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!”
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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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!”
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.”
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.
[Illustration: 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 gentleman”--he
pointed to Nicolo--“for such a lesson in fencing as, I suppose, you
never before received.”
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.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Baretti. “The gallows is a high enough place
for you and your friends.”
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!”
“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?”
“Come, sir; you are in my charge, now,” said John, hustling him to the
door. “Come--out with you--sharp!”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.