He was so greatly amazed he could only sit looking mutely at the scattered letters on the table in front of him. He was even more amazed at finding them there than he had been the night before at not finding them in the wallet which he had taken from Jackson's waistcoat. He thought he had arrived at a satisfactory explanation as to how he had come to find within the wallet the sheets of manuscript which he had had in his hand on entering the supper room; but how was he to account for the appearance of the letters in this parcel which he had received from Mrs. Abington?
So perplexed was he that he failed for sometime to grasp the truth—to appreciate what was meant by the appearance of those letters on his table. But so soon as it dawned upon him that they meant safety and happiness to Mary, he sprang from his seat and almost shouted for joy. She was saved. He had checkmated the villain who had sought her ruin and who had the means to accomplish it, too. It was his astuteness that had caused him to go to Mrs. Abington and ask for her help in accomplishing the task with which he had been entrusted. He had, after all, not been mistaken in applying to a woman to help him to defeat the devilish scheme of a pitiless ruffian, and Mary Horneck had not been mistaken when she had singled him out to be her champion, though all men and most women would have ridiculed the idea of his assuming the rôle of a knight-errant.
His elation at that moment was in proportion to his depression, his despair, his humiliation when he had last been in his room. His nature knew nothing but extremes. Before retiring to his chamber in the early morning, he had felt that life contained nothing but misery for him; but now he felt that a future of happiness was in store for him—his imagination failed to set any limits to the possibility of his future happiness. He laughed at the thought of how he had resolved to go to Mary and advise her to intrust her cause to Colonel Gwyn. The thought of Colonel Gwyn convulsed him just now. With all his means, could Colonel Gwyn have accomplished all that he, Oliver Goldsmith, had accomplished?
He doubted it. Colonel Gwyn might be a good sort of fellow in spite of his formal manner, his army training, and his incapacity to see a jest, but it was doubtful if he could have brought to a successful conclusion so delicate an enterprise as that which he—Goldsmith—had accomplished. Gwyn would most likely have scorned to apply to Mrs. Abington to help him, and that was just where he would have made a huge mistake. Any man who thought to get the better of the devil without the aid of a woman was a fool. He felt more strongly convinced of the truth of this as he stood with his back to the fire in his grate than he had been when he had found the wallet containing only his own manuscript. The previous half-hour had naturally changed his views of man and woman and Providence and the world.
When he had picked up the letters and locked them in his desk, he ate some breakfast, wondering all the while by what means Mrs. Abington had obtained those precious writings; and after giving the matter an hour's thought, he came to the conclusion that she must have felt the wallet in the pocket of the man's cloak when she had left the table pretending to be shocked at the disloyal expressions of her guest—she must have felt the wallet and have contrived to extract the letters from it, substituting for them the sham act of the play which excused his entrance to the supper-room.
The more he thought over the matter, the more convinced he became that the wily lady had effected her purpose in the way, he conjectured. He recollected that she had been for a considerable time on the chair with the cloak—much longer than was necessary for Jackson to drink the treasonable toast; and when she returned to the table, it was only to turn him out of the room upon a very shallow pretext. What a fool he had been to fancy that she was in a genuine passion when she had flung her glass of wine in the face of her guest because he had addressed her as Mrs. Baddeley!
He had been amazed at the anger displayed by her in regard to that particular incident, but later he had thought it possible that she had acted the part of a jealous woman to give him a better chance of getting the wallet out of the man's waistcoat pocket. Now, however, he clearly perceived that her anxiety was to get out of the room in order to place the letters beyond the man's hands.
Once again he laughed, saying out loud—
“Ah, I was right—a woman's wiles only are superior to the strategy of a devil!â€
Then he became more contemplative. The most joyful hour of his life was at hand. He asked himself how his dear Jessamy Bride would receive the letters which he was about to take to her. He did not think of himself in connection with her gratitude. He left himself altogether out of consideration in this matter. He only thought of how the girl's face would lighten—how the white roses which he had last seen on her cheeks would change to red when he put the letters into her hand, and she felt that she was safe.
That was the reward for which he looked. He knew that he would feel bitterly disappointed if he failed to see the change of the roses on her face—if he failed to hear her fill the air with the music of her laughter. And then—then she would be happy for evermore, and he would be happy through witnessing her happiness.
He finished dressing, and was in the act of going to his desk for the letters, which he hoped she would soon hold in her hand, when his servant announced two visitors.
Signor Baretti, accompanied by a tall and very thin man, entered. The former greeted Goldsmith, and introduced his friend, who was a compatriot of his own, named Nicolo.
“I have not forgotten the matter which you honoured me by placing in my hands,†said Baretti. “My friend Nicolo is a master of the art of fencing as practised in Italy in the present day. He is under the impression, singular though it may seem, that he spoke to you more than once during your wanderings in Tuscany.â€
“And now I am sure of it,†said Nicolo in French. He explained that he spoke French rather better than English. “Yes, I was a student at Pisa when Dr. Goldsmith visited that city. I have no difficulty in recognising him.â€
“And I, for my part, have a conviction that I have seen your face, sir,†said Goldsmith, also speaking in French; “I cannot, however, recall the circumstances of our first meeting. Can you supply the deficiency in my memory, sir?â€
“There was a students' society that met at the Boccaleone,†said Signor Nicolo.
