Boswell, who was standing to one side watching—-his eyes full of curiosity and his ears strained to catch by chance a word—the little scene that was being enacted in a corner of the room, took good care that Johnson should be in his charge going home. This walk to Johnson's house necessitated a walk back to his own lodgings in Piccadilly; but this was nothing to Boswell, who had every confidence in his own capability to extract from his great patron some account of the secrets which had been exchanged in the corner.
For once, however, he found himself unable to effect his object—nay, when he began his operations with his accustomed lightness of touch, Johnson turned upon him, saying—
“Sir, I observe what is your aim, and I take this opportunity to tell you that if you make any further references, direct or indirect, to man, woman or child, to the occurrences of this evening, you will cease to be a friend of mine. I have been humiliated sufficiently by a stranger, who had every right to speak as he did, but I refuse to be humiliated by you, sir.”
Boswell expressed himself willing to give the amplest security for his good behaviour. He had great hope of conferring upon his patron a month of inconvenience in making a tour of the west coast of Scotland during the summer.
The others of the party went northward by one of the streets off the Strand into Coventry street, and thence toward Sir Joshua's house in Leicester Square, Burke walking in front with his arm through Goldsmith's, and Garrick some way behind with Reynolds. Goldsmith was very eloquent in his references to the magnanimity of Johnson, who, he said, in spite of the fact that he had been grossly insulted by an impostor calling himself his, Goldsmith's, cousin, had consented to receive the dedication of the new comedy. Burke, who understood the temperament of his countryman, felt that he himself might surpass in eloquence even Oliver Goldsmith if he took for his text the magnanimity of the author of “The Good Natured Man.” He, however, refrained from the attempt to prove to his companion that there were other ways by which a man could gain a reputation for generosity than by permitting the most distinguished writer of the age to dedicate a comedy to him.
Of the other couple Garrick was rattling away in the highest spirits, quite regardless of the position of Reynolds's ear-trumpet. Reynolds was as silent as Burke for a considerable time; but then, stopping at a corner so as to allow Goldsmith and his companion to get out of ear-shot, he laid his hand on Garrick's arm, laughing heartily as he said—
“You are a pretty rascal, David, to play such a trick upon your best friends. You are a pretty rascal, and a great genius, Davy—the greatest genius alive. There never has been such an actor as you, Davy, and there never will be another such.”
“Sir,” said Garrick, with an overdone expression of embarrassment upon his face, every gesture that he made corresponding. “Sir, I protest that you are speaking in parables. I admit the genius, if you insist upon it, but as for the rascality—well, it is possible, I suppose, to be both a great genius and a great rascal; there was our friend Benvenuto, for example, but——”
“Only a combination of genius and rascality could have hit upon such a device as that bow which you made, Davy,” said Reynolds. “It presented before my eyes a long vista of Goldsmiths—all made in the same fashion as our friend on in front, and all striving—-and not unsuccessfully, either—to maintain the family tradition of the Goldsmith bow. And then your imitation of your imitation of the same movement—how did we contain ourselves—Burke and I?”
“You fancy that Burke saw through the Dean, also?” said Garrick.
“I'm convinced that he did.”
“But he will not tell Johnson, I would fain hope.”
“You are very anxious that Johnson should not know how it was he was tricked. But you do not mind how you pain a much more generous man.”
“You mean Goldsmith? Faith, sir, I do mind it greatly. If I were not certain that he would forthwith hasten to tell Johnson, I would go to him and confess all, asking his forgiveness. But he would tell Johnson and never forgive me, so I'll e'en hold my tongue.”
“You will not lose a night's rest through brooding on Goldsmith's pain, David.”
“It was an impulse of the moment that caused me to adopt that device, my friend. Johnson is past all argument, sir. That sickening sycophant, Boswell, may find happiness in being insulted by him, but there are others who think that the Doctor has no more right than any ordinary man to offer an affront to those whom the rest of the world respects.”
“He will allow no one but himself to attack you, Davy.”
