CHAPTER XXI

Dick was greatly surprised when, on going out to take the air the next day, he was met by one of his acquaintance—a young Mr. Vere, who shook him warmly by the hand, offering him his congratulations.

“’Twas very spirited of you so to take up the quarrel of your brother, Mr. Sheridan; that is what every one in Bath is saying to-day,” cried Mr. Vere. “I give you my word, sir, there is not one who ventures to assert that you were not fully justified in sending the challenge.”

“’Tis most gratifying to me, I am sure, that people take so lenient a view of an affair of which I have heard nothing up to the present moment,” said Dick.

“I refer to your duel, Mr. Sheridan. Surely that incident, trifling though it may be to a gentleman of your experience, has not yet escaped your memory?” said Vere.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Vere,” said Dick, “I have got a very short memory for incidents that have not taken place. Pray, what duel do you refer to, and what had I got to do with it? Pardon my curiosity, sir; ’tis rather ridiculous, I allow, but my nature is sufficiently inquiring to compel me to ask you if I was a principal in the duel or merely one of the seconds. I hope you do not consider me impertinent in putting such a question to you.”

Mr. Vere stared at him for a few moments, and then laughed.

“You carry it off very well, I must confess,” said he. “But there is no need for you to affect such complete ignorance. I give you my word that every one acquits you of blame in the matter—nay, I am assured that the meeting was inevitable; but I doubt not there is no one more ready than yourself to rejoice that your adversary was not severely wounded.”

“’Tis a source of boundless satisfaction to me to learn so much from your lips, sir,” said Dick. “And if you could see your way to add to my obligation by making me acquainted with the name of my antagonist, I would never forget your kindness.”

“Upon my soul, you carry it off very well! I dare swear that Mr. Garrick, for all his reputation, could not do it much better,” said Mr. Vere. “But your acting is wasted, Mr. Sheridan; I tell you that the general opinion in Bath is that your act was highly commendable. Pray, Sheridan, tell me in confidence what was the exact nature of the affront put upon your brother—apart, of course, from the question of the lady; I promise you that ’twill go no further!”

“Look you here, Mr. Vere,” said Dick, “I do not mind being made a fool of up to a certain point—there is no positive disgrace in being a fool in Bath, one finds oneself in such congenial company,—but I tell you, sir, I will not suffer any one to go beyond a certain distance with me, and you are going perilously close to my frontier with these compliments of yours. Come, sir, tell me plainly, what do you mean by suggesting that I have been concerned in a duel, and with whom do you suggest I have been fighting?”

“What, sir, do you mean to say that you have not just fought a duel with Mr. Long on behalf of your brother?”

“Yes, sir, I have no hesitation in affirming that I have fought no duel with Mr. Long or with any one else, either on behalf of my brother or any one else.”

“Heavens! you surprise me, sir. Why, all Bath is talking——”

“Talking nonsense—that is the mother tongue of Bath; and so far as I can gather, you do not stand in need of a course of lessons in this particular language, Mr. Vere, and so I wish you good-morning, sir.”

Mr. Vere’s jaw fell. His usual alertness of manner disappeared before Dick’s energetic rebuff. He did not even retain sufficient presence of mind to take off his hat when Dick made such a salutation, and walked quietly on.

But when Dick had gone something less than twenty yards on his way, a sudden thought seemed to strike young Vere. Hurrying after him, he cried:

“Look here, Mr. Sheridan, if you did not fight Mr. Long, how does his arm come to be wounded,—tell me that?”

“Mr. Vere,” said Dick, stopping and turning to the other,—“Mr. Vere, unless your story of Mr. Long’s having sustained a wound be much more accurate than much of what you have just been telling me, it stands in great need of verification.”

He walked on, leaving the young man to recover as best he could from his astonishment.

But Dick had scarcely resumed his walk before he encountered his friend Nat Halhed, who almost threw himself into Dick’s arms, so great was his emotion at that moment.