“I recollect it distinctly; Figli della Torre, you called yourselves,†said Goldsmith quickly. “You were one of the orators—quite reckless, if you will permit me to say so much.â€
The man smiled somewhat grimly.
“If he had not been utterly reckless he would not be in England to-day,†said Baretti. “Like myself, he is compelled to face your detestable climate on account of some indiscreet references to the Italian government, which he would certainly repeat to-morrow were he back again.â€
“It brings me back to Tuscany once more, to see your face, Signor Nicolo,†said Goldsmith. “Yes, though your Excellency had not so much of a beard and mustacio when I saw you some years ago.â€
“Nay, sir, nor was your Lordship's coat quite so admirable then as it is now, if I am not too bold to make so free a comment, sir,†said the man with another grim smile.
“You are not quite right, my friend,†laughed Goldsmith; “for if my memory serves me—and it does so usually on the matter of dress—I had no coat whatsoever to my back—that was of no importance in Pisa, where the air was full of patriotism.â€
“The most dangerous epidemic that could occur in any country,†said Baretti. “There is no Black Death that has claimed so many victims. We are examples—Nicolo and I. I am compelled to teach Italian to a brewer's daughter, and Nicolo is willing to transform the most clumsy Englishman—and there are a good number of them, too—into an expert swordsman in twelve lessons—yes, if the pupil will but practise sufficiently afterwards.â€
“We need not talk of business just now,†said Goldsmith. “I insist on my old friends sharing a bottle of wine with me. I shall drink to 'patriotism,' since it is the means of sending to my poor room two such excellent friends as the Signori Baretti and Nicolo.â€
He rang the bell, and gave his servant directions to fetch a couple of bottles of the old Madeira which Lord Clare had recently sent to him—very recently, otherwise three bottles out of the dozen would not have remained.
The wine had scarcely been uncorked when the sound of a man's step was heard upon the stairs, and in a moment Captain Jackson burst into the room.
“I have found you, you rascal!†he shouted, swaggering across the room to where Goldsmith was seated. “Now, my good fellow, I give you just one minute to restore to me those letters which you abstracted from my pocket last night.â€
“And I give you just one minute to leave my room, you drunken blackguard,†said Goldsmith, laying a hand on the arm of Signor Nicolo, who was in the act of rising. “Come, sir,†he continued, “I submitted to your insults last night because I had a purpose to carry out; but I promise you that I give you no such license in my own house. Take your carcase away, sir; my friends have fastidious nostrils.â€
Jackson's face became purple and then white. His lips receded from his gums until his teeth were seen as the teeth of a wolf when it is too cowardly to attack.
“You cur!†he said through his set teeth. “I don't know what prevents me from running you through the body.â€
“Do you not? I do,†said Goldsmith. He had taken the second bottle of wine off the table, and was toying with it in his hands.
“Come, sir,†said the bully after a pause; “I don't wish to go to Sir John Fielding for a warrant for your arrest for stealing my property, but, by the Lord, if you don't hand over those letters to me now I will not spare you. I shall have you taken into custody as a thief before an hour has passed.â€
“Go to Sir John, my friend, and tell him that Dick Jackson, American spy, is anxious to hang himself, and mention that one Oliver Goldsmith has at hand the rope that will rid the world of one of its greatest scoundrels,†said Goldsmith.
Jackson took a step or two back, and put his hand to his sword. In a second both Baretti and Nicolo had touched the hilts of their weapons. The bully looked from the one to the other, and then laughed harshly.
“My little poet,†he said in a mocking voice, “you fancy that because you have got a letter or two you have drawn my teeth. Let me tell you for your information that I have something in my possession that I can use as I meant to use the letters.â€
“And I tell you that if you use it, whatever it is, by God I shall kill you, were you thrice the scoundrel that you are!†cried Goldsmith, leaping up.
There was scarcely a pause before the whistle of the man's sword through the air was heard; but Baretti gave Goldsmith a push that sent him behind a chair, and then quietly interposed between him and Jackson.
“Pardon me, sir,†said he, bowing to Jackson, “but we cannot permit you to stick an unarmed man. Your attempt to do so in our presence my friend and I regard as a grave affront to us.â€
“Then let one of you draw!†shouted the man. “I see that you are Frenchmen, and I have cut the throat of a good many of your race. Draw, sir, and I shall add you to the Frenchies that I have sent to hell.â€
“Nay, sir, I wear spectacles, as you doubtless perceive,†said Baretti. “I do not wish my glasses to be smashed; but my friend here, though a weaker man, may possibly not decline to fight with so contemptible a ruffian as you undoubtedly are.â€
He spoke a few words to Nicolo in Italian, and in a second the latter had whisked out his sword and had stepped between Jackson and Baretti, putting quietly aside the fierce lunge which the former made when Baretti had turned partly round.
“Briccone! assassin!†hissed Baretti. “You saw that he meant to kill me, Nicolo,†he said addressing his friend in their own tongue.
“He shall pay for it,†whispered Nicolo, pushing back a chair with his foot until Goldsmith lifted it and several other pieces of furniture out of the way, so as to make a clear space in the room.
