wisdom? By what means would he turn Honeywood into a cynical man of the
world?

He considered these questions at considerable length, and only when he
reached the Temple, returning to his chambers, did he find out that the
waiter at the tavern had given him change for a guinea two shillings
short, and that half-a-crown of the change was made of pewter. He could
not help being amused at his first step towards cunning. He certainly
felt no vexation at being made so easy a victim of--he was accustomed to
that position.

When he found that the roll of manuscript which he had thrust between
the bars of the grate remained as he had left it, only slightly charred
at the end which had been the nearer to the hot, though not burning,
coals, all thoughts of guile--all his prospects of shrewdness were cast
aside. He unfolded the pages and read the verses once more. After all,
he had no right to burn them. He felt that they were no longer his
property. They either belonged to the world of literature or to Mary
Horneck, as--as what? As a token of affection which he bore her? But he
had promised Johnson to root out of his heart whatever might remain of
that which he had admitted to be foolishness.

Alas! alas! He sat up for hours in his cold rooms thinking, hoping,
dreaming his old dream that a day was coming when he might without
reproach put those verses into the girl's hand--when, learning the
truth, she would understand.

And that time did come.

In the morning he found himself ready to face the question of how to
get possession of the letters. No man of his imagination could give his
attention to such a matter without having suggested to him many schemes
for the attainment of his object. But in the end he was painfully
aware that he had contrived nothing that did not involve the risk of
a criminal prosecution against himself, and, as a consequence, the
discovery of all that Mary Horneck was anxious to hide.

It was not until the afternoon that he came to the conclusion that it
would be unwise for him to trust to his own resources in this particular
affair. After all, he was but a man; it required the craft of a woman to
defeat the wiles of such a demon as he had to deal with.

That he knew to be a wise conclusion to come to. But where was the
woman to whom he could go for help? He wanted to find a woman who was
accustomed to the wiles of the devil, and he believed that he should
have considerable difficulty in finding her.

He was, of course, wrong. He had not been considering this aspect of the
question for long before he thought of Mrs. Abington, and in a moment he
knew that he had found a woman who could help him if she had a mind to
do so. Her acquaintance with wiles he knew to be large and varied, and
he liked her.

He liked her so well that he felt sure she would help him--if he made
it worth her while; and he thought he saw his way to make it worth her
while.

He was so convinced he was on the way to success that he became
impatient at the reflection that he could not possibly see Mrs. Abington
until the evening. But while he was in this state his servant announced
a visitor--one with whom he was not familiar, but who gave his name as
Colonel Gwyn.

Full of surprise, he ordered Colonel Gwyn to be shown into the room. He
recollected having met him at a dinner at the Reynolds's, and once at
the Hornecks' house in Westminster; but why he should pay a visit
to Brick Court Goldsmith was at a loss to know. He, however, greeted
Colonel Gwyn as if he considered it to be one of the most natural
occurrences in the world for him to appear at that particular moment.

"Dr. Goldsmith," said the visitor when he had seated himself, "you
have no doubt every reason to be surprised at my taking the liberty of
calling upon you without first communicating with you."

"Not at all, sir," said Goldsmith. "'Tis a great compliment you offer to
me. Bear in mind that I am sensible of it, sir."

"You are very kind, sir. Those who have a right to speak on the subject
have frequently referred to you as the most generous of men."

"Oh, sir, I perceive that you have been talking with some persons whose
generosity was more noteworthy than their judgment."

And once again he gave an example of the Goldsmith bow which Garrick had
so successfully caricatured.

"Nay, Dr. Goldsmith, if I thought so I would not be here to-day. The
fact is, sir, that I--I--i' faith, sir, I scarce know how to tell you
how it is I appear before you in this fashion."

"You do not need to have an excuse, I do assure you, Colonel Gwyn. You
are a friend of my best friend--Sir Joshua Reynolds."

"Yes, sir, and of other friends, too, I would fain hope. In short, Dr.
Goldsmith, I am here because I know how highly you stand in the esteem
of--of--well, of all the members of the Horneck family."

It was now Goldsmith's turn to stammer. He was so surprised by the way
his visitor introduced the name of the Hor-necks he scarcely knew what
reply to make to him.

"I perceive that you are surprised, sir." said Gwyn.

"No, no--not at all--that is--no, not greatly surprised--only--well,
sir, why should you not be a friend of Mrs. Horneck? Her son is like
yourself, a soldier," stammered Goldsmith.

"I have taken the liberty of calling more than once during the past
week or two upon the Hornecks, Dr. Goldsmith," said Gwyn; "but upon no
occasion have I been fortunate enough to see Miss Horneck. They told me
she was by no means well."

"And they told you the truth, sir," said Goldsmith somewhat brusquely.

"You know it then? Miss Horneck is really indisposed? Ah! I feared that
they were merely excusing her presence on the ground of illness. I must
confess a headache was not specified."

"Nay, sir, Miss Horneck's relations are not destitute of imagination.
But why should you fancy that you were being deceived by them, Colonel
Gwyn?"

Colonel Gwyn laughed slightly, not freely.

"I thought that the lady herself might think, perhaps, that I was taking
a liberty," he said somewhat awkwardly.

"Why should she think that, Colonel Gwyn?" asked Goldsmith.

"Well, Dr. Goldsmith, you see--sir, you are, I know, a favoured friend
of the lady's--I perceived long ago--nay, it is well known that she
regards you with great affection as a--no, not as a father--no, as--as
an elder brother, that is it--yes, as an elder brother; and therefore
I thought that I would venture to intrude upon you to-day. Sir, to be
quite frank with you, I love Miss Horneck, but I hesitate--as I am sure
you could understand that any man must--before declaring myself to her.
Now, it occurred to me, Dr. Goldsmith, that you might not conceive it to
be a gross impertinence on my part if I were to ask you if you knew of
the lady's affections being already engaged. I hope you will be frank
with me, sir."

Goldsmith looked with curious eyes at the man before him. Colonel
Gwyn was a well built man of perhaps a year or two over thirty. He sat
upright on his chair--a trifle stiffly, it might be thought by some
people, but that was pardonable in a military man. He was also somewhat
inclined to be pompous in his manners; but any one could perceive that
they were the manners of a gentleman.

Goldsmith looked earnestly at him. Was that the man who was to take Mary
Horneck away from him? he asked himself.

He could not speak for some time after his visitor had spoken. At last
he gave a little start.

"You should not have come to me, sir," he said slowly.

"I felt that I was taking a great liberty, sir," said Gwyn.

"On the contrary, sir, I feel that you have honoured me with your
confidence. But--ah, sir, do you fancy that I am the sort of man a lady
would seek for a confidant in any matter concerning her heart?"

"I thought it possible that she--Miss Horneck--might have let you know.
You are not as other men, Dr. Goldsmith; you are a poet, and so she
might naturally feel that you would be interested in a love affair.
Poets, all the world knows, sir, have a sort of--well, a sort of vested
interest in the love affairs of humanity, so to speak."

"Yes, sir, that is the decree of Heaven, I suppose, to compensate
them for the emptiness in their own hearts to which they must become
accustomed. I have heard of childless women becoming the nurses to the
children of their happier sisters, and growing as fond of them as if
they were their own offspring. It is on the same principle, I suppose,
that poets become sympathetically interested in the world of lovers,
which is quite apart from the world of letters."

Goldsmith spoke slowly, looking his visitor in the face. He had no
difficulty in perceiving that Colonel Gwyn failed to understand the
exact appropriateness of what he had said. Colonel Gwyn himself admitted
as much.

"I protest, sir, I scarcely take your meaning," he said. "But for that
matter, I fear that I was scarcely fortunate enough to make myself quite
plain to you."

"Oh, yes," said Goldsmith, "I think I gathered from your words all that
you came hither to learn. Briefly, Colonel Gwyn, you are reluctant to
subject yourself to the humiliation of having your suit rejected by the
lady, and so you have come hither to try and learn from me what are your
chances of success."

"How admirably you put the matter!" said Gwyn. "And I fancied you did
not apprehend the purport of my visit. Well, sir, what chance have I?"

"I cannot tell," said Goldsmith. "Miss Horneck has never told me that
she loved any man."

"Then I have still a chance?"

"Nay, sir; girls do not usually confide the story of their attachments
to their fathers--no, nor to their elder brothers. But if you wish to
consider your chances with any lady, Colonel Gwyn, I would venture to
advise you to go and stand in front of a looking-glass and ask yourself
if you are the manner of man to whom a young lady would be likely to
become attached. Add to the effect of your personality--which I think is
great, sir--the glamour that surrounds the profession in which you have
won distinction, and you will be able to judge for yourself whether your
suit would be likely to be refused by the majority of young ladies."

"You flatter me, Dr. Goldsmith. But, assuming for a moment that there is
some force in your words, I protest that they do not reassure me. Miss
Horneck, sir, is not the lady to be carried away by the considerations
that would prevail in the eyes of others of her sex."

"You have learned something of Miss Horneck, at any rate, Colonel Gwyn."

"I think I have, sir. When I think of her, I feel despondent. Does the
man exist who would be worthy of her love?"

"He does not, Colonel Gwyn. But that is no reason why she may not love
some man. Does a woman only give her love to one who is worthy of it? It
is fortunate for men that that is not the way with women.

"It is fortunate; and in that reflection, sir, I find my greatest
consolation at the present moment. I am not a bad man, Dr.
Goldsmith--not as men go--there is in my lifetime nothing that I have
cause to be ashamed of; but, I repeat, when I think of her sweetness,
her purity, her tenderness, I am overcome with a sense of my own
presumption in aspiring to win her. You think me presumptuous in this
matter, I am convinced, sir."

"I do--I do. I know Mary Horneck."

"I give you my word that I am better satisfied with your agreement with
me in this respect than I should be if you were to flatter me. Allow me
to thank you for your great courtesy to me, sir. You have not sent me
away without hope, and I trust that I may assume, Dr. Goldsmith, that
I have your good wishes in this matter, which I hold to be vital to my
happiness."

"Colonel Gwyn, my wishes--my prayers to Heaven are that Mary Horneck may
be happy."

"And I ask for nothing more, sir. There is my hand on it."

Oliver Goldsmith took the hand that he but dimly saw stretched out to
him.

CHAPTER XXI.

Never for a moment had Goldsmith felt jealous of the younger men
who were understood to be admirers of the Jessamy Bride. He had made
humourous verses on some of them, Henry Bunbury had supplied comic
illustrations, and Mary and her sister had had their laugh. He could not
even now feel jealous of Colonel Gwyn, though he knew that he was a more
eligible suitor than the majority whom he had met from time to time at
the Hornecks' house. He knew that since Colonel Gwyn had appeared the
girl had no thoughts to give to love and suitors. If Gwyn were to go
to her immediately and offer himself as a suitor he would meet with a
disappointment.

Yes; at the moment he had no reason to feel jealous of the man who
had just left him. On the contrary, he felt that he had a right to be
exultant at the thought that it was he--he--Oliver Goldsmith--who had
been entrusted by Mary Horneck with her secret--with the duty of saving
her from the scoundrel who was persecuting her.

Colonel Gwyn was a soldier, and yet it was to him that this knight's
enterprise had fallen.

He felt that he had every reason to be proud. He had been placed in a
position which was certainly quite new to him. He was to compass the
rescue of the maiden in distress; and had he not heard of innumerable
instances in which the reward of success in such, an undertaking was the
hand of the maiden?

For half an hour he felt exultant. He had boldly faced an adverse fate
all his life; he had grappled with a cruel destiny; and, though the
struggle had lasted all his life, he had come out the conqueror. He had
become the most distinguished man of letters in England. As Professor
at the Royal Academy his superiority had been acknowledged by the most
eminent men of the period. And then, although he was plain of face and
awkward in manner--nearly as awkward, if far from being so offensive, as
Johnson--he had been appointed her own knight by the loveliest girl in
England. He felt that he had reason to exult.

But then the reaction came. He thought of himself as compared with
Colonel Gwyn--he thought of himself as a suitor by the side of Colonel
Gwyn. What would the world say of a girl who would choose him in
preference to Colonel Gwyn? He had told Gwyn to survey himself in a
mirror in order to learn what chance he would have of being accepted
as the lover of a lovely girl. Was he willing to apply the same test to
himself?

He had not the courage to glance toward even the small glass which he
had--a glass which could reflect only a small portion of his plainness.

He remained seated in his chair for a long time, being saved from
complete despair only by the reflection that it was he who was entrusted
with the task of freeing Mary Horneck from the enemy who had planned her
destruction. This was his one agreeable reflection, and after a time it,
too, became tempered by the thought that all his task was still before
him: he had taken no step toward saving her.

He started up, called for a lamp, and proceeded to dress himself for the
evening. He would dine at a coffee house in the neighbourhood of Covent
Garden Theatre, and visit Mrs. Abington in the green room while his
play--in which she did not appear--was being acted on the stage.

He was unfortunate enough to meet Boswell in the coffee house, so that
his design of thinking out, while at dinner, the course which he should
pursue in regard to the actress--how far he would be safe in confiding
in her--was frustrated.

The little Scotchman was in great grief: Johnson had actually quarrelled
with him--well, not exactly quarrelled, for it required two to make
a quarel, and Boswell had steadily refused to contribute to such
a disaster. Johnson, however, was so overwhelming a personality in
Boswell's eyes he could almost make a quarrel without the assistance of
a second person.

"Psha! Sir," said Goldsmith, "you know as little of Dr. Johnson as you
do of the Irish nation and their characteristics."

