CHAPTER XXVI

Several versions of the story of the exciting occurrence at the Parnassus of Bath-Easton were in circulation during the next few days. The fact that over fifty persons had witnessed the whole affair was only a guarantee that there would be at least forty-nine different versions of it. The consequence was that before two days had passed, people in Bath were quarrelling over such details as whether Captain Mathews had or had not made an attack upon Mr. Long with his cane, or if it was really true that Miss Linley had been walking with Captain Mathews, thereby arousing the jealousy of Mr. Long, and causing him to assault the other. Before the second day had gone by, there was, of course, a report that a duel had taken place, and the result was, according to the various reports:

(1) Captain Mathews had run Mr. Long through the body with a sword.

(2) Captain Mathews had shot Mr. Long with a pistol.

(3) Mr. Long had run Captain Mathews through the body with a sword.

(4) Mr. Long had shot Captain Mathews with a pistol.

(5) Mr. Long was dead.

(6) Captain Mathews was dead.

(7) Both Mr. Long and Captain Mathews were dead.

(8) Neither of them had received a scratch.

(9) There had been no fight, as Mr. Long had offered a handsome apology for his conduct, and had agreed to pay Mathews a thousand pounds by way of compensation.

These were only a few of the items of the Pump Room gossip, and every item found its adherents.

The lampooners took their choice. It was immaterial to them whether Mathews killed Long or Long killed Mathews; they treated the matter with the cynicism of Iago in regard to the killing of Cassio. They found that there was a good deal to be said in favour of every rumour, and they said it through the medium of some very wretched verses.

Mr. Long seemed to be the only man in Bath who remained unaffected in any way by the occurrence at Bath-Easton, about which, and its sequel, every one was talking. He refused to be drawn into the controversy as to whether he had attacked Mathews or been attacked by Mathews, and he declined to take sides in the question of the identity of the one who had been killed in the duel, though it might have been fancied that this was a question which would have a certain amount of interest for him. He refused to alter his mode of life in any degree. He appeared in public places no less frequently, but no more frequently, than before, and those people who had heard him affirm that there would be no duel, began, when the third day had passed, to think that there was some element in the quarrel with which they were unacquainted.

Dick Sheridan was greatly amazed, but extremely well pleased, when he heard from Mr. Long’s own lips that he had not received a communication on behalf of the man whom he had horsewhipped. It was when he was sitting at supper within his own house, with Dick sitting opposite to him, on the fourth day after the incident, that he so informed Dick.

“I did not speak without a full knowledge of my man, when I affirmed that there would be no duel,” said Mr. Long. “I was not so sure in regard to the challenge; but you see there is to be no challenge.”

It so happened, however, that before they had risen from the table, a gentleman arrived at the house on behalf of Captain Mathews, bearing a challenge, and requesting to be put in communication with Mr. Long’s friend.

The gentleman’s name was Major O’Teague. He was an Irishman, who lived for two months out of the year at Bath, and the remaining ten months no one knew where—perhaps in Ireland. No one knew in what regiment he served, and no one cared to know. He himself was not communicative on the matter, and he did not affect any particular uniform. He had, however, been known to talk of his father’s fighting in the Irish Brigade at Fontenoy, and that led some people to believe that he had won his rank in the same service.

When questioned on this point, he had replied that he always stood by the side of Freedom and the Fair. The consensus of opinion was that this sentiment did not materially assist one to identify the corps or the country in which he had won distinction. He was, however, known to be a good swordsman, and he always paid something on account to his landlady, so Bath ceased to take an interest in his military career. That he was carefully studied by young Mr. Sheridan there can be but little doubt, though it was Mrs. Cholmondeley who pretended to forget his name upon one occasion, and alluded to him as Major O’Trigger, an accident which young Mr. Sheridan never forgot.

He was excessively polite—“No man is so polite unless he means mischief,” was the thought which came to Dick when Major O’Teague was announced.

He addressed himself to Mr. Long, having declined, with a longing eye and a reluctant voice, a glass of sherry.

“Sir,” he said, “I come on a delicate mission”—he pronounced the adjective “dilicate,” for even the stress of Fontenoy and a course of Bath waters failed to reduce the heritage of the Irish Brigade—and gave a polite glance in the direction of Dick.

“Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan is my friend, sir,” said Mr. Long. “He is in my confidence, so that it is unnecessary for him to retire.”

“Very well, sir,” said the visitor. “I doubt not that Mr. Sheridan is a man of honour: his name, anyway, is illustrious” (pronounced “illusthrious”) “in the roll of fame of Irishmen. I mind that my father, the colonel, said that Owen Roe O’Neil Sheridan was a lieutenant in Clare’s regiment, and a very divil at that.”

“I have no doubt that Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan is duly proud of having at least one name in common with the lieutenant, sir,” said Mr. Long.

“And he would have every right, sir, let me tell you,” said Major O’Teague warmly. “My father knew that the boast of the Sheridans was that before the trouble came upon them in Ireland there never had been a wine-glass inside their castle.”

“A family of water-drinkers, sir?” suggested Mr. Long.

“Nothing of the sort, sir; they drank their liquor out of tumblers,” cried Major O’Teague. “Did y’ever hear tell”—the Major had elapsed into the French idiom—“did y’ever hear tell of the answer that Brian Oge O’Brian Sheridan made to the English officer that called at the castle when the colonel’s horse had been stolen, Mr. Sheridan?”

“Sir,” said Dick with dignity, “these are family affairs, and I should be reluctant to obtrude them on the attention of Mr. Long at this time—though, of course, if you came to talk to him on this topic——”

“I ask your pardon, sir,” said Major O’Teague fiercely. “I come on business, not pleasure. Mr. Long, sir, I have been entrusted by my friend, Captain Mathews, with a communication which I have no doubt that, as a man of honour, you have been anticipating since that unfortunate little affair at Bath-Easton.”

With a low bow he handed Mr. Long a folded-up letter.

Mr. Long turned it over in his hands without opening it. A puzzled expression was on his face. “I expected no communication from Mr. Mathews, sir,” said he. “Pray, Major O’Teague, are you certain that the missive has not been wrongly directed to me?”

“What, sir,” cried Major O’Teague, “do you tell me that after what happened, after whaling another gentleman within an inch of his life, and in the middle of the best company in Bath, you don’t expect to hear from him?”

“Is it possible that Mr. Mathews considers himself insulted, sir?” asked Mr. Long.

The Irishman’s jaw fell. He was stupefied. His lips moved, but it was a long time before a word came.

“An insult—an ins—— Hivins above us, sir, where is it that y’have lived at all?” he managed to say at last. “An insult—an ins—— Oh, the humour of it! Flaying a man alive with a postillion’s whip; not even a coachman’s whip,—there’s some dignity in a coachman’s whip,—but a common postillion’s! sir, the degradation of the act passes language, so it does. ’Tis an insult that can only be washed out by blood—blood, sir—a river of blood! A river? A sea of blood, sir—an ocean of blood! Egad, sir, ’tis a doubtful question, that it is, if all great Neptune’s ocean—— Ye’ve seen Mrs. Yates as Lady Macbeth, I doubt not, Mr. Sheridan? A fine actress, sir, and an accomplished lady——”

“I have never had that privilege, sir,” said Dick. “You were making a remark about great Neptune’s ocean.”

“And I’ll make it again, by your leave, sir. I say that ’tis a nice question if the wounds inflicted upon a gentleman’s honour by the free use of a low postillion’s whip can be cauterised by all great Neptune’s ocean.”

“’Tis a nice question, I doubt not, sir,” said Dick.

“That’s the conclusion my friend the captain and me came to before we had more than talked the business half over, and so we determined that it must be nipped in the bud,” said Major O’Teague, with the fluency of a practised rhetorician.

Meantime Mr. Long had opened the letter. The seal was about the size of a crown piece, and the breaking of it was quite apocalyptic.

“’Tis true, Major O’Teague,” said he mournfully. “Your friend has been pleased to take offence at what was, after all, an unimportant incident.”

“Pray, sir, may I inquire if your notion is that a gentleman should not take offence at anything less than getting his head cut off?” said Major O’Teague with great suavity. “You think that a gentleman shouldn’t send a challenge unless the other gentleman has mortally wounded him?”

