Mrs. Abington was in her chair. She had just been to see her friends
at Bath-Easton, and was hoping that she would be in time for service
at the Abbey. That was why she stopped Dick in the street. What did he
think? would she be in time for the service? She would be quite content
to accept Dick's opinion on the subject.
Dick looked at his watch.
"Madam," he said, after calculating a moment, "you will not be in time
for the Confession, which seems rather a pity; but I promise you that
you will be in good time for the Absolution, if you make haste, and
that will be to your advantage."
"Sir, you are a rude boor!" cried the lady very prettily.
"If so, madam, I am rude at my own expense," said he. "My words implied
a '_Nunc Dimittis_'."
"Now that I come to think on't, that is so," said she. "But I am sure
that you, being a man, must hold with me that the ideal Church is the
one that grants absolution without insisting on confession."
"I am a sound Churchman, Mrs. Abington," said he; "I will not
countenance the least suspicion of what is not orthodox."
"Psha! sir, that is equivalent to a confession that you like your
salads without vinegar," said she--"your punch without lemon--your
spice-cakes without spice--your charmer without a bit of Mother Eve."
"Madam," said he, "'tis now you who are orthodox--ay, up to the first
chapter of Genesis; but for my part, I adore your sex, from Genesis
until the Revelation comes."
"The Revelation? Do you mean until the revealing of the woman or the
Revelation of the Divine?"
"Mrs. Abington, I am orthodox: I cannot admit that there is any
difference between the two."
"You are a quibbler, I vow; but I would not hear your worst enemy
accuse you of being orthodox."
"You can silence such an aspersion, madam, by letting it be known that
you extended your friendship to me."
"More quibbling? I swear that 'tis a relief to have a simple chat with
young Mr. Linley, after all this battledore and shuttlecock with you
wits. Oh yes, Tom is a charming boy."
"I am told that he can illustrate the progress of a passion from
Genesis to the Revelation."
"Ay, sir; but with the Apocryphal books left out."
"You can hear passages from them read out in the Abbey."
"He has made me wild to learn the violin. But, I fear, alas! that
'twill be too much for me."
"Faith, Mrs. Abington, 'twill not be for want of strings to your bow,"
cried Dick, dropping the tone of the man of fashion and assuming the
good fellowship of the Irishman, even to his manner of raising his hat
and bowing; he hoped that the hint would be taken by the Irish chairmen
to lower the roof and resume their journey.
Mrs. Abington put up her hand to the roof.
"Tom is a charming boy," she cried, smiling the enigmatical smile of
Miss Prue. "Oh yes; 'twas you who said that his heart was buried in his
violin."
"I perceive that 'twas not a safe place of sepulture," said Dick.
"You said the truth when you told me that his heart was there," said
she. "Yes, I can hear the poor thing wail to be released every time
he draws his bow across the strings. You will come to see me at my
lodgings, will you not, Mr. Sheridan?"
"I will wait until your heart is buried beside Tom's within the frame
of his fiddle; 'twere not safe else," cried Dick. "Hasten to your
Abbey, or you will miss even the Blessing."
"Meantime, you will think out an epitaph to scratch into the varnish of
the violin."
"A simple _Resurgam_ will do, for, by the Lord Harry, your heart will
not rest long in one place, you beautiful creature!" cried Dick,
standing with his hat in his hand while the roof of the chair was
lowered on its hinges, and the chairmen went off with their fair burden.
Dick made up his mind that he would be in no haste to visit her at her
lodgings. She had made him somewhat afraid of her two nights before,
when she had lapsed into sincerity in the Assembly Rooms, and he had
not yet come to regard her as free from any element of danger to his
peace of mind. He felt, however, that he had accused her wrongfully
of the butterfly quality of fickleness: nearly forty-eight hours had
passed since she had thought it worth while to captivate Tom Linley,
and yet it seemed that she was still faithful to him.
But why should she think it worth her while to captivate Tom Linley?
Dick thought out this question while walking to Mr. Long's house, and
before he pulled the bell he had come to the conclusion that Mrs.
