When Richard Sheridan hastily left Sydney Gardens on the appearance of
Long with Betsy Linley by his side, causing thereby all the faculties
of subtle discrimination and of still more subtle deduction of at
least one of the ladies of the fascinating group to be awakened, he
sought neither the allurements of the gossip of the Pump Room nor the
distractions of the scandal of the Assembly Rooms. He felt a longing
for some place where he could hide himself from the eyes of all
men--some sanctuary on an island where he might eat his heart out, far
from the crowd who take a delight in making a mock of one who sits down
to such a banquet.
He had left his father's house after breakfast, determined that no
one whom he might meet should be able to perceive from his demeanour
anything of what he felt on the subject of Betsy Linley's engagement
to Mr. Long. He had heard the announcement of this engagement on the
previous evening when leaving the Concert Rooms where Betsy had sung
and her brother Tom had played, and it had come upon him with the
force of a great blow--a blow from which no recovery was possible for
him. That was why he had accepted the invitation of one of his friends
to supper, with cards to follow. For several months he had resisted
steadily the allurements of such forms of entertainment, for then the
reward which he held before himself for his abstinence was the winning
of the girl whom he had loved since he and she had been children
together. But now that his dream was broken he felt in that cynical
mood with which the plunge is congenial. He welcomed the opportunity of
plunging. When the waters had closed over his head, they would shut out
from his sight the odious vision which had followed his pleasant dreams
of past years.
He was the merriest, the wildest, the wittiest of the little party
of gay youths that night. His was the most gracefully cynical of
the banter which was directed against young Halhed--a youth who had
acquired quite a reputation at Oxford as the avowed but hopeless
lover of Miss Linley, and who was now rather overdoing the part of
the rejected swain, going the length of quoting Horace and Juvenal
on the subject of the lightness of woman's love, and being scarcely
able to conceal his gratification at the distinction conferred upon
him on being made the subject of the banter of his friends in general
and of young Sheridan in particular. Before midnight had come and the
first dozen of claret had gone, he was really not quite sure whether
it conferred greater distinction on a man to be the accepted or the
rejected lover of a young woman about whose beauty and accomplishments
every one raved. The _rôle_ of the Victim possessed several heroic
elements. He was quite certain, however, that in introducing a mildly
melancholy note regarding her heartlessness, he was conferring
distinction upon the lady.
But when Dick Sheridan had crept upstairs to his room--somewhat
unsteadily--after his bitterly merry night, he found that the bracing
effects of the plunge are temporary. He found that though the plunge
may alleviate, it is not curative--that the momentary alleviation which
it secures has to be paid for.
He lay awake for hours, his remorse for having been so weak as to
lapse from the straight path which he had laid out for himself since he
became conscious of his love for Betsy Linley, adding to the bitterness
of the reflection that he had lost her for ever.
When he awoke after a few hours of intermittent sleep, he had a sense
of his disaster; but with it came the resolution that he would let
no one suspect how hard hit he was by the announcement of Betsy's
engagement to marry Mr. Long--he would not even let the girl herself
suspect it. He would smile and shrug when people referred to the matter
in his presence. He would not be such a poor, weak creature as Halhed,
who went about bleating his plaint in every stranger's ear. He would
show himself to be more a man of the world than that.
He dressed with scrupulous care--he was not going to affect the loose
garters of the woeful lover--and sauntered out, swinging his cane
with the ease and nonchalance of the man of fashion; and he flattered
himself that the sharp and rapid repartee in which he indulged when he
joined the group in the gardens, would be sufficient to convince even
Garrick himself that he regarded the engagement of Miss Linley with
complete indifference. The moment, however, that the girl appeared with
Mr. Long at the entrance, he felt unable to sustain the _rôle_ any
longer: he felt that he must run away and hide himself in some secret
corner where he could see no one and where no one could see him. He
had not counted upon facing the girl so soon--he had not counted upon
witnessing the chastened pride of her successful lover in the presence
of the unsuccessful. He knew that he could not continue acting the part
which he had assumed: he knew that he should break down and be shamed
for evermore.
He hurried away without once glancing round, and his first impression
was that he must weep. He only bore up against this appalling impulse
until he reached his home. He entered the house whistling, and shouted
out a line or two of a merry song when on the stairs; but before the
echo of his voice had died away, he was lying on his bed in tears.
He felt that his part in the world had come to an end--that for him no
future but one of misery was possible. The hope which had sustained
him in the face of his struggles to make a name for himself had turned
to despair. She was not to be his. She was to go to another. She had
elected to go to a man who, he believed, with all a true lover's
suspicion of another's merits, was incapable of appreciating her
beauty--her beautiful nature--her lovely soul.