"Perhaps that is so, but I felt that I was getting to know him," said
Boswell. "But now all is over; he will never see me again."

"Nay, man, cannot you perceive that he is only assuming this attitude in
order to give you a chance of knowing him better?" said Goldsmith.

"For the life of me I cannot see how that could be," cried Boswell after
a contemplative pause.

"Why, sir, you must perceive that he wishes to impress you with a
consciousness of his generosity."

"What, by quarrelling with me and declaring that he would never see me
again?"

"No, not in that way, though I believe there are some people who would
feel that it was an act of generosity on Dr. Johnson's part to remain
secluded for a space in order to give the rest of the world a chance of
talking together."

"What does it matter about the rest of the world, sir?"

"Not much, I suppose I should say, since he means me to be his
biographer."

Boswell, of course, utterly failed to appreciate the sly tone in which
the Irishman spoke, and took him up quite seriously.

"Is it possible that he has been in communication with you, Dr.
Goldsmith?" he cried anxiously.

"I will not divulge Dr. Johnson's secrets, sir," replied Goldsmith, with
an affectation of the manner of the man who a short time before had said
that Shakespeare was pompous.

"Now you are imitating him," said Boswell. "But I perceive that he has
told you of our quarrel--our misunderstanding. It arose through you,
sir."

"Through me, sir?"

"Through the visit of your relative, the Dean, after we had dined at the
Crown and Anchor. You see, he bound me down to promise him to tell no
one of that unhappy occurrence, sir; and yet he heard that Garrick has
lately been mimicking the Dean--yes, down to his very words, at the
Reynolds's, and so he came to the conclusion that Garrick was made
acquainted with the whole story by me. He sent for me yesterday, and
upbraided me for half an hour."

"To whom did you give an account of the affair, sir?"

"To no human being, sir."

"Oh, come now, you must have given it to some one."

"To no one, sir--that is, no one from whom Garrick could possibly have
had the story."

"Ah, I knew, and so did Johnson, that it would be out of the question to
expect that you would hold your tongue on so interesting a secret. Well,
perhaps this will be a lesson to you in the future. I must not fail
to make an entire chapter of this in my biography of our great friend.
Perhaps you would do me the favour to write down a clear and as nearly
accurate an account as your pride will allow of your quarrel with the
Doctor, sir. Such an account would be an amazing assistance to posterity
in forming an estimate of the character of Johnson."

"Ah, sir, am I not sufficiently humiliated by the reflection that my
friendly relations with the man whom I revere more than any living human
being are irretrievably ruptured? You will not add to the poignancy of
that reflection by asking me to write down an account of our quarrel in
order to perpetuate so deplorable an incident?"

"Sir, I perceive that you are as yet ignorant of the duties of the true
biographer. You seem to think that a biographer has a right to pick
and choose the incidents with which he has to deal--that he may, if he
please, omit the mention of any occurrence that may tend to show his
hero or his hero's friends in an unfavourable light. Sir, I tell you
frankly that your notions of biography are as erroneous as they are
mischievous. Mr. Boswell, I am a more conscientious man, and so, sir, I
insist on your writing down while they are still fresh in your mind the
very words that passed between you and Dr. Johnson on this matter, and
you will also furnish me with a list of the persons--if you have not
sufficient paper at your lodgings for the purpose, you can order a ream
at the stationer's at the corner--to whom you gave an account of the
humiliation of Dr. Johnson by the clergyman who claimed relationship
with me, but who was an impostor. Come, Mr. Boswell, be a man, sir; do
not seek to avoid so obvious a duty."

Boswell looked at him, but, as usual, failed to detect the least gleam
of a smile on his face.

He rose from the table and walked out of the coffee house without a
word.

"Thank heaven I have got rid of that Peeping Tom," muttered Goldsmith.
"If I had acted otherwise in regard to him I should not have been out of
hearing of his rasping tongue until midnight."

(The very next morning a letter from Boswell was brought to him. It told
him that he had sought Johnson the previous evening, and had obtained
his forgiveness. "You were right, sir," the letter concluded. "Dr.
Johnson has still further impressed me with a sense of his generosity.")

But as soon as Boswell had been got rid of Goldsmith hastened to
the playhouse in order to consult with the lady who--through long
practice--was, he believed, the most ably qualified of her sex to give
him advice as to the best way of getting the better of a scoundrel. It
was only when he was entering the green room that he recollected he had
not yet made up his mind as to the exact limitations he should put upon
his confidence with Mrs. Abington.

The beautiful actress was standing in one of those picturesque attitudes
which she loved to assume, at one end of the long room. The second act
only of "She Stoops to Conquer" had been reached, and as she did not
appear in the comedy, she had no need to begin dressing for the next
piece. She wore a favourite dress of hers--one which had taken the town
by storm a few months before, and which had been imitated by every lady
of quality who had more respect for fashion than for herself. It was
a negligently flowing gown of some soft but heavy fabric, very low and
loose about the neck and shoulders.

"Ha, my little hero," cried the lady when Goldsmith approached and made
his bow, first to a group of players who stood near the door, and then
to Mrs. Abington. "Ha, my little hero, whom have you been drubbing last?
Oh, lud! to think of your beating a critic! Your courage sets us all
a-dying of envy. How we should love to pommel some of our critics! There
was a rumour last night that the man had died, Dr. Goldsmith."

"The fellow would not pay such a tribute to my powers, depend on't,
madam," said Goldsmith.

"Not if he could avoid it, I am certain," said she. "Faith, sir,
you gave him a pretty fair drubbing, anyhow.' Twas the talk of the
playhouse, I give you my word. Some vastly pretty things were said about
you, Dr. Goldsmith. It would turn your head if I were to repeat them
all. For instance, a gentleman in this very room last night said that it
was the first case that had come under his notice of a doctor's making
an attempt upon a man's life, except through the legitimate professional
channel."

"If all the pretty things that were spoken were no prettier than that,
Mrs. Abington, you will not turn my head," said Goldsmith. "Though, for
that matter, I vow that to effect such a purpose you only need to stand
before me in that dress--ay, or any other."

"Oh, sir, I protest that I cannot stand before such a fusillade of
compliment--I sink under it, sir--thus," and she made an exquisite
courtesy. "Talk of turning heads! do you fancy that actresses' heads are
as immovable as their hearts, Dr. Goldsmith?"

"I trust that their hearts are less so, madam, for just now I am
extremely anxious that the heart of the most beautiful and most
accomplished should be moved," said Goldsmith.

"You have only to give me your word that you have written as good a
comedy as 'She Stoops to Conquer,' with a better part for me in it than
that of Miss Hardcastle."

"I have the design of one in my head, madam."

"Then, faith, sir,'tis lucky that I did not say anything to turn your
head. Dr. Goldsmith, my heart is moved already. See how easy it is for a
great author to effect his object where a poor actress is concerned. And
you have begun the comedy, sir?"

"I cannot begin it until I get rid of a certain tragedy that is in the
air. I want your assistance in that direction."

"What! Do you mistake the farce of drubbing a critic for a tragedy, Dr.
Goldsmith?"

"Psha, madam! What do you take me for? Even if I were as poor a critic
as Kenrick I could still discriminate between one and t' other. Can you
give me half an hour of your time, Mrs. Abington?"

"With all pleasure, sir. We shall sit down. You wear a tragedy face, Dr.
Goldsmith."

"I need to do so, madam, as I think you will allow when you hear all I
have to tell you."

"Oh, lud! You frighten me. Pray begin, sir."

"How shall I begin? Have you ever had to encounter the devil, madam?"

"Frequently, sir. Alas! I fear that I have not always prevailed against
him as successfully as you did in your encounter with one of his
family--a critic. Your story promises to be more interesting than your
face suggested."

"I have to encounter a devil, Mrs. Abington, and I come to you for
help."

"Then you must tell me if your devil is male or female. If the former I
think I can promise you my help; if the latter, do not count on me. When
the foul fiend assumes the form of an angel of light--which I take to be
the way St. Paul meant to convey the idea of a woman--he is too powerful
for me, I frankly confess."

"Mine is a male fiend."

"Not the manager of a theatre--another form of the same hue?"

"Nay, dear madam, there are degrees of blackness."

"Ah, yes; positive bad, comparative Baddeley, superlative Colman."

"If I could compose a phrase like that, Mrs. Abington, I should be the
greatest wit in London, and ruin my life going from coffee house to
coffee house repeating it."

"Pray do not tell Mrs. Baddeley that I made it, sir."

"How could I, madam, when you have just told me that a she-devil was
more than you could cope with?"

CHAPTER XXII.

And now, sir, to face the particulars--to proceed from the fancy
embroidery of wit to the solid fabric of fact--who or what is the
aggressive demon that you want exorcised?"

"His name is Jackson--he calls himself Captain Jackson," replied Oliver.
He had not made up his mind how much he should tell of Mary Horneck's
story. He blamed Boswell for interrupting his consideration of this
point after he had dined; though it is doubtful if he would have made
any substantial advance in that direction even if the unhappy Scotchman
had not thrust himself and his grievance upon him.

"Jackson--Captain Jackson!" cried the actress. "Why, Dr. Goldsmith, this
is a very little fiend that you ask me to help you to destroy. Surely,
sir, he can be crushed without my assistance. One does not ask for a
battering-ram to overturn a house of cards--one does not requisition a
park of artillery to demolish a sparrow."

"Nay, but if a blunderbuss be not handy, one should avail oneself of
the power of a piece of ordnance," said Goldsmith. "The truth is, madam,
that in this matter I represent only the blunder of the blunderbuss."

"If you drift into wit, sir, we shall never get on. I know 'tis hard for
you to avoid it; but time is flying. What has this Captain Jackson been
doing that he must be sacrificed? You must be straight with me."

"I'm afraid it has actually come to that. Well, Mrs. Abington, in brief,
there is a lady in the question."

"Oh! you need scarce dwell on so inevitable an incident as that; I was
waiting for the lady."

"She is the most charming of her sex, madam."

"I never knew one that wasn't. Don't waste time over anything that may
be taken for granted."

"Unhappily she was all unacquainted with the wickedness of men."

"I wonder in what part of the world she lived--certainly not in London."

"Staying with a relation in the country this fellow Jackson appeared
upon the scene----"

"Ah! the most ancient story that the world knows: Innocence, the garden,
the serpent. Alas! sir, there is no return to the Garden of Innocence,
even though the serpent be slaughtered."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Abington"--Goldsmith spoke slowly and gravely--"pardon
me. This real story is not so commonplace as that of my Olivia. Destiny
has more resources than the most imaginative composer of fiction."

In as direct a fashion as possible he told the actress the pitiful story
of how Mary Horneck was imposed upon by the glamour of the man who let
it be understood that he was a hero, only incapacitated by a wound from
taking any further part in the campaign against the rebels in America;
and how he refused to return her the letters which she had written to
him, but had threatened to print them in such a way as would give them
the appearance of having been written by a guilty woman.

"The lady is prostrated with grief," he said, concluding his story. "The
very contemplation of the possibility of her letters being printed is
killing her, and I am convinced that she would not survive the shame of
knowing that the scoundrel had carried out his infamous threat."

"'Tis a sad story indeed," said Mrs. Abington. "The man is as bad as
bad can be. He claimed acquaintance with me on that famous night at the
Pantheon, though I must confess that I had only a vague recollection of
meeting him before his regiment was ordered across the Atlantic to quell
the rebellion in the plantations. Only two days ago I heard that he had
been drummed out of the army, and that he had sunk to the lowest point
possible for a man to fall to in this world. But surely you know
that all the fellow wants is to levy what was termed on the border of
Scotland 'blackmail' upon the unhappy girl. 'Tis merely a question of
guineas, Dr. Goldsmith. You perceive that? You are a man?"

"That was indeed my first belief; but, on consideration, I have come to
think that he is fiend enough to aim only at the ruin of the girl," said
Goldsmith.

"Psha! sir, I believe not in this high standard of crime. I believe not
in the self-sacrifice of such fellows for the sake of their principles,"
cried the lady. "Go to the fellow with your guineas and shake them in
a bag under his nose, and you shall quickly see how soon he will forego
the dramatic elements in his attitude, and make an ignoble grab at the
coins."

"You may be right," said he. "But whence are the guineas to come, pray?"

"Surely the lady's friends will not see her lost for the sake of a
couple of hundred pounds."

"Nay; but her aim is to keep the matter from the ears of her friends!
She would be overcome with shame were it to reach their ears that she
had written letters of affection to such a man."

"She must be a singularly unpractical young lady, Dr. Goldsmith."

"If she had not been more than innocent would she, think you, have
allowed herself to be imposed on by a stranger?"

"Alas, sir, if there were no ladies like her in the world, you gentlemen
who delight us with your works of fiction would have to rely solely on
your imagination; and that means going to another world. But to return
to the matter before us; you wish to obtain possession of the letters?
How do you suggest that I can help you to accomplish that purpose?"

"Why, madam, it is you to whom I come for suggestions. I saw the man in
conversation with you first at the Pantheon, and then in this very room.
It occurred to me that perhaps--it might be possible--in short, Mrs.
Abington, that you might know of some way by which the scoundrel could
be entrapped."

"You compliment me, sir. You think that the entrapping of unwary
men--and of wary--is what nature and art have fitted me for--nature and
practice?"

"I cannot conceive a higher compliment being paid to a woman, dear
madam. But, in truth, I came to you because you are the only lady
with whom I am acquainted who with a kind heart combines the highest
intelligence. That is why you are our greatest actress. The highest
intelligence is valueless on the stage unless it is associated with a
heart that beats in sympathy with the sorrow and becomes exultant with
the joy of others. That is why I regard myself as more than fortunate in
having your promise to accept a part in my next comedy."