“And by my soul, sir, I would rather that he allowed every one else to attack me if he refrained from it himself. Where is the generosity of a man who, with the force and influence of a dozen men, will not allow a bad word to be said about you, but says himself more than the whole dozen could say in as many years? Sir, do the pheasants, which our friend Mr. Bunbury breeds so successfully, regard him as a pattern of generosity because he won't let a dozen of his farmers have a shot at them, but preserves them for his own unerring gun? By the Lord Harry, I would rather, if I were a pheasant, be shot at by the blunderbusses of a dozen yokels than by the fowling-piece of one good marksman, such as Bunbury. On the same principle, I have no particular liking to be preserved to make sport for the heavy broadsides that come from that literary three-decker, Johnson.”
“I have sympathy with your contentions, David; but we all allow your old schoolmaster a license which would be permitted to no one else.”
“That license is not a game license, Sir Joshua; and so I have made up my mind that if he says anything more about the profession of an actor being a degrading-one—about an actor being on the level with a fiddler—nay, one of the puppets of Panton street, I will teach my old schoolmaster a more useful lesson than he ever taught to me. I think it is probable that he is at this very moment pondering upon those plain truths which were told to him by the Dean.”
“And poor Goldsmith has been talking so incessantly and so earnestly to Burke, I am convinced that he feels greatly pained as well as puzzled by that inopportune visit of the clergyman who exhibited such striking characteristics of the Goldsmith family.”
“Nay, did I not bear testimony in his favour—declaring that he had never alluded to a relation who was a Dean?”
“Oh, yes; you did your best to place us all at our ease, sir. You were magnanimous, David—as magnanimous as the surgeon who cuts off an arm, plunges the stump into boiling pitch, and then gives the patient a grain or two of opium to make him sleep. But I should not say a word: I have seen you in your best part, Mr. Garrick, and I can give the heartiest commendation to your powers as a comedian, while condemning with equal force the immorality of the whole proceeding.”
They had now arrived at Reynolds's house in Leicester Square, Goldsmith and Burke—the former still talking eagerly—having waited for them to come up.
“Gentlemen,” said Reynolds, “you have all gone out of your accustomed way to leave me at my own door. I insist on your entering to have some refreshment. Mr. Burke, you will not refuse to enter and pronounce an opinion as to the portrait at which I am engaged of the charming Lady Betty Hamilton.”
“O matre pulchra filia pulchrior” said Goldsmith; but there was not much aptness in the quotation, the mother of Lady Betty having been the loveliest of the sisters Gunning, who had married first the Duke of Hamilton, and, later, the Duke of Argyll.
Before they had rung the bell the hall door was opened by Sir Joshua's servant, Ralph, and a young man, very elegantly dressed, was shown out by the servant.
He at once recognised Sir Joshua and then Garrick.
“Ah, my dear Sir Joshua,” he cried, “I have to entreat your forgiveness for having taken the liberty of going into your painting-room in your absence.”
“Your Lordship has every claim upon my consideration,” said Sir Joshua. “I cannot doubt which of my poor efforts drew you thither.”
“The fact is, Sir Joshua, I promised her Grace three days ago to see the picture, and as I think it likely that I shall meet her tonight, I made a point of coming hither. The Duchess of Argyll is not easily put aside when she commences to catechise a poor man, sir.”
“I cannot hope, my Lord, that the picture of Lady Betty commended itself to your Lordship's eye,” said Sir Joshua.
“The picture is a beauty, my dear Sir Joshua,” said the young man, but with no great show of ardour. “It pleases me greatly. Your macaw is also a beauty. A capital notion of painting a macaw on a pedestal by the side of the lady, is it not, Mr. Garrick—two birds with the one stone, you know?”
“True, sir,” said Garrick. “Lady Betty is a bird of Paradise.”
“That's as neatly said as if it were part of a play,” said the young man. “Talking of plays, there is going to be a pretty comedy enacted at the Pantheon to-night.”
“Is it not a mask?” said Garrick.
“Nay, finer sport even than that,” laughed the youth. “We are going to do more for the drama in an hour, Mr. Garrick, than you have done in twenty years, sir.”
“At the Pantheon, Lord Stanley?” inquired Garrick.
“Come to the Pantheon and you shall see all that there is to be seen,” cried Lord Stanley. “Who are your friends? Have I had the honour to be acquainted with them?”
“Your Lordship must have met Mr. Burke and Dr. Goldsmith,” said Garrick.