“My dear Dick—my dear Dick, you are unhurt!” he cried. “Thank Heaven for that—thank Heaven! I hear on good authority that ’tis only a flesh wound, and that he will be out of the house by the end of the week. But ’twas unkind of you not to ask me to be your friend in this affair, Dick. Sure, you might have given me your confidence.”

“I was afraid of that wagging tongue of yours, Nat,” said Dick; “I was afraid that you might be the dupe of some of the scandal-mongers who have become the curse of Bath.”

“Nay, Dick, this is unkind,” said Nat reproachfully. “You know that I am the soul of discretion, and that nothing would tempt me to talk of any matter of the accuracy of which I was not fully assured.”

“I know that you have just been repeating a story which had its origin only in the imagination of some gossip-monger,” said Dick.

“What—I—I? Pray, what story do you allude to?”

“To the story of my duel. I have been concerned in no duel. But mark my words, Nat, if I hear much more about this business, I shall be engaged in several duels.”

“Do you mean to deny the fact of your having had an encounter with Mr. Long two days ago—a secret encounter, because of his having accused you of the attempt to turn away from him the affections of Miss Linley?”

Dick became pale with anger.

“I tell you what it is, sir,” he cried; “I have had no encounter with Mr. Long on any question; and let me add, for your benefit and the benefit of your associates, that if any one wishes to provoke me to a duel, he can accomplish his purpose best by asserting in my hearing that I am capable of making such an attempt as that which you say has been attributed to me. That is all I have to say to you, my friend Nat.”

Halhed gasped, and Dick walked on.

Before many seconds had elapsed he heard Halhed’s voice behind him.

“If you had no duel with Mr. Long, pray, how does he come to have that ugly wound on his wrist?” cried the young man.

“Why not ask him?” said Dick. “What am I that I should be held accountable for every scratch that one receives at Bath? Are there not cats enough at Bath—in the Pump Room, and the Assembly Rooms, and other schools for scandal—to account for all the scratches upon a man’s wrist or reputation that he may sustain in the course of the season?”

He hastened on, leaving young Halhed still gasping.

It now appeared quite clear to Dick that the gossip-mongers had somehow got to hear that Mr. Long had sustained a sword-wound on the wrist, and they were not slow to invent a story possessing at least some elements of romance to account for it. It seemed that a course of the waters had as stimulating an effect upon the imagination as it had upon a sluggish liver. Some of the visitors were such clever naturalists and had had so large an experience of fossilised deposits, that they had become adroit in the construction of a whole mammoth fabric if only a single tooth were placed at their disposal. Dick had heard of such feats being performed by persons who combined a knowledge of geology with an acquaintance with zoology, supplementing the two by as much imagination as was necessary to achieve any result at which they aimed. Learning that Mr. Long had his left arm bound up, these professors of social zoology had proved themselves fully equal to the task of accounting for his wound.

What Dick could not understand was why they should associate him with the imaginary duel. It was not until he heard his name called out by a lady in a splendidly painted chair—the chair is still in existence, though the splendidly painted occupant is no more than the dust of one of the pigments used in painting a bit of a picture of the brilliant society of a century and a half ago—and found that Mrs. Cholmondeley was looking eagerly through the window, beckoning to him with her fan, that he learned how it was that his name became mixed up with the story.

He bowed to the ground before the beautiful structure so elaborately built up within the cramping limits of the chair; and the bearers, at a signal from the lady, came to a halt and raised the roof on its hinges.

“Oh, Mr. Sheridan,” she cried, “you gave us all such a shock! But we are so glad that you are safe!”

“Safe, madam?” said he. “Heavens! what man in Bath can consider himself safe when Mrs. Cholmondeley turns her eyes upon him? Dear madam, ’tis sure ungenerous of you to jest at the expense of one of your most willing victims.”