Mrs. Abington smiled as she saw through the very transparent art of the
author, reminding her that she would have her reward if she helped him
out of his difficulty.

"I can understand how ladies look on you with great favour, sir," said
the actress. "Yes, in spite of your being--being--ah--innocent--a poet,
and of possessing other disqualifications, you are a delightful man, Dr.
Goldsmith; and by heaven, sir, I shall do what I can to--to--well, shall
we say to put you in a position of earning the lady's gratitude?"

"That is the position I long for, dear madam."

"Yes, but only to have the privilege of foregoing your claim. I know
you, Dr. Goldsmith. Well, supposing you come to see me here in a day or
two--that will give both of us a chance of still further considering the
possibility of successfully entrapping our friend the Captain. I believe
it was the lady who suggested the trap to you; you, being a man, were
doubtless for running your enemy through the vitals or for cutting his
throat without the delay of a moment."

"Your judgment is unerring, Mrs. Abington."

"Ah, you see, it is the birds that have been in the trap who know most
about it. Besides, does not our dear dead friend Will Shakespeare say,
'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps'?"

"Those are his words, madam, though at this moment I cannot quite
perceive their bearing."

"Oh, lud! Why, dear sir, Cupid's mother's daughters resemble their
little step-brother in being fond of a change of weapons, and you, sir,
I perceive, have been the victim of a dart. Now, I must hasten to dress
for my part or there will be what Mr. Daly of Smock Alley, Dublin, used
to term 'ructions.'"

She gave him her hand with a delightful smile and hurried off, but not
before he had bowed over her hand, imprinting on it a clumsy but very
effective kiss.

He remained in the theatre until the close of the performance; for
he was not so utterly devoid of guile as not to know that if he had
departed without witnessing Mrs. Abington in the second piece she would
have regarded him as far from civil. Seeing him in a side box, however,
that clever lady perceived that he had taste as well as tact. She felt
that it was a pleasure to do anything for such a man--especially as he
was a writer of plays. It would be an additional pleasure to her if she
could so interpret a character in a play of his that the play should be
the most notable success of the season.

As Goldsmith strolled back to his chambers he felt that he had made some
progress in the enterprise with which he had been entrusted. He did not
feel elated, but only tranquilly confident that his judgment had not
been at fault when it suer-gested to him the propriety of consulting
with Mrs. Abington. This was the first time that propriety and Mrs.
Abington were associated.

The next day he got a message that the success of his play was
consolidated by a "command" performance at which the whole of his
Majesty's Court would attend. This news elated him, not only because
it meant the complete success of the play and the overthrow of the
sentimentalists who were still harping upon the "low" elements of
certain scenes, but also because he accepted it as an incident of good
augury. He felt certain that Mrs. Abington would have discovered a plan
by which he should be able to get possession of the letters.

When he went to her after the lapse of a few days, he found that she had
not been unmindful of his interests.

"The fellow had the effrontery to stand beside my chair in the Mall
yesterday," said she, "but I tolerated him--nay, I encouraged him--not
for your sake, mind; I do not want you to fancy that you interest me,
but for the sake of the unhappy girl who was so nearly making a shocking
fool of herself. Only one girl interests me more than she who nearly
makes a fool of herself, and that is she who actually makes the fool of
herself."

"Alas! alas! the latter is more widely represented in this evil world,
Mrs. Abing ton," said Oliver, so gravely that the actress roared with
laughter.

"You have too fine a comedy face to be sentimental, Dr. Goldsmith," she
said. "But to business. I tell you I even smiled upon the gentleman, for
I have found that the traps which are netted with silk are invariably
the most effective."

"You have found that by your experience of traps?" said Goldsmith. "The
smile is the silken net?"

"Even so," said she, giving an excellent example of the fatal mesh. "Ah,
Dr. Goldsmith, you would do well to avoid the woman who smiles on you."

"Alas! madam, the caution is thrown away upon me; she smiles not on me,
but at me."

"Thank heaven for that, sir. No harm will come to you through being
smiled at. How I stray from my text! Well, sir, the wretch, in response
to the encouragement of my smile, had the effrontery to ask me for my
private address, upon which I smiled again. Ah, sir, 'tis diverting when
the fly begins to lure on the spider."

"'Tis vastly diverting, madam, I doubt not--to the fly."

"Ay, and to the friends of the spider. But we shall let that pass.
Sir, to be brief, I did not let the gentleman know that I had a private
address, but I invited him to partake of supper with me on the next
Thursday night."

"Heavens! madam, you do not mean to tell me that your interest on my
behalf----"

"Is sufficiently great to lead me to sup with a spider? Sir, I say that
I am only interested in my sister-fly--would she be angry if she were to
hear that such a woman as I even thought of her as a sister?"

There was a note of pathos in the question, which did not fall unnoticed
upon Goldsmith's ear.

"Madam," said he, "she is a Christian woman."

"Ah, Dr. Goldsmith," said the actress, "a very small amount of Christian
charity is thought sufficient for the equipment of a Christian woman.
Let that pass, however; what I want of you is to join us at supper on
Thursday night. It is to take place in the Shakespeare tavern round
the corner, and, of course, in a private room; but I do not want you
to appear boldly, as if I had invited you beforehand to partake of my
hospitality. You must come into the room when we have begun, carrying
with you a roll of manuscript, which you must tell me contains a scene
of your new comedy, upon which we are daily in consultation, mind you."

"I shall not fail to recollect," said Goldsmith. "Why, 'tis like the
argument of a comedy, Mrs. Abingdon; I protest I never invented one more
elaborate. I rather fear to enter upon it."

"Nay, you must be in no trepidation, sir," said the lady. "I think I
know the powers of the various members of the cast of this little drama
of mine, so you need not think that you will be put into a part which
you will not be able to play to perfection."

"You are giving me a lesson in playwriting. Pray continue the argument.
When I enter with the imaginary scene of my new piece, you will, I
trust, ask me to remain to supper; you see I grudge the gentleman the
pleasure of your society for even an hour."

"I will ask you to join us at the table, and then--well, then I have
a notion that between us we should have no great difficulty making our
friend drink a sufficient quantity of wine to cause him to make known
all his secrets to us, even as to where he keeps those precious letters
of his."

Oliver's face did not exhibit any expression that the actress could
possibly interpret as a flattering tribute to her ingenuity--the fact
being that he was greatly disappointed at the result of her contriving.
Her design was on a level of ingenuity with that which might occur to a
romantic school miss. Of course the idea upon which it was founded had
formed the basis of more than one comedy--he had a notion that if these
comedies had not been written Mrs. Abing ton's scheme would not have
been so clearly defined.

She perceived the expression on his face and rightly interpreted it.

"What, sir!" she cried. "Do you fail to perceive the singular ingenuity
of my scheme? Nay, you must remember that 'tis my first attempt--not at
scheming, to be sure, but at inventing a design for a play."

"I would not shrink from making use of your design if I were writing a
play, dear lady," said he. "But then, you see, it would be in my power
to make my villain speak at the right moments and hold his peace at the
right moments. It would also be in my power to make him confess all that
was necessary for the situation. But alas! madam, it makes me sometimes
quite hopeless of Nature to find how frequently she disregards the most
ordinary precepts of art."

"Psha! sir," said the actress. "Nothing in this world is certain. I am
a poor moralist, but I recognise the fact, and make it the guide of my
life. At the same time I have noticed that, although one's carefully
arranged plans are daily thrown into terrible disorder by the
slovenliness of the actors to whom we assign certain parts and certain
dialogue, yet in the end nature makes even a more satisfactory drama
out of the ruins of our schemes than we originally designed. So, in this
case, sir, I am not without hope that even though our gentleman's lips
remain sealed--nay, even though our gentleman remain sober--a great
calamity--we may still be able to accomplish our purpose. You will keep
your ears open and I shall keep my eyes open, and it will be strange if
between us we cannot get the better of so commonplace a scoundrel."

"I place myself unreservedly in your hands, madam," said Oliver; "and I
can only repeat what you have said so well--namely, that even the most
clumsy of our schemes--which this one of yours certainly is not--may
become the basis of a most ingenious drama, designed and carried out by
that singularly adroit playwright, Destiny. And so I shall not fail you
on Thursday evening."

CHAPTER XXIII.

Goldsmith for the next few days felt very ill at ease. He had a
consciousness of having wasted a good deal of valuable time waiting upon
Mrs. Abington and discussing with her the possibility of accomplishing
the purpose which he had at heart; for he could not but perceive how
shallow was the scheme which she had devised for the undoing of Mary
Horneck's enemy. He felt that it would, after all, have been better for
him to place himself in the hands of the fencing-master whom Baretti had
promised to find out for him, and to do his best to run the scoundrel
through the body, than to waste his time listening to the crude scheme
concocted by Mrs. Abington, in close imitation of some third-class
playwright.

He felt, however, that he had committed himself to the actress and her
scheme. It would be impossible for him to draw back after agreeing to
join her at supper on the Thursday night. But this fact did not prevent
his exercising his imagination with a view to find out some new plan
for obtaining possession of the letters. Thursday came, however, without
seeing him any further advanced in this direction than he had been when
he had first gone to the actress, and he began to feel that hopelessness
which takes the form of hoping for the intervention of some accident
to effect what ingenuity has failed to accomplish-Mrs. Abington had
suggested the possibility of such an accident taking place--in fact, she
seemed to rely rather upon the possibility of such an occurrence than
upon the ingenuity of her own scheme; and Oliver could not but think
that she was right in this respect. He had a considerable experience
of life and its vicissitudes, and he knew that when destiny was in a
jesting mood the most judicious and cunningly devised scheme may be
overturned by an accident apparently no less trivial than the raising of
a hand, the fluttering of a piece of lace, or the cry of a baby.

He had known of a horse's casting a shoe preventing a runaway match and
a vast amount of consequent misery, and he had heard of a shower of rain
causing a confirmed woman hater to take shelter in a doorway, where he
met a young woman who changed--for a time--all his ideas of the sex. As
he recalled these and other freaks of fate, he could not but feel that
Mrs. Abington was fully justified in her confidence in accident as a
factor in all human problems. But he was quite aware that hoping for an
accident is only another form of despair.

In the course of the day appointed by Mrs. Abington for her supper he
met Baretti, and reminded him of the promise he had made to find an
Italian fencing master and send him to Brick Court.

"What!" cried Baretti. "Have you another affair on your hands in
addition to that in which you have already been engaged? Psha! sir. You
do not need to be a swordsman in order to flog a bookseller."

"I do not look forward to fighting booksellers," said Goldsmith. "They
have stepped between me and starvation more than once."

"Would any one of them have taken that step unless he was pretty certain
to make money by his philanthropy?" asked Baretti in his usual cynical
way.

"I cannot say," replied Goldsmith. "I don't think that I can lay claim
to the mortifying reflection that I have enriched any bookseller. At any
rate, I do not mean ever to beat another."

"'Tis, then, a critic whom you mean to attack? If you have made up your
mind to kill a critic, I shall make it a point to find you the best
swordsman in Europe," said Baretti.

"Do so, my friend," said Goldsmith; "and when I succeed in killing a
critic, you shall have the first and second fingers of his right hand as
a memento."

"I shall look for them--yes, in five years, for it will certainly take
that time to make you expert with a sword," said the Italian. "And,
meantime, you may yourself be cut to pieces by even so indifferent a
fighter as Kenrick."

"In such a case I promise to bequeath to you whatever bones of mine you
may take a fancy to have."

"And I shall regard them with great veneration, being the relics of a
martyr--a man who did not fear to fight with dragons and other unclean
beasts. You may look for a visit from a skilful countryman of mine
within a week; only let me pray of you to be guided by his advice. If he
should say that it is wiser for you to beware the entrance to a quarrel,
as your poet has it, you will do well to accept his advice. I do not
want a poet's bones for my reliquary, though from all that I can hear
one of our friends would have no objection to a limb or two."

"And who may that friend be?"

"You should be able to guess, sir. What! have you not been negotiating
with the booksellers for a life of Dr. Johnson?"

"Not I, sir. But, if I have been doing so, what then?"

"What then? Why, then you may count upon the eternal enmity of the
little Scotchman whom you once described not as a cur but only a bur.
Sir, Boswell robbed of his Johnson would be worse than--than----"

"A lioness robbed of her whelps?"

"Well, better say a she-bear robbed of her cubs, only that Johnson is
the bear and Boswell the cub. Boswell has been going about saying that
you had boasted to him of your intention to become Johnson's biographer;
and the best of the matter is that Johnson has entered with great spirit
into the jest and has kept his poor Bossy on thistles--reminiscent of
his native land--ever since."

Goldsmith laughed, and told Baretti how he had occasion to get rid of
Boswell, and had done so by pretending that he meant to write a life of
Johnson. Baretti laughed and went on to describe how, on the previous
evening, Garrick had drawn on Boswell until the latter had imitated all
the animals in the farmyard, while narrating, for the thousandth time,
his first appearance in the pit of Drury Lane. Boswell had felt quite
flattered, Baretti said, when Garrick, making a judicial speech, which
every one present except Boswell perceived to be a fine piece of comedy,
said he felt constrained to reverse the judgment of the man in the pit
who had shouted: "Stick to the coo, mon!" On the whole, Garrick said, he
thought that, while Boswell's imitation of the cow was most admirable in
many respects, yet for naturalness it was his opinion--whatever it might
be worth--that the voice of the ass was that which Boswell was most
successful in attempting.