“Don't kill him, friend Nicolo,†he cried. “We used to enjoy a sausage or two in the old days at Pisa. You can make sausage-meat of a carcase without absolutely killing the beast.â€
The fencing-master smiled grimly, but spoke no word.
Jackson seemed puzzled for a few moments, and Baretti roared with laughter, watching him hang back. The laugh of the Italian—it was not melodious—acted as a goad upon him. He rushed upon Nicolo, trying to beat down his guard, but his antagonist did not yield a single inch. He did not even cease to smile as he parried the attack. His expression resembled that of an indulgent chess player when a lad who has airily offered to play with him opens the game.
After a few minutes' fencing, during which the Italian declined to attack, Jackson drew back and lowered the point of his sword.
“Take a chair, sir,†said Baretti, grinning. “You will have need of one before my friend has finished with you.â€
Goldsmith said nothing. The man had grossly insulted him the evening before, and he had made Mary Horneck wretched; but he could not taunt him now that he was at the mercy of a master-swordsman. He watched the man breathing hard, and then nerving himself for another attack upon the Italian.
Jackson's second attempt to get Nicolo within the range of his sword was no more successful than his first. He was no despicable fencer, but his antagonist could afford to play with him. The sound of his hard breathing was a contrast to the only other sound in the room—the grating of steel against steel.
Then the smile upon the sallow face of the fencing-master seemed gradually to vanish. He became more than serious—surely his expression was one of apprehension.
Goldsmith became somewhat excited. He grasped Baretti by the arm, as one of Jackson's thrusts passed within half an inch of his antagonist's shoulder, and for the first time Nicolo took a hasty step back, and in doing so barely succeeded in protecting himself against a fierce lunge of the other man.
It was now Jackson's turn to laugh. He gave a contemptuous chuckle as he pressed forward to follow up his advantage. He did not succeed in touching Nicolo, though he went very close to him more than once, and now it was plain that the Italian was greatly exhausted. He was breathing hard, and the look of apprehension on his face had increased until it had actually become one of terror. Jackson did not fail to perceive this, and malignant triumph was in every feature of his face. Any one could see that he felt confident of tiring out the visibly fatigued Italian, and Goldsmith, with staring eyes, once again clutched Baretti.
Baretti's yellow skin became wrinkled up to the meeting place of his wig and forehead in smiles.
“I should like the third button of his coat for a memento, Sandrino,†said he.
In an instant there was a quivering flash through the air, and the third paste button off Jackson's coat indented the wall just above Baretti's head and fell at his feet, a scrap of the satin of the coat flying behind it like the little pennon on a lance.
“Heavens!†whispered Goldsmith.
“Ah, friend Nicolo was always a great humourist,†said Baretti. “For God's sake, Sandrino, throw them high into the air. The rush of that last was like a bullet.â€
Up to the ceiling flashed another button, and fell back upon the coat from which it was torn.
And still Nicolo fenced away with that look of apprehension still on his face.
“That is his fun,†said Baretti. “Oh, body of Bacchus! A great humourist!â€
The next button that Nicolo cutoff with the point of his sword he caught in his left hand and threw to Goldsmith, who also caught it.
The look of triumph vanished from Jackson's face. He drew back, but his antagonist would not allow him to lower his sword, but followed him round the room untiringly. He had ceased his pretence of breathing heavily, but apparently his right arm was tired, for he had thrown his sword into his left hand, and was now fencing from that side.
Suddenly the air became filled with floating scraps of silk and satin. They quivered to right and left, like butterflies settling down upon a meadow; they fluttered about by the hundred, making a pretty spectacle. Jackson's coat and waistcoat were in tatters, yet with such consummate dexterity did the fencingmaster cut the pieces out of both garments that Goldsmith utterly failed to see the swordplay that produced so amazing a result. Nicolo seemed to be fencing pretty much as usual.
And then a curious incident occurred, for the front part of one of the man's pocket fell on the floor.
With an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap on the floor. The pocked being cut away, a packet of letters, held against the lining by a few threads of silk, became visible, and in another moment Nicolo had spitted them on his sword, and laid them on the table in a single flash. Goldsmith knew by the look that Jackson cast at them that they were the batch of letters which he had received in the course of his traffic with the American rebels.
“Come, Sandrino,†said Baretti, affecting to yawn. “Finish the rascal off, and let us go to that excellent bottle of Madeira which awaits us. Come, sir, the carrion is not worth more than you have given him; he has kept us from our wine too long already.â€
With a curiously tricky turn of the wrist, the master cut off the right sleeve of the man's coat close to his shoulder, and drew it in a flash over his sword. The disclosing of the man's naked arm and the hiding of the greater part of his weapon were comical in the extreme; and with an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap upon the floor, thoroughly exhausted.
0349
Baretti picked up the sword, broke the blade across his knee, and flung the pieces into a corner, the tattered sleeve still entangled in the guard.