“I have often longed for that privilege,” said Lord Stanley, bowing in reply to the salutation of the others. “Mr. Burke's speech on the Marriage Bill was a fine effort, and Mr. Goldsmith's comedy has always been my favourite. I hear that you are at present engaged upon another, Dr. Goldsmith. That is good news, sir. Oh, 't were a great pity if so distinguished a party missed the sport which is on foot tonight! Let me invite you all to the Pantheon—here are tickets to the show. You will give me a box at your theatre, Garrick, in exchange, on the night when Mr. Goldsmith's new play is produced.”
“Alas, my Lord,” said Garrick, “that privilege will be in the hands of Mr. Col-man.”
“What, at t' other house? Mr. Garrick, I'm ashamed of you. Nevertheless, you will come to the comedy at the Pantheon to-night. I must hasten to act my part. But we shall meet there, I trust.”
He bowed with his hat in his hand to the group, and hastened away with an air of mystery.
“What does he mean?” asked Reynolds.
“That is what I have been asking myself,” replied Garrick. “By heavens, I have it!” he cried after a pause of a few moments. “I have heard rumours of what some of our young bloods swore to do, since the managers of the Pantheon, in an outburst of virtuous indignation at the orgies of Vauxhall and Ranelagh, issued their sheet of regulations prohibiting the entrance of actresses to their rotunda. Lord Conway, I heard, was the leader of the scheme, and it seems that this young Stanley is also one of the plot. Let us hasten to witness the sport. I would not miss being-present for the world.”
“I am not so eager,” said Sir Joshua. “I have my work to engage me early in the morning, and I have lost all interest in such follies as seem to be on foot.”
“I have not, thank heaven!” cried Garrick; “nor has Dr. Goldsmith, I'll swear. As for Burke—well, being a member of Parliament, he is a seasoned rascal; and so good-night to you, good Mr. President.”
“We need a frolic,” cried Goldsmith. “God knows we had a dull enough dinner at the Crown and Anchor.”
“An Irishman and a frolic are like—well, let us say like Lady Betty and your macaw, Sir Joshua,” said Burke. “They go together very naturally.”
Sir Joshua entered his house, and the others hastened northward to the Oxford road, where the Pantheon had scarcely been opened more than a year for the entertainment of the fashionable world—a more fashionable world, it was hoped, than was in the habit of appearing at Ranelagh and Vauxhall. From a hundred to a hundred and fifty years ago, rank and fashion sought their entertainment almost exclusively at the Assembly Rooms when the weather failed to allow of their meeting at the two great public gardens. But as the government of the majority of these places invariably became lax—there was only one Beau Nash who had the cleverness to perceive that an autocracy was the only possible form of government for such assemblies—the committee of the Pantheon determined to frame so strict a code of rules, bearing upon the admission of visitors, as should, they believed, prevent the place from falling to the low level of the gardens.
In addition to the charge of half-a-guinea for admission to the rotunda, there were rules which gave the committee the option of practically excluding any person whose presence they might regard as not tending to maintain the high character of the Pantheon; and it was announced in the most decisive way that upon no consideration would actresses be allowed to enter.
The announcements made to this effect were regarded in some directions as eminently salutary. They were applauded by all persons who were sufficiently strict to prevent their wives or daughters from going to those entertainments that possessed little or no supervision. Such persons understood the world and the period so indifferently as to be optimists in regard to the question of the possibility of combining Puritanism and promiscuous entertainments terminating long after midnight. They hailed the arrival of the time when innocent recreation would not be incompatible with the display of the richest dresses or the most sumptuous figures.
But there was another, and a more numerous set, who were very cynical on the subject of the regulation of beauty and fashion at the Pantheon. The best of this set shrugged their shoulders, and expressed the belief that the supervised entertainments would be vastly dull. The worst of them published verses full of cheap sarcasm, and proper names with asterisks artfully introduced in place of vowels, so as to evade the possibility of actions for libel when their allusions were more than usually scandalous.
While the ladies of the committee were applauding one another and declaring that neither threats nor sarcasms would prevail against their resolution, an informal meeting was held at White's of the persons who affirmed that they were more affected than any others by the carrying out of the new regulations; and at the meeting they resolved to make the management aware of the mistake into which they had fallen in endeavouring to discriminate between the classes of their patrons.