Goldsmith knew that even Garrick's broadest buffoonery was on occasions
accepted by Boswell with all seriousness, and he had no hesitation in
believing Baretti's account of the party on the previous evening.

He went to Mrs. Abington's room at the theatre early in the night to
inquire if she had made any change in her plans respecting the supper,
and he found that the lady had come to think as poorly of the scheme
which she had invented as he did. She had even abandoned her idea of
inducing the man to confess, when in a state of intoxication, where he
was in the habit of keeping the letters.

"These fellows are sometimes desperately suspicious when in their cups,"
said she; "and I fear that at the first hint of our purpose he may
become dumb, no matter how boldly he may have been talking previously.
If he suspects that you have a desire to obtain the letters, you may say
farewell to the chance of worming anything out of him regarding them."

"What then is to be gained by our supping with him?" said Goldsmith.

"Why, you are brought into contact with him," she replied. "You will
then be in a position, if you cultivate a friendship with him, to take
him unawares upon some occasion, and so effect your purpose. Great?
heavens, sir! one cannot expect to take a man by storm, so to speak--one
cannot hope to meet a clever scoundrel for half an hour-in the evening,
and then walk away with all his secrets. You may have to be with this
fellow every day for a month or two before you get a chance of putting
the letters into your pocket."

"I'll hope for better luck than that," said Oliver.

"Oh, with good luck one can accomplish anything," said she. "But good
luck is just one of the things that cannot be arranged for even by the
cleverest people."

"That is where men are at a disadvantage in striving with destiny,"
said Goldsmith. "But I think that any man who succeeds in having Mrs.
Abington as his ally must be regarded as the most fortunate of his sex."

"Ah, sir, wait for another month before you compliment me," said she.

"Madam," said he, "I am not complimenting you, but myself. I will take
your advice and reserve my compliments to you for--well, no, not a
month; if I can put them off for a week I shall feel that I have done
very well."

As he made his bow and left her, he could not help feeling more strongly
that he had greatly overrated the advantages to be derived from an
alliance with Mrs. Abington when his object was to get the better of
an adroit scoundrel. He had heard--nay, he had written--of the wiles of
women, and yet the first time that he had an opportunity of testing a
woman's wiles he found that he had been far too generous in his estimate
of their value.

It was with no little trepidation that he went to the Shakespeare
tavern at supper time and inquired for Mrs. Abington. He had a roll
of manuscript in his hand, according to agreement, and he desired the
waiter to inform the lady that he would not keep her for long. He was
very fluent up to this point; but he was uncertain how he would behave
when he found himself face to face with the man who had made the life of
Mary Horneck miserable. He wondered if he would be able to restrain his
impulse to fly at the scoundrel's throat.

When, however, the waiter returned with a message from Mrs. Abington
that she would see Dr. Goldsmith in the supper room, and he ascended
the stairs to that apartment, he felt quite at his ease. He had nerved
himself to play a part, and he was convinced that the rôle was not
beyond his powers.

Mrs. Abington, at the moment of his entrance, was lying back in her
chair laughing, apparently at a story which was being told to her by her
_vis-à-vis_, for he was leaning across the table, with his elbow resting
upon it and one expressive finger upraised to give emphasis to the
points of his narrative.

When Goldsmith appeared, the actress nodded to him familiarly,
pleasantly, but did not allow her attention to be diverted from the
story which Captain Jackson was telling to her. Goldsmith paused with
his fingers still on the handle of the door. He knew that the most
inopportune entrance that a man can make upon another is when the other
is in the act of telling a story to an appreciative audience--say, a
beautiful actress in a gown that allows her neck and shoulders to be
seen to the greatest advantage and does not interfere with the ebb
and flow of that roseate tide, with its gracious ripples and delicate
wimplings, rising and falling between the porcelain of her throat and
the curve of the ivory of her shoulders.

The man did not think it worth his while to turn around in recognition
of Goldsmith's entrance; he finished his story and received Mrs.
Abington's tribute of a laugh as a matter of course. Then he turned
his head round as the visitor ventured to take a step or two toward
the table, bowing profusely--rather too profusely for the part he was
playing, the artistic perception of the actress told her.

"Ha, my little author!" cried the man at the table with the swagger of a
patron.

"You are true to the tradition of the craft of scribblers--the best time
for putting in an appearance is when supper has just been served."

"Ah, sir," said Goldsmith, "we poor devils are forced to wait upon the
convenience of our betters."

"Strike me dumb, sir, if 'tis not a pity you do not await their
convenience in an ante-room--ay, or the kitchen. I have heard that the
scribe and the cook usually become the best of friends. You poets write
best of broken hearts when you are sustained by broken victuals."

"For shame, Captain!" cried Mrs Abington. "Dr. Goldsmith is a man as
well as a poet. He has broken heads before now."

CHAPTER XXIV.

Captain Jackson laughed heartily at so quaint an idea, throwing himself
back in his chair and pointing a contemptuous thumb at Oliver, who had
advanced to the side of the actress, assuming the deprecatory smile of
the bookseller's hack. He played the part very indifferently, the lady
perceived.

"Faith, my dear," laughed the Captain, "I would fain believe that he is
a terrible person for a poet, for, by the Lord, he nearly had his head
broke by me on the first night that you went to the Pantheon; and I
swear that I never crack a skull unless it be that of a person who is
accustomed to spread terror around."

"Some poets' skulls, sir, are not so easily cracked," said Mrs.
Abington.

"Nay, my dear madam," cried her _vis-à-vis_, "you must pardon me for
saying that I do not think you express your meaning with any great
exactness. I take it that you mean, madam, that on the well known
kitchen principle that cracked objects last longer than others, a
poet's pate, being cracked originally, survives the assaults that would
overcome a sound head."

"I meant nothing like that, Captain," said Mrs. Abington. Then she
turned to Goldsmith, who stood by, fingering his roll of manuscript.
"Come, Dr. Goldsmith," she cried, "seat yourself by me, and partake of
supper. I vow that I will not even glance at that act of your new play
which I perceive you have brought to me, until we have supped."

"Nay, madam," stuttered Goldsmith; "I have already had my humble meal;
still----"

He glanced from the dishes on the table to Captain Jackson, who gave a
hoarse laugh, crying--

"Ha, I wondered if the traditions of the trade were about to be violated
by our most admirable Doctor. I thought it likely that he would allow
himself to be persuaded. But I swear that he has no regard for the
romance which he preaches, or else he would not form the third at a
party. Has he never heard that the third in a party is the inevitable
kill-joy?"

"You wrong my friend Dr. Goldsmith, Captain," said the actress in
smiling remonstrance that seemed to beg of him to take an indulgent view
of the poet's weakness. "You wrong him, sir. Dr. Goldsmith is a man of
parts. He is a wit as well as a poet, and he will not stay very long;
will you, Dr. Goldsmith?"

She acted the part so well that but for the side glance which she cast
at him, Goldsmith might have believed her to be in earnest. For his own
part he was acting to perfection the rôle of the hack author who was
patronised till he found himself in the gutter. He could only smile in
a sickly way as he laid down his hat beside a chair over which Jackson's
cloak was flung, and placed in it the roll of manuscript, preparatory to
seating himself.

"Madam, I am your servant," he murmured; "Sir, I am your most obedient
to command. I feel the honour of being permitted to sup in such
distinguished company."

"And so you should, sir," cried Captain Jackson as the waiter bustled
about, laying a fresh plate and glass, "so you should. Your grand
patrons, my little friend, though they may make a pretence of saving you
from slaughter by taking your quarrel on their shoulders, are not likely
to feed you at their own table. Lord, how that piece of antiquity,
General Oglethorpe, swag gered across the porch at the Pantheon when I
had half a mind to chastise you for your clumsiness in almost knocking
me over! May I die, sir, if I wasn't at the brink of teaching the
General a lesson which he would have remembered to his dying hour--his
dying hour--that is to say, for exactly four minutes after I had drawn
upon him."

"Ah, Dr. Goldsmith is fortunate in his friends," said Mrs. Abington.
"But I hope that in future, Captain, he may reckon on your sword being
drawn on his behalf, and not turned against him and his friends."

"If you are his friend, my dear Mrs. Abington, he may count upon me, I
swear," cried the Captain bowing over the table.

"Good," she said. "And so I call upon you to drink to his health--a
bumper, sir, a bumper!"

The Captain showed no reluctance to pay the suggested compliment. With
an air of joviality he filled his large glass up to the brim and drained
it with a good-humoured, half-patronising motion in the direction of
Goldsmith.

"Hang him!" he cried, when he had wiped his lips, "I bear Goldsmith no
malice for his clumsiness in the porch of the Pantheon. 'Sdeath, madam,
shall the man who led a company of his Majesty's regulars in charge
after charge upon the American rebels, refuse to drink to the health
of a little man who tinkles out his rhymes as the man at the raree show
does his bells? Strike me blind, deaf and dumb, if I am not magnanimous
to my heart's core. I'll drink his health again if you challenge me."

"Nay, Captain," said the lady, "I'll be magnanimous, too, and refrain
from challenging you. I sadly fear that you have been drinking too many
healths during the day, sir."

"What mean you by that, madam?" he cried. "Do you suggest that I cannot
carry my liquor with the best men at White's? If you were a man, and you
gave a hint in that direction, by the Lord, it would be the last that
you would have a chance of offering."

"Nay, nay, sir! I meant not that," said the actress hastily. "I will
prove to you that I meant it not by challenging you to drink to Dr.
Goldsmith's new comedy."

"Now you are very much my dear," said Jackson, half-emptying the brandy
decanter into his glass and adding only a thimbleful of water. "Yes,
your confidence in me wipes out the previous affront. 'Sblood, madam,
shall it be said that Dick Jackson, whose name made the American
rebels--curse 'em!--turn as green as their own coats--shall it be
said that Dick Jackson, of whom the rebel Colonel--Washington his
name is--George Washington"--he had considerable difficulty over the
name--"is accustomed to say to this day, 'Give me a hundred men--not
men, but lions, like that devil Dick Jackson, and I'll sweep his
Majesty's forces into the Potomac'--shall it be said that--that--what
the devil was I about to say--shall it be said?--never mind--here's to
the health of Colonel Washington!"

"Nay, sir, we cannot drink to one of the King's enemies," said Mrs.
Abington, rising. "'Twere scandalous, indeed, to do so in this place;
and, sir, you still wear the King's uniform."

"The devil take the King's uniform!" shouted the man. "The devils of
rebels are taking a good many coats of that uniform, and let me tell
you, madam, that--nay, you must not leave the table until the toast is
drank----" Mrs. Abington having risen, had walked across the room and
seated herself on the chair over which Captain Jackson had flung his
cloak.

"Hold, sir," cried Goldsmith, dropping his knife and fork with a clatter
upon his plate that made the other man give a little jump. "Hold, sir, I
perceive that you are on the side of freedom, and I would feel honoured
by your permission to drink the toast that you propose. Here's success
to the cause that will triumph in America." Jackson, who was standing at
the table with his glass in his hand, stared at him with the smile of a
half-intoxicated man. He had just enough intelligence remaining to make
him aware that there was something ambiguous in Goldsmith's toast.

"It sounds all right," he muttered as if he were trying to convince
himself that his suspicions of ambiguity were groundless. "It sounds all
right, and yet, strike me dizzy! if it wouldn't work both ways! Ha, my
little poet," he continued. "I'm glad to see that you are a man. Drink,
sir--drink to the success of the cause in America." Goldsmith got upon
his feet and raised his glass--it contained only a light wine.

"Success to it!" he cried, and he watched Captain Jackson drain his
third tumbler of brandy.

"Hark ye, my little poet!" whispered the latter very huskily, lurching
across the table, and failing to notice that his hostess had not
returned to her place. "Hark ye, sir! Cornwallis thought himself a
general of generals. He thought when he courtmartialled me and turned
me out of the regiment, sending me back to England in a foul hulk from
Boston port, that he had got rid of me. He'll find out that he was
mistaken, sir, and that one of these days----Mum's the word, mind you!
If you open your lips to any human being about this, I'll cut you to
pieces. I'll flay you alive! Washington is no better than Cornwallis,
let me tell you. What message did he send me when he heard that I was
ready to blow Cornwallis's brains out and march my company across the
Potomac? I ask you, sir, man to man--though a poet isn't quite a
man--but that's my generosity. Said Washy--Washy--Wishy--Washy----
Washington: 'Cornwallis's brains have been such valuable allies to the
colonists, Colonel Washington would regard as his enemy any man who
would make the attempt to curtail their capacity for blundering.' That's
the message I got from Washington, curse him! But the Colonel isn't
everybody. Mark me, my friend--whatever your name is--I've got
letters--letters----"

"Yes, yes, you have letters--where?" cried Goldsmith, in the
confidential whisper that the other had assumed.

The man who was leaning across the table stared at him hazily, and
then across his face there came the cunning look of the more than
half-intoxicated. He straightened himself as well as he could in his
chair, and then swayed limply backward and forward, laughing.

"Letters--oh, yes--plenty of letters--but where?--where?--that's my own
matter--a secret," he murmured in vague tones. "The government would
give a guinea or two for my letters--one of them came from Mount Vernon
itself, Mr.--whatever your name maybe--and if you went to Mr. Secretary
and said to him, 'Mr. Secretary'"--he pronounced the word "Secrary"--"'I
know that Dick Jackson is a rebel,' and Mr. Secretary says, 'Where are
the letters to prove it?' where would you be, my clever friend? No, sir,
my brains are not like Cornwallis's, drunk or sober. Hallo, where's the
lady?"

