His first thought was, curiously, of the story he had heard of the man
who had left London to escape the plague and had found it waiting for
him at Highbury. He bowed to the ground.
"Madam," he said, "I have never before been so honoured. My poor
rooms---- But is this visit in accordance with the well-known
discretion of Mrs. Abington?"
"'Tis a great risk I run, sir," she cried, with a delightful uplifting
of two shapely arms and an expression of fear such as one assumes in
order to make a child laugh,--"oh yes, a terrible risk!--but I am
adventurous."
"And your example is stimulating to the timid, madam; that is why I beg
of you to be seated. Pray Heaven that that fiery young Mr. Sheridan be
not in the neighbourhood. Still, for five minutes of Mrs. Abington's
wit a more timid man than myself would run the chance of a duel with
Colonel Thornton himself."
This was scarcely the style of the conversation which he hoped to have
with the lady when he had been on his way to her lodgings; but one does
not adopt the same style with a person to whom one is about to make an
appeal, as one adopts with a person who is about to be an appellant;
and he felt sure that Mrs. Abington had come to him in this character.
"Dear sir, I protest that you overwhelm me with your compliments," she
cried. "The younger generation have much to learn in courtesy from the
one to which you and I belong, sir."
"Madam," he said, "you prove the contrary when you couple me with
yourself. What are all the compliments which my poor ingenuity could
discover compared with that 'you and I' which has just come from your
lips?"
"Nay, but I can prove that we belong to the same generation, sir; for
are not you marrying a lady of the same age as the gentleman who is to
be my husband?" she cried, with an exquisite assumption of archness.
"Against such profundity of logic 'twere vain to contend, Mrs.
Abington," he said. "I yield to it, more especially as you prove what I
have spent my years trying to prove to myself. Alas, madam! is it not
sad that old age should come down upon a man before he has succeeded in
convincing himself that he is still young?"
"Mr. Long," said the lady, "I couple myself with you for our mutual
protection."
"I acknowledge the honour, madam, but appreciate the danger," said he.
"Let me explain myself, sir."
"To explain yourself, Mrs. Abington, were to supply a key to the most
charming riddle of the century. Let me paraphrase Mr. Dryden:
'A dame so charming that she seem'd to be
Not one, but womankind's epitome.'"
"That is the wittiest turning of satire into comedy I have ever known,"
she cried. "And it makes my explanation easy. Mr. Long, I desire to
be your best friend; and when a woman professes a wish to be a man's
best friend, you may be sure that she wants him to stand in that
relationship to her. But you gathered, I know, that I was thinking at
least as much of myself as of you when I made you that offer."
"I give you credit for thinking most of the one worthiest of your
thoughts, Mrs. Abington," said he.
She took a step nearer to him.
"Mr. Long," she said in a lower tone, "these young people are very
well, and they make delightful companions for us, but they cannot
always be depended on."
"You mean that----"
"I mean that Dick Sheridan and Betsy Linley were once in love with each
other, and that they fancy they love each other still."
"That means that they _are_ to be depended on, does it not?"
"They may be depended on to lose no opportunity of making fools of
themselves if we allow them, Mr. Long."
"Does that mean that they may be trusted to marry, the one you, t'other
me?"
"It means that you would do well to keep an eye on Elizabeth Linley, or
you will lose her, sir."
"What is this?"
"'Tis the truth, Mr. Long. Only to-day there came to my ears the
whisper of preparations for an abduction having your Miss Linley for
its object--the hiring of relays of horses along the London road, and
so forth. My woman, an honest creature, gave me the hint; she had the
news in confidence."
"And in confidence transferred it to you, no doubt."
"I am not the woman to credit every rumour that the gossips of Bath set
in circulation; but this special rumour was so circumstantial that----"
"Ah, if 'twas circumstantial its falsity is assured," cried Mr. Long.
"Dear madam, can you really believe that Dick Sheridan would make
the attempt to run away with Miss Linley when he is still under an
engagement to marry you?"