“Jest, sir? I vow ’twould have been no jest to Bath if you had been wounded instead of Mr. Long,” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley. “And you kept the whole business so secret too; you did not give any of us a chance of interfering with you, you hot-headed young Achilles! Of course, you did not inflict a severe wound upon the poor gentleman! We Irish are generous by instinct. And ’twas like you to sit with him for more than an hour yesterday, and then go straight home, never leaving the house all the night, though you must have known that you would have been well received at the Rooms had you put in an appearance there. But you ever showed good taste, sir—that is another Irish trait.”

“Madam,” said he, “I cannot doubt that the infatuation which, alas! I have never been able to conceal for the beautiful Mrs. Cholmondeley has gained for me a reputation for taste; I trust, madam, that I did not altogether forfeit it by omitting to visit the Rooms last night, where, I hear, she was as usual the cynosure of the most brilliant circle.”

“A truce to compliments, Mr. Sheridan,” said she. “Young men shaped after Apollo have no need for them. Compliments are the makeshifts of the elderly to call away attention from their spindleshanks. Confidences, and not compliments, are what we old women look for from such as you; so prithee, Dick, tell me all about the matter—’twill go no further, I promise you.”

“At no more adorable shrine need I ever hope to confess my virtues, madam,” said he; “but in this matter——”

“Oh, sir, the man who has only virtues to confess soon ceases to interest a confidante,” said she. “But it may be that you consider fighting a duel to be praiseworthy?”

“Let any one cast an aspersion upon Mrs. Cholmondeley in my presence, and I shall prove that a duel is one of the cardinal virtues, madam,” said Dick.

“’Twas not about me you fought Mr. Long at dawn yesterday,” she cried.

“Madam, you may venture on that statement, being aware that Mr. Long is alive to-day,” said Dick.

“I perceive that you and he have entered into a compact to keep the affair a secret,” said she. “Well, though I think that you might make an exception of me, I cannot but acknowledge that you have good taste on your side.”

“I have the mirror of good taste at my side when Mrs. Cholmondeley honours me by stopping her chair while I am in the act of passing her,” said Dick.

“Oh, sir, you are monstrous civil. But if you think that you can keep the details of your duel secret at Bath, you compliment yourself rather than your acquaintance in this town.”

“Faith, Mrs. Cholmondeley, my acquaintance seem to know a good deal more about this duel than I do,” said Dick.

“You will make me lose patience with you,” said she. “But I will be content if you give me your word that you will not tell Mrs. Thrale or Mrs. Crewe what has occurred. You will promise me, Dick? I should die of chagrin if either of that gossiping pair were to come to me with a circumstantial account of the duel.”

“I can give you that promise with all my heart,” said he. “But if you assume that my reticence will prevent either of the ladies from being able to give a circumstantial account of this incident, about which every one seems to be talking, you will show that you know a good deal less about them than you should.”

“You are quite right; they are the grossest of the scandal-mongers—ay, and the least scrupulous,” she cried. “Why, it was only last night that one of them—I shall leave you to guess which—asserted that she had the evidence of her own eyes to prove to her that it was the younger of the Sheridan sons, and not the elder, who was in love with Miss Linley, although the other talked most of his passion. And by the Lord, sir, she was right, if my eyesight be worth anything.”

Dick was always on the alert—as, indeed, he required to be—when engaged in conversation with Mrs. Cholmondeley and the other ladies of the set to which she belonged; but the impudence of her suggestion, made in so direct a fashion, startled him into a blush. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and before her chairmen could comply with her signal to take up the chair, he was smiling most vexatiously, while he said:

“’Twere vain, dear madam, to make an attempt to dissemble before such well-informed ladies. You are fully acquainted not only with the particulars of a duel which never took place, but also with the details of a passion which exists only in the imagination. Ah, Mrs. Cholmondeley, we men are poor creatures in the presence of a lady with much imagination and few scruples.”

He bowed, with his hat in his hand.

“You do well to run away, sir,” said the lady, with a malicious twinkle.