He seemed suddenly to recollect where he was. He straightened himself as
well as he could, and looked sleepily across the room.

"I'm here," cried Mrs. Abington, leaving the chair, across the back of
which Jackson's coat was thrown. "I am here, sir; but I protest I shall
not take my place at the table again while treason is in the air."

"Treason, madam? Who talks of treason?" cried the man with a lurch
forward and a wave of the hand. "Madam, I'm shocked--quite shocked! I
wear the King's coat, though that cloak is my own--my own, and all that
it contains--all that----"

His voice died away in a drunken fashion as he stared across the room at
his cloak. Goldsmith saw an expression of suspicion come over his face;
he saw him straighten himself and walk with an affectation of steadiness
that only emphasised his intoxicated lurches, to the chair where the
cloak lay. He saw him lift up the cloak and run his hand down the lining
until he came to a pocket. With eager eyes he saw him extract from the
pocket a leathern wallet, and with a sigh of relief slip it furtively
into the bosom of his long waistcoat, where, apparently, there was
another packet.

Goldsmith glanced toward Mrs. Abington. She was sitting leaning over
her chair with a finger on her lips, and the same look of mischief that
Sir Joshua Reynolds transferred to his picture of her as "Miss Prue."
She gave a glance of smiling intelligence at Oliver, as Jackson laughed
coarsely, saying huskily--

"A handkerchief--I thought I had left my handkerchief in the pocket of
my cloak, and 'tis as well to make sure--that's my motto. And now, my
charmer, you will see that I'm not a man to dally with treason, for I'll
challenge you in a bumper to the King's most excellent Majesty. Fill up
your glass, madam; fill up yours, too, Mr.--Mr. Killjoy, we'll call
you, for what the devil made you show your ugly face here the fiend only
knows. Mrs. Baddeley and I are the best of good friends. Isn't that the
truth, sweet Mrs. Baddeley? Come, drink to my toast--whatever it may
be--or, by the Lord, I'll run you through the vitals!"

Goldsmith hastened to pass the man the decanter with whatever brandy
remained in it, and in another instant the decanter was empty and the
man's glass was full. Goldsmith was on his feet with uplifted glass
before Jackson had managed to raise himself, by the aid of a heavy hand
on the table, into a standing attitude, murmuring--

"Drink, sir! drink to my lovely friend there, the voluptuous Mrs.
Baddeley. My dear Mrs. Baddeley, I have the honour to welcome you to my
table, and to drink to your health, dear madam."

He swallowed the contents of the tumbler--his fourth since he had
entered the room--and the next instant he had fallen in a heap into his
chair, drenched by the contents of Mrs. Abington's glass.

[Illustration: 0315]

"That is how I accept your toast of Mrs. Baddeley, sir," she cried,
standing at the head of the table with the dripping glass still in her
hand. "You drunken sot! not to be able to distinguish between me and
Sophia Baddeley! I can stand the insult no longer. Take yourself out of
my room, sir!"

She gave the broad ribbon of the bell such a pull as nearly brought
it down. Goldsmith having started up, stood with amazement on his face
watching her, while the other man also stared at her through his drunken
stupour, his jaw fallen.

Not a word was spoken until the waiter entered the room.

"Call a hackney coach immediately for that gentleman," said the actress,
pointing to the man who alone remained--for the best of reasons--seated.

"A coach? Certainly, madam," said the waiter, withdrawing with a bow.

"Dr. Goldsmith," resumed Mrs. Abington, "may I beg of you to have the
goodness to see that person to his lodgings and to pay the cost of the
hackney-coach? He is not entitled to that consideration, but I have
a wish to treat him more generously than he deserves. His address is
Whetstone Park, I think we may assume; and so I leave you, sir."

* She walked from the room with her chin in the air, both of the men
watching her with such surprise as prevented either of them from
uttering a word. It was only when she had gone that it occurred to
Goldsmith that she was acting her part admirably--that she had set
herself to give him an opportunity of obtaining possession of the wallet
which she, as well as he, had seen Jackson transfer from the pocket
of his cloak to that of his waistcoat. Surely he should have no great
difficulty in extracting the bundle from the man's pocket when in the
coach.

"They're full of their whimsies, these wenches," were the first words
spoken, with a free wave of an arm, by the man who had failed in
his repeated attempts to lift himself out of his chair. "What did I
say?--what did I do to cause that spitfire to behave like that? I feel
hurt, sir, more deeply hurt than I can express, at her behaviour.
What's her name--I'm not sure if she was Mrs. Abington or Mrs. Baddeley?
Anyhow, she insulted me grossly--me, sir--me, an officer who has charged
his Majesty's rebels in the plantations of Virginia, where the Potomac
flows down to the sea. But they're all alike. I could tell you a few
stories about them, sir, that would open your eyes, for I have been
their darling always." Here he began to sing a tavern song in a loud but
husky tone, for the brandy had done its work very effectively, and
he had now reached what might be called--somewhat paradoxically--the
high-water mark of intoxication. He was still singing when the waiter
re-entered the room to announce that a hackney carriage was waiting at
the door of the tavern.

At the announcement the drunken man made a grab for a decanter and flung
it at the waiter's head. It missed that mark, however, and crashed among
the plates which were still on the table, and in a moment the landlord
and a couple of his barmen were in the room and on each side of Jackson.
He made a poor show of resistance when they pinioned his arms and pushed
him down the stairs and lifted him into the hackney-coach. The landlord
and his assistants were accustomed to deal with promptitude with such
persons, and they had shut the door of the coach before Goldsmith
reached the street.

"Hold on, sir," he cried, "I am accompanying that gentleman to his
lodging."

"Nay, Doctor," whispered the landlord, who was a friend of his, "the
fellow is a brawler--he will involve you in a quarrel before you reach
the Strand."

"Nevertheless, I will go, my friend," said Oliver. "The lady has laid it
upon me as a duty, and I must obey her at all hazards."

He got into the coach, and shouted out the address to the driver.

CHAPTER XXV.

The instant he had seated himself he found to his amazement that the
man beside him was fast asleep. To look at him lying in a heap on the
cushions one might have fancied that he had been sleeping for hours
rather than minutes, so composed was he. Even the jolting of the
starting coach made no impression upon him.

Goldsmith perceived that the moment for which he had been longing had
arrived. He felt that if he meant to get the letters into his possession
he must act at once.

He passed his hand over the man's waistcoat, and had no difficulty in
detecting the exact whereabouts of the packet which he coveted. All
he had to do was to unbutton the waistcoat, thrust his hand into the
pocket, and then leave the coach while it was still in motion.

The moment that he touched the first button, however, the man shifted
his position, and awoke, putting his hand, as if mechanically, to his
breast to feel that the wallet was still there. Then he straightened
himself in some measure and began to mumble, apparently being quite
unaware of the fact that some one was seated beside him.

"Dear madam, you do me great honour," he said, and then gave a little
hiccupping laugh. "Great honour, I swear; but if you were to offer me
all the guineas in the treasure chest of the regiment I would not give
you the plan of the fort. No, madam, I am a man of honour, and I hold
the documents for Colonel Washington. Oh, the fools that girls are to
put pen to paper! But if she was a fool she did not write the letters to
a fool. Oh, no, no! I would accept no price for them--no price whatever
except your own fair self. Come to me, my charmer, at sunset, and they
shall be yours; yes, with a hundred guineas, or I print them. Oh, Ned,
my lad, there's no honester way of living than by selling a wench her
own letters. No, no; Ned, I'll not leave 'em behind me in the drawer,
in case of accidents. I'll carry 'em about with me in case of accidents,
for I know how sharp you are, dear Ned; and so when I had 'em in the
pocket of my cloak I thought it as well to transfer 'em--in case of
accidents, Ned--to my waistcoat, sir. Ay, they're here! here, my friend!
and here they'll stay till Colonel Washington hands me over his dollars
for them."

Then he slapped his breast, and laughed the horrible laugh of a drunken
man whose hallucination is that he is the shrewdest fellow alive.

Goldsmith caught every word of his mumblings, and from the way he
referred to the letters, came to the conclusion that the scoundrel
had not only tried to levy blackmail on Mary Horneck, but had been
endeavouring to sell the secrets of the King's forces to the American
rebels. Goldsmith had, however, no doubt that the letters which he was
desirous of getting into his hands were those which the man had within
his waistcoat. His belief in this direction did not, however, assist him
to devise a plan for transferring the letters from the place where they
reposed to his own pocket.

The coach jolted over the uneven roads on its way to the notorious
Whetstone Park, but all the jolting failed to prevent the operation of
the brandy which the man had drank, for once again he fell asleep, his
fingers remaining between the buttons of his waistcoat, so that it would
be quite impossible for even the most adroit pickpocket, which Goldsmith
could not claim to be, to open the garment.

He felt the vexation of the moment very keenly. The thought that the
packet which he coveted was only a few inches from his hand, and yet
that it was as unattainable as though it were at the summit of Mont
Blanc, was maddening; but he felt that he would be foolish to make any
more attempts to effect his purpose. The man would be certain to awake,
and Goldsmith knew that, intoxicated though he was, he was strong enough
to cope with three men of his (Goldsmith's) physique.

Gregory's Court, which led into Whetstone Park, was too narrow to admit
so broad a vehicle as a hackney-coach, so the driver pulled up at the
entrance in Holborn near the New Turnstile, just under an alehouse lamp.
Goldsmith was wondering if his obligation to Mrs. Abington's guest
did not end here, when the light of the lamp showed the man to be wide
awake, and he really seemed comparatively sober. It was only when he
spoke that he showed himself, by the huskiness of his voice, to be very
far from sober.

"Good Lord!" he cried, "how do I come to be here? Who the devil may you
be, sirrah? Oh, I remember! You're the poet. She insulted me--grossly
insulted me--turned me out of the tavern. And you insulted me, too, you
rascal, coming with me in my coach, as if I was drunk, and needed you to
look after me. Get out, you scoundrel, or I'll crack your skull for you.
Can't you see that this is Gregory's Court?"

Goldsmith eyed the ruffian for a moment. He was debating if it might
not be better to spring upon him, and make at least a straightforward
attempt to obtain the wallet. The result of his moment's consideration
of the question was to cause him to turn away from the fellow and open
the door. He was in the act of telling the driver that he would take the
coach on to the Temple, when Jackson stepped out, shaking the vehicle on
its leathern straps, and staggered a few yards in the direction of the
turnstile. At the same instant a man hastily emerged from the entrance
to the court, almost coming in collision with Jackson.

"You cursed, clumsy lout!" shouted the latter, swinging, half-way round
as the man passed. In a second the stranger stopped, and faced the
other.

"You low ruffian!" he said. "You cheated me last night, and left me
to sleep in the fields; but my money came to me to-day, and I've been
waiting for you. Take that, you scoundrel--and that--and that----"

He struck Jackson a blow to right and left, and then one straight on the
forehead, which felled him to the ground. He gave the man a kick when he
fell, and then turned about and ran, for the watchman was coming up the
street, and half a dozen of the passers-by gave an alarm.

Goldsmith shouted out, "Follow him--follow the murderer!" pointing
wildly in the direction taken by the stranger.

In another instant he was leaning over the prostrate man, and making a
pretence to feel his heart. He tore open his waistcoat. Putting in his
hand, he quickly abstracted the wallet, and bending right over the
body in order to put his hand to the man's chest, he, with much more
adroitness than was necessary--for outside the sickly gleam of the lamp
all the street was in darkness--slipped the wallet into his other hand
and then under his coat.

A few people had by this time been drawn to the spot by the alarm which
had been given, and some inquired if the man were dead, and if he had
been run through with a sword.

"It was a knock-down blow," said Goldsmith, still leaning over the
prostrate man; "and being a doctor, I can honestly say that no great
harm has been done. The fellow is as drunk as if he had been soused in a
beer barrel. A dash of water in his face will go far to bring about his
recovery. Ah, he is recovering already."

He had scarcely spoken before he felt himself thrown violently back,
almost knocking down two of the bystanders, for the man had risen to a
sitting posture, asking him, with an oath, as he flung him back, what he
meant by choking him.

A roar of laughter came from the people in the street as Goldsmith
picked up his hat and straightened his sword, saying--

"Gentlemen, I think that a man who is strong enough to treat his
physician in that way has small need of his services. I thought the
fellow might be seriously hurt, but I have changed my mind on that point
recently; and so good-night. Souse him copiously with water should he
relapse. By a casual savour of him I should say that he is not used to
water."

He re-entered the coach and told the driver to proceed to the Temple,
and as rapidly as possible, for he was afraid that the man, on
completely recovering from the effects of the blow that had stunned
him, would miss his wallet and endeavour to overtake the coach. He was
greatly relieved when he reached the lodge of his friend Ginger, the
head porter, and he paid the driver with a liberality that called down
upon him a torrent of thanks.

As he went up the stairs to his chambers he could scarcely refrain from
cheering. In his hand he carried the leathern wallet, and he had no
doubt that it contained the letters which he hoped to place in the hands
of his dear Jessamy Bride, who, he felt, had alone understood him--had
alone trusted him with the discharge of a knightly task.

He closed his oaken outer door and forced up the wick of the lamp in his
room. With trembling fingers by the light of its rays he unclasped the
wallet and extracted its contents. He devoured the pages with his eyes,
and then both wallet and papers fell from his hands. He dropped into a
chair with an exclamation of wonder and dismay. The papers which he had
taken from the wallet were those which, following the instructions of
Mrs. Abington, he had brought with him to the tavern, pretending that
they were the act of the comedy which he had to read to the actress!

