He went for supper to a tavern which he knew would be visited by none of his friends. He had no wish to share in the drolleries of Garrick as the latter turned Boswell into ridicule to make sport for the company. He knew that Garrick would be at the club in Gerrard street, to which he had been elected only a few days before the production of “She Stoops to Conquer,” and it was not at all unlikely that on this account the club would be a good deal livelier than it usually was even when Richard Burke was wittiest.
While awaiting the modest fare which he had ordered he picked up one of the papers published that evening, and found that it contained a fierce assault upon him for having dared to take the law into his own hands in attempting to punish the scoundrel who had introduced the name of Miss Horneck into his libel upon the author of the comedy about which all the town were talking.
The scurrility of his new assailant produced no impression upon him. He smiled as he read the ungrammatical expression of the indignation which the writer purported to feel at so gross an infringement of the liberty of the press as that of which—according to the writer—the ingenious Dr. Goldsmith was guilty. He did not even fling the paper across the room. He was not dwelling upon his own grievances. In his mind, the worst that could happen to him was not worth a moment's thought compared with the position of the girl whose presence he had just left.
He knew perfectly well—had he not good reason to know?—that the man who had threatened her would keep his threat. He knew of the gross nature of the libels which were published daily upon not merely the most notable persons in society, but also upon ordinary private individuals; and he had a sufficient knowledge of men and women to be aware of the fact that the grossest scandal upon the most innocent person was more eagerly read than any of the other contents of the prints of the day. That was one of the results of the publication of the scurrilities of Junius: the appetite of the people for such piquant fare was whetted, and there was no lack of literary cooks to prepare it. Slander was all that the public demanded. They did not make the brilliancy of Junius one of the conditions of their acceptance of such compositions—all they required was that the libel should have a certain amount of piquancy.
No one was better aware of this fact than Oliver Goldsmith. He knew that Kenrick, who had so frequently libelled him, would pay all the money that he could raise to obtain the letters which the man who called himself Captain Jackson had in his possession; he also knew that there would be no difficulty in finding a publisher for them; and as people were always much more ready to believe evil than good regarding any one—especially a young girl against whom no suspicion had ever been breathed—the result of the publication of the letters would mean practically ruin to the girl who had been innocent enough to write them.
Of course, a man of the world, with money at his hand, would have smiled at the possibility of a question arising as to the attitude to assume in regard to such a scoundrel as Jackson. He would merely inquire what sum the fellow required in exchange for the letters. But Goldsmith was in such matters as innocent as the girl herself. He believed, as she did, that because the man did not make any monetary claim upon her, he was not sordid. He was the more inclined to disregard the question of the possibility of buying the man off, knowing as he did that he should find it impossible to raise a sufficient sum for the purpose; and he believed, with Mary Horneck, that to tell her friends how she was situated would be to forfeit their respect forever.
She had told him that only cunning could prevail against her enemy, and he felt certain that she was right. He would try and be cunning for her sake.
He found great difficulty in making a beginning. He remembered how often in his life, and how easily, he had been imposed upon—how often his friends had entreated him to acquire this talent, since he had certainly not been endowed with it by nature. He remembered how upon some occasions he had endeavoured to take their advice; and he also remembered how, when he thought he had been extremely shrewd, it turned out that he had never been more clearly imposed upon.
He wondered if it was too late to begin again on a more approved system.
He brought his skill as a writer of fiction to bear upon the question (which maybe taken as evidence that he had not yet begun his career of shrewdness).
How, for instance, would he, if the exigencies of his story required it, cause Moses Primrose to develop into a man of resources in worldly wisdom? By what means would he turn Honeywood into a cynical man of the world?
He considered these questions at considerable length, and only when he reached the Temple, returning to his chambers, did he find out that the waiter at the tavern had given him change for a guinea two shillings short, and that half-a-crown of the change was made of pewter. He could not help being amused at his first step towards cunning. He certainly felt no vexation at being made so easy a victim of—he was accustomed to that position.
When he found that the roll of manuscript which he had thrust between the bars of the grate remained as he had left it, only slightly charred at the end which had been the nearer to the hot, though not burning, coals, all thoughts of guile—all his prospects of shrewdness were cast aside. He unfolded the pages and read the verses once more. After all, he had no right to burn them. He felt that they were no longer his property. They either belonged to the world of literature or to Mary Horneck, as—as what? As a token of affection which he bore her? But he had promised Johnson to root out of his heart whatever might remain of that which he had admitted to be foolishness.
Alas! alas! He sat up for hours in his cold rooms thinking, hoping, dreaming his old dream that a day was coming when he might without reproach put those verses into the girl's hand—when, learning the truth, she would understand.
And that time did come.