“John,†shouted Goldsmith to his servant, who was not far off. (He had witnessed the duel through the keyhole of the door until it became too exciting, and then he had put his head into the room.) “John, give that man your oldest coat. It shall never be said that I turned a man naked out of my house.†When John Eyles had left the room, Oliver turned to the half-naked panting man. “You are possibly the most contemptible bully and coward alive,†said he. “You did not hesitate to try and accomplish the ruin of the sweetest girl in the world, and you came here with intent to murder me because I succeeded in saving her from your clutches. If I let you go now, it is because I know that in these letters, which I mean to keep, I have such evidence against you as will hang you whenever I see fit to use it, and I promise you to use it if you are in this country at the end of two days. Now, leave this house, and thank my servant for giving you his coat, and this gentlemanâ€â€”he pointed to Nicolo—“for such a lesson in fencing as, I suppose, you never before received.â€
The man rose, painfully and laboriously, and took the coat with which John Eyles returned. He looked at Goldsmith from head to foot.
“You contemptible cur!†he said, “I have not yet done with you. You have now stolen the second packet of letters; but, by the Lord, if one of them passes out of your hands it will be avenged. I have friends in pretty high places, let me tell you.â€
“I do not doubt it,†said Baretti. “The gallows is a high enough place for you and your friends.â€
The ruffian turned upon him in a fury.
“Look to yourself, you foreign hound!†he said, his face becoming livid, and his lips receding from his mouth so as to leave his wolf-fangs bare as before. “Look to yourself. You broke my sword after luring me on to be made a fool of for your sport. Look to yourself!â€
“Turn that rascal into the street, John,†cried Goldsmith, and John bustled forward. There was fighting in the air. If it came to blows he flattered himself that he could give an interesting exhibition of his powers—not quite so showy, perhaps, as that given by the Italian, but one which he was certain was more English in its style.
“No one shall lay a hand on me,†said Jackson. “Do you fancy that I am anxious to remain in such a company?â€
“Come, sir; you are in my charge, now,†said John, hustling him to the door. “Come—out with you—sharp!â€
In the room they heard the sound of the man descending the stairs slowly and painfully. They became aware of his pause in the lobby below to put on the coat which John had given to him, and a moment later they saw him walk in the direction of the Temple lodge.
Then Goldsmith turned to Signor Nicolo, who was examining one of the prints that Hogarth had presented to his early friend, who had hung them on his wall.
“You came at an opportune moment, my friend,†said he. “You have not only saved my life, you have afforded me such entertainment as I never have known before. Sir, you are certainly the greatest living master of your art.â€
“The best swordsman is the best patriot,†said Baretti.
“That is why so many of your countrymen live in England,†said Goldsmith.
“Alas! yes,†said Nicolo. “Happily you Englishmen are not good patriots, or you would not be able to live in England.â€
“I am not an Englishman,†said Goldsmith. “I am an Irish patriot, and therefore I find it more convenient to live out of Ireland. Perhaps it is not good patriotism to say, as I do, 'Better to live in England than to starve in Ireland.' And talking of starving, sirs, reminds me that my dinner hour is nigh. What say you, Signor Nicolo? What say you, Baretti? Will you honour me with your company to dinner at the Crown and Anchor an hour hence? We shall chat over the old days at Pisa and the prospects of the Figli della Torre, Signor Nicolo. We cannot stay here, for it will take my servant and Mrs. Ginger a good two hours to sweep up the fragments of that rascal's garments. Lord! what a patchwork quilt Dr. Johnson's friend Mrs. Williams could make if she were nigh.â€
“Patchwork should not only be made, it should be used by the blind,†said Baretti. “Touching the dinner you so hospitably propose, I have no engagement for to-day, and I dare swear that Nicolo has none either.â€
“He has taken part in one engagement, at least,†said Goldsmith,
“And I am now at your service,†said the fencing-master.
They went out together, Goldsmith with the precious letters in his pocket—the second batch he put in the place of Mary Hor-neck's in his desk—and, parting at Fleet street, they agreed to meet at the Crown and Anchor in an hour.
It was with a feeling of deep satisfaction, such as he had never before known, that Goldsmith walked westward to Mrs. Horneck's house. All the exhilaration that he had experienced by watching the extraordinary exhibition of adroitness on the part of the fencingmaster remained with him. The exhibition had, of course, been a trifle bizarre. It had more than a suspicion of the art of the mountebank about it. For instance, Nicolo's pretence of being overmatched early in the contest—breathing hard and assuming a terrified expression—yielding his ground and allowing his opponent almost to run him through—could only be regarded as theatrical; while his tricks with the buttons and the letters, though amazing, were akin to the devices of a rope-dancer. But this fact did not prevent the whole scene from having an exhilarating effect upon Goldsmith, more especially as it represented his repayment of the debt which he owed to Jackson.
And now to this feeling was added that of the greatest joy of his life in having it in his power to remove from the sweetest girl in the world the terror which she believed to be hanging over her head. He felt that every step which he was taking westward was bringing him nearer to the realisation of his longing-his longing to see the white roses on Mary's cheeks change to red once more.
It was a disappointment to him to learn that Mary had gone down to Barton with the Bunburys. Her mother, who met him in the hall, told him this with a grave face as she brought him into a parlour.
“I think she expected you to call during the past ten days, Dr. Goldsmith,†said the lady. “I believe that she was more than a little disappointed that you could not find time to come to her.â€
“Was she, indeed? Did she really expect me to call?†he asked. This fresh proof of the confidence which the Jessamy Bride reposed in him was very dear to him. She had not merely entrusted him with her enterprise on the chance of his being able to save her; she had had confidence in his ability to save her, and had looked for his coming to tell her of his success.