When Garrick and his friends reached the Oxford road, as the thoroughfare was then called, the result of this meeting was making itself felt. The road was crowded with people who seemed waiting for something unusual to occur, though of what form it was to assume no one seemed to be aware. The crowd were at any rate good-humoured. They cheered heartily every coach that rolled by bearing splendidly dressed ladies to the Pantheon and to other and less public entertainments. They waved their hats over the chairs which, similarly burdened, went swinging along between the bearers, footmen walking on each side and link-boys running in advance, the glare of their torches giving additional redness to the faces of the hot fellows who had the chair-straps over their shoulders. Every now and again an officer of the Guards would come in for the cheers of the people, and occasionally a jostling match took place between some supercilious young beau and the apprentices, through the midst of whom he attempted to force his way. More than once swords flashed beneath the sickly illumination of the lamps, but the drawers of the weapons regretted their impetuosity the next minute, for they were quickly disarmed, either by the crowd closing with them or jolting them into the kennel, which at no time was savoury. Once, however, a tall young fellow, who had been struck by a stick, drew his sword and stood against a lamp-post preparatory to charging the crowd. It looked as if those who interfered with him would suffer, and a space was soon cleared in front of him. At that instant, however, he was thrown to the ground by the assault of a previously unseen foe: a boy dropped upon him from the lamp-post and sent his sword flying, while the crowd cheered and jeered in turn.
At intervals a roar would arise, and the people would part before the frantic flight of a pickpocket, pursued and belaboured in his rush by a dozen apprentices, who carried sticks and straps, and were well able to use both.
But a few minutes after Garrick, Goldsmith and Burke reached the road, all the energies of the crowds seemed to be directed upon one object, and there was a cry of, “Here they come—here she comes—a cheer for Mrs. Baddeley!”
“O Lord,” cried Garrick, “they have gone so far as to choose Sophia Baddeley for their experiment!”
“Their notion clearly is not to do things by degrees,” said Goldsmith. “They might have begun with a less conspicuous person than Mrs. Baddeley. There are many gradations in colour between black and white.”
“But not between black and White's,” said Burke. “This notion is well worthy of the wit of White's.”
“Sophia is not among the gradations that Goldsmith speaks of,” said Garrick. “But whatever be the result of this jerk into prominence, it cannot fail to increase her popularity at the playhouse.”
“That's the standpoint from which a good manager regards such a scene as this,” said Burke. “Sophia will claim an extra twenty guineas a week after to-night.”
“By my soul!” cried Goldsmith, “she looks as if she would give double that sum to be safe at home in bed.”
The cheers of the crowd increased as the chair containing Mrs. Baddeley, the actress, was borne along, the lady smiling in a half-hearted way through her paint. On each side of the chair, but some short distance in front, were four link-boys in various liveries, shining with gold and silver lace. In place of footmen, however, there walked two rows of gentlemen on each side of the chair. They were all splendidly dressed, and they carried their swords drawn. At the head of the escort on one side was the well known young Lord Conway, and at the other side Mr. Hanger, equally well known as a leader of fashion. Lord Stanley was immediately behind his friend Conway, and almost every other member of the lady's escort was a young nobleman or the heir to a peerage.
The lines extended to a second chair, in which Mrs. Abington was seated, smiling——“Very much more naturally than Mrs. Baddeley,” Burke remarked.
“Oh, yes,” cried Goldsmith, “she was always the better actress. I am fortunate in having her in my new comedy.”
“The Duchesses have become jealous of the sway of Mrs. Abington,” said Garrick, alluding to the fact that the fashions in dress had been for several years controlled by that lovely and accomplished actress.
“And young Lord Conway and his friends have become tired of the sway of the Duchesses,” said Burke.
“My Lord Stanley looked as if he were pretty nigh weary of his Duchess's sway,” said Garrick. “I wonder if he fancies that his joining that band will emancipate him.”
“If so he is in error,” said Burke. “The Duchess of Argyll will never let him out of her clutches till he is safely married to the Lady Betty.”
“Till then, do you say?” said Goldsmith. “Faith, sir, if he fancies he will escape from her clutches by marrying her daughter he must have had a very limited experience of life. Still, I think the lovely young lady is most to be pitied. You heard the cold way he talked of her picture to Reynolds.”