He remained for a long time in the chair into which he had fallen. He
was utterly stupefied. Apart from the shock of his disappointment, the
occurrence was so mysterious as to deprive him of the power of thought.
He could only gaze blankly down at the empty wallet and the papers,
covered with his own handwriting, which he had picked up from his own
desk before starting for the tavern.

What did it all mean? How on earth had those papers found their way into
the wallet?

Those were the questions which he had to face, but for which, after an
hour's consideration, he failed to find an answer.

He recollected distinctly having seen the expression of suspicion come
over the man's face when he saw Mrs. Abington sitting on the chair over
which his cloak was hanging; and when she had returned to the table,
Jackson had staggered to the cloak, and running his hand down the lining
until he had found the pocket, furtively took from it the wallet, which
he transferred to the pocket on the inner side of his waistcoat. He had
had no time--at least, so Goldsmith thought--to put the sham act of the
play into the wallet; and yet he felt that the man must have done so
unseen by the others in the room, or how could the papers ever have been
in the wallet?

Great heavens! The man must only have been shamming intoxication the
greater part of the night! He must have had so wide an experience of the
craft of men and the wiles of women as caused him to live in a condition
of constant suspicion of both men and women. He had clearly suspected
Mrs. Abington's invitation to supper, and had amused himself at the
expense of the actress and her other guest. He had led them both on,
and had fooled them to the top of his bent, just when they were fancying
that they were entrapping him.

Goldsmith felt that, indeed, he at least had been a fool, and, as usual,
he had attained the summit of his foolishness just when he fancied he
was showing himself to be especially astute. He had chuckled over his
shrewdness in placing himself in the hands of a woman to the intent that
he might defeat the ends of the scoundrel who threatened Mary Horneck's
happiness, but now it was Jackson who was chuckling-Jackson, who had
doubtless been watching with amused interest the childish attempts made
by Mrs. Abington to entrap him.

How glibly she had talked of entrapping him! She had even gone the
length of quoting Shakespeare; she was one of those people who fancy
that when they have quoted Shakespeare they have said the last word on
any subject. But when the time came for her to cease talking and begin
to act, she had failed. She had proved to him that he had been a fool to
place himself in her hands, hoping she would be able to help him.

He laughed bitterly at his own folly. The consciousness of having failed
would have been bitter enough by itself, but now to it was added the
consciousness of having been laughed at by the man of whom he was trying
to get the better.

What was there now left for him to do? Nothing except to go to Mary,
and tell her that she had been wrong in entrusting her cause to him.
She should have entrusted it to Colonel Gwyn, or some man who would
have been ready to help her and capable of helping her--some man with a
knowledge of men--some man of resource, not one who was a mere weaver of
fictions, who was incapable of dealing with men except on paper. Nothing
was left for him but to tell her this, and to see Colonel Gwyn achieve
success where he had achieved only the most miserable of failures.

He felt that he was as foolish as a man who had built for himself a
house of cards, and had hoped to dwell in it happily for the rest of his
life, whereas the fabric had not survived the breath of the first breeze
that had swept down upon it.

He felt that, after the example which he had just had of the diabolical
cunning of the man with whom he had been contesting, it would be worse
than useless for him to hope to be of any help to Mary Horneck. He had
already wasted more than a week of valuable time. He could, at least,
prevent any more being wasted by going to Mary and telling her how great
a mistake she had made in being over-generous to him. She should never
have made such a friend of him. Dr. Johnson had been right when he
said that he, Oliver Goldsmith, had taken advantage of the gracious
generosity of the girl and her family. He felt that it was his vanity
that had led him to undertake on Mary's behalf a task for which he was
utterly unsuited; and only the smallest consolation was allowed to him
in the reflection that his awakening had come before it was too late. He
had not been led away to confess to Mary all that was in his heart. She
had been saved the unhappiness which that confession would bring to
a nature so full of feeling as hers. And he had been saved the
mortification of the thought that he had caused her pain.

The dawn was embroidering with its floss the early foliage of the trees
of the Temple before he went to his bed-room, and another hour had
passed before he fell asleep.

He did not awake until the clock had chimed the hour of ten, and he
found that his man had already brought to the table at his bedside the
letters which had come for him in the morning. He turned them over with
but a languid amount of interest. There was a letter from Griffiths, the
bookseller; another from Garrick, relative to the play which Goldsmith
had promised him; a third, a fourth and a fifth were from men who begged
the loan of varying sums for varying periods. The sixth was apparently,
from its shape and bulk, a manuscript--one of the many which were
submitted to him by men who called him their brother-poet. He turned
it over, and perceived that it had not come through the post. That fact
convinced him that it was a manuscript, most probably an epic poem, or
perhaps a tragedy in verse, which the writer might think he could get
accepted at Drury Lane by reason of his friendship with Garrick.

He let this parcel lie on the table until he had dressed, and only when
at the point of sitting down to breakfast did he break the seals. The
instant he had done so he gave a cry of surprise, for he found that
the parcel contained a number of letters addressed in Mary Horneck's
handwriting to a certain Captain Jackson at a house in the Devonshire
village where she had been staying the previous summer.

On the topmost letter there was a scrap of paper, bearing a scrawl from
Mrs. Abing ton--the spelling as well as the writing was hers--

"'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.' These are a few
feathers pluckt from our hawke, hoping that they will be a feather in
the capp of dear Dr. Goldsmith."

CHAPTER XXVI.

He was so greatly amazed he could only sit looking mutely at the
scattered letters on the table in front of him. He was even more amazed
at finding them there than he had been the night before at not finding
them in the wallet which he had taken from Jackson's waistcoat. He
thought he had arrived at a satisfactory explanation as to how he had
come to find within the wallet the sheets of manuscript which he had had
in his hand on entering the supper room; but how was he to account for
the appearance of the letters in this parcel which he had received from
Mrs. Abington?

So perplexed was he that he failed for sometime to grasp the truth--to
appreciate what was meant by the appearance of those letters on his
table. But so soon as it dawned upon him that they meant safety and
happiness to Mary, he sprang from his seat and almost shouted for joy.
She was saved. He had checkmated the villain who had sought her ruin and
who had the means to accomplish it, too. It was his astuteness that had
caused him to go to Mrs. Abington and ask for her help in accomplishing
the task with which he had been entrusted. He had, after all, not been
mistaken in applying to a woman to help him to defeat the devilish
scheme of a pitiless ruffian, and Mary Horneck had not been mistaken
when she had singled him out to be her champion, though all men and most
women would have ridiculed the idea of his assuming the rôle of a
knight-errant.

His elation at that moment was in proportion to his depression, his
despair, his humiliation when he had last been in his room. His nature
knew nothing but extremes. Before retiring to his chamber in the early
morning, he had felt that life contained nothing but misery for him;
but now he felt that a future of happiness was in store for him--his
imagination failed to set any limits to the possibility of his future
happiness. He laughed at the thought of how he had resolved to go to
Mary and advise her to intrust her cause to Colonel Gwyn. The thought of
Colonel Gwyn convulsed him just now. With all his means, could Colonel
Gwyn have accomplished all that he, Oliver Goldsmith, had accomplished?

He doubted it. Colonel Gwyn might be a good sort of fellow in spite of
his formal manner, his army training, and his incapacity to see a jest,
but it was doubtful if he could have brought to a successful conclusion
so delicate an enterprise as that which he--Goldsmith--had accomplished.
Gwyn would most likely have scorned to apply to Mrs. Abington to help
him, and that was just where he would have made a huge mistake. Any man
who thought to get the better of the devil without the aid of a woman
was a fool. He felt more strongly convinced of the truth of this as he
stood with his back to the fire in his grate than he had been when he
had found the wallet containing only his own manuscript. The previous
half-hour had naturally changed his views of man and woman and
Providence and the world.

When he had picked up the letters and locked them in his desk, he ate
some breakfast, wondering all the while by what means Mrs. Abington had
obtained those precious writings; and after giving the matter an hour's
thought, he came to the conclusion that she must have felt the wallet in
the pocket of the man's cloak when she had left the table pretending to
be shocked at the disloyal expressions of her guest--she must have
felt the wallet and have contrived to extract the letters from it,
substituting for them the sham act of the play which excused his
entrance to the supper-room.

The more he thought over the matter, the more convinced he became that
the wily lady had effected her purpose in the way, he conjectured. He
recollected that she had been for a considerable time on the chair
with the cloak--much longer than was necessary for Jackson to drink the
treasonable toast; and when she returned to the table, it was only to
turn him out of the room upon a very shallow pretext. What a fool he had
been to fancy that she was in a genuine passion when she had flung her
glass of wine in the face of her guest because he had addressed her as
Mrs. Baddeley!

He had been amazed at the anger displayed by her in regard to that
particular incident, but later he had thought it possible that she had
acted the part of a jealous woman to give him a better chance of getting
the wallet out of the man's waistcoat pocket. Now, however, he clearly
perceived that her anxiety was to get out of the room in order to place
the letters beyond the man's hands.

Once again he laughed, saying out loud--

"Ah, I was right--a woman's wiles only are superior to the strategy of a
devil!"

Then he became more contemplative. The most joyful hour of his life was
at hand. He asked himself how his dear Jessamy Bride would receive the
letters which he was about to take to her. He did not think of himself
in connection with her gratitude. He left himself altogether out of
consideration in this matter. He only thought of how the girl's face
would lighten--how the white roses which he had last seen on her cheeks
would change to red when he put the letters into her hand, and she felt
that she was safe.

That was the reward for which he looked. He knew that he would feel
bitterly disappointed if he failed to see the change of the roses on
her face--if he failed to hear her fill the air with the music of her
laughter. And then--then she would be happy for evermore, and he would
be happy through witnessing her happiness.

He finished dressing, and was in the act of going to his desk for
the letters, which he hoped she would soon hold in her hand, when his
servant announced two visitors.

Signor Baretti, accompanied by a tall and very thin man, entered.
The former greeted Goldsmith, and introduced his friend, who was a
compatriot of his own, named Nicolo.

"I have not forgotten the matter which you honoured me by placing in
my hands," said Baretti. "My friend Nicolo is a master of the art
of fencing as practised in Italy in the present day. He is under the
impression, singular though it may seem, that he spoke to you more than
once during your wanderings in Tuscany."

"And now I am sure of it," said Nicolo in French. He explained that he
spoke French rather better than English. "Yes, I was a student at
Pisa when Dr. Goldsmith visited that city. I have no difficulty in
recognising him."

"And I, for my part, have a conviction that I have seen your face, sir,"
said Goldsmith, also speaking in French; "I cannot, however, recall the
circumstances of our first meeting. Can you supply the deficiency in my
memory, sir?"

"There was a students' society that met at the Boccaleone," said Signor
Nicolo.

"I recollect it distinctly; Figli della Torre, you called yourselves,"
said Goldsmith quickly. "You were one of the orators--quite reckless, if
you will permit me to say so much."

The man smiled somewhat grimly.

"If he had not been utterly reckless he would not be in England to-day,"
said Baretti. "Like myself, he is compelled to face your detestable
climate on account of some indiscreet references to the Italian
government, which he would certainly repeat to-morrow were he back
again."

"It brings me back to Tuscany once more, to see your face, Signor
Nicolo," said Goldsmith. "Yes, though your Excellency had not so much of
a beard and mustacio when I saw you some years ago."

"Nay, sir, nor was your Lordship's coat quite so admirable then as it is
now, if I am not too bold to make so free a comment, sir," said the man
with another grim smile.

"You are not quite right, my friend," laughed Goldsmith; "for if my
memory serves me--and it does so usually on the matter of dress--I had
no coat whatsoever to my back--that was of no importance in Pisa, where
the air was full of patriotism."

"The most dangerous epidemic that could occur in any country," said
Baretti. "There is no Black Death that has claimed so many victims. We
are examples--Nicolo and I. I am compelled to teach Italian to a
brewer's daughter, and Nicolo is willing to transform the most clumsy
Englishman--and there are a good number of them, too--into an expert
swordsman in twelve lessons--yes, if the pupil will but practise
sufficiently afterwards."

"We need not talk of business just now," said Goldsmith. "I insist on
my old friends sharing a bottle of wine with me. I shall drink to
'patriotism,' since it is the means of sending to my poor room two such
excellent friends as the Signori Baretti and Nicolo."

He rang the bell, and gave his servant directions to fetch a couple
of bottles of the old Madeira which Lord Clare had recently sent to
him--very recently, otherwise three bottles out of the dozen would not
have remained.

The wine had scarcely been uncorked when the sound of a man's step was
heard upon the stairs, and in a moment Captain Jackson burst into the
room.

"I have found you, you rascal!" he shouted, swaggering across the room
to where Goldsmith was seated. "Now, my good fellow, I give you just
one minute to restore to me those letters which you abstracted from my
pocket last night."

"And I give you just one minute to leave my room, you drunken
blackguard," said Goldsmith, laying a hand on the arm of Signor Nicolo,
who was in the act of rising. "Come, sir," he continued, "I submitted
to your insults last night because I had a purpose to carry out; but I
promise you that I give you no such license in my own house. Take your
carcase away, sir; my friends have fastidious nostrils."

Jackson's face became purple and then white. His lips receded from his
gums until his teeth were seen as the teeth of a wolf when it is too
cowardly to attack.

"You cur!" he said through his set teeth. "I don't know what prevents me
from running you through the body."

"Do you not? I do," said Goldsmith. He had taken the second bottle of
wine off the table, and was toying with it in his hands.

