And now the girl was sitting looking up with dry eyes to the face of
the man who had sprung from her side the moment she had spoken, and
was standing a yard or two away from her. She saw that, although the
words which she had spoken had sent him to his feet in an instant, he
now felt that he had perhaps been too hasty. She saw that there was a
puzzled look on his face. She did not wait for him to put a question
to her. She perceived that her explanation needed to be explained. It
is unusual, she thought, for a man to ask a woman to marry him simply
because he loves another woman.
"Indeed, he did it all for me," she said. "I sent for him more than
a week ago to ask him to plead with Mrs. Abington to break with my
brother, whose infatuation for her was ruining his career, and he
promised to do this for me. The day that my brother returned I knew
what Dick Sheridan had done--all for me--all for me!"
"Is it possible that you suggest that the woman stipulated with him to
release your brother only if Dick Sheridan took his place?" he asked.
"I am as certain that she did so as if I had heard her making a compact
with him," said Betsy. "She had an old infatuation for Dick; Mr.
Garrick told my father so two days ago. Had I known that, I would not
have brought Dick here to beg of him to help us. But he came and this
is the result of his coming."
"I have treated him unjustly--God forgive me!" said Mr. Long. "I went
to him and--you can imagine what I said to him. But he did not say a
word about--about anything that you have told me."
"No, he would not do that. He showed me, when I stood before him,
how unselfish he could be. And yet once--once--ah, how long ago it
seems!--I had a feeling that his whole aim in life was to excel
others--to shine as a man of fashion. Like you, I did him an injustice."
"Ah, my dear, he had not then learned what 'tis to love. You it was,
my Betsy, who taught him that the spirit of love--the truest love--the
only love--is self-sacrifice."
"Then would to Heaven he had never learned the lesson!" cried the girl
passionately. "I have ruined his life, and my life is over! But what is
my life? It matters nothing about my life."
"Dear one," he said, "I cannot hear you say that. Nay, my Betsy, I
shall live to look on my happiness through his eyes. The position of
affairs, though desperate, is not irretrievable. You do not know the
world, my child. You do not know the sordid world. Thank Heaven that I
have money enough to compensate even the most avaricious of actresses
for depriving her of a caprice on which she had set her heart! Betsy,
all will yet come right: 'tis merely a question of money."
But her instinct was truer than all his worldly wisdom.
"Now you are doing her a great injustice," she said.
"Not I!" he cried. "Though I am pleased to think that I have never had
a proof of the exact extent of the rapacity of such as she, yet----"
She laid her hand upon his arm.
"Dear friend, remember that you are speaking of one of us," she said.
"One of you!--one of---- Heaven forbid! You are as far removed from her
as heaven is removed from--from Bath."
"Nay, nay, she is a woman; and indeed I think that between the best
of us and the worst there is no great gulf fixed. If you go to Mrs.
Abington on the errand which you have in your mind, you will be putting
upon her a gross affront--yes, and upon Dick Sheridan as well, and much
will be lost and nothing gained."
"Then I will not speak to her of money; I will make the appeal to her
generosity to set Dick free. Now, you shall not forbid me to make an
appeal to her generosity; to do so would be to put an affront on her
far more gross than you perceived in my first intention!"
He rose from where he was sitting on the sofa, and began pacing the
room thoughtfully. After some time he stopped before her, saying in a
low voice:
"Betsy, my child, I fear that I must confess that the design which I
had planned out for you, for bringing about your happiness, has been
frustrated. My hope was to save you from the evil fate which I feared
would overtake you, and the only way that seemed to me to promise well
was the one which I took. Was I wrong, dear one, to ask you to give me
that promise, knowing, as I did, that it would be a crime on my part to
hold you to it?"
"No, no--a thousand times no!" she cried. "You hoped to save me from
all that I abhorred, and you succeeded. Indeed you were right. If you
had not come to my help, who can tell what might have happened? I knew
not in what direction I had a friend who would be true to me, and you
know that my father favoured that man, Captain Mathews; he urged upon
me to listen to him.... Ah, you saved me!"
"But for what--for what have you been saved?" he said.
"I have been thinking much on that point for some days," she replied.
"I seem to have lived through many years of life in those singing days
of mine, and now the feeling that I have is a feeling of weariness. Oh,
I am tired--tired to death of the struggle--the artifices--the world!