In the morning he found himself ready to face the question of how to get possession of the letters. No man of his imagination could give his attention to such a matter without having suggested to him many schemes for the attainment of his object. But in the end he was painfully aware that he had contrived nothing that did not involve the risk of a criminal prosecution against himself, and, as a consequence, the discovery of all that Mary Horneck was anxious to hide.
It was not until the afternoon that he came to the conclusion that it would be unwise for him to trust to his own resources in this particular affair. After all, he was but a man; it required the craft of a woman to defeat the wiles of such a demon as he had to deal with.
That he knew to be a wise conclusion to come to. But where was the woman to whom he could go for help? He wanted to find a woman who was accustomed to the wiles of the devil, and he believed that he should have considerable difficulty in finding her.
He was, of course, wrong. He had not been considering this aspect of the question for long before he thought of Mrs. Abington, and in a moment he knew that he had found a woman who could help him if she had a mind to do so. Her acquaintance with wiles he knew to be large and varied, and he liked her.
He liked her so well that he felt sure she would help him—if he made it worth her while; and he thought he saw his way to make it worth her while.
He was so convinced he was on the way to success that he became impatient at the reflection that he could not possibly see Mrs. Abington until the evening. But while he was in this state his servant announced a visitor—one with whom he was not familiar, but who gave his name as Colonel Gwyn.
Full of surprise, he ordered Colonel Gwyn to be shown into the room. He recollected having met him at a dinner at the Reynolds's, and once at the Hornecks' house in Westminster; but why he should pay a visit to Brick Court Goldsmith was at a loss to know. He, however, greeted Colonel Gwyn as if he considered it to be one of the most natural occurrences in the world for him to appear at that particular moment.
“Dr. Goldsmith,” said the visitor when he had seated himself, “you have no doubt every reason to be surprised at my taking the liberty of calling upon you without first communicating with you.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Goldsmith. “'Tis a great compliment you offer to me. Bear in mind that I am sensible of it, sir.”
“You are very kind, sir. Those who have a right to speak on the subject have frequently referred to you as the most generous of men.”
“Oh, sir, I perceive that you have been talking with some persons whose generosity was more noteworthy than their judgment.”
And once again he gave an example of the Goldsmith bow which Garrick had so successfully caricatured.
“Nay, Dr. Goldsmith, if I thought so I would not be here to-day. The fact is, sir, that I—I—i' faith, sir, I scarce know how to tell you how it is I appear before you in this fashion.”
“You do not need to have an excuse, I do assure you, Colonel Gwyn. You are a friend of my best friend—Sir Joshua Reynolds.”
“Yes, sir, and of other friends, too, I would fain hope. In short, Dr. Goldsmith, I am here because I know how highly you stand in the esteem of—of—well, of all the members of the Horneck family.”
It was now Goldsmith's turn to stammer. He was so surprised by the way his visitor introduced the name of the Hor-necks he scarcely knew what reply to make to him.
“I perceive that you are surprised, sir.” said Gwyn.
“No, no—not at all—that is—no, not greatly surprised—only—well, sir, why should you not be a friend of Mrs. Horneck? Her son is like yourself, a soldier,” stammered Goldsmith.
“I have taken the liberty of calling more than once during the past week or two upon the Hornecks, Dr. Goldsmith,” said Gwyn; “but upon no occasion have I been fortunate enough to see Miss Horneck. They told me she was by no means well.”
“And they told you the truth, sir,” said Goldsmith somewhat brusquely.
“You know it then? Miss Horneck is really indisposed? Ah! I feared that they were merely excusing her presence on the ground of illness. I must confess a headache was not specified.”
“Nay, sir, Miss Horneck's relations are not destitute of imagination. But why should you fancy that you were being deceived by them, Colonel Gwyn?”
Colonel Gwyn laughed slightly, not freely.
“I thought that the lady herself might think, perhaps, that I was taking a liberty,” he said somewhat awkwardly.
“Why should she think that, Colonel Gwyn?” asked Goldsmith.
“Well, Dr. Goldsmith, you see—sir, you are, I know, a favoured friend of the lady's—I perceived long ago—nay, it is well known that she regards you with great affection as a—no, not as a father—no, as—as an elder brother, that is it—yes, as an elder brother; and therefore I thought that I would venture to intrude upon you to-day. Sir, to be quite frank with you, I love Miss Horneck, but I hesitate—as I am sure you could understand that any man must—before declaring myself to her. Now, it occurred to me, Dr. Goldsmith, that you might not conceive it to be a gross impertinence on my part if I were to ask you if you knew of the lady's affections being already engaged. I hope you will be frank with me, sir.”
Goldsmith looked with curious eyes at the man before him. Colonel Gwyn was a well built man of perhaps a year or two over thirty. He sat upright on his chair—a trifle stiffly, it might be thought by some people, but that was pardonable in a military man. He was also somewhat inclined to be pompous in his manners; but any one could perceive that they were the manners of a gentleman.
