Dick Sheridan felt it to be a great relief to him to turn a laugh
against his brother in regard to the sudden step taken by Miss
Linley, which seemed to have disconcerted not only Charles, but half
the population of Bath as well. Dick could not bear to be suspected
of entertaining hopes on his own account as to Elizabeth Linley; he
possessed a certain amount of vanity--the vanity of a young man who
is the son of an extremely vain old man, and who, though gifted--or
cursed--with a certain wit in conversation, is still rather uncertain
about his future. It was this vanity which had caused him to keep as a
profound secret his attachment to Betsy: he could not have endured the
humiliation of taking a place among the rejected suitors, and he had
not so much vanity as made him unable to perceive that there was always
a possibility of his loving in vain.
He felt that, as his secret had hitherto escaped suspicion--and he
fancied that it had done so--he could best keep it concealed by
laughing at the men who, like his friend Halhed and his brother
Charles, had worn their heart upon their sleeve. The man who is ready
to laugh is not the man who is ready to love, most people think; and,
being aware of this, he made himself ready to laugh. Before the evening
had come, he had so many opportunities of laughing that he felt sure,
if he were to meet Betsy and her elderly lover, he would be able to
laugh in their faces.
He could not understand how it was that he had been so overcome in the
morning by an emotion which was certainly not one of laughter, when he
had seen Betsy in the distance.
It was really extraordinary how many young men showed their desire to
confide in him in the course of the afternoon. Some were even anxious
to read to him the verses which they had composed in celebration of
their rejection by Miss L-nl-y; and this showed him how well he had
kept his secret. His brother, who seemed, in spite of Dick's want of
sympathy, to take a very lenient view of Dick's attitude toward him,
was actually the first to approach him after dinner with the story of
his sufferings, and with an attempt to enshrine the deepest of them in
a pastoral poem which took the form of a dialogue between one Corydon
and his friend Damon, on the subject of the ill-treatment of both of
them by the shepherdess Phyllis, who, they both frankly admitted, was
as charming a vocalist as she was a beautiful nymph, and who dwelt on
the banks of a stream, to which all the country were in the habit of
flocking on account of its healing properties.
Charles inquired if his brother did not think that the allusions to the
vocalism of the young shepherdess and the incident of her living in the
neighbourhood of a medicinal spring were rather apt; and Dick, taking
the matter very seriously now, had no hesitation in expressing the
opinion that no unprejudiced critic could fail to perceive from these
data that the poet meant to refer to Miss Linley and to Bath. He was
not sure, however, that Miss Linley would, on reading the verses, be
stung to the quick. Dick did not think that as a rule young women were
deeply affected by classical allusions, however apt they might be. But
undoubtedly the verses were well intentioned, and quite equal in merit
to many that appeared in the _Advertiser_.
Poor Charles was forced to be content with such commendation. To be
sure, he took rather a higher view of the poem himself, and he said
that young Halhed had declared that some of the lines were quite equal
to any that Pope had written, and that Mr. Greville had assured him
that if he had not known that he, Charles, had composed the poem, he
would unhesitatingly have accepted it as the work of Dryden. Still, he
was much gratified by Dick's opinion that it was on an intellectual
level with the material which appeared in the Poet's Corner of the
_Advertiser_. He rather thought that he would go away for a while
to the country. Did not Dick think that the situation of the moment
necessitated his retirement from the frivolities of Bath for a month or
two?
After due consideration Dick replied that perhaps on the whole a month
or two in the country would do his brother some good; though, to be
sure, if he were missed from Bath, some people might be found ready to
say that he was overcome by the blow of his rejection by Miss Linley.
Charles's eyes gleamed at the prospect of being thus singled out for
distinction; and Dick knew why they were gleaming. He knew that his
brother would certainly hurry away to the seclusion of the country
before it would be too late--before people would cease talking of Miss
Linley and the desolation that her cruelty had wrought. He knew that
Charles would feel that, if people failed to associate the incident of
his withdrawal from Bath with the announcement of the choice of Miss
Linley, he might as well remain at his home.
"I shall go, Dick--I feel that I must go," murmured Charles. "Let
people say what they will, I must go. I have no doubt that tongues will
wag when it is known that I have gone. I would not make the attempt to
conceal the fact that I have gone, and I hope that you will never stoop
to pander with the truth in this matter, Richard."
"If you insist on my telling the truth, of course I shall do so; but
I see no reason why I should depart from an ordinary and reasonable
course of prevarication," said Dick, with a shrug.
"Not for the world!" cried Charles anxiously. "No, brother; the truth
must be told. I lay it upon you to tell the truth."
"'Twill be a strain at first," said Dick doubtfully--musingly, as if
balancing a point of great nicety in his mind. "Still, one should be
ready to make some sacrifice for one's brother: one should be ready
at his bidding to make a departure even from a long-cherished habit.
Yes, Charles, I love you so well that I'll e'en tell the truth at your
bidding."
"God bless you, Dick--God bless you!" said Charles with real tears in
his eyes and a tremolo note in his voice as he turned away. He never
could understand his brother's humour.