He was overwhelmed by the thought of the bare possibility of a thing so
monstrous being sanctioned by Providence. He despaired of the future of
a world in which it was possible for so monstrous a thing to occur. It
was no world for worthy lovers to live in--so much was perfectly clear
to him. He felt himself to be a worthy lover, for had he not resisted
temptations innumerable, during the years that he had loved Betsy, only
for her sake?
He had felt upon every occasion of resisting a temptation that he
was increasing his balance, so to speak, in his banking account with
Fate--paying another instalment, as it were, toward acquiring Betsy
Linley. He had worked for her as Jacob had worked for Rachel, but Fate
had turned out to him as unjust as Laban had been--nay, more unjust,
for he had not even a Leah given to him to console him; and, besides,
his Rachel was bestowed upon another.
How could he be otherwise than hopeless of a world so ill-governed as
to allow of such a gross injustice taking place?
The possible joys of the many temptations which he had resisted
appealed to his imagination. So one thinks what one could have done
with the sums with which one's banker has absconded; and the result
was to increase his bitterness. But perhaps what poor Dick felt most
bitterly of all was his inability to sustain the dignified _rôle_ of
a cynical man of the world with which he had started the day. The
reflection that he had completely broken down the moment that the
girl appeared even in the distance, and that he had given way to his
disappointment just as if he were nothing more than a schoolboy, was a
miserable one. He wept at the thought of his own weeping, and beat his
pillow wildly in vexation; and an hour had passed before he was able to
control himself.
He sprang from the bed with a derisive cry of "What a fool I am!--a
worse fool than Halhed! Good heavens! A girl!--she is nothing but a
girl; and where's the girl who is worth such self-abasement? I am a
man, and I'll show myself to be a man, even though she elect to marry
every dolt in Bath!"
He felt that if she had appeared in the lobby outside his door at that
moment, he would not break down. He would be able to smile upon her as
Mr. Walpole was accustomed to smile when saying something very wicked
and satirical. He knew that he was quite as witty and a good deal
readier than Horace Walpole; but even if he lacked something of the
polish which Walpole--sitting up all the night for the purpose--was
able to give to a phrase, he believed that he could still say enough to
let Betsy Linley learn what sort of a man he was. He would let her see
that he was a man of the world looking on with a tolerant, half-amused
smile and quite a disinterested manner at such incidents of life as
marrying and giving in marriage. Oh, the cynical things that could be
said about marriage! Some such things had, of course, already been said
by the wits, but they had not nearly exhausted the subject. It would
be left for him to show Miss Linley how supremely ridiculous was the
notion of two people believing--or rather pretending to believe--that
they could find satisfaction only in each other's society!
Oh, the notion of marriage was utterly ridiculous! What was it like?
Was it not the last refuge of the unimaginative? Or should he suggest
that marriage was the pasteboard façade of a palace of fools?
Oh yes, he felt quite equal to the task of saying a number of witty
things on the subject of marriage in general; but when he came to think
of all that might be said on the subject of a young woman's agreeing to
marry an old man, he felt actually embarrassed by the wealth of cynical
phrases which lent themselves to a definition of such an incident.
He kept pacing his room, becoming more cynical every moment, until he
had almost recovered his self-respect, and had forgotten that singular
lapse of his from the course which he had marked out for himself in the
morning--that lapse into the tears of true feeling from his elaborate
scheme of simulated indifference--when the dinner-bell sounded.
He cursed the clanging of the thing. He was in no humour for joining
the family circle: he knew that his sisters would delight in discussing
the topic of the hour, and as for his brother....
Then it occurred to him that, seeing he would have to face his
relations some time, he would excite their suspicion less were he
to meet them at once. He now believed himself to be quite equal to
sustaining the _rôle_ of the indifferent man of fashion in the presence
of his relations, though he had ignominiously failed to realise his
ideal after a certain point earlier in the day.
He dipped his face in a basin of water to remove every trace of
his weakness--the poor fellow actually believed that tears were an
indication of weakness--and he was surprised to find how easily the
marks were obliterated. He was comforted by the reflection that his
tears had been very superficial; they were not even skin deep,--so
that he had not, after all, been so foolish as he fancied--he had been
unjust to himself. He only needed a fresh ruffle to give a finishing
touch to his freshness.