"Psha, sir!" she cried, "I know but too well that his heart is still
with Miss Linley. Would my gentleman be so ready to answer my beck and
call--would he be so desperately punctilious in his discharge of all
the duties of lovership in respect to me, if he were not in love with
Miss Linley? Mr. Long, the husband who is punctilious in his treatment
of his wife is, you may be sure, not in love with her, and the lover
who---- Ah, sir! I have had my experiences, Heaven help me! and I am
now in the position of the doctor who knows the condition of a patient
the moment he looks into his face. Sir, I have had my finger on Dick
Sheridan's pulse, so to speak, for the past week, and though he has
tried hard to deceive me into the belief that he loves me, he has not
succeeded. I have seen through his attentions--his constant show of
devotion. O sir, I am a miserable woman! But I cannot lose him--I swear
to you that I shall not lose him! And you--would you be content to lose
her--to lose Elizabeth Linley?"
"I would be content to lose her if I were sure that she did not love
me," said Mr. Long.
"What? what? Ah, you do not love her!" she cried contemptuously.
"I love her so well as to have implicit confidence in her," said he.
"There will be no running away so far as Miss Linley is concerned--rest
assured of that, my dear madam, and take my word for it, Dick Sheridan
is too honourable to entertain such a design."
"Ah, honourable! what does honour mean to a man when he is in love--ay,
or to a woman either?" she cried.
"You are proving one of your contentions by entertaining such
suspicions," said he.
"They are well founded. Ah, when I think that he loved her so well as
to give up his life only for the sake of saving her from the pang of
seeing her brother made a fool of, I have a right to my suspicions.
He will never love me like that. When I think of it all, I feel
tempted--sometimes; the fit soon passes away, thank Heaven!--I feel
tempted to let him go to her--to let him be happy with her: she would
not let you stand in the way of her own happiness, you may be sure,
though she has promised to marry you."
"If you loved Dick Sheridan truly, madam, you would not stand between
him and happiness," said Mr. Long.
"And if you loved Miss Linley truly, you would not stand between her
and happiness," responded the actress, turning suddenly upon him with
the stage instinct of making an effective retort.
"Nor shall I," he cried. "Come, Mrs. Abington, let us make a compact
for their happiness. I will release Miss Linley if you will do the same
for Dick Sheridan."
"No--no--no!" Her voice had almost become a shriek, and it went through
the room without the interval of a second. Her head was craned forward;
her hands were clenched; her eyes were half closed.
So she remained for a long time after that shriek had come from her.
Then she drew a long breath. She kept her eyes fixed keenly upon his
face. She went back from him slowly, step by step.
Suddenly she made a quick movement toward him with her right hand
outstretched, as if about to clench a compact. But when his hand went
out to hers, she snatched her own back with a cry.
"No, no, I cannot do it--I cannot do it! I cannot give him up. I have
made him mine--mine he shall remain. You shall tempt me no further."
"He never was yours--he never shall be yours! You know it, woman, you
know it! That is the thought which is in your heart just now, and that
is the thought which makes your life a curse to you. Never yours--never
yours! By your side, but never yours--never yours!"
With a cry she covered her face with one hand, the other was on the
handle of the door. She staggered out.
* * * * *
"Did ever man utter words of such cruelty?" said Mr. Long when he heard
the hall door close. "Poor creature! poor creature! And I trod on
her--I crushed her. God forgive me! God forgive me!"
* * * * *
An hour later Mrs. Abington, shining out amid her jewels as a rose is
resplendent amid the diamonds of a spendthrift morning, welcomed the
arrival of Dick Sheridan with smiles and a gracious white hand for him
to kiss. He kissed the hand, and noticed that the lady was wearing a
gown which he had never before seen--something roseate and misty--the
waves of dawn, out of which the goddess Aphrodite was in the act of
rising; he saw her before him, and said so; he called her the Cyprian:
she had been called that so often that she understood quite well what
he meant.
"You have come in good time, my dear!" she cried. "If you had not come
early I would have gone to you."
"I got your note only a quarter of an hour ago," said he.
"'Twas only writ half an hour ago," she said, "and the express from
Mr. Colman arrived within the hour. Dear Dick, we must fly to London
post haste in the morning. They can do without me no longer. Mr. Colman
implores of me to come. Ruin stares him in the face. I must have some
pity for him."
"The humblest thing that crawls--even the manager of a theatre--claims
one's compassion now and again," said Dick. "Will you set out in the
morning?"
"At daybreak. You can pack your trunk before you sleep to-night, and
the chaise will pick it up and you astride of it when we start."