“I like to take a charitable view of every matter, sir; and I give you my word that I believed that Mr. Mathews had more discretion than to challenge me to—to—may I say?—to show him my hand,” said Mr. Long.

“To show him your hand, sir? I protest that I don’t understand you at all, Mr. Long,” said Major O’Teague. “This is not a challenge to a friendly game of cards, sir, let me assure you. When you show your hand to my friend, I trust it’s a couple of swords that’ll be in it, or a brace of pistols, which form a very gentlemanly diversion on the green of a morning.”

“Mr. Sheridan, I shall ask you to do me the honour of acting for me in this unfortunate affair,” said Mr. Long.

“Sir,” cried Dick, “if you will allow me to take this quarrel on myself I shall feel doubly honoured.”

“’Tis reluctant I am to thrust forward my opinion uncalled for; but if my own father—rest his sowl!—was to offer to cheat me out of a fight, I’d have his life, if he was a thousand times my father,” said Major O’Teague.

“This quarrel is mine, Mr. Sheridan,” said Mr. Long. “You and Major O’Teague will settle the preliminaries in proper fashion. Have you ever been concerned in an affair of this sort before, Major O’Teague, may I ask?”

Major O’Teague staggered back till he was supported by the wainscot. He stared at his questioner.

“Is it Major O’Teague that y’ask the question of?” he said in a whisper that was not quite free from hoarseness. “Is it me—me—ever engaged in an affair of honour?” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he shook his head mournfully and turned his eyes devotionally to the ceiling. “And this is fame!” he murmured. “Oh, my country! this is fame!”

“By the way, sir, what is your country?” asked Mr. Long.

“My father fought at Fontenoy, and my mother was called in her young days the Lily of the Loire, on account of her elegance and simplicity; and if that doesn’t make me an Irishman in the sight of Heaven, you may call me anything you please. But I’ve been mistaken for an Englishman before now,” he added proudly, “and I might have been one too if it hadn’t been for my parentage.”

“An Irish exile. The figure is a pathetic one, sir,” said Mr. Long. “I have met several in France.”

“France was overrun with them, sir. But ’tis not so bad now as it used to be,” said Major O’Teague. “A good many of them have returned to Ireland, and in a short time we’ll hear that Ireland is overrun with her own exiles.”

“We shall be compelled in that case to withdraw our sympathy from them and bestow it upon their country,” said Mr. Long. “We can only sympathise with expatriated patriots who live in banishment. With exiles who refuse to die out of their own country we can have no sympathy.”

“My sentiments to a hair’s breadth,” cried Major O’Teague. “I declare to hivins there’s some Irish exiles that have never stirred out of Ireland! But they’re not the worst. Ireland has harboured many snakes in her bosom from time to time, but the bitterest cup of them all has been the one that burst into flower on a foreign shore, and, having feathered its nest, crawled back to the old country to heap coals of fire upon the head of her betrayers.”

“The metamorphoses of the Irish snake—which I believed did not exist—appear to have been numerous and confusing; but surely you will take a glass of wine now, major?” said Mr. Long. “Pray pass Major O’Teague the decanter, Mr. Sheridan.”

Dick obeyed, and Major O’Teague’s face, which one might have expected to brighten, became unusually and, as it seemed, unnecessarily solemn. He protested that he had no need for any refreshment—that so far from regarding as irksome the duty which he had just discharged, he considered it one of the greatest pleasures in life to bring a challenge to a gentleman of Mr. Long’s position. He only accepted the hospitality of Mr. Long lest he should be accused of being a curmudgeon if he refused.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, raising his glass, “I drink to your very good health and to our better acquaintance. I have been more or less intimately concerned in the death of fourteen gentlemen, but there’s not one of them that won’t say to-day, if y’ask him, that he was killed in the most gentlemanly way, and in a style suitable to his position. If you have anything to complain of on this score, Mr. Long, my name is not O’Teague. Here’s long life to you, sir.”

“Without prejudice to the longevity of your friend Captain Mathews, I suppose?” said Mr. Long.

“We’ll drink to him later on, sir. The night’s young yet,” said Major O’Teague, with a wink that had a good deal of slyness about it.