How long ago is it since I heard the boys in the choir sing those
words, 'O for the wings of a dove to fly away and be at rest'? That
is the anthem which my heart is singing now. 'The wings of a dove.' I
want to be at rest--to take no part in the struggle going on in the
world--the sordid troubles--the jealousies that make life seem so
petty. Dear friend, I have my heart set upon a place of rest. Elizabeth
Sheridan told me of it--a place where the peace of God dwells for
evermore. It is a convent at Lille, in France, and its doors are open
to those wayfarers through the world whose feet have become weary, and
who seek rest. Will you lead me thither? I will trust to you to lead
me. I hear the voice that calls from there in the silence that follows
the ringing of the Angelus, 'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.'
You will take me thither for the sake of her whom you love--her whose
face I looked upon. Oh, she--she has found rest! Would to God that I
had found the same rest!"
She flung herself down on her knees at the sofa, and buried her face in
her hands.
The man stood by without a word. He was too greatly overcome to be
capable of speech. Only now did he perceive how she had been suffering
in silence for weeks--only now, when she had broken down, unable to
control herself any longer. And he had no word of comfort to say to her.
He remained by her side in silence for some minutes (she had not risen
from her knees), and then left the room and the house.
He went straight in search of Dick Sheridan. He did not succeed in
finding him at home. Mr. Sheridan had gone out some hours before, the
maid said; and forthwith Mr. Long concluded that Dick was visiting Mrs.
Abington. His judgment was not at fault. Dick had been dining with
the lady; but he did not stay for more than half an hour afterwards,
consequently he was met by Mr. Long at the corner of York Street.
"I have been seeking you," said Mr. Long. "I have done you a great
injustice, sir, and I live only in the hope of being able to make
amends for my grossness of thought. You will grant me five minutes with
you in private, Mr. Sheridan?"
Dick raised his hat gravely, but without speaking, and Mr. Long walked
with him back to the Sheridans' house. Dick bowed him into the hall and
into the room which Mr. Sheridan the elder called his study. It was
obvious that the young man wished his visitor to understand that he was
being received with ceremony.
"I feel honoured by your attention, sir," he said, offering Mr. Long a
chair.
"O Dick, Dick," said Mr. Long, "I fear that I have made some terrible
mistakes; but I hope they may not prove irretrievable."
"So far as I am concerned, sir," said Dick, "the error into which you
fell need cause you no uneasiness. Indeed, I rather regret that you
have discovered your mistake as to my motives in--in the matter to
which you referred. I trust that you have not come hither to re-open
the subject, Mr. Long?"
"But that is just why I have come," said Mr. Long. "Dick, my boy, will
you not aid me to make matters come right?"
"Is there any need for one to trouble oneself in the attempt to control
the inevitable, sir?" asked Dick coldly. "Have you any reason to
complain of the direction in which matters have shaped themselves, Mr.
Long? Because I can assure you that I see no particular reason for
interference, so far as I am concerned. Here am I, a penniless man, a
man without a profession, brought in contact accidentally with people
of wealth and position. It was my father's wish that my brother and I
should cut a figure in this world of fashion to which he led us; but
unhappily, however meritorious may be one's ambition in this direction,
it needs a fortune to achieve it and another fortune to maintain it.
Now, sir, I trust that you perceive how great is the reason I have for
feeling satisfied at the turn for the better which my affairs have
taken. I am about to be married to a lady whose charms are acknowledged
all over England, and whose ability enables her to earn such sums of
money as should satisfy all but the most extravagant. Egad, sir! I
do not think that many people would be disposed to call me unlucky
or to suggest that my affairs stand in need of being shaped in a new
direction. Now, sir, I will listen to you with deference."
Mr. Long looked at him and there was no feeling except of pity in his
heart. He understood the impulse in which Dick had spoken. He could
appreciate the bitterness underlying all that he had said. But it was
also plain to him that Dick's pride would not allow him to sanction any
scheme that might be proposed for his release.
Mr. Long stood before him as silently as he had stood over Betsy when
she had been sobbing on her knees. What could he say to a man who took
up such an attitude as Dick had assumed? How could he tell Dick that
he was anxious to consult him in respect of the sum of money which he
meant to offer Mrs. Abington for his release? Dick's pride would, Mr.
Long knew, cause him to open the door, and to show his visitor into
the street whence he had come with such a suggestion.
It was plain to him that, however bitterly Dick Sheridan might feel the
humiliation of his position as the penniless young man about to marry
an actress who was at least ten years older than himself, and whose
reputation for beauty and taste was the only one that she retained, he
was too proud not to regard as a gross affront any suggestion to the
effect that he was about to make himself contemptible in the eyes of
honourable people.