"Heavens, my dear madam! I heard nothing about my departure! Mr. Colman
does not venture to say that ruin stares him in the face if I remain in
Bath."
"Nay, he does not go so far. 'Tis only I who claim you. I shall need
your escort, Dick, and I shall make arrangements for your remaining in
London--some simple arrangements, Dick."
"The simpler they are the more difficult it is for me to accept them. I
do not think it would be wise for me to be your escort to London and in
London, enviable though the duty would be."
She started into a sitting posture. She had been reclining on her tiny
sofa.
"What is't you mean, sir?" she cried. "Surely if I find no fault with
the arrangement you need not do so. Scandal? Psha! My name has been
associated with more than one scandal in my time, and yet I do not
think that I am greatly the worse for it to-day."
"No," he said, "but you may be to-morrow. My dear sweet creature, I
perceive at once how much depends on our discretion just now; and if I
were, in the absence of my father in Dublin, to desert my sisters and
the household, people would call me a wretch, and they would be right,
too."
"People would call you a wretch--a wretch and--a poltroon--a--a
curmudgeon, and they would be right, too, were you to stay in Bath when
I--I--ask your protection on my journey to London," she cried.
He was silent. He did not even shake his head. He saw her diamonds
flashing ominously. Theirs was a summer lightning, denoting a storm
taking place out of sight--a storm that might rise over the horizon
at any moment. He became conscious of a highly charged atmosphere. A
flash or two came from her eyes.
"Why do you stand there dumb?" she said. "Do you not think me worthy of
a word, Dick?"
"Dear lady, you are worthy only of words that will give you pleasure;
that is why I am silent now," he said.
"You have but to say one word to give me the greatest pleasure that I
look for in this world, and I know that you will say it, Dick--my Dick."
"Alas--alas!" he said.
"That is not the word, Dick; you know that that is not the word I want
you to speak."
"That is the word which we should both say, my dear, if I were even to
breathe the word which you ask of me. Oh, you must surely see that it
would be impossible for me to forsake all that my father has entrusted
me with. My sisters are young. What sort of brother should I be were I
to leave them alone at a moment's notice? No, no! you will not ask me
to do it; you have always shown yourself to be full of sensibility. You
would hate me if I were to desert my sisters at such a time as this."
She looked at him straight in the eyes for a long time--it was a
searching, suspicious gaze. Then she gave a laugh--a scornful,
suspicious laugh. Her scorn was not intolerable; it was tempered by the
half-amused smile that flashed about the corners of her lips.
"It must be pleasant to have so strong a sense of duty, Dick," she
said,--"yes, very pleasant, when your duty and your inclination go hand
in hand; nay, perhaps their relationship is closer still. Inclination
puts an arm round the waist of duty, and so they go dancing down the
green mead--Oberon and Titania--only without a chance quarrel. But it
appears to me that if Betsy Linley were not in Bath your duty to your
sisters would somewhat relax. Listen to me, Dick. You are not so near
a holiday as you have been led to believe, for, by the Lord Harry, if
you refuse to come with me to London I shall remain at Bath, if only to
frustrate your plans. Ay, sir, I know more about your plans than you
may perhaps think."
"If you know anything of them whatsoever, your knowledge is wider than
mine," said he.
"Oh, go away--take yourself off. I am beginning to tire of you, Dick
Sheridan," she said, leaning back in an attitude of negligent _ennui_
between the sympathetic arms of her sofa.
"I do not need to be told to go a second time, madam," said Dick.
But before he reached the door the capricious creature had sprung from
her seat and flashed beside him.
"Dick, my Dick, I am a fool--oh, such a fool!" she cried. "But the
truth is that I am too fond of you, my beloved boy! Now, don't go,
Dick--or go if you please to go--you may do what you please; I will not
think anything of it. Oh, if you could only give me a little of your
love! Must she have all--all--all?"
"Do not be foolish, my dear," said he. "And you know as well as I do
that 'tis foolish to be jealous. Ah, you know that I am true to you. I
need not protest to you of my truth."
She looked at him steadfastly once more; and now there was no scorn in
her look--only a nervous anxiety.
"I think," said she, "that you are true to me, and that you detest
yourself on that account; because to be true to me involves your being
false to Betsy Linley. Oh, this constancy according to compact is no
virtue. Honesty is no virtue on the part of a man who is cast on a
desert island. But you will come with me to-morrow, Dick--my Dick?"
