dick thought it as well to give a brief examination to the animal. So far as he could tell in the glimmer of the stable lantern the horse was a good one—broad-chested and strong.
The man flung on the saddle, and Dick saw that the girths were tight; then with a friendly nod to Sultan, who stood in one of the vacant stalls, he was mounting the roan. He threw the old man his promised guinea, saying:
“If I find that you’ve looked well after the Arab, you shall have another guinea to-morrow.”
The ostler dropped the stable lantern with a crash on the stones.
Dick was on the road once again. He knew that he had lost quite five minutes changing horses: he could only console himself by the reflection that most likely the chaise had taken ten minutes.
He found that the roan required to be ridden. He was a strong horse and had good wind, but he had not the heart of the Arab. It was clear that he did not know all that was demanded of him this night. But when Dick put him at a low hedge he did not refuse it, and on the turf of a long meadow beyond, he showed that he could gallop. For another three miles, partly on the road and partly across country, when any saving of space was possible, horse and man went until they were breasting Roundway Hill.
Dick walked the horse to the top, and then reined in to let him recover his wind before starting on the clear five miles of level road. In a few minutes he had fallen into the steady trot of the old roadster, and Dick felt sure that he could keep it up for the five miles; but at the end of the first mile he began to be aware of a certain unevenness in his trot. The horse responded to the spur, but only for a short time; then he stumbled, nearly throwing his rider on his head. There was no ignoring what had occurred—the horse had “gone lame” and was unfit for his work; and the nearest inn where he could get a new mount was still five miles away.
What did this mean?
Nothing, except that he was beaten. The hour and a quarter that he would take going to that inn would place the chaise which he was pursuing far beyond the possibility of capture.
Dick saw it all clearly the moment that the roan halted and stretched his head forward, breathing hard. Nothing was left for him but to dismount. He was defeated, and life was worth nothing to him now. He dismounted, and examined the horse’s leg. There could be no doubt about the matter now: he was badly lame.
And then Dick did the most foolish and natural thing that a man could do in such circumstances. He went madfor a time, slashing at the weeds on the roadside with his riding-whip, cursing all the earth—the ostler who had given him the horse which went lame—the horse for going lame at the worst time—the fate which had helped him up to a certain point and then deserted him. It did him good to slash and swear for a while; and when he felt better he put his horse’s bridle-rein over his arm and set out upon the journey which was inevitable in the circumstances.
He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he heard the sound of a shot in the distance; then a second—a third.
“Poachers,” he thought, resuming his walk. He was within a mile or two of Roundway Park, and the estate was full of game. He thought no more about the shots until, after he had trudged on for another mile, he saw on the summit of a grassy knoll a couple of men on horseback. The moon had gone down, but the night was beautifully clear, with stars overhead.
He stopped, his first thought being that he might negotiate with one of the men for the loan of his horse. But when he saw that they were making straight for him, he pulled his pistols out of the holsters and put his horse between himself and the fence of the field beyond which was the knoll. The horsemen were highwaymen, he was convinced, and he made up his mind that they should not ride off with the remainder of his guineas, if he could prevent it. He was just in the humour for tackling a pair of rascals; but for that matter, he would not have objected to fight with the honestest men in England.
Before he had more than cocked his pistols the two fellows—he now saw that they wore masks—had leapt their horses over the fence not a dozen yards from where he was standing.
“Well met, my lord!” roared one, drawing a pistol from his holster. “Well met! I’ll trouble your lordship to handover your purse, also your watch and any trifle of jewelry your lordship——”
“Come and take them,” said Dick.
“And, by the Lord, we accept the invitation!” shouted the second horseman, going forward with a bound toward Dick with his pistol in his hand.
In another moment all was over. Dick slipped under his horse’s nose; at the same instant that the man fired, Dick’s horse lashed out, and Dick, catching at the rein of the man who was riding him down, shot him in the body. The yell that went through the air did not come from this man, however—he was past yelling; it came from his companion, whose leg Dick had heard break like a stick of barley sugar beneath the kick of the roan. The second yell came from half a mile down the road; for, not being able to control his horse, the animal had bolted with him.
Dick knew nothing of this. He had his attention fully occupied at the head of the rearing horse of the man whom he had shot. The horse reared, and when Dick tugged at the reins he plunged forward. A limp arm struck Dick in the face, and he had to be agile to evade the headlong fall of the limp body.
It was a busy half-minute. It was such a whirl of the wheels of chance that Dick Sheridan could scarcely be blamed for standing aghast for quite another half-minute. He was bewildered by the effort of trying to think what had happened. A minute before he had been a man suffering all the pangs of defeat—plunged into those depths of despair which overwhelm a man who needs to ride like a god upon the wings of the wind, but finds himself crippled with a lame horse; whereas now....
He gave a cheer and in a second was on the back of the fine horse—his mane was dripping with the blood of the rider whom he had thrown over his head—and flying along the road at a speed that he had not surpassed evenwhen mounted on Mr. Long’s Sultan. The highwaymen were excellent judges of cattle, he was bound to confess. He galloped like one of Lützow’s wild huntsmen, and in the exhilaration of the moment he shouted with delight—he shouted and cheered until, swinging round a curve in the road, he saw before him Beckhampton Common, with the woods at one side and the long row of poplars at the other. But while the common was still a long way off, and he was flying past a high bank densely planted with small firs, he heard something that caused him to throw all his weight upon the reins, and almost to bring his horse upon his haunches.
What he heard, or fancied he heard, was his name called out by the most musical voice in the world:
“Dick—Dick! you have come!”
The first words struck his ears when he was beneath the high bank; before the last were uttered he was a hundred yards away, tugging at the reins. When he succeeded in bringing his horse to a standstill, he heard in front of him a hailing of voices. Peering forward beyond the shade of the bank on the white road, he saw figures moving—figures with a swaying lantern.
He responded to their hail, and saw them hurrying toward him, their lantern swinging more rapidly.
And then behind him he heard Betsy Linley’s voice crying:
“Dick—Dick, come back to me—come back!”
He swung his horse round with a cry of delight.
There she stood, a white figure at the foot of the firs of a wooded slope—there she stood, waving her white arms to him—waving him back to her.
“Thank God—thank God—thank God!”
He could gasp nothing more as he flung himself from his saddle, and she sprang from the bank into his arms.
“My Betsy—my own dear Betsy!”
“Dick—Dick, you have saved me! Oh, I never doubted it, my Dick!—I knew you would be in time to save me.”
He had thrown the reins on his horse’s neck. But the animal was well trained: he was as faithful to the man who had just dismounted as though he were a highwayman who had left his saddle to plunder a coach. He only turned his head when the figures with the lantern came in sight beyond the curve in the road.
“Who are these—your friends or our enemy?” whispered Dick.
He had hold of her hand, and they were both gazing up the road.
“It can only be he,” she cried. “We were attacked by highwaymen. A horse was shot, and when the wretch was helping the postboys, I escaped from the coach and fled hither. I was hiding among the trees!”
“Stand back among the trees again—only for a moment—only for a moment,” he said in a low voice.
“You will not kill him!” said the girl piteously. “Dick, I could not bear to think of your killing him, wretch though he be.”
“Perhaps I may not. Stand back among the trees.”
“Found—she is found!” came the voice of Mathews on the road. He was running ahead of the postboys with the chaise lantern. Postboys were poor things on their feet.
Dick waited with the firs behind him. He was silent. His features could not be seen—only his figure.
“Sir,” said Mathews, when still a dozen yards away—“sir, you have found the lady—my wife—I thank you.”