The engagement of Lord Stanley, the heir to the earldom of Derby, to Lady Betty Hamilton, though not formally announced, was understood to be afait accompli; but there were rumours that the young man had of late been making an effort to release himself—that it was only with difficulty the Duchess managed to secure his attendance in public upon her daughter, whose portrait was being painted by Reynolds.
The picturesque procession went slowly along amid the cheers of the crowds, and certainly not without many expressions of familiarity and friendliness toward the two ladies whose beauty of countenance and of dress was made apparent by the flambeaux of the link-boys, which also gleamed upon the thin blades of the ladies' escort. The actresses were plainly more popular than the committee of the Pantheon.
It was only when the crowds were closing in on the end of the procession that a voice cried—
“Woe unto them! Woe unto Aholah and Aholibah! Woe unto ye who follow them to your own destruction! Turn back ere it be too late!” The discordant note came from a Methodist preacher who considered the moment a seasonable one for an admonition against the frivolities of the town.
The people did not seem to agree with him in this matter. They sent up a shout of laughter, and half a dozen youths began a travesty of a Methodist service, introducing all the hysterical cries and moans with which the early followers of Wesley punctuated their prayers. In another direction a ribald parody of a Methodist hymn was sung by women as well as men; but above all the mockery the stern, strident voice of the preacher was heard.
“By my soul,” said Garrick, “that effect is strikingly dramatic. I should like to find some one who would give me a play with such a scene.”
A good-looking young officer in the uniform of the Guards, who was in the act of hurrying past where Garrick and his friends stood, turned suddenly round.
“I'll take your order, sir,” he cried. “Only you will have to pay me handsomely.”
“What, Captain Horneck? Is 't possible that you are a straggler from the escort of the two ladies who are being feted to-night?” said Garrick.
“Hush, man, for Heaven's sake,” cried Captain Horneck—Goldsmith's “Captain in lace.”
“If Mr. Burke had a suspicion that I was associated with such a rout he would, as the guardian of my purse if not of my person, give notice to my Lord Albemarle's trustees, and then the Lord only knows what would happen.” Then he turned to Goldsmith. “Come along, Nolly, my friend,” he cried, putting his arm through Oliver's; “if you want a scene for your new comedy you will find it in the Pantheon to-night. You are not wearing the peach-bloom coat, to be sure, but, Lord, sir! you are not to be resisted, whatever you wear.”
“You, at any rate, are not to be resisted, my gallant Captain,” said Goldsmith. “I have half a mind to see the sport when the ladies' chairs stop at the porch of the Pantheon.”
“As a matter of course you will come,” said young Horneck. “Let us hasten out of range of that howling. What a time for a fellow to begin to preach!”
He hurried Oliver away, taking charge of him through the crowd with his arm across his shoulder. Garrick and Burke followed as rapidly as they could, and Charles Horneck explained to them, as well as to his companion, that he would have been in the escort of the actress, but for the fact that he was about to marry the orphan daughter of Lord Albemarle, and that his mother had entreated him not to do anything that might jeopardise the match.
“You are more discreet than Lord Stanley,” said Garrick.
“Nay,” said Goldsmith. “'Tis not a question of discretion, but of the means to an end. Our Captain in lace fears that his joining the escort would offend his charming bride, but Lord Stanley is only afraid that his act in the same direction will not offend his Duchess.”
“You have hit the nail on the head, as usual, Nolly,” said the Captain. “Poor Stanley is anxious to fly from his charmer through any loop-hole. But he'll not succeed. Why, sir, I'll wager that if her daughter Betty and the Duke were to die, her Grace would marry him herself.”
“Ay, assuming that a third Duke was not forthcoming,” said Burke.
The party found, on approaching the Pantheon, the advantage of being under the guidance of Captain Horneck. Without his aid they would have had considerable difficulty getting near the porch of the building, where the crowds were most dense. The young guardsman, however, pushed his way quite good-humouredly, but not the less effectively, through the people, and was followed by Goldsmith, Garrick and Burke being a little way behind. But as soon as the latter couple came within the light of the hundred lamps which hung around the porch, they were recognised and cheered by the crowd, who made a passage for them to the entrance just as Mrs. Baddeley's chair was set down.