Goldsmith looked earnestly at him. Was that the man who was to take Mary Horneck away from him? he asked himself.
He could not speak for some time after his visitor had spoken. At last he gave a little start.
“You should not have come to me, sir,” he said slowly.
“I felt that I was taking a great liberty, sir,” said Gwyn.
“On the contrary, sir, I feel that you have honoured me with your confidence. But—ah, sir, do you fancy that I am the sort of man a lady would seek for a confidant in any matter concerning her heart?”
“I thought it possible that she—Miss Horneck—might have let you know. You are not as other men, Dr. Goldsmith; you are a poet, and so she might naturally feel that you would be interested in a love affair. Poets, all the world knows, sir, have a sort of—well, a sort of vested interest in the love affairs of humanity, so to speak.”
“Yes, sir, that is the decree of Heaven, I suppose, to compensate them for the emptiness in their own hearts to which they must become accustomed. I have heard of childless women becoming the nurses to the children of their happier sisters, and growing as fond of them as if they were their own offspring. It is on the same principle, I suppose, that poets become sympathetically interested in the world of lovers, which is quite apart from the world of letters.”
Goldsmith spoke slowly, looking his visitor in the face. He had no difficulty in perceiving that Colonel Gwyn failed to understand the exact appropriateness of what he had said. Colonel Gwyn himself admitted as much.
“I protest, sir, I scarcely take your meaning,” he said. “But for that matter, I fear that I was scarcely fortunate enough to make myself quite plain to you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Goldsmith, “I think I gathered from your words all that you came hither to learn. Briefly, Colonel Gwyn, you are reluctant to subject yourself to the humiliation of having your suit rejected by the lady, and so you have come hither to try and learn from me what are your chances of success.”
“How admirably you put the matter!” said Gwyn. “And I fancied you did not apprehend the purport of my visit. Well, sir, what chance have I?”
“I cannot tell,” said Goldsmith. “Miss Horneck has never told me that she loved any man.”
“Then I have still a chance?”
“Nay, sir; girls do not usually confide the story of their attachments to their fathers—no, nor to their elder brothers. But if you wish to consider your chances with any lady, Colonel Gwyn, I would venture to advise you to go and stand in front of a looking-glass and ask yourself if you are the manner of man to whom a young lady would be likely to become attached. Add to the effect of your personality—which I think is great, sir—the glamour that surrounds the profession in which you have won distinction, and you will be able to judge for yourself whether your suit would be likely to be refused by the majority of young ladies.”
“You flatter me, Dr. Goldsmith. But, assuming for a moment that there is some force in your words, I protest that they do not reassure me. Miss Horneck, sir, is not the lady to be carried away by the considerations that would prevail in the eyes of others of her sex.”
“You have learned something of Miss Horneck, at any rate, Colonel Gwyn.”
“I think I have, sir. When I think of her, I feel despondent. Does the man exist who would be worthy of her love?”
“He does not, Colonel Gwyn. But that is no reason why she may not love some man. Does a woman only give her love to one who is worthy of it? It is fortunate for men that that is not the way with women.
“It is fortunate; and in that reflection, sir, I find my greatest consolation at the present moment. I am not a bad man, Dr. Goldsmith—not as men go—there is in my lifetime nothing that I have cause to be ashamed of; but, I repeat, when I think of her sweetness, her purity, her tenderness, I am overcome with a sense of my own presumption in aspiring to win her. You think me presumptuous in this matter, I am convinced, sir.”
“I do—I do. I know Mary Horneck.”
“I give you my word that I am better satisfied with your agreement with me in this respect than I should be if you were to flatter me. Allow me to thank you for your great courtesy to me, sir. You have not sent me away without hope, and I trust that I may assume, Dr. Goldsmith, that I have your good wishes in this matter, which I hold to be vital to my happiness.”
“Colonel Gwyn, my wishes—my prayers to Heaven are that Mary Horneck may be happy.”
“And I ask for nothing more, sir. There is my hand on it.”
Oliver Goldsmith took the hand that he but dimly saw stretched out to him.
Never for a moment had Goldsmith felt jealous of the younger men who were understood to be admirers of the Jessamy Bride. He had made humourous verses on some of them, Henry Bunbury had supplied comic illustrations, and Mary and her sister had had their laugh. He could not even now feel jealous of Colonel Gwyn, though he knew that he was a more eligible suitor than the majority whom he had met from time to time at the Hornecks' house. He knew that since Colonel Gwyn had appeared the girl had no thoughts to give to love and suitors. If Gwyn were to go to her immediately and offer himself as a suitor he would meet with a disappointment.
Yes; at the moment he had no reason to feel jealous of the man who had just left him. On the contrary, he felt that he had a right to be exultant at the thought that it was he—he—Oliver Goldsmith—who had been entrusted by Mary Horneck with her secret—with the duty of saving her from the scoundrel who was persecuting her.