He descended to the dining-room lazily, and entered languidly. He found
that the other members of the family had not been polite enough to wait
for him for the two minutes he had taken to complete his toilet. They
were deep in their leg of mutton, and the younger Miss Sheridan was
calling for another dish of potatoes. The big wooden bowl which, Irish
fashion, lay upon a silver ring, was still steaming, but it was empty.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, entering the room, "I had no notion that
I was late. Upon my life, I meant only to have a doze of ten minutes,
but I must have slept for half an hour."
He yawned, and then stood before a mirror for a few moments, twitching
his front into shape.
"You came in pretty late last night," said his elder sister, cutting
another wedge from the already gaping wound in the leg of mutton before
her.
"Nay, sweet sister, you are wrong," he said with a laugh. "Nay, 'twas
not late last night, but early this morning I returned to my home.
Prithee, sister, is't outside the bounds of possibility for you to
provide us with a change of fare now and again? Mutton is doubtless
wholesome, and occasionally it is even succulent, but after the fourth
day of mutton, the most tolerant palate----"
"Have you heard that Betsy Linley is to marry old Mr. Long?" cried the
girl with the air of one making an effective retort.
He was about to indicate to her his complete self-possession by
inquiring what bearing Miss Linley and Mr. Long had upon the question
of the advisability of substituting veal for mutton now and again,
but he was clever enough to perceive that his attitude would become
convincing were he to appear less nonchalant; so after only an interval
of a few seconds, he dropped his fork, crying:
"What! what do you say? Betsy Linley and Mr. Long? Oh, lud!"
Then he threw himself back in his chair and roared with laughter. He
was amazed to find how easily he was able to laugh heartily--nay, how
greatly he was eased by his outburst of hearty laughter. He felt that
he was playing his part very well, and so indeed he was.
"Oh, lud! Oh, lud!" he managed to ejaculate between his paroxysms of
mirth. "Oh, lud! 'Crabbed age and youth!' Has not Mr. Linley set the
lyric to music? If not, he must lose no time in doing so, and Betsy
will sing it at all the concerts. I foresee another triumph for her.
He is sixty-five if he is a day--I'll swear it. But are you sure that
there is truth in the rumour? How many names have not been associated
with Miss Linley's during the last two years? Were not people rude
enough to mention Mathews's name with hers six months ago?"
"'Tis more than mere rumour this time," said his sister. "I wonder that
you did not hear all about the matter last night. Every one was talking
of it in the Rooms."
"Ah, you see, I was hurried off to that supper, confound it! and, as
you remarked, I did not get up in time for the Pump Room gossip," said
he glibly. "Ah, I should have gone to the Pump Room, if only for the
sake of studying the effect of this disastrous news upon the beaux!
'Twill be a blow to some of our friends--to some; but we need not
travel beyond the limits of the Sheridan family to become acquainted
with the effects of that blow." He pointed a finger toward his brother
Charles, who indeed was looking very glum over his mutton. "Oh, my
dear brother, you have my profound sympathy in your affliction. But,
prithee, be cheered, my Charles; do not let those doleful dumps get
hold of you at this time.
'Shall I, wasting with despair,
Sigh because a woman's fair?'
Surely not, sir. This is not our way, in these days--these unromantic
days.
'If she be not fair to me
What care I how fair she be?
With a hey, nonny, nonny!'"
"Do not tease him, Dick," said Alicia. "Poor Charlie!"
"Poor Charlie!" cried Dick. "Nay, I never meant to go so far as to
call him 'Poor Charlie!' You have a strange notion of what constitutes
sympathy, my dear, if you fancy that our brother's wound is softened by
his being called 'Poor Charlie!' The cruel shepherdess did not send you
any softening message, Strephon?"
"She sent me no message," said Charles.
"Then she was less unkind than she might have been," said Dick. "The
woman who sends a kind message to the lover whom she has discarded is
as cruel as the Red Indian would be were he to scalp his victim and
then offer him as a solace a box of Canada Balsam for the healing of
the wound. Oh no, dear Charles, Miss Linley is not all unkind."
"Do you know, Dick, that once or twice I received the impression
that 'twas you yourself, and not Charles, that Betsy favoured?" said
Elizabeth.
"What! I--I? Oh, my dear, you flatter me at the expense of my elder
brother," laughed Dick. "Moreover, you cast an aspersion on the
taste, the discrimination, and the prudence of the young lady. Dear
sisters, take the advice of your brother, who knows this world and
its weaknesses, and when it comes to your turn to choose husbands,
marry nice elderly gentlemen with large fortunes, as your friend Miss
Linley is doing. Marriage should be regarded simply as an unavoidable
preliminary to a brilliant widowhood. And let me assure you, Eliza,
your widowhood will not be long averted if you provide your husband
with mutton as tough as that which you set before your brothers four
days out of the seven."