The doors had been hastily closed and half-a-dozen constables stationed in front with their staves. The gentlemen of the escort formed in a line on each side of her chair to the doors, and when the lady stepped out—she could not be persuaded to do so for some time—and walked between the ranks of her admirers, they took off their hats and lowered the points of their swords, bowing to the ground with greater courtesy than they would have shown to either of the royal Duchesses, who just at that period were doing their best to obtain some recognition.
Mrs. Baddeley had rehearsed the “business” of the part which she had to play, but she was so nervous that she forgot her words on finding herself confronted by the constables. She caught sight of Garrick standing at one side of the door with his hat swept behind him as he bowed with exquisite irony as she stopped short, and the force of habit was too much for her. Forgetting that she was playing the part of agrande dame, she turned in an agony of fright to Garrick, raising her hands—one holding a lace handkerchief, the other a fan—crying—
“La! Mr. Garrick, I'm so fluttered that I've forgot my words. Where's the prompter, sir? Pray, what am I to say now?”
“Nay, madam, I am not responsible for this production,” said Garrick gravely, and there was a roar of laughter from the people around the porch.
The young gentlemen who had their swords drawn were, however, extremely serious. They began to perceive the possibility of their heroic plan collapsing into a merry burlesque, and so young Mr. Hanger sprang to the side of the lady.
“Madam,” he cried, “honour me by accepting my escort into the Pantheon. What do you mean, sirrah, by shutting that door in the face of a lady visitor?” he shouted to the liveried porter.
“Sir, we have orders from the management to permit no players to enter,” replied the man.
“Nevertheless, you will permit this lady to enter,” said the young gentleman. “Come, sir, open the doors without a moment's delay.”
“I cannot act contrary to my orders, sir,” replied the man.
“Nay, Mr. Hanger,” replied the frightened actress, “I wish not to be the cause of a disturbance. Pray, sir, let me return to my chair.”
“Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Hanger to his friends, “I know that it is not your will that we should come in active contest with the representatives of authority; but am I right in assuming that it is your desire that our honoured friend, Mrs. Baddeley, should enter the Pantheon?” When the cries of assent came to an end he continued, “Then, sirs, the responsibility for bloodshed rests with those who oppose us. Swords to the front! You will touch no man with a point unless he oppose you. Should a constable assault any of this company you will run him through without mercy. Now, gentlemen.”
In an instant thirty sword-blades were radiating from the lady, and in that fashion an advance was made upon the constables, who for a few moments stood irresolute, but then—the points of a dozen swords were within a yard of their breasts—lowered their staves and slipped quietly aside. The porter, finding himself thus deserted, made no attempt to withstand single-handed an attack converging upon the doors; he hastily went through the porch, leaving the doors wide apart.
To the sound of roars of laughter and shouts of congratulation from the thousands who blocked the road, Mrs. Baddeley and her escort walked through the porch and on to the rotunda beyond, the swords being sheathed at the entrance.
It seemed as if all the rank and fashion of the town had come to the rotunda this night. Peeresses were on the raised dais by the score, some of them laughing, others shaking their heads and doing their best to look scandalised. Only one matron, however, felt it imperative to leave the assembly and to take her daughters with her. She was a lady whose first husband had divorced her, and her daughters were excessively plain, in spite of their masks of paint and powder.
The Duchess of Argyll stood in the centre of the dais by the side of her daughter, Lady Betty Hamilton, her figure as graceful as it had been twenty years before, when she and her sister Maria, who became Countess of Coventry, could not walk down the Mall unless under the protection of a body of soldiers, so closely were they pressed by the fashionable mob anxious to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Miss Gunnings. She had no touch of carmine or powder to obscure the transparency of her complexion, and her wonderful long eyelashes needed no darkening to add to their silken effect. Her neck and shoulders were white, not with the cold whiteness of snow, but with the pearl-like charm of the white rose. The solid roundness of her arms, and the grace of every movement that she made with them, added to the delight of those who looked upon that lovely woman.
Her daughter had only a measure of her mother's charm. Her features were small, and though her figure was pleasing, she suggested nothing of the Duchess's elegance and distinction.