“She seemed very anxious to see you,†said Mrs. Horneck. “I fear, dear Dr. Goldsmith, that my poor child has something on her mind. That is her sister's idea also. And yet it is impossible that she should have any secret trouble; she has not been out of our sight since her visit to Devonshire last year. At that time she had, I believe, some silly, girlish fancy—my brother wrote to me that there had been in his neighbourhood a certain attractive man, an officer who had returned home with a wound received in the war with the American rebels. But surely she has got over that foolishness!â€
“Ah, yes. You may take my word for it, madam, she has got over that foolishness,†said Goldsmith. “You may take my word for it that when she sees me the roses will return to her cheeks.â€
“I do hope so,†said Mrs. Horneck. “Yes, you could always contrive to make her merry, Dr. Goldsmith. We have all missed you lately; we feared that that disgraceful letter in thePackethad affected you. That was why my son called upon you at your rooms. I hope he assured you that nothing it contained would interfere with our friendship.â€
“That was very kind of you, my dear madam,†said he; “but I have seen Mary since that thing appeared.â€
“To be sure you have. Did you not think that she looked very ill?â€
“Very ill indeed, madam; but I am ready to give you my assurance that when I have been half an hour with her she will be on the way to recovery. You have not, I fear, much confidence in my skill as a doctor of medicine, and, to tell you the truth, whatever your confidence in this direction may amount to, it is a great deal more than what I myself have. Still, I think you will say something in my favour when you see Mary's condition begin to improve from the moment we have a little chat together.â€
“That is wherein I have the amplest confidence in you, dear Dr. Goldsmith. Your chat with her will do more for her than all the medicine the most skilful of physicians could prescribe. It was a very inopportune time for her to fall sick.â€
“I think that all sicknesses are inopportune. But why Mary's?â€
“Well, I have good reason to believe, Dr. Goldsmith, that had she not steadfastly refused to see a certain gentleman who has been greatly attracted by her, I might now have some happy news to convey to you.â€
“The gentleman's name is Colonel Gwyn, I think.â€
He spoke in a low voice and after a long pause.
“Ah, you have guessed it, then? You have perceived that the gentleman was drawn toward her?†said the lady smiling.
“I have every reason to believe in his sincerity,†said Goldsmith. “And you think that if Mary had been as well as she usually has been, she would have listened to his proposals, madam?â€
“Why should she not have done so, sir?†said Mrs. Horneck.
“Why not, indeed?â€
“Colonel Gwyn would be a very suitable match for her,†said she. “He is, to be sure, several years her senior; that, however, is nothing.â€
“You think so—you think that a disparity in age should mean nothing in such a case?†said Oliver, rather eagerly.
“How could any one be so narrowminded as to think otherwise?†cried Mrs. Horneck. “Whoever may think otherwise, sir, I certainly do not. I hope I am too good a mother, Dr. Goldsmith. Nay, sir, I could not stand between my daughter and happiness on such a pretext as a difference in years. After all, Colonel Gwyn is but a year or two over thirty—thirty-seven, I believe—but he does not look more than thirty-five.â€
“No one more cordially agrees with you than myself on the point to which you give emphasis, madam,†said Goldsmith. “And you think that Mary will see Colonel Gwyn when she returns?â€
“I hope so; and therefore I hope, dear sir, that you will exert yourself so that the bloom will be brought back to her cheeks,†said the lady. “That is your duty, Doctor; remember that, I pray. You are to bring back the bloom to her cheeks in order that Colonel Gwyn may be doubly attracted to her.â€
“I understand—I understand.â€
He spoke slowly, gravely.
“I knew you would help us,†said Mrs. Horneck, “and so I hope that you will lose no time in coming to us after Mary's return to-morrow. Your Jessamy Bride will, I trust, be a real bride before many days have passed.â€
Yes, that was his duty: to help Mary to happiness. Not for him, not for him was the bloom to be brought again to her cheeks—not for him, but for another man. For him were the sleepless nights, the anxious days, the hours of thought—all the anxiety and all the danger resulting from facing an unscrupulous scoundrel. For another man was the joy of putting his lips upon the delicate bloom of her cheeks, the joy of taking her sweet form into his arms, of dwelling daily in her smiles, of being for evermore beside her, of feeling hourly the pride of so priceless a possession as her love.
That was his thought as he walked along the Strand with bent head; and yet, before he had reached the Crown and Anchor, he said—
“Even so; I am satisfied—I am satisfied.â€
It chanced that Dr. Johnson was in the tavern with Steevens, and Goldsmith persuaded both to join his party. He was glad that he succeeded in doing so, for he had felt it was quite possible that Baretti might inquire of him respecting the object of Jackson's visit to Brick Court, and he could not well explain to the Italian the nature of the enterprise which he had so successfully carried out by the aid of Mrs. Abington. It was one thing to take Mrs. Abington into his confidence, and quite another to confide in Baretti. He was discriminating enough to be well aware of the fact that, while the secret was perfectly safe in the keeping of the actress, it would be by no means equally so if confided to Baretti, although some people might laugh at him for entertaining an opinion so contrary to that which was generally accepted by the world, Mrs. Abington being a woman and Baretti a man.