Colonel Gwyn was a soldier, and yet it was to him that this knight's enterprise had fallen.
He felt that he had every reason to be proud. He had been placed in a position which was certainly quite new to him. He was to compass the rescue of the maiden in distress; and had he not heard of innumerable instances in which the reward of success in such, an undertaking was the hand of the maiden?
For half an hour he felt exultant. He had boldly faced an adverse fate all his life; he had grappled with a cruel destiny; and, though the struggle had lasted all his life, he had come out the conqueror. He had become the most distinguished man of letters in England. As Professor at the Royal Academy his superiority had been acknowledged by the most eminent men of the period. And then, although he was plain of face and awkward in manner—nearly as awkward, if far from being so offensive, as Johnson—he had been appointed her own knight by the loveliest girl in England. He felt that he had reason to exult.
But then the reaction came. He thought of himself as compared with Colonel Gwyn—he thought of himself as a suitor by the side of Colonel Gwyn. What would the world say of a girl who would choose him in preference to Colonel Gwyn? He had told Gwyn to survey himself in a mirror in order to learn what chance he would have of being accepted as the lover of a lovely girl. Was he willing to apply the same test to himself?
He had not the courage to glance toward even the small glass which he had—a glass which could reflect only a small portion of his plainness.
He remained seated in his chair for a long time, being saved from complete despair only by the reflection that it was he who was entrusted with the task of freeing Mary Horneck from the enemy who had planned her destruction. This was his one agreeable reflection, and after a time it, too, became tempered by the thought that all his task was still before him: he had taken no step toward saving her.
He started up, called for a lamp, and proceeded to dress himself for the evening. He would dine at a coffee house in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden Theatre, and visit Mrs. Abington in the green room while his play—in which she did not appear—was being acted on the stage.
He was unfortunate enough to meet Boswell in the coffee house, so that his design of thinking out, while at dinner, the course which he should pursue in regard to the actress—how far he would be safe in confiding in her—was frustrated.
The little Scotchman was in great grief: Johnson had actually quarrelled with him—well, not exactly quarrelled, for it required two to make a quarel, and Boswell had steadily refused to contribute to such a disaster. Johnson, however, was so overwhelming a personality in Boswell's eyes he could almost make a quarrel without the assistance of a second person.
“Psha! Sir,” said Goldsmith, “you know as little of Dr. Johnson as you do of the Irish nation and their characteristics.”
“Perhaps that is so, but I felt that I was getting to know him,” said Boswell. “But now all is over; he will never see me again.”
“Nay, man, cannot you perceive that he is only assuming this attitude in order to give you a chance of knowing him better?” said Goldsmith.
“For the life of me I cannot see how that could be,” cried Boswell after a contemplative pause.
“Why, sir, you must perceive that he wishes to impress you with a consciousness of his generosity.”
“What, by quarrelling with me and declaring that he would never see me again?”
“No, not in that way, though I believe there are some people who would feel that it was an act of generosity on Dr. Johnson's part to remain secluded for a space in order to give the rest of the world a chance of talking together.”
“What does it matter about the rest of the world, sir?”
“Not much, I suppose I should say, since he means me to be his biographer.”
Boswell, of course, utterly failed to appreciate the sly tone in which the Irishman spoke, and took him up quite seriously.
“Is it possible that he has been in communication with you, Dr. Goldsmith?” he cried anxiously.
“I will not divulge Dr. Johnson's secrets, sir,” replied Goldsmith, with an affectation of the manner of the man who a short time before had said that Shakespeare was pompous.
“Now you are imitating him,” said Boswell. “But I perceive that he has told you of our quarrel—our misunderstanding. It arose through you, sir.”
“Through me, sir?”
“Through the visit of your relative, the Dean, after we had dined at the Crown and Anchor. You see, he bound me down to promise him to tell no one of that unhappy occurrence, sir; and yet he heard that Garrick has lately been mimicking the Dean—yes, down to his very words, at the Reynolds's, and so he came to the conclusion that Garrick was made acquainted with the whole story by me. He sent for me yesterday, and upbraided me for half an hour.”
“To whom did you give an account of the affair, sir?”
“To no human being, sir.”
“Oh, come now, you must have given it to some one.”
“To no one, sir—that is, no one from whom Garrick could possibly have had the story.”
“Ah, I knew, and so did Johnson, that it would be out of the question to expect that you would hold your tongue on so interesting a secret. Well, perhaps this will be a lesson to you in the future. I must not fail to make an entire chapter of this in my biography of our great friend. Perhaps you would do me the favour to write down a clear and as nearly accurate an account as your pride will allow of your quarrel with the Doctor, sir. Such an account would be an amazing assistance to posterity in forming an estimate of the character of Johnson.”