Both mother and daughter looked at first with scorn in their eyes at the lady who stood at one of the doors of the rotunda, surrounded by her body guard; but when they perceived that Lord Stanley was next to her, they exchanged a few words, and the scorn left their eyes. The Duchess even smiled at Lady Ancaster, who stood near her, and Lady Ancaster shrugged her shoulders almost as naturally as if she had been a Frenchwoman.
Cynical people who had been watching the Duchess's change of countenance also shrugged their shoulders (indifferently), saying—
“Her Grace will not be inexorable; the son-in-law upon whom she has set her heart, and tried to set her daughter's heart as well, must not be frightened away.”
Captain Horneck had gone up to hisfiancee.
“You were not in that creature's train, I hope,” said the lady.
“I? Dear child, for what do you take me?” he said. “No, I certainly was not in her train. I was with my friend Dr. Goldsmith.”
“If you had been among that woman's escort, I should never have forgiven you the impropriety,” said she.
(She was inflexible as a girl, but before she had been married more than a year she had run away with her husband's friend, Mr. Scawen.)
By this time Lord Conway had had an interview with the management, and now returned with two of the gentlemen who comprised that body to where Mrs. Baddeley was standing simpering among her admirers.
“Madam,” said Lord Conway, “these gentlemen are anxious to offer you their sincere apologies for the conduct of their servants to-night, and to express the hope that you and your friends will frequently honour them by your patronage.”
And those were the very words uttered by the spokesman of the management, with many humble bows, in the presence of the smiling actress.
“And now you can send for Mrs. Abing-ton,” said Lord Stanley. “She agreed to wait in her chair until this matter was settled.”
“She can take very good care of herself,” said Mrs. Baddeley somewhat curtly. Her fright had now vanished, and she was not disposed to underrate the importance of her victory. She had no particular wish to divide the honours attached to her position with another woman, much less with one who was usually regarded as better-looking than herself. “Mrs. Abington is a little timid, my Lord,” she continued; “she may not find herself quite at home in this assembly.'Tis a monstrous fine place, to be sure; but for my part, I think Vauxhall is richer and in better taste.”
But in spite of the indifference of Mrs. Baddeley, a message was conveyed to Mrs. Abington, who had not left her chair, informing her of the honours which were being done to the lady who had entered the room, and when this news reached her she lost not a moment in hurrying through the porch to the side of her sister actress.
And then a remarkable incident occurred, for the Duchess of Argyll and Lady Ancaster stepped down from their dais and went to the two actresses, offering them hands, and expressing the desire to see them frequently at the assemblies in the rotunda.
The actresses made stage courtesies and returned thanks for the condescension of the great ladies. The cynical ones laughed and shrugged their shoulders once more.
Only Lord Stanley looked chagrined. He perceived that the Duchess was disposed to regard his freak in the most liberal spirit, and he knew that the point of view of the Duchess was the point of view of the Duchess's daughter. He felt rather sad as he reflected upon the laxity of mothers with daughters yet unmarried. Could it be that eligible suitors were growing scarce?
Garrick was highly amused at the little scene that was being played under his eyes; he considered himself a pretty fair judge of comedy, and he was compelled to acknowledge that he had never witnessed any more highly finished exhibition of this form of art.
His friend Goldsmith had not waited at the door for the arrival of Mrs. Abington. He was not wearing any of the gorgeous costumes in which he liked to appear at places of amusement, and so he did not intend to remain in the rotunda for longer than a few minutes; he was only curious to see what would be the result of the bold action of Lord Conway and his friends. But when he was watching the act of condescension on the part of the Duchess and the Countess, and had had his laugh with Burke, he heard a merry voice behind him saying—
“Is Dr. Goldsmith a modern Marius, weeping over the ruin of the Pantheon?”
“Nay,” cried another voice, “Dr. Goldsmith is contemplating the writing of a history of the attempted reformation of society in the eighteenth century, through the agency of a Greek temple known as the Pantheon on the Oxford road.”
He turned and stood face to face with two lovely laughing girls and a handsome elder lady, who was pretending to look scandalised.