“’Tis the act of a wise man,” said he. “The cat that only scratches a man’s hand, one may play with, but the cat that scratches a man’s heart should be handed over to the gamekeeper to nail upon the door. I, however, prefer to run away.”

He had gone backward, still bowing with profound respect, for half a dozen yards, before she had recovered from the strongest rebuff she had ever received.

Then she asked her chairmen, in a tone that had something of shrillness in it, if they intended leaving her in the road for the rest of the day.

She was very angry, not only because she was conscious of having received a rebuke which she had richly merited, but also because she had failed to find out whether or not there was any truth in the story of the duel between Mr. Long and Dick Sheridan, which had been discussed all the day in the least trustworthy of the many untrustworthy circles in Bath.

She herself had had her doubts as to the accuracy of the story. Mr. Horace Walpole had shown himself to be too greatly interested in it to allow of any reasonable person’s accepting it without serious misgivings; for she knew that the leading precept in Mr. Walpole’s ethics of scandal was, “Any story is good enough to hang an epigram on.” But in spite of the fact that Walpole was highly circumstantial in his account of the duel, its origin, and its probable results, Mrs. Cholmondeley thought that there might be something in it. This was why she had stopped Dick so eagerly. She thought that she might trust to her own adroitness to find out from him enough to place her friends in the right or in the wrong in respect of the story; she would have liked to have it in her power to put them in the wrong, but hers was not a grasping nature: she would have been quite content to be able to put them in the right.

Well, it was very provoking to be foiled by the cleverness of that young Sheridan. He had been impudent, too, and had actually shown that he resented her cultured curiosity on the subject of his affairs. This she felt to be insufferable on the part of young Sheridan.

Happily, however, though she had learned nothing from him—except, perhaps, that there were in existence some young men who objected to their personal affairs being made the subject of public conversation by people who knew nothing about them—she did not despair of being able to make herself interesting to her friends when describing her rencontre with Dick; and, setting her imagination to work, she found that she could serve up quite a palatable and dainty dish out of the story of how she had overwhelmed him with confusion. She did not at that moment remember what were the exact phrases she had employed to compass this end, but she had every confidence in the power of her imagination to suggest to her before the time for going to the Assembly Rooms the well-balanced badinage which she had used to send him flying from her in confusion.

And Dick, as he walked homeward, without feeling that he had vastly enjoyed his walk, knew perfectly well just what was in the lady’s mind. He had no illusions on the subject of her scrupulousness. He was well aware that she would not hesitate to give her circle any account that suited her, respecting her meeting with him. He had an idea, however, that the members of her circle would only believe as much of her story as suited themselves. How much this was would be wholly dependent upon the piquant elements introduced into the story by Mrs. Cholmondeley. He knew enough of the world to know that people would give credence to the more malicious of her suggestions without weighing the probability of the matters on which they bore.

But what he thought about most was the reference which she had made to Betsy and himself. Up to that time it was only the most jealous of Betsy’s many suitors who had looked on him as a rival. Very few persons in Bath had discovered his secret, and it had certainly never been spoken of seriously. An exceedingly poor man has always, he knew, a better chance than the man of means of evading the vigilance of the gossip-mongers; therefore he had escaped having the compliment paid to him of being referred to as a possible suitor.

It was becoming clear to him, however, that there were some people in Bath whose experience of life had led them to believe that the lack of worldly means was not a certain deterrent to the aspirations of a young man with talent—assuming that talent means making the most of one’s opportunities: a very worldly definition of talent, but not the less acceptable on that account to the fashionable people of Bath.

The reflection that his secret was no longer one annoyed him, but not greatly. His consciousness of vexation had disappeared before he turned the corner of Orange Grove into Terrace Walk.

And then he entered his house and almost walked into the arms of Mrs. Abington, who was waiting for him on the first lobby.

“Oh, Dick, Dick! safe—safe! Thank Heaven!” she cried, putting out both her hands to him and catching him by the arms.

Her form of greeting him had about it more than the suggestion of a clasp.