“Ah, sir, am I not sufficiently humiliated by the reflection that my friendly relations with the man whom I revere more than any living human being are irretrievably ruptured? You will not add to the poignancy of that reflection by asking me to write down an account of our quarrel in order to perpetuate so deplorable an incident?”
“Sir, I perceive that you are as yet ignorant of the duties of the true biographer. You seem to think that a biographer has a right to pick and choose the incidents with which he has to deal—that he may, if he please, omit the mention of any occurrence that may tend to show his hero or his hero's friends in an unfavourable light. Sir, I tell you frankly that your notions of biography are as erroneous as they are mischievous. Mr. Boswell, I am a more conscientious man, and so, sir, I insist on your writing down while they are still fresh in your mind the very words that passed between you and Dr. Johnson on this matter, and you will also furnish me with a list of the persons—if you have not sufficient paper at your lodgings for the purpose, you can order a ream at the stationer's at the corner—to whom you gave an account of the humiliation of Dr. Johnson by the clergyman who claimed relationship with me, but who was an impostor. Come, Mr. Boswell, be a man, sir; do not seek to avoid so obvious a duty.”
Boswell looked at him, but, as usual, failed to detect the least gleam of a smile on his face.
He rose from the table and walked out of the coffee house without a word.
“Thank heaven I have got rid of that Peeping Tom,” muttered Goldsmith. “If I had acted otherwise in regard to him I should not have been out of hearing of his rasping tongue until midnight.”
(The very next morning a letter from Boswell was brought to him. It told him that he had sought Johnson the previous evening, and had obtained his forgiveness. “You were right, sir,” the letter concluded. “Dr. Johnson has still further impressed me with a sense of his generosity.”)
But as soon as Boswell had been got rid of Goldsmith hastened to the playhouse in order to consult with the lady who—through long practice—was, he believed, the most ably qualified of her sex to give him advice as to the best way of getting the better of a scoundrel. It was only when he was entering the green room that he recollected he had not yet made up his mind as to the exact limitations he should put upon his confidence with Mrs. Abington.
The beautiful actress was standing in one of those picturesque attitudes which she loved to assume, at one end of the long room. The second act only of “She Stoops to Conquer” had been reached, and as she did not appear in the comedy, she had no need to begin dressing for the next piece. She wore a favourite dress of hers—one which had taken the town by storm a few months before, and which had been imitated by every lady of quality who had more respect for fashion than for herself. It was a negligently flowing gown of some soft but heavy fabric, very low and loose about the neck and shoulders.
“Ha, my little hero,” cried the lady when Goldsmith approached and made his bow, first to a group of players who stood near the door, and then to Mrs. Abington. “Ha, my little hero, whom have you been drubbing last? Oh, lud! to think of your beating a critic! Your courage sets us all a-dying of envy. How we should love to pommel some of our critics! There was a rumour last night that the man had died, Dr. Goldsmith.”
“The fellow would not pay such a tribute to my powers, depend on't, madam,” said Goldsmith.
“Not if he could avoid it, I am certain,” said she. “Faith, sir, you gave him a pretty fair drubbing, anyhow.' Twas the talk of the playhouse, I give you my word. Some vastly pretty things were said about you, Dr. Goldsmith. It would turn your head if I were to repeat them all. For instance, a gentleman in this very room last night said that it was the first case that had come under his notice of a doctor's making an attempt upon a man's life, except through the legitimate professional channel.”
“If all the pretty things that were spoken were no prettier than that, Mrs. Abington, you will not turn my head,” said Goldsmith. “Though, for that matter, I vow that to effect such a purpose you only need to stand before me in that dress—ay, or any other.”
“Oh, sir, I protest that I cannot stand before such a fusillade of compliment—I sink under it, sir—thus,” and she made an exquisite courtesy. “Talk of turning heads! do you fancy that actresses' heads are as immovable as their hearts, Dr. Goldsmith?”
“I trust that their hearts are less so, madam, for just now I am extremely anxious that the heart of the most beautiful and most accomplished should be moved,” said Goldsmith.
“You have only to give me your word that you have written as good a comedy as 'She Stoops to Conquer,' with a better part for me in it than that of Miss Hardcastle.”
“I have the design of one in my head, madam.”
“Then, faith, sir, 'tis lucky that I did not say anything to turn your head. Dr. Goldsmith, my heart is moved already. See how easy it is for a great author to effect his object where a poor actress is concerned. And you have begun the comedy, sir?”
“I cannot begin it until I get rid of a certain tragedy that is in the air. I want your assistance in that direction.”
“What! Do you mistake the farce of drubbing a critic for a tragedy, Dr. Goldsmith?”
“Psha, madam! What do you take me for? Even if I were as poor a critic as Kenrick I could still discriminate between one and t' other. Can you give me half an hour of your time, Mrs. Abington?”
“With all pleasure, sir. We shall sit down. You wear a tragedy face, Dr. Goldsmith.”
“I need to do so, madam, as I think you will allow when you hear all I have to tell you.”