"Hasten and pack your bag, and get off at once, or people will cease
to be suspicious, and disbelieve me when I tell them the true story of
your wrongs," said Dick. "It would be very discouraging to me to find
that my deviation into the truth is not credited. You can send your
poem to the _Advertiser_ from the country; mind that you append to it
the name of your place of concealment."
Charles lagged. He seemed a little taken aback.
"The verses would lose half their value unless they were dated from
some place of concealment," Dick insisted.
"I perceive now that that is so," said Charles. "But, unhappily, it did
not occur to me when I sent the verses to the editor an hour ago."
"What! you have sent them already?" cried Dick. "Oh, dear brother,
you need no instruction from me as to the acting of the _rôle_ of the
complete lover. I will see that your grief receives the most respectful
attention in your absence. Let that thought make you happy. It will be
my study to see that you are referred to in the highest circles as the
unhappy swain. By the way, would you wish it to be understood that you
are Damon, or do you prefer to be associated with the sentiments of
Corydon?"
"I have not fully considered that question," said Charles seriously.
"What! Ah, well, perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect you to
make up your mind in a hurry. But since both the shepherds express the
sentiment of their grief with commendable unanimity, you cannot be
prejudiced by being associated with either."
Charles went away very thoughtfully.
* * * * *
For the remainder of the afternoon Dick found himself advanced to the
position of confidant in relation to several other young men, and at
least two elderly gentlemen. He was amazed to find how closely the tale
poured into his sympathetic ear by every one of the young men resembled
that confided to him by his brother. And there was not one of them who
had not made some attempt to embody his sentiment in a pastoral poem.
All the poems were alike in their artificiality. He felt that he was
hearing, not six different poems read once over, but one indifferent
poem read six times over.
The elderly discarded swains who confided in him had also endeavoured
to express their views of their treatment on paper. One had written a
Pindaric ode on the subject, the other, who had a vivid recollection of
the earliest essays in the _Rambler_, had written an imaginary epistle
in the approved Johnsonian manner, beginning: "Sir, if no spectacle
is more pleasing to a person of sensibility than an artless maiden
dissembling her love by a blush of innocence, none is more offensive
than that of the practised coquette making the attempt to lure into her
toils an unsuspecting swain. Among the ancient writers few passages
are more memorable than the one in which, in sublime language, Homer
describes the effect of the song of the Sirens upon Ulysses. If the
right exercise of the gift of song be deserving of approval, assuredly
its employment as lure to the adventurous is a fitting subject for
reprobation."
The elderly gentleman, who was endeavouring to show to young Mr.
Sheridan how closely Miss Linley resembled one of the Sirens, did not
find a sympathetic listener.
"If Ulysses did not want to be made a fool of, why the deuce did he
shape his course within earshot of the Sirens?" said Dick. "I don't
suppose that they wanted him particularly, and the Mediterranean was
broad enough for him to give them a wide birth."
"What, sir! Would you presume to teach Homer how to deal with his
hero?" cried the interrupted author.
"I don't care a fig for Homer! You need not have paid your half-guinea,
and then you would not have been made a fool of by Miss Linley's
singing," said Dick.
"She has made no fool of me, sir," said the other tartly. "She did not
presume so far, Mr. Sheridan."
"I suppose it would have been an act of presumption on her part to
try to supplement Nature's handiwork," said Dick, with a smile so
enigmatical that the gentleman was left wondering if he meant to pay
him a compliment or the reverse.
Dick went away wondering also--wondering if he alone loved Betsy Linley
in very truth. The artificiality of all the professed lovers was
contemptible in his eyes. Was it possible, he asked himself, that not
one of these men, young or old, loved her sufficiently to be able to
conceal his affection within his own breast? There they were, writing
their artificial verses and still more artificial essays--looking about
for some one to make a confidant of in respect of the secret that each
should have locked up in his own bosom! Truly a paltry set of lovers
were these! Rhyme-hunters, phrase-hunters, conceit-hunters, and
nothing more. He, and he only, loved Betsy.
Had he carried his secrecy too far in that he had not confided, even
in her? he wondered. But had he kept his love a secret from her? Alas!
he felt that although he had never told her of his love, she was well
aware of its existence.
And yet she had promised to marry Mr. Long.
He began to feel very bitterly about her--about Mr. Long--about
womankind and mankind generally. He endeavoured as he entered the
Assembly Rooms, to recall some of the bitter things which had occurred
to him earlier in the day on the subject of the institution of
marriage. He would show people that he could be quite as cynical as any
of the Walpole set when it came to a definition of marriage.
But before he had drawn much consolation from such a reflection, he
heard behind him the most musical laugh that ever suggested to an
imaginative young man a moonlight effect upon a brook that rippled
through a glen. It was a laugh that had rippled through England and
made all the land joyous--it was the laugh of the beautiful Mrs.
Abington: and for a century it has rippled forth from the canvases of
Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted her as Miss Prue and Roxalana.