"Indeed, it is impossible," he replied. "I will leave you now. Think
over the matter till to-morrow, and you will agree with me, I am
convinced."
With an exclamation of impatience she went back to her sofa, wheeled
it suddenly round, and then seated herself in it with her back turned
to him.
He went behind her with a laugh.
"Good-bye, you beautiful, petulant, typical woman," he said. "Good-bye,
I will come to you to-morrow, when I am sure you will be polite enough
to turn your face to me."
She gave a pout and a shrug and picked up the newspaper which she had
been pretending to read at his entrance. She pretended to read it again.
He responded with another laugh of good-humour, not of derision, and
went to the door.
He shouted another "Good-bye!"
She made no answer. But when he had left the house she tore her
newspaper to shreds and snowed them on the carpet at her feet. Then she
put her face down to the pillow and wept, but only for a few minutes.
She was on her feet again and tugging at the bell-pull.
Her maid was at her side before the bell had ceased to sound.
"Are you sure that 'twas the evening of to-day that was named for the
rendezvous you told me of, Williams?" she asked.
"There is no mistake, madam," replied the woman. "If it were mere
gossip, I should never have mentioned it. Lud! if one gave attention to
all the gossip that one hears! But this is the truth. The chaise is to
wait on the London road, and the young lady is to be brought to it in a
chair at nine o'clock. 'Twill then be rather more than dusk."
"Good!" said Mrs. Abington. "You got the hint from your cousin--I think
you said he was your cousin--who is confidential servant to Allen, the
postmaster?"
[Illustration: "You will accompany me to the rendezvous on the London
road to-night, Williams." [_page 349._]
"Yes, madam--cousin on my mother's side. My mother married for the
second time into the Cookson family, and they thought a good deal
of themselves, through Cookson having been butler to a vicar; but they
really wasn't so much after all----"
"You will accompany me to the rendezvous on the London road to-night,
Williams. You will hire a fly, and when we get within sight of the
coach, the fly shall turn down one of the lanes, so as to excite no
suspicion. We shall get out and conceal ourselves among the bushes at
the roadside until the chair with my lady is brought up. I think that
we shall probably surprise them, Williams."
The maid simpered.
"And I shall wear the travelling-cloak that is quilted with the pink
satin. The chaise lamps will doubtless be lighted, and I have no desire
to look like a guy."
"I vow 'twill be quite an adventure, madam!" said the woman, simpering
very agreeably.
"You will see that nothing miscarries, my good Williams," said the
actress. "The most romantic adventures have been known to break down
before now through so foolish a thing as a lame horse."
"You may trust to me, madam," said the maid.
When she was alone, Mrs. Abington stood in the centre of the room, with
a smile that was not a smile on her face.
"A compact--a compact!" she muttered. "He fancied that I should be
blinded by his fidelity. Oh, his fidelity was touching--ay, up to that
last cheery 'good-bye' that he said at that door before going home to
complete the packing of his trunk. By the lud! if 'twere not for the
humiliation, I could e'en bring myself to let the pair of them run away
together and make fools of themselves. But I will show them that I am
not one to be hoodwinked."
* * * * *
It was barely half-past nine that night when a fly dashed up to the
door of the Sheridans' house, and a lady wearing a travelling-cloak
lined with quilted pink satin sprang to the ground and battered at the
door of the house. She met Dick Sheridan in the hall.
"Dick--Dick," she gasped, "a dreadful thing has happened! O Dick, he
has got her in his power now--Mathews--a plot--a vile plot to abduct
her! He is on his way to London with her now in a chaise with four
horses."
"Woman, what do you mean? Good God! Mathews--Betsy--is it Betsy, you
mean?" cried Dick.
"Yes--yes--Betsy! Oh, why do you wait here like a fool? Why are you not
on your way after them? Follow them, Dick!--follow them and save her
for yourself. She is yours, Dick. I never was yours! Ah, man, why do
you stand there? Oh, I am dead!"
She dropped into a chair, gasping.
Dick caught her hand, and when he found that it was warm he kissed it.
She laughed, and her laugh continued long after he had rushed out of
the house; it went on and on, and the two Sheridan girls stood by
listening in horror to that laugh.