"Come, sir," said the bully after a pause; "I don't wish to go to Sir
John Fielding for a warrant for your arrest for stealing my property,
but, by the Lord, if you don't hand over those letters to me now I will
not spare you. I shall have you taken into custody as a thief before an
hour has passed."

"Go to Sir John, my friend, and tell him that Dick Jackson, American
spy, is anxious to hang himself, and mention that one Oliver Goldsmith
has at hand the rope that will rid the world of one of its greatest
scoundrels," said Goldsmith.

Jackson took a step or two back, and put his hand to his sword. In a
second both Baretti and Nicolo had touched the hilts of their weapons.
The bully looked from the one to the other, and then laughed harshly.

"My little poet," he said in a mocking voice, "you fancy that because
you have got a letter or two you have drawn my teeth. Let me tell you
for your information that I have something in my possession that I can
use as I meant to use the letters."

"And I tell you that if you use it, whatever it is, by God I shall
kill you, were you thrice the scoundrel that you are!" cried Goldsmith,
leaping up.

There was scarcely a pause before the whistle of the man's sword through
the air was heard; but Baretti gave Goldsmith a push that sent him
behind a chair, and then quietly interposed between him and Jackson.

"Pardon me, sir," said he, bowing to Jackson, "but we cannot permit you
to stick an unarmed man. Your attempt to do so in our presence my friend
and I regard as a grave affront to us."

"Then let one of you draw!" shouted the man. "I see that you are
Frenchmen, and I have cut the throat of a good many of your race. Draw,
sir, and I shall add you to the Frenchies that I have sent to hell."

"Nay, sir, I wear spectacles, as you doubtless perceive," said Baretti.
"I do not wish my glasses to be smashed; but my friend here, though a
weaker man, may possibly not decline to fight with so contemptible a
ruffian as you undoubtedly are."

He spoke a few words to Nicolo in Italian, and in a second the latter
had whisked out his sword and had stepped between Jackson and Baretti,
putting quietly aside the fierce lunge which the former made when
Baretti had turned partly round.

"Briccone! assassin!" hissed Baretti. "You saw that he meant to kill me,
Nicolo," he said addressing his friend in their own tongue.

"He shall pay for it," whispered Nicolo, pushing back a chair with his
foot until Goldsmith lifted it and several other pieces of furniture out
of the way, so as to make a clear space in the room.

"Don't kill him, friend Nicolo," he cried. "We used to enjoy a sausage
or two in the old days at Pisa. You can make sausage-meat of a carcase
without absolutely killing the beast."

The fencing-master smiled grimly, but spoke no word.

Jackson seemed puzzled for a few moments, and Baretti roared with
laughter, watching him hang back. The laugh of the Italian--it was not
melodious--acted as a goad upon him. He rushed upon Nicolo, trying to
beat down his guard, but his antagonist did not yield a single inch.
He did not even cease to smile as he parried the attack. His expression
resembled that of an indulgent chess player when a lad who has airily
offered to play with him opens the game.

After a few minutes' fencing, during which the Italian declined to
attack, Jackson drew back and lowered the point of his sword.

"Take a chair, sir," said Baretti, grinning. "You will have need of one
before my friend has finished with you."

Goldsmith said nothing. The man had grossly insulted him the evening
before, and he had made Mary Horneck wretched; but he could not taunt
him now that he was at the mercy of a master-swordsman. He watched the
man breathing hard, and then nerving himself for another attack upon the
Italian.

Jackson's second attempt to get Nicolo within the range of his sword was
no more successful than his first. He was no despicable fencer, but
his antagonist could afford to play with him. The sound of his hard
breathing was a contrast to the only other sound in the room--the
grating of steel against steel.

Then the smile upon the sallow face of the fencing-master seemed
gradually to vanish. He became more than serious--surely his expression
was one of apprehension.

Goldsmith became somewhat excited. He grasped Baretti by the arm, as
one of Jackson's thrusts passed within half an inch of his antagonist's
shoulder, and for the first time Nicolo took a hasty step back, and in
doing so barely succeeded in protecting himself against a fierce lunge
of the other man.

It was now Jackson's turn to laugh. He gave a contemptuous chuckle as
he pressed forward to follow up his advantage. He did not succeed in
touching Nicolo, though he went very close to him more than once,
and now it was plain that the Italian was greatly exhausted. He was
breathing hard, and the look of apprehension on his face had increased
until it had actually become one of terror. Jackson did not fail to
perceive this, and malignant triumph was in every feature of his face.
Any one could see that he felt confident of tiring out the visibly
fatigued Italian, and Goldsmith, with staring eyes, once again clutched
Baretti.

Baretti's yellow skin became wrinkled up to the meeting place of his wig
and forehead in smiles.

"I should like the third button of his coat for a memento, Sandrino,"
said he.

In an instant there was a quivering flash through the air, and the third
paste button off Jackson's coat indented the wall just above Baretti's
head and fell at his feet, a scrap of the satin of the coat flying
behind it like the little pennon on a lance.

"Heavens!" whispered Goldsmith.

"Ah, friend Nicolo was always a great humourist," said Baretti. "For
God's sake, Sandrino, throw them high into the air. The rush of that
last was like a bullet."

Up to the ceiling flashed another button, and fell back upon the coat
from which it was torn.

And still Nicolo fenced away with that look of apprehension still on his
face.

"That is his fun," said Baretti. "Oh, body of Bacchus! A great
humourist!"

The next button that Nicolo cutoff with the point of his sword he caught
in his left hand and threw to Goldsmith, who also caught it.

The look of triumph vanished from Jackson's face. He drew back, but
his antagonist would not allow him to lower his sword, but followed
him round the room untiringly. He had ceased his pretence of breathing
heavily, but apparently his right arm was tired, for he had thrown his
sword into his left hand, and was now fencing from that side.

Suddenly the air became filled with floating scraps of silk and satin.
They quivered to right and left, like butterflies settling down upon a
meadow; they fluttered about by the hundred, making a pretty spectacle.
Jackson's coat and waistcoat were in tatters, yet with such consummate
dexterity did the fencingmaster cut the pieces out of both garments that
Goldsmith utterly failed to see the swordplay that produced so amazing a
result. Nicolo seemed to be fencing pretty much as usual.

And then a curious incident occurred, for the front part of one of the
man's pocket fell on the floor.

With an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap on the floor.
The pocked being cut away, a packet of letters, held against the lining
by a few threads of silk, became visible, and in another moment Nicolo
had spitted them on his sword, and laid them on the table in a single
flash. Goldsmith knew by the look that Jackson cast at them that they
were the batch of letters which he had received in the course of his
traffic with the American rebels.

"Come, Sandrino," said Baretti, affecting to yawn. "Finish the rascal
off, and let us go to that excellent bottle of Madeira which awaits us.
Come, sir, the carrion is not worth more than you have given him; he has
kept us from our wine too long already."

With a curiously tricky turn of the wrist, the master cut off the right
sleeve of the man's coat close to his shoulder, and drew it in a flash
over his sword. The disclosing of the man's naked arm and the hiding of
the greater part of his weapon were comical in the extreme; and with
an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap upon the floor,
thoroughly exhausted.

[Illustration: 0349]

Baretti picked up the sword, broke the blade across his knee, and flung
the pieces into a corner, the tattered sleeve still entangled in the
guard.

"John," shouted Goldsmith to his servant, who was not far off. (He had
witnessed the duel through the keyhole of the door until it became too
exciting, and then he had put his head into the room.) "John, give that
man your oldest coat. It shall never be said that I turned a man naked
out of my house." When John Eyles had left the room, Oliver turned to
the half-naked panting man. "You are possibly the most contemptible
bully and coward alive," said he. "You did not hesitate to try and
accomplish the ruin of the sweetest girl in the world, and you came here
with intent to murder me because I succeeded in saving her from your
clutches. If I let you go now, it is because I know that in these
letters, which I mean to keep, I have such evidence against you as will
hang you whenever I see fit to use it, and I promise you to use it if
you are in this country at the end of two days. Now, leave this house,
and thank my servant for giving you his coat, and this gentleman"--he
pointed to Nicolo--"for such a lesson in fencing as, I suppose, you
never before received."

The man rose, painfully and laboriously, and took the coat with which
John Eyles returned. He looked at Goldsmith from head to foot.

"You contemptible cur!" he said, "I have not yet done with you. You have
now stolen the second packet of letters; but, by the Lord, if one of
them passes out of your hands it will be avenged. I have friends in
pretty high places, let me tell you."

"I do not doubt it," said Baretti. "The gallows is a high enough place
for you and your friends."

The ruffian turned upon him in a fury.

"Look to yourself, you foreign hound!" he said, his face becoming livid,
and his lips receding from his mouth so as to leave his wolf-fangs bare
as before. "Look to yourself. You broke my sword after luring me on to
be made a fool of for your sport. Look to yourself!"

"Turn that rascal into the street, John," cried Goldsmith, and John
bustled forward. There was fighting in the air. If it came to blows he
flattered himself that he could give an interesting exhibition of his
powers--not quite so showy, perhaps, as that given by the Italian, but
one which he was certain was more English in its style.

"No one shall lay a hand on me," said Jackson. "Do you fancy that I am
anxious to remain in such a company?"

"Come, sir; you are in my charge, now," said John, hustling him to the
door. "Come--out with you--sharp!"

In the room they heard the sound of the man descending the stairs slowly
and painfully. They became aware of his pause in the lobby below to put
on the coat which John had given to him, and a moment later they saw him
walk in the direction of the Temple lodge.

Then Goldsmith turned to Signor Nicolo, who was examining one of the
prints that Hogarth had presented to his early friend, who had hung them
on his wall.

"You came at an opportune moment, my friend," said he. "You have not
only saved my life, you have afforded me such entertainment as I never
have known before. Sir, you are certainly the greatest living master of
your art."

"The best swordsman is the best patriot," said Baretti.

"That is why so many of your countrymen live in England," said
Goldsmith.

"Alas! yes," said Nicolo. "Happily you Englishmen are not good patriots,
or you would not be able to live in England."

"I am not an Englishman," said Goldsmith. "I am an Irish patriot, and
therefore I find it more convenient to live out of Ireland. Perhaps it
is not good patriotism to say, as I do, 'Better to live in England than
to starve in Ireland.' And talking of starving, sirs, reminds me that my
dinner hour is nigh. What say you, Signor Nicolo? What say you, Baretti?
Will you honour me with your company to dinner at the Crown and Anchor
an hour hence? We shall chat over the old days at Pisa and the prospects
of the Figli della Torre, Signor Nicolo. We cannot stay here, for it
will take my servant and Mrs. Ginger a good two hours to sweep up the
fragments of that rascal's garments. Lord! what a patchwork quilt Dr.
Johnson's friend Mrs. Williams could make if she were nigh."

"Patchwork should not only be made, it should be used by the blind,"
said Baretti. "Touching the dinner you so hospitably propose, I have no
engagement for to-day, and I dare swear that Nicolo has none either."

"He has taken part in one engagement, at least," said Goldsmith,

"And I am now at your service," said the fencing-master.

They went out together, Goldsmith with the precious letters in his
pocket--the second batch he put in the place of Mary Hor-neck's in his
desk--and, parting at Fleet street, they agreed to meet at the Crown and
Anchor in an hour.

CHAPTER XXVII.

It was with a feeling of deep satisfaction, such as he had never before
known, that Goldsmith walked westward to Mrs. Horneck's house. All
the exhilaration that he had experienced by watching the extraordinary
exhibition of adroitness on the part of the fencingmaster remained with
him. The exhibition had, of course, been a trifle bizarre. It had more
than a suspicion of the art of the mountebank about it. For instance,
Nicolo's pretence of being overmatched early in the contest--breathing
hard and assuming a terrified expression--yielding his ground and
allowing his opponent almost to run him through--could only be regarded
as theatrical; while his tricks with the buttons and the letters, though
amazing, were akin to the devices of a rope-dancer. But this fact did
not prevent the whole scene from having an exhilarating effect upon
Goldsmith, more especially as it represented his repayment of the debt
which he owed to Jackson.

And now to this feeling was added that of the greatest joy of his life
in having it in his power to remove from the sweetest girl in the world
the terror which she believed to be hanging over her head. He felt that
every step which he was taking westward was bringing him nearer to the
realisation of his longing-his longing to see the white roses on Mary's
cheeks change to red once more.

It was a disappointment to him to learn that Mary had gone down to
Barton with the Bunburys. Her mother, who met him in the hall, told him
this with a grave face as she brought him into a parlour.

"I think she expected you to call during the past ten days, Dr.
Goldsmith," said the lady. "I believe that she was more than a little
disappointed that you could not find time to come to her."

"Was she, indeed? Did she really expect me to call?" he asked. This
fresh proof of the confidence which the Jessamy Bride reposed in him was
very dear to him. She had not merely entrusted him with her enterprise
on the chance of his being able to save her; she had had confidence in
his ability to save her, and had looked for his coming to tell her of
his success.

"She seemed very anxious to see you," said Mrs. Horneck. "I fear, dear
Dr. Goldsmith, that my poor child has something on her mind. That is her
sister's idea also. And yet it is impossible that she should have any
secret trouble; she has not been out of our sight since her visit to
Devonshire last year. At that time she had, I believe, some silly,
girlish fancy--my brother wrote to me that there had been in his
neighbourhood a certain attractive man, an officer who had returned home
with a wound received in the war with the American rebels. But surely
she has got over that foolishness!"

"Ah, yes. You may take my word for it, madam, she has got over that
foolishness," said Goldsmith. "You may take my word for it that when she
sees me the roses will return to her cheeks."