Abington was merely adapting to her own purposes the advice which
Angelo, the fencing-master, was accustomed to give to his pupils.
"Have a bout with the foils every day of your life, if only for ten
minutes with your little brother in the nursery," was the advice which
Angelo gave to pupils when urging on them the need to keep in constant
practice. Yes, Mrs. Abington must have heard him say that.
Tom Linley represented the young brother in the nursery. That was all
very well, so long as the fencing was done with foils; but it would be
an act of cruelty for an accomplished fencer to introduce rapiers into
the nursery. He hoped that little brother Tom would come unscathed out
of the encounter which represented to Mrs. Abington nothing more than a
laudable desire to keep her hand in.
Dick found Mr. Long alone in his sitting-room. His left hand was rather
more elaborately bandaged than it had been when Dick had seen it last.
But Mr. Long assured him that the wounds were quite trifling--mere
scratches, in fact, scarcely asking for the attention of a surgeon,
although his valet had on his own responsibility called in an excellent
young man, who could be trusted to do as little as possible to the
wounds and so give them a chance of healing speedily, and who also
could be trusted to hold his tongue in regard to the occurrence.
"I have been using the cudgel on my brains all the morning trying to
invent some plausible excuse for carrying a bandaged hand for a day
or two," said Mr. Long; "but up to the present I cannot boast of the
result. My dull ass will not mend his pace by beating. Can you come to
my help in this matter, as you did in the matter that placed me in need
of such a story? Come, Mr. Sheridan, you are a man of imagination and
resource."
"Alas, sir," said Dick, "all that I can offer to do is to bear
testimony to the truth of any inaccuracy you may find needful."
"Whatever story we may invent, it will not be believed in Bath--so much
is certain," said Mr. Long.
"I begin to think that, after all, we might as well tell the truth,"
said Dick.
"What! you think the case is so desperate as all that?" said Mr. Long.
"There is no better way of mystifying people than by telling the truth,
especially when it sounds improbable," said Dick.
"I give you my word, Mr. Sheridan, you seem to speak with the authority
of one who had tried what you suggest. Perhaps you may, under the
stress of circumstances, have been led into the tortuous paths of the
truth. Well, I think that, on the whole, we had better brazen the
matter out, and give all Bath a chance of disbelieving us. But if we
do so, we must also be prepared with a story to account for our being
on the road at so late an hour. Ah, you will find, Mr. Sheridan, that
telling the truth necessitates a great deal of tergiversation."
"I must confess, sir," said Dick, "I could scarcely hope to be believed
if I were to make the attempt to account for my midnight walk on the
simple ground of the fineness of the night."
"It would certainly be thought a very weak plea. Thank Heaven if I say
that I supped at Mr. Lambton's and thought it prudent to have a stroll
afterwards, I will be believed--at any rate, by such as know that Mr.
Lambton has a French cook."
"Then I think it would be as well if we were to make an agreement not
to mention my name in connection with the assault upon you; that will
save the need for my thinking out a moderately plausible story to
account for my presence on the scene."
"What! you would have me face all Bath with the story of having beaten
off three footpads single-handed? Oh no, Mr. Sheridan! Anything in
reason I am quite willing to state, but I have still some respect left
for our acquaintance in Bath, and I decline to lay such a trust in
their credulity. Why, sir, Falstaff's story of the knaves in Kendal
Green would seem rational compared with mine! The wits would dub me
Sir John the first day I appeared abroad after telling such a tale. And
the lampooners--that pitiful tribe who fancy that possessing Pope's
scurrility is the same thing as possessing his genius---- Ah, I hear
some of the doggerel--I could even make a quatrain or two myself on my
own valour! Well, we shall not trouble ourselves further on this matter
just now; we shall let our good friends take the first step. So soon as
we hear what story they invent to account for my wounds, we shall know
how much truth is needed; but we must economise our store. By the way,
Mr. Sheridan, I wonder, if one of us had been killed last night, would
Miss Linley be more distressed had it been you than if I had been the
victim?"