“Oh, lud! You frighten me. Pray begin, sir.”
“How shall I begin? Have you ever had to encounter the devil, madam?”
“Frequently, sir. Alas! I fear that I have not always prevailed against him as successfully as you did in your encounter with one of his family—a critic. Your story promises to be more interesting than your face suggested.”
“I have to encounter a devil, Mrs. Abington, and I come to you for help.”
“Then you must tell me if your devil is male or female. If the former I think I can promise you my help; if the latter, do not count on me. When the foul fiend assumes the form of an angel of light—which I take to be the way St. Paul meant to convey the idea of a woman—he is too powerful for me, I frankly confess.”
“Mine is a male fiend.”
“Not the manager of a theatre—another form of the same hue?”
“Nay, dear madam, there are degrees of blackness.”
“Ah, yes; positive bad, comparative Baddeley, superlative Colman.”
“If I could compose a phrase like that, Mrs. Abington, I should be the greatest wit in London, and ruin my life going from coffee house to coffee house repeating it.”
“Pray do not tell Mrs. Baddeley that I made it, sir.”
“How could I, madam, when you have just told me that a she-devil was more than you could cope with?”
And now, sir, to face the particulars—to proceed from the fancy embroidery of wit to the solid fabric of fact—who or what is the aggressive demon that you want exorcised?”
“His name is Jackson—he calls himself Captain Jackson,” replied Oliver. He had not made up his mind how much he should tell of Mary Horneck's story. He blamed Boswell for interrupting his consideration of this point after he had dined; though it is doubtful if he would have made any substantial advance in that direction even if the unhappy Scotchman had not thrust himself and his grievance upon him.
“Jackson—Captain Jackson!” cried the actress. “Why, Dr. Goldsmith, this is a very little fiend that you ask me to help you to destroy. Surely, sir, he can be crushed without my assistance. One does not ask for a battering-ram to overturn a house of cards—one does not requisition a park of artillery to demolish a sparrow.”
“Nay, but if a blunderbuss be not handy, one should avail oneself of the power of a piece of ordnance,” said Goldsmith. “The truth is, madam, that in this matter I represent only the blunder of the blunderbuss.”
“If you drift into wit, sir, we shall never get on. I know 'tis hard for you to avoid it; but time is flying. What has this Captain Jackson been doing that he must be sacrificed? You must be straight with me.”
“I'm afraid it has actually come to that. Well, Mrs. Abington, in brief, there is a lady in the question.”
“Oh! you need scarce dwell on so inevitable an incident as that; I was waiting for the lady.”
“She is the most charming of her sex, madam.”
“I never knew one that wasn't. Don't waste time over anything that may be taken for granted.”
“Unhappily she was all unacquainted with the wickedness of men.”
“I wonder in what part of the world she lived—certainly not in London.”
“Staying with a relation in the country this fellow Jackson appeared upon the scene——”
“Ah! the most ancient story that the world knows: Innocence, the garden, the serpent. Alas! sir, there is no return to the Garden of Innocence, even though the serpent be slaughtered.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Abington”—Goldsmith spoke slowly and gravely—“pardon me. This real story is not so commonplace as that of my Olivia. Destiny has more resources than the most imaginative composer of fiction.”
In as direct a fashion as possible he told the actress the pitiful story of how Mary Horneck was imposed upon by the glamour of the man who let it be understood that he was a hero, only incapacitated by a wound from taking any further part in the campaign against the rebels in America; and how he refused to return her the letters which she had written to him, but had threatened to print them in such a way as would give them the appearance of having been written by a guilty woman.
“The lady is prostrated with grief,” he said, concluding his story. “The very contemplation of the possibility of her letters being printed is killing her, and I am convinced that she would not survive the shame of knowing that the scoundrel had carried out his infamous threat.”
“'Tis a sad story indeed,” said Mrs. Abington. “The man is as bad as bad can be. He claimed acquaintance with me on that famous night at the Pantheon, though I must confess that I had only a vague recollection of meeting him before his regiment was ordered across the Atlantic to quell the rebellion in the plantations. Only two days ago I heard that he had been drummed out of the army, and that he had sunk to the lowest point possible for a man to fall to in this world. But surely you know that all the fellow wants is to levy what was termed on the border of Scotland 'blackmail' upon the unhappy girl. 'Tis merely a question of guineas, Dr. Goldsmith. You perceive that? You are a man?”
“That was indeed my first belief; but, on consideration, I have come to think that he is fiend enough to aim only at the ruin of the girl,” said Goldsmith.
“Psha! sir, I believe not in this high standard of crime. I believe not in the self-sacrifice of such fellows for the sake of their principles,” cried the lady. “Go to the fellow with your guineas and shake them in a bag under his nose, and you shall quickly see how soon he will forego the dramatic elements in his attitude, and make an ignoble grab at the coins.”