"I do hope so," said Mrs. Horneck. "Yes, you could always contrive to
make her merry, Dr. Goldsmith. We have all missed you lately; we feared
that that disgraceful letter in the _Packet_ had affected you. That was
why my son called upon you at your rooms. I hope he assured you that
nothing it contained would interfere with our friendship."

"That was very kind of you, my dear madam," said he; "but I have seen
Mary since that thing appeared."

"To be sure you have. Did you not think that she looked very ill?"

"Very ill indeed, madam; but I am ready to give you my assurance
that when I have been half an hour with her she will be on the way to
recovery. You have not, I fear, much confidence in my skill as a doctor
of medicine, and, to tell you the truth, whatever your confidence in
this direction may amount to, it is a great deal more than what I myself
have. Still, I think you will say something in my favour when you see
Mary's condition begin to improve from the moment we have a little chat
together."

"That is wherein I have the amplest confidence in you, dear Dr.
Goldsmith. Your chat with her will do more for her than all the
medicine the most skilful of physicians could prescribe. It was a very
inopportune time for her to fall sick."

"I think that all sicknesses are inopportune. But why Mary's?"

"Well, I have good reason to believe, Dr. Goldsmith, that had she not
steadfastly refused to see a certain gentleman who has been greatly
attracted by her, I might now have some happy news to convey to you."

"The gentleman's name is Colonel Gwyn, I think."

He spoke in a low voice and after a long pause.

"Ah, you have guessed it, then? You have perceived that the gentleman
was drawn toward her?" said the lady smiling.

"I have every reason to believe in his sincerity," said Goldsmith. "And
you think that if Mary had been as well as she usually has been, she
would have listened to his proposals, madam?"

"Why should she not have done so, sir?" said Mrs. Horneck.

"Why not, indeed?"

"Colonel Gwyn would be a very suitable match for her," said she. "He is,
to be sure, several years her senior; that, however, is nothing."

"You think so--you think that a disparity in age should mean nothing in
such a case?" said Oliver, rather eagerly.

"How could any one be so narrowminded as to think otherwise?" cried Mrs.
Horneck. "Whoever may think otherwise, sir, I certainly do not. I hope I
am too good a mother, Dr. Goldsmith. Nay, sir, I could not stand between
my daughter and happiness on such a pretext as a difference in years.
After all, Colonel Gwyn is but a year or two over thirty--thirty-seven,
I believe--but he does not look more than thirty-five."

"No one more cordially agrees with you than myself on the point to which
you give emphasis, madam," said Goldsmith. "And you think that Mary will
see Colonel Gwyn when she returns?"

"I hope so; and therefore I hope, dear sir, that you will exert yourself
so that the bloom will be brought back to her cheeks," said the lady.
"That is your duty, Doctor; remember that, I pray. You are to bring
back the bloom to her cheeks in order that Colonel Gwyn may be doubly
attracted to her."

"I understand--I understand."

He spoke slowly, gravely.

"I knew you would help us," said Mrs. Horneck, "and so I hope that you
will lose no time in coming to us after Mary's return to-morrow. Your
Jessamy Bride will, I trust, be a real bride before many days have
passed."

Yes, that was his duty: to help Mary to happiness. Not for him, not for
him was the bloom to be brought again to her cheeks--not for him, but
for another man. For him were the sleepless nights, the anxious days,
the hours of thought--all the anxiety and all the danger resulting from
facing an unscrupulous scoundrel. For another man was the joy of putting
his lips upon the delicate bloom of her cheeks, the joy of taking her
sweet form into his arms, of dwelling daily in her smiles, of being
for evermore beside her, of feeling hourly the pride of so priceless a
possession as her love.

That was his thought as he walked along the Strand with bent head; and
yet, before he had reached the Crown and Anchor, he said--

"Even so; I am satisfied--I am satisfied."

It chanced that Dr. Johnson was in the tavern with Steevens, and
Goldsmith persuaded both to join his party. He was glad that he
succeeded in doing so, for he had felt it was quite possible that
Baretti might inquire of him respecting the object of Jackson's visit to
Brick Court, and he could not well explain to the Italian the nature of
the enterprise which he had so successfully carried out by the aid
of Mrs. Abington. It was one thing to take Mrs. Abington into
his confidence, and quite another to confide in Baretti. He was
discriminating enough to be well aware of the fact that, while the
secret was perfectly safe in the keeping of the actress, it would be by
no means equally so if confided to Baretti, although some people might
laugh at him for entertaining an opinion so contrary to that which was
generally accepted by the world, Mrs. Abington being a woman and Baretti
a man.

He had perceived long ago that Baretti was extremely anxious to learn
all about Jackson--that he was wondering how he, Goldsmith, should have
become mixed up in a matter which was apparently of imperial importance,
for at the mention of the American rebels Baretti had opened his eyes.
He was, therefore, glad that the talk at the table was so general as to
prevent any allusion being made to the incidents of the day.

Dr. Johnson made Signor Nicolo acquainted with a few important facts
regarding the use of the sword and the limitations of that weapon, which
the Italian accepted with wonderful gravity; and when Goldsmith, on the
conversation drifting into the question of patriotism and its trials,
declared that a successful patriot was susceptible of being defined as a
man who loved his country for the benefit of himself, Dr. Johnson roared
out--

"Sir, that is very good. If Mr. Boswell were here--and indeed, sir, I am
glad that he is not--he would say that your definition was so good as to
make him certain you had stolen it from me."

"Nay, sir,'tis not so good as to have been stolen from you," said
Goldsmith.

"Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "I did not say that it was good enough to have
been stolen from me. I only said that it was good enough to make a very
foolish person suppose that it was stolen from me. No sensible person,
Dr. Goldsmith, would believe, first, that you would steal; secondly,
that you would steal from me; thirdly, that I would give you a chance of
stealing from me; and fourthly, that I would compose an apophthegm which
when it comes to be closely examined is not so good after all. Now, sir,
are you satisfied with the extent of my agreement with you?"

"Sir, I am more than satisfied," said Goldsmith, while Nicolo, the
cunning master of fence, sat by with a puzzled look on his saffron face.
This was a kind of fencing of which he had had no previous experience.

After dining Goldsmith made the excuse of being required at the theatre,
to leave his friends. He was anxious to return thanks to Mrs. Abington
for managing so adroitly to accomplish in a moment all that he had hoped
to do.

He found the lady not in the green room, but in her dressing room; her
costume was not, however, the less fascinating, nor was her smile the
less subtle as she gave him her hand to kiss. He knelt on one knee,
holding her hand to his lips; he was too much overcome to be able to
speak, and she knew it. She did not mind how long he held her hand; she
was quite accustomed to such demonstrations, though few, she well knew,
were of equal sincerity to those of Oliver Goldsmith's.

"Well, my poet," she said at last, "have you need of my services to
banish any more demons from the neighbourhood of your friends?"

"I was right," he managed to say after another pause, "yes, I knew I was
not mistaken in you, my dear lady."

"Yes; you knew that I was equal to combat the wiles of the craftiest
demon that ever undertook the slandering of a fair damsel," said
she. "Well, sir, you paid me a doubtful compliment--a more doubtful
compliment than the fair damsel paid to you in asking you to be her
champion. But you have not told me of your adventurous journey with our
friend in the hackney coach."

"Nay," he cried, "it is you who have not yet told me by what means
you became possessed of the letters which I wanted--by what magic you
substituted for them the mock act of the comedy which I carried with me
into the supper room."

"Psha, sir!" said she, "'twas a simple matter, after all. I gathered
from a remark the fellow made when laying his cloak across the chair,
that he had the letters in one of the pockets of that same cloak. He
gave me a hint that a certain Ned Cripps, who shares his lodging, is
not to be trusted, so that he was obliged to carry about with him every
document on which he places a value. Well, sir, my well known loyalty
naturally received a great shock when he offered to drink to the
American rebels, and you saw that I left the table hastily. A minute or
so sufficed me to discover the wallet with the letters; but then I
was at my wits' end to find something to occupy their place in the
receptacle. Happily my eye caught the roll of your manuscript, which lay
in your hat on the floor beneath the chair, and heigh! presto! the trick
was played. I had a sufficient appreciation of dramatic incident to keep
me hoping all the night that you would be able to get possession of the
wallet, believing it contained the letters for which you were in search.
Lord, sir! I tried to picture your face when you drew out your own
papers." The actress lay back on her couch and roared with laughter,
Goldsmith joining in quite pleasantly.

"Ah!" he said; "I can fancy that I see at this moment the expression
which my face wore at the time. But the sequel to the story is the most
humourous. I succeeded last night in picking the fellow's pocket, but
he paid me a visit this afternoon with the intent of recovering what he
termed his property."

"Oh, lud! Call you that humourous? How did you rid yourself of him?"

At the story of the fight which had taken place in Brick Court, Mrs.
Abington laughed heartily after a few breathless moments.

"By my faith, sir!" she cried; "I would give ten guineas to have been
there. But believe me, Dr. Goldsmith," she added a moment afterwards,
"you will live in great jeopardy so long as that fellow remains in the
town."

"Nay, my dear," said he. "It was Baretti whom he threatened as he left
my room--not I. He knows that I have now in my possession such documents
as would hang him."

"Why, is not that the very reason why he should make an attempt upon
your life?" cried the actress. "He may try to kill Baretti on a point
of sentiment, but assuredly he will do his best to slaughter you as a
matter of business."

"Faith, madam, since you put it that way I do believe that there is
something in what you say," said Goldsmith. "So I will e'en take a
hackney-coach to the Temple and get the stalwart Ginger to escort me to
the very door of my chambers."

"Do so, sir. I am awaiting with great interest the part which you have
yet to write for me in a comedy."

"I swear to you that it will be the best part ever written by me, my
dear friend. You have earned my everlasting gratitude."

"Ah! was the lady so grateful as all that?" cried the actress, looking
at him with one of those arch smiles of hers which even Sir Joshua
Reynolds could not quite translate to show the next century what manner
of woman was the first Lady Teazle, for the part of the capricious young
wife of the elderly Sir Peter was woven around the fascinating country
girl's smile of Mrs. Abington.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Goldsmith kept his word. He took a hackney-coach to the Temple, and was
alert all the time he was driving lest Jackson and his friends might be
waiting to make an attack upon him. He reached his chambers without any
adventure, however, and on locking his doors, took out the second parcel
of letters and set himself to peruse their contents.

He had no need to read them all--the first that came to his hand was
sufficient to make him aware of the nature of the correspondence. It was
perfectly plain that the man had been endeavouring to traffic with the
rebels, and it was equally certain that the rebel leaders had shown
themselves to be too honourable to take advantage of the offers which
he had made to them. If this correspondence had come into the hands of
Cornwallis he would have hanged the fellow on the nearest tree instead
of merely turning him out of his regiment and shipping him back to
England as a suspected traitor.

As he locked the letters once again in his desk he felt that there was
indeed every reason to fear that Jackson would not rest until he had
obtained possession of such damning evidence of his guilt. He would
certainly either make the attempt to get back the letters, or leave the
country, in order to avoid the irretrievable ruin which would fall upon
him if any one of the packet went into the hands of a magistrate; and
Goldsmith was strongly of the belief that the man would adopt the former
course.

Only for an instant, as he laid down the compromising document, did he
ask himself how it was possible that Mary Horneck should ever have
been so blind as to be attracted to such a man, and to believe in his
honesty.

He knew enough of the nature of womankind to be aware of the glamour
which attaches to a soldier who has been wounded in fighting the enemies
of his country. If Mary had been less womanly than she showed herself
to be, he would not have loved her so well as he did. Her womanly
weaknesses were dear to him, and the painful evidence that he had of the
tenderness of her heart only made him feel that she was all the more a
woman, and therefore all the more to be loved.

It was the afternoon of the next day before he set out once more for the
Hornecks.

He meant to see Mary, and then go on to Sir Joshua Reynolds's to dine.
There was to be that night a meeting of the Royal Academy, which he
would attend with the president, after Sir Joshua's usual five o'clock
dinner. It occurred to him that, as Baretti would also most probably
be at the meeting, he would do well to make him acquainted with
the dangerous character of Jackson, so that Baretti might take due
precautions against any attack that the desperate man might be
induced to make upon him. No doubt Baretti would make a good point
in conversation with his friends of the notion of Oliver Goldsmith's
counselling caution to any one; but the latter was determined to give
the Italian his advice on this matter, whatever the consequences might
be.

It so happened, however, that he was unable to carry out his intention
in full, for on visiting Mrs. Horneck, he learned that Mary would not
return from Barton until late that night, and at the meeting of the
Academy Baretti failed to put in an appearance.

He mentioned to Sir Joshua that he had something of importance to
communicate to the Italian, and that he was somewhat uneasy at not
having a chance of carrying out his intention in this respect.

"You would do well, then, to come to my house for supper," said
Reynolds. "I think it is very probable that Baretti will look in, if
only to apologise for his absence from the meeting. Miss Kauffman has
promised to come, and I have secured Johnson as well."

Goldsmith agreed, and while Johnson and Angelica Kauffman walked in
front, he followed with Reynolds some distance behind--not so far,
however, as to be out of the range of Johnson's voice. Johnson was
engaged in a discourse with his sweet companion--he was particularly
fond of such companionship--on the dignity inseparable from a classic
style in painting, and the enormity of painting men and women in the
habiliments of their period and country. Angelica Kauffman was not a
painter who required any considerable amount of remonstrance from
her preceptors to keep her feet from straying in regard to classical
traditions. The artist who gave the purest Greek features and the Roman