The suddenness of Mr. Long's remark produced upon Dick the same effect
as his remark of the previous night had done--that remark which Dick
had pondered over during his sleepless hours.
He had no reply ready for such a question as Mr. Long had suggested
to him--unless, indeed, Mr. Long would accept his unreadiness as a
reply--his unreadiness and the confused, downcast look on his face, of
which he himself was painfully conscious.
Some time had passed before Dick recovered himself sufficiently to be
able to glance at Mr. Long, and then the expression which Mr. Long wore
did not tend to make him feel more at ease. The smile which Dick saw on
his face was a curious one--a disconcerting one.
"My poor boy," said Mr. Long, "I have no right to plague you with
suggestions such as these. Still, I cannot help wondering if you are
yet reconciled to the thought of Miss Linley's having promised to marry
me?"
"I am reconciled, sir," said Dick in a low voice. "I was not so until
I went to see her yesterday. I went, I may as well confess to you, Mr.
Long, in a spirit of--of--no, not mockery; I could not think of myself
falling so low as to have a desire to mock her--no; I only meant to
show her that I did not mind--that I did not mind."
"And all the time you were eating your heart out? My poor boy, I can
appreciate what was in your mind, not merely because I am not without
imagination, but because I have an excellent memory. But you saw her,
and I do not think that you were quite the same man when you left her;
I cannot understand any man remaining unchanged in the presence of that
divine creature."
"She changed me. She made me to look on life differently from the way
in which I had previously thought of it. She made me to perceive what
'tis to have a soul. She made me see that the real life which is worthy
to be lived by a man is--is----"
"You can feel what it is, that is enough," said Mr. Long when Dick
paused, lacking the words to express what was in his heart. "'Tis
enough for a man to feel--only to the few is it given to put these
feelings into words, and those few we call poets. The poet is the
one who has the power to give expression to what the man feels. 'Tis
doing an injustice to men to suggest, as some people do, that all the
feeling is on the part of the poet. Have I interrupted your thoughts by
anticipating you, Mr. Sheridan?"
"You have said what was on my mind and in my heart--to-day," cried
Dick. "I was a fool to make the attempt to define what I felt. I am not
a poet."
"I am not so sure of that. Our friend Mr. Linley will tell you that the
pauses in music are quite as important as the combination of notes in
interpreting the emotions; and you have made some eloquent and touching
pauses, Mr. Sheridan. Believe me, my friend, those pauses did not speak
in vain to me, and now ... well, you took that long walk in the mystery
of the moonlight. Did that represent the final struggle with yourself,
my boy? When you found out that it was I whom you had rescued from
death, there was nothing in your heart but satisfaction? You were glad
that you had saved me for her?"
"God knows it--God knows it!" said Dick, with bent head.
"I knew it too, my boy. I knew that you had taken the first step on
that path to the new life which that sweet girl opened up before your
eyes--a life in which self plays but the part of the minister to the
happiness of others. And I ... it may occur to you that I can make
but an indifferent preacher on this subject, since it was I who asked
Miss Linley to give me her promise. There are some people who say that
marriage is the most pronounced form of selfishness in existence. I
fear that in addition to being called by a considerable number of
persons 'an old fool,' I am also called a 'selfish old fool.' Selfish;
yes, they call me selfish because, appreciating the nature of that
girl, and seeing how intolerable her position had become to her, mainly
through the persecution of the very people who now call me selfish and
ridiculous, I had the courage to ask her to give me the privilege of
freeing her from surroundings that were stifling to her nature. Is the
man who opens the door of its cage for the linnet impelled by selfish
motives? I think that he is not. But in any case, the carping and
criticism--the playful winks which I have seen exchanged between good
people when I have passed with Miss Linley by my side--the suggestive
nudges which I have noticed--I daresay you noticed them too----"
"I heard the remarks that were made when you appeared with her for the
first time," said Dick.
"I did not hear them; but I saw the expression on the faces of the
groups--that was enough for me. I had no difficulty in translating
that expression into words. But you, who know,--you who have learned
something of the nature of that girl----"
"Since yesterday--only since yesterday, sir."