He had perceived long ago that Baretti was extremely anxious to learn all about Jackson—that he was wondering how he, Goldsmith, should have become mixed up in a matter which was apparently of imperial importance, for at the mention of the American rebels Baretti had opened his eyes. He was, therefore, glad that the talk at the table was so general as to prevent any allusion being made to the incidents of the day.
Dr. Johnson made Signor Nicolo acquainted with a few important facts regarding the use of the sword and the limitations of that weapon, which the Italian accepted with wonderful gravity; and when Goldsmith, on the conversation drifting into the question of patriotism and its trials, declared that a successful patriot was susceptible of being defined as a man who loved his country for the benefit of himself, Dr. Johnson roared out—
“Sir, that is very good. If Mr. Boswell were here—and indeed, sir, I am glad that he is not—he would say that your definition was so good as to make him certain you had stolen it from me.â€
“Nay, sir, 'tis not so good as to have been stolen from you,†said Goldsmith.
“Sir,†said Dr. Johnson, “I did not say that it was good enough to have been stolen from me. I only said that it was good enough to make a very foolish person suppose that it was stolen from me. No sensible person, Dr. Goldsmith, would believe, first, that you would steal; secondly, that you would steal from me; thirdly, that I would give you a chance of stealing from me; and fourthly, that I would compose an apophthegm which when it comes to be closely examined is not so good after all. Now, sir, are you satisfied with the extent of my agreement with you?â€
“Sir, I am more than satisfied,†said Goldsmith, while Nicolo, the cunning master of fence, sat by with a puzzled look on his saffron face. This was a kind of fencing of which he had had no previous experience.
After dining Goldsmith made the excuse of being required at the theatre, to leave his friends. He was anxious to return thanks to Mrs. Abington for managing so adroitly to accomplish in a moment all that he had hoped to do.
He found the lady not in the green room, but in her dressing room; her costume was not, however, the less fascinating, nor was her smile the less subtle as she gave him her hand to kiss. He knelt on one knee, holding her hand to his lips; he was too much overcome to be able to speak, and she knew it. She did not mind how long he held her hand; she was quite accustomed to such demonstrations, though few, she well knew, were of equal sincerity to those of Oliver Goldsmith's.
“Well, my poet,†she said at last, “have you need of my services to banish any more demons from the neighbourhood of your friends?â€
“I was right,†he managed to say after another pause, “yes, I knew I was not mistaken in you, my dear lady.â€
“Yes; you knew that I was equal to combat the wiles of the craftiest demon that ever undertook the slandering of a fair damsel,†said she. “Well, sir, you paid me a doubtful compliment—a more doubtful compliment than the fair damsel paid to you in asking you to be her champion. But you have not told me of your adventurous journey with our friend in the hackney coach.â€
“Nay,†he cried, “it is you who have not yet told me by what means you became possessed of the letters which I wanted—by what magic you substituted for them the mock act of the comedy which I carried with me into the supper room.â€
“Psha, sir!†said she, “'twas a simple matter, after all. I gathered from a remark the fellow made when laying his cloak across the chair, that he had the letters in one of the pockets of that same cloak. He gave me a hint that a certain Ned Cripps, who shares his lodging, is not to be trusted, so that he was obliged to carry about with him every document on which he places a value. Well, sir, my well known loyalty naturally received a great shock when he offered to drink to the American rebels, and you saw that I left the table hastily. A minute or so sufficed me to discover the wallet with the letters; but then I was at my wits' end to find something to occupy their place in the receptacle. Happily my eye caught the roll of your manuscript, which lay in your hat on the floor beneath the chair, and heigh! presto! the trick was played. I had a sufficient appreciation of dramatic incident to keep me hoping all the night that you would be able to get possession of the wallet, believing it contained the letters for which you were in search. Lord, sir! I tried to picture your face when you drew out your own papers.†The actress lay back on her couch and roared with laughter, Goldsmith joining in quite pleasantly.
“Ah!†he said; “I can fancy that I see at this moment the expression which my face wore at the time. But the sequel to the story is the most humourous. I succeeded last night in picking the fellow's pocket, but he paid me a visit this afternoon with the intent of recovering what he termed his property.â€
“Oh, lud! Call you that humourous? How did you rid yourself of him?â€
At the story of the fight which had taken place in Brick Court, Mrs. Abington laughed heartily after a few breathless moments.
“By my faith, sir!†she cried; “I would give ten guineas to have been there. But believe me, Dr. Goldsmith,†she added a moment afterwards, “you will live in great jeopardy so long as that fellow remains in the town.â€
“Nay, my dear,†said he. “It was Baretti whom he threatened as he left my room—not I. He knows that I have now in my possession such documents as would hang him.â€
“Why, is not that the very reason why he should make an attempt upon your life?†cried the actress. “He may try to kill Baretti on a point of sentiment, but assuredly he will do his best to slaughter you as a matter of business.â€
“Faith, madam, since you put it that way I do believe that there is something in what you say,†said Goldsmith. “So I will e'en take a hackney-coach to the Temple and get the stalwart Ginger to escort me to the very door of my chambers.â€
“Do so, sir. I am awaiting with great interest the part which you have yet to write for me in a comedy.â€
“I swear to you that it will be the best part ever written by me, my dear friend. You have earned my everlasting gratitude.â€
“Ah! was the lady so grateful as all that?†cried the actress, looking at him with one of those arch smiles of hers which even Sir Joshua Reynolds could not quite translate to show the next century what manner of woman was the first Lady Teazle, for the part of the capricious young wife of the elderly Sir Peter was woven around the fascinating country girl's smile of Mrs. Abington.