“You may be right,” said he. “But whence are the guineas to come, pray?”
“Surely the lady's friends will not see her lost for the sake of a couple of hundred pounds.”
“Nay; but her aim is to keep the matter from the ears of her friends! She would be overcome with shame were it to reach their ears that she had written letters of affection to such a man.”
“She must be a singularly unpractical young lady, Dr. Goldsmith.”
“If she had not been more than innocent would she, think you, have allowed herself to be imposed on by a stranger?”
“Alas, sir, if there were no ladies like her in the world, you gentlemen who delight us with your works of fiction would have to rely solely on your imagination; and that means going to another world. But to return to the matter before us; you wish to obtain possession of the letters? How do you suggest that I can help you to accomplish that purpose?”
“Why, madam, it is you to whom I come for suggestions. I saw the man in conversation with you first at the Pantheon, and then in this very room. It occurred to me that perhaps—it might be possible—in short, Mrs. Abington, that you might know of some way by which the scoundrel could be entrapped.”
“You compliment me, sir. You think that the entrapping of unwary men—and of wary—is what nature and art have fitted me for—nature and practice?”
“I cannot conceive a higher compliment being paid to a woman, dear madam. But, in truth, I came to you because you are the only lady with whom I am acquainted who with a kind heart combines the highest intelligence. That is why you are our greatest actress. The highest intelligence is valueless on the stage unless it is associated with a heart that beats in sympathy with the sorrow and becomes exultant with the joy of others. That is why I regard myself as more than fortunate in having your promise to accept a part in my next comedy.”
Mrs. Abington smiled as she saw through the very transparent art of the author, reminding her that she would have her reward if she helped him out of his difficulty.
“I can understand how ladies look on you with great favour, sir,” said the actress. “Yes, in spite of your being—being—ah—innocent—a poet, and of possessing other disqualifications, you are a delightful man, Dr. Goldsmith; and by heaven, sir, I shall do what I can to—to—well, shall we say to put you in a position of earning the lady's gratitude?”
“That is the position I long for, dear madam.”
“Yes, but only to have the privilege of foregoing your claim. I know you, Dr. Goldsmith. Well, supposing you come to see me here in a day or two—that will give both of us a chance of still further considering the possibility of successfully entrapping our friend the Captain. I believe it was the lady who suggested the trap to you; you, being a man, were doubtless for running your enemy through the vitals or for cutting his throat without the delay of a moment.”
“Your judgment is unerring, Mrs. Abington.”
“Ah, you see, it is the birds that have been in the trap who know most about it. Besides, does not our dear dead friend Will Shakespeare say, 'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps'?”
“Those are his words, madam, though at this moment I cannot quite perceive their bearing.”
“Oh, lud! Why, dear sir, Cupid's mother's daughters resemble their little step-brother in being fond of a change of weapons, and you, sir, I perceive, have been the victim of a dart. Now, I must hasten to dress for my part or there will be what Mr. Daly of Smock Alley, Dublin, used to term 'ructions.'”
She gave him her hand with a delightful smile and hurried off, but not before he had bowed over her hand, imprinting on it a clumsy but very effective kiss.
He remained in the theatre until the close of the performance; for he was not so utterly devoid of guile as not to know that if he had departed without witnessing Mrs. Abington in the second piece she would have regarded him as far from civil. Seeing him in a side box, however, that clever lady perceived that he had taste as well as tact. She felt that it was a pleasure to do anything for such a man—especially as he was a writer of plays. It would be an additional pleasure to her if she could so interpret a character in a play of his that the play should be the most notable success of the season.
As Goldsmith strolled back to his chambers he felt that he had made some progress in the enterprise with which he had been entrusted. He did not feel elated, but only tranquilly confident that his judgment had not been at fault when it suer-gested to him the propriety of consulting with Mrs. Abington. This was the first time that propriety and Mrs. Abington were associated.
The next day he got a message that the success of his play was consolidated by a “command” performance at which the whole of his Majesty's Court would attend. This news elated him, not only because it meant the complete success of the play and the overthrow of the sentimentalists who were still harping upon the “low” elements of certain scenes, but also because he accepted it as an incident of good augury. He felt certain that Mrs. Abington would have discovered a plan by which he should be able to get possession of the letters.
When he went to her after the lapse of a few days, he found that she had not been unmindful of his interests.
“The fellow had the effrontery to stand beside my chair in the Mall yesterday,” said she, “but I tolerated him—nay, I encouraged him—not for your sake, mind; I do not want you to fancy that you interest me, but for the sake of the unhappy girl who was so nearly making a shocking fool of herself. Only one girl interests me more than she who nearly makes a fool of herself, and that is she who actually makes the fool of herself.”
“Alas! alas! the latter is more widely represented in this evil world, Mrs. Abing ton,” said Oliver, so gravely that the actress roared with laughter.