Dick turned about and faced the charming creature, who, in the midst
of a sunlit cloud of iridescent satin brocade, an embroidered mist of
lace swirling about the bodice, stood there in the most graceful of
attitudes, her head poised like the head of a coquettish bird that
turns a single eye upon one, raising her closed fan in her right hand
to the dimple on her chin, the first two fingers of her left supporting
the other elbow.
"Heavens! what a ravishing picture! Is Mr. Gainsborough in the Rooms?"
cried young Mr. Sheridan in an outburst of admiration. He forgot all
the bitter things he had on his mind. He forgot the grudge that he
owed to the world: the world that included so joyous a creature as Mrs.
Abington could not be in a wholly deplorable condition. This is what
Mr. Sheridan thought at that particular moment, and that is what all
England thought from time to time, when the same lady exercised her
fascination over her audiences through the medium of a character in
some new comedy. No heart could be heavy for long when Mrs. Abington
was on the stage.
"Ah, sir," said she, "you are, I perceive, like the rest of your sex:
you confound the effect of a new gown with that of an attractive
face. You mix up a woman with her dress until you don't know which is
which. Mr. Gainsborough knows the difference. Ask him to paint me. 'I
will hang her brocade on a wig-stand and that will be enough for most
critics,' he will answer. They say that the Duchess of Devonshire has
induced him to paint her hat, and to eke out what little space remains
on the canvas with her grace's brocade. Oh, Mr. Gainsborough is the
only man who knows the woman from her dress!"
"Madam," said Dick, who had been whetting his wits all the time she had
been speaking, "madam, when I look at Mrs. Abington it is revealed to
me that a beautiful woman is a poem; her dress is merely the music to
which the poem is set."
She did not sink in a courtesy at the compliment; most women would have
done so, therefore Mrs. Abington refrained. She only gave an extra tilt
of an inch or thereabouts to her stately head, and allowed her fan to
droop forward until it was pointing with an expression of exquisite
roguishness at the young man's face.
"'Tis a pretty conceit, i' faith, Dick," said she, "and its greatest
charm lies in its adaptability to so many women. A song! quite true:
we have both seen women who were the merest doggerel; and as for the
music--oh, lud! I have seen women dress so that it would need a whole
orchestra to do them justice. For my own part, I aim no higher than the
compass of a harpsichord; and I hold that one whose garments suggest a
band is unfit for a private room. Music! I have seen women apparelled
in a flourish of trumpets, and others diaphanously draped in the thin
tones of a flute."
"'Twas a happy conceit that crossed my mind, since it has opened a vein
of such wit," said Dick. "But pray, my dear madam, tell us how it is
that Bath is blest."
"Bath blest! 'Tis the first I heard of it."
"Since Mrs. Abington has come hither. How is it possible that you have
been able to forsake Mr. Colman and Covent Garden!"
"Mr. Colman is a curmudgeon, and Covent Garden is--not so far removed
from Drury Lane."
"That means that you are not in any of the pieces this week?"
"Nan Cattley has it all her own way just now. All that she needs to
make her truly happy and to make Mr. Colman a bankrupt is to get rid of
Mrs. Bulkley."
"All Bath will rise up and thank her, since she has enabled Mrs.
Abington to come hither. Bath knows when it is blest."
"Then Bath is blest indeed--more than all mankind. Was it not Pope who
wrote, 'Man never is but always to be blest'?"
"I do believe that it was Pope who said it. Your voice sets a bald line
to music."
"Lud! Mr. Sheridan, your thoughts are running on music to-day. Why is
that, prithee? Is't possible that since Miss Linley has given up music
and has taken to marriage--a state from which music is perpetually
absent--you feel that 'tis laid on you as a duty to keep people
informed of the fact that there is music still in the world, even
though Miss Linley no longer sings? But perhaps you believe exactly the
opposite?"
"Just the opposite, madam?"
"Yes. Do you believe that there is no music in the world now that Miss
Linley has promised to marry Mr. Long?"
He felt that his time had come; he would show her that he could be as
cynical as the best of them--he meant the worst of them, only he did
not know it.
"Ah! my dear lady, you and I know well that the young woman who gives
up singing in favour of marriage exchanges melody for matrimony."
"Subtle," said the lady, with a critical closing of her eyes. "Too
subtle for the general ear. 'Tis a kind of claret wit, this of yours;
claret is not the beverage of the herd--they prefer rum. Melody on the
one side and matrimony on t'other."
"Madam, I am not talking to the crowd; on the contrary, I am addressing
Mrs. Abington," said young Mr. Sheridan, bowing with the true Angelo
air. Mr. Angelo's pupils were everywhere known by the spirit of their
bows.
The beautiful lady did not respond except by a smile; but then most
people with ability enough to discriminate would have acknowledged that
a smile from Mrs. Abington expressed much more than the lowest courtesy
from the next most beautiful woman could ever express; and they would
have been right. She smiled gently, looking at him with languorous eyes
for a few moments, and then the expression on her face changed somewhat
as she said slowly:
"What a pity 'tis that you still love her, Dick!"