Goldsmith kept his word. He took a hackney-coach to the Temple, and was alert all the time he was driving lest Jackson and his friends might be waiting to make an attack upon him. He reached his chambers without any adventure, however, and on locking his doors, took out the second parcel of letters and set himself to peruse their contents.
He had no need to read them all—the first that came to his hand was sufficient to make him aware of the nature of the correspondence. It was perfectly plain that the man had been endeavouring to traffic with the rebels, and it was equally certain that the rebel leaders had shown themselves to be too honourable to take advantage of the offers which he had made to them. If this correspondence had come into the hands of Cornwallis he would have hanged the fellow on the nearest tree instead of merely turning him out of his regiment and shipping him back to England as a suspected traitor.
As he locked the letters once again in his desk he felt that there was indeed every reason to fear that Jackson would not rest until he had obtained possession of such damning evidence of his guilt. He would certainly either make the attempt to get back the letters, or leave the country, in order to avoid the irretrievable ruin which would fall upon him if any one of the packet went into the hands of a magistrate; and Goldsmith was strongly of the belief that the man would adopt the former course.
Only for an instant, as he laid down the compromising document, did he ask himself how it was possible that Mary Horneck should ever have been so blind as to be attracted to such a man, and to believe in his honesty.
He knew enough of the nature of womankind to be aware of the glamour which attaches to a soldier who has been wounded in fighting the enemies of his country. If Mary had been less womanly than she showed herself to be, he would not have loved her so well as he did. Her womanly weaknesses were dear to him, and the painful evidence that he had of the tenderness of her heart only made him feel that she was all the more a woman, and therefore all the more to be loved.
It was the afternoon of the next day before he set out once more for the Hornecks.
He meant to see Mary, and then go on to Sir Joshua Reynolds's to dine. There was to be that night a meeting of the Royal Academy, which he would attend with the president, after Sir Joshua's usual five o'clock dinner. It occurred to him that, as Baretti would also most probably be at the meeting, he would do well to make him acquainted with the dangerous character of Jackson, so that Baretti might take due precautions against any attack that the desperate man might be induced to make upon him. No doubt Baretti would make a good point in conversation with his friends of the notion of Oliver Goldsmith's counselling caution to any one; but the latter was determined to give the Italian his advice on this matter, whatever the consequences might be.
It so happened, however, that he was unable to carry out his intention in full, for on visiting Mrs. Horneck, he learned that Mary would not return from Barton until late that night, and at the meeting of the Academy Baretti failed to put in an appearance.
He mentioned to Sir Joshua that he had something of importance to communicate to the Italian, and that he was somewhat uneasy at not having a chance of carrying out his intention in this respect.
“You would do well, then, to come to my house for supper,†said Reynolds. “I think it is very probable that Baretti will look in, if only to apologise for his absence from the meeting. Miss Kauffman has promised to come, and I have secured Johnson as well.â€
Goldsmith agreed, and while Johnson and Angelica Kauffman walked in front, he followed with Reynolds some distance behind—not so far, however, as to be out of the range of Johnson's voice. Johnson was engaged in a discourse with his sweet companion—he was particularly fond of such companionship—on the dignity inseparable from a classic style in painting, and the enormity of painting men and women in the habiliments of their period and country. Angelica Kauffman was not a painter who required any considerable amount of remonstrance from her preceptors to keep her feet from straying in regard to classical traditions. The artist who gave the purest Greek features and the Roman toga alike to the Prodigal Son and King Edward III could not be said to be capable of greatly erring from Dr. Johnson's precepts.
All through supper the sage continued his discourse at intervals of eating, giving his hearty commendation to Sir Joshua's conscientious adherence to classical traditions, and shouting down Goldsmith's mild suggestion that it might be possible to adhere to these traditions so faithfully as to inculcate a certain artificiality of style which might eventually prove detrimental to the best interests of art.
“What, sir!†cried Johnson, rolling like a three-decker swinging at anchor, and pursing out his lips, “would you contend that a member of Parliament should be painted for posterity in his every-day clothes—that the King should be depicted as an ordinary gentleman?â€
“Why, yes, sir, if the King were an ordinary gentleman,†replied Goldsmith.
Whitefoord, who never could resist the chance of making a pun, whispered to Oliver that in respect of some Kings there was more of the ordinary than the gentleman about them, and when Miss Reynolds insisted on his phrase being repeated to her, Johnson became grave.
“Sir,†he cried, turning once more to Goldsmith, “there is a very flagrant example of what you would bring about. When a monarch, even depicted in his robes and with the awe-inspiring insignia of his exalted position, is not held to be beyond the violation of a punster, what would he be if shown in ordinary garb? But you, sir, in your aims after what you call the natural, would, I believe, consider seriously the advisability of the epitaphs in Westminster Abbey being written in English.â€
“And why not, sir?†said Goldsmith; then, with a twinkle, he added, “For my own part, sir, I hope that I may live to read my own epitaph in Westminster Abbey written in English.â€
Every one laughed, including—when the bull had been explained to her—Angelica Kauffman.