"Even so--you, I say, knowing something of her nature, perceiving how
her father had simply come to see in her the means of filling his
purse--poor man! he was only acting according to his lights, and the
nest of linnets takes much feeding--you, Mr. Sheridan, recognising the
shrinking of that sweet creature from the public life which was being
forced upon her, will, I think, not be hard upon me because I came
forward to save her from all that was changing the beautiful spirit
with which she was endowed by Heaven, into something commonplace--as
commonplace as the musical education which her father was forcing
upon her. She did not pay full attention to the dotted quavers, he
told me one day in confidence, when I noticed the traces of tears
upon her face. Dotted quavers! Good heavens! think of the position
of the man who found fault with the song of the linnet on account of
its inattention to the dotted quavers!... Her father understood as
little of the spirituality of the linnet's song as did the fashionable
folk who crowded to her concerts, not because they loved the linnet's
song--not because it told them of the joy of the springtime come back
to make the world a delight--no, but only because Fashion had decreed
that it was fashionable to attend Miss Linley's concerts."
"Poor Betsy!"
"Poor Betsy! ay, and poor, poor Fashion! The child confided in me. So
terrible an effect had that life to which she was condemned upon her
that--you will scarce believe it--she was ready to become the prey of
any adventurer who might promise to release her from it."
"And I failed to see this--I failed to see this," said Dick. His voice
sounded like a moan of pain.
"You know the men who paid her attention--who were encouraged by her
father; you know some of them," continued Mr. Long. "One of them, who
was reported to be the owner of a fortune, found great favour in the
eyes of her father. He obtained easy access to the house, and he might
actually have prevailed upon her to run away with him, for there was no
lack of promises with him, if I had not come here. It was to save her
from him that I asked her to give me her promise; for I knew that he
had a wife already."
Dick started to his feet, his eyes blazing.
"The infamous hound!" he cried. "Who is he? What is his name? Only let
me know what is his name, that I may kill him."
"There is no need for me to mention his name," said Mr. Long; "there
is no immediate need for you to kill him or to give him a chance of
killing you."
"Can you sit there before me, and tell me that 'tis not the duty of
every man to do his best to rid the world of such a ruffian?" cried
Dick passionately.
"I will not take it upon me to define what is the duty of a man in
certain circumstances," said Mr. Long. "But I assure you that I should
be sorry to go so far as to assert that the world would not be well
rid of this particular ruffian; still, I know that the killing of him
just now would be to overwhelm one who, we know, shrinks from even a
publicity which is wholly honourable. There are doubtless many girls
who retain so much of the feminine animal in their nature as causes
them to delight to be made the subject of a fight between two men;
that is--unhappily, it seems to me, but that may be because I do not
understand all the principles of nature--an ordinary trait of the sex;
but--you and I--ah, we know something of her, do we not?"
"But a fellow who set himself to bring about her ruin---- He is not
still in Bath--you would not allow him to remain in Bath?"
"I have seen to that. I have reason to believe that he has fled. At
any rate, he has not been seen in public since I gave him a hint,
the purport of which he could scarcely mistake. We will talk no more
of him. I only referred to him as an instance of the dangers which, I
perceived, surrounded Miss Linley, and which led me to make a move for
her protection. I have been judged harshly. I was prepared for that.
Sometimes in this matter I have felt disposed to judge myself much more
harshly than any one else might feel. I wonder if you think that I
was justified in asking Miss Linley to give me her promise when I saw
that she was anxious to escape from a life which was killing her--when
I saw that she was anxious to save her sisters from the necessity to
appear in public and to sing for money--when I saw that she was set
on this, and on helping all the other members of her family. Do you
think that I was justified in asking her for her promise to marry me,
seeing all that I tell you I saw, and knowing something of her pure and
self-sacrificing nature?"
Dick was overcome by his own thoughts; but through all the discord in
which they enveloped him there rang out clearly one note:
"You saved her," he said. "You saved her; that is all that I can think.
Let me go away now."
He had spoken with his head bent, but his voice did not falter. And
then he leapt up from his chair and turned to the door.