“You have too fine a comedy face to be sentimental, Dr. Goldsmith,” she said. “But to business. I tell you I even smiled upon the gentleman, for I have found that the traps which are netted with silk are invariably the most effective.”
“You have found that by your experience of traps?” said Goldsmith. “The smile is the silken net?”
“Even so,” said she, giving an excellent example of the fatal mesh. “Ah, Dr. Goldsmith, you would do well to avoid the woman who smiles on you.”
“Alas! madam, the caution is thrown away upon me; she smiles not on me, but at me.”
“Thank heaven for that, sir. No harm will come to you through being smiled at. How I stray from my text! Well, sir, the wretch, in response to the encouragement of my smile, had the effrontery to ask me for my private address, upon which I smiled again. Ah, sir, 'tis diverting when the fly begins to lure on the spider.”
“'Tis vastly diverting, madam, I doubt not—to the fly.”
“Ay, and to the friends of the spider. But we shall let that pass. Sir, to be brief, I did not let the gentleman know that I had a private address, but I invited him to partake of supper with me on the next Thursday night.”
“Heavens! madam, you do not mean to tell me that your interest on my behalf——”
“Is sufficiently great to lead me to sup with a spider? Sir, I say that I am only interested in my sister-fly—would she be angry if she were to hear that such a woman as I even thought of her as a sister?”
There was a note of pathos in the question, which did not fall unnoticed upon Goldsmith's ear.
“Madam,” said he, “she is a Christian woman.”
“Ah, Dr. Goldsmith,” said the actress, “a very small amount of Christian charity is thought sufficient for the equipment of a Christian woman. Let that pass, however; what I want of you is to join us at supper on Thursday night. It is to take place in the Shakespeare tavern round the corner, and, of course, in a private room; but I do not want you to appear boldly, as if I had invited you beforehand to partake of my hospitality. You must come into the room when we have begun, carrying with you a roll of manuscript, which you must tell me contains a scene of your new comedy, upon which we are daily in consultation, mind you.”
“I shall not fail to recollect,” said Goldsmith. “Why, 'tis like the argument of a comedy, Mrs. Abingdon; I protest I never invented one more elaborate. I rather fear to enter upon it.”
“Nay, you must be in no trepidation, sir,” said the lady. “I think I know the powers of the various members of the cast of this little drama of mine, so you need not think that you will be put into a part which you will not be able to play to perfection.”
“You are giving me a lesson in playwriting. Pray continue the argument. When I enter with the imaginary scene of my new piece, you will, I trust, ask me to remain to supper; you see I grudge the gentleman the pleasure of your society for even an hour.”
“I will ask you to join us at the table, and then—well, then I have a notion that between us we should have no great difficulty making our friend drink a sufficient quantity of wine to cause him to make known all his secrets to us, even as to where he keeps those precious letters of his.”
Oliver's face did not exhibit any expression that the actress could possibly interpret as a flattering tribute to her ingenuity—the fact being that he was greatly disappointed at the result of her contriving. Her design was on a level of ingenuity with that which might occur to a romantic school miss. Of course the idea upon which it was founded had formed the basis of more than one comedy—he had a notion that if these comedies had not been written Mrs. Abing ton's scheme would not have been so clearly defined.
She perceived the expression on his face and rightly interpreted it.
“What, sir!” she cried. “Do you fail to perceive the singular ingenuity of my scheme? Nay, you must remember that 'tis my first attempt—not at scheming, to be sure, but at inventing a design for a play.”
“I would not shrink from making use of your design if I were writing a play, dear lady,” said he. “But then, you see, it would be in my power to make my villain speak at the right moments and hold his peace at the right moments. It would also be in my power to make him confess all that was necessary for the situation. But alas! madam, it makes me sometimes quite hopeless of Nature to find how frequently she disregards the most ordinary precepts of art.”
“Psha! sir,” said the actress. “Nothing in this world is certain. I am a poor moralist, but I recognise the fact, and make it the guide of my life. At the same time I have noticed that, although one's carefully arranged plans are daily thrown into terrible disorder by the slovenliness of the actors to whom we assign certain parts and certain dialogue, yet in the end nature makes even a more satisfactory drama out of the ruins of our schemes than we originally designed. So, in this case, sir, I am not without hope that even though our gentleman's lips remain sealed—nay, even though our gentleman remain sober—a great calamity—we may still be able to accomplish our purpose. You will keep your ears open and I shall keep my eyes open, and it will be strange if between us we cannot get the better of so commonplace a scoundrel.”
“I place myself unreservedly in your hands, madam,” said Oliver; “and I can only repeat what you have said so well—namely, that even the most clumsy of our schemes—which this one of yours certainly is not—may become the basis of a most ingenious drama, designed and carried out by that singularly adroit playwright, Destiny. And so I shall not fail you on Thursday evening.”