After supper Sir Joshua put his fair guest into her chair, shutting its door with his own hands, and shortly afterwards Johnson and Whitefoord went off together. But still Goldsmith, at the suggestion of Reynolds, lingered in the hope that Baretti would call. He had probably been detained at the house of a friend, Reynolds said, and if he should pass Leicester Square on his way home, he would certainly call to explain the reason of his absence from the meeting.
When another half-hour had passed, however, Goldsmith rose and said that as Sir Joshua's bed-time was at hand, it would be outrageous for him to wait any longer. His host accompanied him to the hall, and Ralph helped him on with his cloak. He was in the act of receiving his hat from the hand of the servant when the hall-bell was rung with starling violence. The ring was repeated before Ralph could take the few steps to the door.
“If that is Baretti who rings, his business must be indeed urgent,†said Goldsmith.
In another moment the door was opened, and the light of the lamp showed the figure of Steevens in the porch. He hurried past Ralph, crying out so as to reach the ear of Reynolds.
“A dreadful thing has happened tonight, sir! Baretti was attacked by two men in the Haymarket, and he killed one of them with his knife. He has been arrested, and will be charged with murder before Sir John Fielding in the morning. I heard of the terrible business just now, and lost no time coming to you.â€
“Merciful heaven!†cried Goldsmith. “I was waiting for Baretti in order to warn him.â€
“You could not have any reason for warning him against such an attack as was made upon him,†said Steevens. “It seems that the fellow whom Baretti was unfortunate enough to kill was one of a very disreputable gang well known to the constables. It was a Bow street runner who stated what his name was.â€
“And what was his name?†asked Reynolds.
“Richard Jackson,†replied Steevens. “Of course we never heard the name before. The attack upon Baretti was the worst that could be imagined.â€
“The world is undoubtedly rid of a great rascal,†said Goldsmith.
“Undoubtedly; but that fact will not save our friend from being hanged, should a jury find him guilty,†said Steevens. “We must make an effort to avert so terrible a thing. That is why I came here now; I tried to speak to Baretti, but the constables would not give me permission. They carried my name to him, however, and he sent out a message asking me to go without delay to Sir Joshua and you, as well as Dr. Johnson and Mr. Garrick. He hopes you may find it convenient to attend before Sir John Fielding at Bow street in the morning.â€
“That we shall,†said Sir Joshua. “He shall have the best legal advice available in England; and, meantime, we shall go to him and tell him that he may depend on our help, such as it is.â€
The coach in which Steevens had come to Leicester Square was still waiting, and in it they all drove to where Baretti was detained in custody. The constables would not allow them to see the prisoner, but they offered to convey to him any message which his friends might have, and also to carry back to them his reply.
Goldsmith was extremely anxious to get from Baretti's own lips an account of the assault which had been made upon him; but he could not induce the constables to allow him to go into his presence. They, however, bore in his message to the effect that he might depend on the help of all his friends in his emergency.
Sir Joshua sent for the watchmen by whom the arrest had been effected, and they stated that Baretti had been seized by the crowd—afar from reputable crowd—so soon as it was known that a man had been stabbed, and he had been handed over to the constables, while a surgeon examined the man's wound, but was able to do nothing for him; he had expired in the surgeon's hands.
Baretti's statement made to the watch was that he was on his way to the meeting of the Academy, and being very late, he was hurrying through the Haymarket when a woman jostled him, and at the same instant two men rushed out from the entrance to Jermyn street and attacked him with heavy sticks. One of the men closed with him to prevent his drawing his sword, but he succeeded in freeing one arm, and in defending himself with the small fruit knife which he invariably carried about with him, as was the custom in France and Italy, where fruit is the chief article of diet, he had undoubtedly stabbed his assailant, and by a great mischance he must have severed an artery.
The Bow street runner who had seen the dead body told Reynolds and his friends that he recognised the man as one Jackson, who had formerly held a commission in the army, and had been serving in America, when, being tried by court-martial for some irregularities, he had been sent to England by Cornwallis. He had been living by his wits for some months, and had recently joined a very disreputable gang, who occupied a house in Whetstone Park.
“So far from our friend having been guilty of a criminal offence, it seems to me that he has rid the country of a vile rogue,†said Goldsmith.
“If the jury take that view of the business they'll acquit the gentleman,†said the Bow street runner. “But I fancy the judge will tell them that it's the business of the hangman only to rid the country of its rogues.â€
Goldsmith could not but perceive that the man had accurately defined the view which the law was supposed to take of the question of getting rid of the rogues, and his reflections as he drove to his chambers, having parted from Sir Joshua Reynolds and Steevens, made him very unhappy. He could not help feeling that Baretti was the victim of his—Goldsmith's—want of consideration. What right had he, he asked himself, to drag Baretti into a matter in which the Italian had no concern? He felt that a man of the world would certainly have acted with more discretion, and if anything happened to Baretti he would never forgive himself.