"Dick," said he after a long pause--"Dick, it was Betsy who told me
that you had done this for her sake, and I am here now to say to
you that, whatever may happen, I honour you more than any man of my
acquaintance. I take pride in being your friend, Mr. Sheridan, if you
will allow me to think of myself as such."
"Sir," said Dick, "you do me great honour; but I cannot permit even so
valued a friend as yourself to suggest that, in taking this step, I was
actuated by any motive except of regard and esteem for the lady who is
about to honour me with her hand. I will have you know that, Mr. Long."
Mr. Long looked at the younger man, who stood up before him dignified
and self-respecting. But he did not fail to detect a shake in his voice
and, when he had ceased speaking, a quivering about his lips.
"Give me your hand, Dick Sheridan," he cried. "You are a man!"
He grasped the hand that Dick offered him, and held it for a long time
in his own, with his eyes fixed upon the young fellow's face. Dick's
eyes were cast down. It was not until Mr. Long had released his hand
that he said in a low tone:
"It was from you, sir, I learned what 'tis to be a man. God help me
if I fall short of all that I should be! Now, sir, pray leave me to
myself. Ah, will you not have pity on me and leave me? Cannot you
see that this moment is too much for me? Cannot you see that in your
presence the struggle in which I have taken part is telling on me? Ah,
go, for God's sake, go!"
His fingers were interlaced in front of him, and he was pacing the room
with bowed head.
"My poor boy--my brave boy, remember that whatever may happen I am your
friend," said Mr. Long, with his hand on the door.
Dick did not seem to hear him. He had thrown himself into a chair, and
his back was turned to the door. He was unaware of Mr. Long's departure.
* * * * *
Mr. Long was a man of courage. On leaving Dick he made up his mind that
he would pay a visit to Mrs. Abington. But his bravery had its limits;
he did not pay the visit. Before he had reached the actress's lodgings
he had come to the conclusion that he was upon a fool's errand. What
could he say to her that would have the smallest influence upon her
determination to marry Dick Sheridan? It would be much more to the
point to consider what he could offer her to release Dick Sheridan, and
of this fact he was well aware, consequently he addressed himself to
the task of calculating his resources available for this purpose.
Money--he had said to Betsy that, in regard to such women as Mrs.
Abington, such a matter as he had to discuss with her was nothing
more than a question of figures. But Betsy's instinct had told her
that the rapacity of Mrs. Abington was something altogether different
from that with which other actresses with a liking for adventure were
accredited--or discredited; and Betsy was right. Mrs. Abington had
never, so far as he could remember--and he knew a good many of the
traits of the distinguished people of his time--been accused of having
a mercenary tendency. On the contrary, she was known to be generous
to a fault, and, unlike Mrs. Clive and Miss Bellamy, to refrain from
clamouring for a higher salary and more liberal benefits. To be sure,
she was the idol of the playgoers, and Mr. Colman paid her more than
Mr. Garrick had ever paid a member of his company, so that she had
little cause for complaint. But to have no cause for complaint and to
refrain from complaining did not mean exactly the same thing in the
minds of most actresses, Mr. Long knew; so that he could not but feel
that Mrs. Abington's reputation for generosity was well founded. She
would laugh at his offer of money, he now felt; and what else had he to
offer her in exchange for Dick Sheridan?
He had come to the end of his resources available for negotiation with
the lady when the question ceased to be one of money. He could not
pretend to himself that he would have any chance of success with her
were he merely to go to her with the assurance that Dick Sheridan and
Betsy Linley loved each other and would be happy together if she, Mrs.
Abington, were to release Dick from the promise she had obtained from
him. He knew that her generosity would not be equal to such a strain as
he should put upon it, were he to make such a suggestion to her. She
was a woman, and he had an idea that women have a tendency to place
an extravagant value upon what other women show themselves anxious
to possess. The fact that Miss Linley was in love with Dick Sheridan
would only cause Mrs. Abington to chuckle over the bargain she had made
with Dick. It seemed clear to him that he could gain nothing beyond
that chuckle by his visit to the actress. To be sure, she would take
care that it was a purely artistic suggestion of something rather more
than content, and it would be made worthy of the attention of the
most exalted order of critics; still, it would represent to Mr. Long
(he knew) something rather more humiliating than the failure of his
mission, and it was his fear of this chuckle that caused him to abandon
his enterprise and to shape his steps in the direction of his own house.
He opened the door of his parlour and found himself face to face with
Mrs. Abington!