“Ah, my dear Jessamy Bride—and my sweet Little Comedy!” he cried, as the girls caught each a hand of his. He had dropped his hat in the act of making his bow to Mrs. Horneck, the mother of the two girls, Mary and Katherine—the latter the wife of Mr. Bunbury. “Mrs. Horneck, madam, I am your servant—and don't I look your servant, too,” he added, remembering that he was not wearing his usual gala dress.
“You look always the same good friend,” said the lady.
“Nay,” laughed Mrs. Bunbury, “if he were your servant he would take care, for the honour of the house, that he was splendidly dressed; it is not that snuff-coloured suit we should have on him, but something gorgeous. What would you say to a peach-bloom coat, Dr. Goldsmith?”
(His coat of this tint had become a family joke among the Hornecks and Bun-burys.)
“Well, if the bloom remain on the peach it would be well enough in your company, madam,” said Goldsmith, with a face of humorous gravity. “But a peach with the bloom off would be more congenial to the Pantheon after to-night.” He gave a glance in the direction of the group of actresses and their admirers.
Mrs. Horneck looked serious, her two daughters looked demurely down.
“The air is tainted,” said Goldsmith, solemnly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bunbury, with a charming mock demureness. “'T is as you say: the Pantheon will soon become as amusing as Ranelagh.”
“I said not so, madam,” cried Goldsmith, shaking-his head. “As amusing—-amusing——”
“As Ranelagh. Those were your exact words, Doctor, I assure you,” protested Little Comedy. “Were they not, Mary?”
“Oh, undoubtedly those were his words—only he did not utter them,” replied the Jessamy Bride.
“There, now, you will not surely deny your words in the face of two such witnesses!” said Mrs. Bunbury.
“I could deny nothing to two such faces,” said Goldsmith, “even though one of the faces is that of a little dunce who could talk of Marius weeping over the Pantheon.”
“And why should not he weep over the Pantheon if he saw good cause for it?” she inquired, with her chin in the air.
“Ah, why not indeed? Only he was never within reach of it, my dear,” said Goldsmith.
“Psha! I daresay Marius was no better than he need be,” cried the young lady.
“Few men are even so good as it is necessary for them to be,” said Oliver.
“That depends upon their own views as to the need of being good,” remarked Mary.
“And so I say that Marius most likely made many excursions to the Pantheon without the knowledge of his biographer,” cried her sister, with an air of worldly wisdom of which a recent bride was so well qualified to be an exponent.
“'Twere vain to attempt to contend against such wisdom,” said Goldsmith.
“Nay, all things are possible, with a Professor of Ancient History to the Royal Academy of Arts,” said a lady who had come up with Burke at that moment—a small but very elegant lady with distinction in every movement, and withal having eyes sparkling with humour.
Goldsmith bowed low—again over his fallen hat, on the crown of which Little Comedy set a very dainty foot with an aspect of the sweetest unconsciousness. She was a tom-boy down to the sole of that dainty foot.
“In the presence of Mrs. Thrale,” Goldsmith began, but seeing the ill-treatment to which his hat was subjected, he became confused, and the compliment which he had been elaborating dwindled away in a murmur.
“Is it not the business of a professor to contend with wisdom, Dr. Goldsmith?” said Mrs. Thrale.
“Madam, if you say that it is so, I will prove that you are wrong by declining to argue out the matter with you,” said the Professor of Ancient History.
Miss Horneck's face shone with appreciation of her dear friend's quickness; but the lively Mrs. Thrale was, as usual, too much engrossed in her own efforts to be brilliant to be able to pay any attention to the words of so clumsy a person as Oliver Goldsmith, and one who, moreover, declined to join with so many other distinguished persons in accepting her patronage.
She found it to her advantage to launch into a series of sarcasms—most of which had been said at least once before—at the expense of the Duchess of Argyll and Lady Ancaster, and finding that Goldsmith was more busily, engaged in listening to Mrs. Bunbury's mock apologies for the injury she had done to his hat than in attending to herjeux d'esprit, she turned her back upon him, and gave Burke and Mrs. Horneck the benefit of her remarks.
Goldsmith continued taking part in the fun made by Little Comedy, pointing out to her the details of his hat's disfigurement, when, suddenly turning in the direction of Mary Horneck, who was standing behind her mother, the jocular remark died on his lips. He saw the expression of dismay—worse than dismay—which was on the girl's face as she gazed across the rotunda.