CHAPTER XIV.

It was a lie, and surely the most cruel and most objectless lie ever uttered. Goldsmith was soon made aware of this. The laughter that followed Tony Lumpkin's pretending to his mother that Mr. Hard-castle was a highwayman was not the laugh of playgoers who have endured four acts of a dull play; it was the laugh of people who have been in a good humour for over two hours, and Goldsmith knew it. He perceived from their laughter that the people in every part of the house were following the comedy with extraordinary interest. Every point in the dialogue was effective—the exquisite complications, the broad fun, the innumerable touches of nature, all were appreciated by an audience whose expression of gratification fell little short of rapture.

When the scene was being shifted Col-man left the stage and did not return to it until it was his duty to come forward after the epilogue was spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and announce the date of the author's night.

As soon as the manager had disappeared Goldsmith had a chance of speaking to several of the actors at intervals as they made their exits, and from them he learned the whole truth regarding the play: from the first scene to the one which was being represented, the performance had been a succession of triumphs, not only for the author, but for every member of the company concerned in the production. With old dresses and scenery familiar to all frequenters of the playhouse, the extraordinary success of the comedy was beyond all question. The allusion to the offensive terms of the Royal Marriage Act was especially relished by the audience, several of the occupants of the pit rising to their feet and cheering for some time—so much Goldsmith learned little by little at intervals from the actors.

“I swore never to look on Colman as my friend again, and I'll keep my word; he has treated me cruelly—more cruelly than he has any idea of,” said Goldsmith to Lee Lewes. “But as for you, Mr. Lewes, I'll do anything that is in my power for you in the future. My poor play owes much to you, sir.”

“Faith then, sir,” cried Lewes, “I'll keep you to your word. My benefit will take place in a short time; I'll ask you for a prologue, Dr. Goldsmith.”

“You shall have the best prologue I ever wrote,” said Goldsmith.

And so he had.

When the house was still cheering at the conclusion of the epilogue, Goldsmith, overcome with emotion, hurried into the green room. Mrs. Abington was the first person whom he met. She held down her head, and affected a guilty look as she glanced at him sideways through half-closed eyes.

“Dr. Goldsmith,” she said in a tone modulated to a point of humility, “I hope in your hour of triumph you will be generous to those who were foolish enough to doubt the greatness of your work. Oh, sir, I pray of you not to increase by your taunts the humiliation which I feel at having resigned my part in your comedy. Believe me, I have been punished sufficiently during the past two hours by hearing the words, which I might have spoken, applauded so rapturously coming from another.”

“Taunts, my dear madam; who speaks of taunts?” said he. “Nay, I have a part in my mind for you already—that is, if you will be good enough to accept it.”

“Oh, sir, you are generosity itself!” cried the actress, offering him both her hands. “I shall not fail to remind you of your promise, Dr. Goldsmith.”

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And now the green room was being crowded by the members of the company and the distinguished friends of the author, who were desirous of congratulating him. Dr. Johnson's voice filled the room as his laughter had filled the theatre.

“We perceived the reason of your extraordinary and unusual modesty, Dr. Goldsmith, before your play was many minutes on the stage,” said he. “You dog, you took as your example the Italians who, on the eve of Lent, indulge in a carnival, celebrating their farewell to flesh by a feast. On the same analogy you had a glut of modesty previous to bidding modesty good-bye forever; for to-night's performance will surely make you a coxcomb.”

“Oh, I hope not, sir,” said Goldsmith. “No, you don't hope it, sir,” cried Johnson. “You are thinking at this moment how much better you are than your betters—I see it on your face, you rascal.”

“And he has a right to think so,” said Mrs. Bunbury. “Come, Dr. Goldsmith, speak up, say something insulting to your betters.”

“Certainly, madam,” said Goldsmith. “Where are they?”

“Well said!” cried Edmund Burke.

“Nay, sir,” said Johnson. “Dr. Goldsmith's satire is not strong enough. We expected something more violent. 'Tis like landing one in one's back garden when one has looked for Crackskull Common.”

His mighty laughter echoed through the room and made the pictures shake on the walls.

Mary Horneck had not spoken. She had merely given her friend her hand. She knew that he would understand her unuttered congratulations, and she was not mistaken.

For the next quarter of an hour there was an exchange of graceful wit and gracious compliment between the various persons of distinction in the green room. Mrs. Thrale, with her usual discrimination, conceived the moment to be an opportune one for putting on what she fondly imagined was an Irish brogue, in rallying Goldsmith upon some of the points in his comedy. Miss Kauffman and Signor Baretti spoke Italian into Reynolds's ear-trumpet, and Edmund Burke talked wittily in the background with the Bunburys.

So crowded the room was, no one seemed to notice how an officer in uniform had stolen up to the side of Mary Horneck where she stood behind Mr. Thrale and General Oglethorpe, and had withdrawn her into a corner, saying a whispered word to her. No one seemed to observe the action, though it was noticed by Goldsmith. He kept his eyes fixed upon the girl, and perceived that, while the man was speaking to her, her eyes were turned upon the floor and her left hand was pressed against her heart.

He kept looking at her all the time that Mrs. Thrale was rattling out her inanities, too anxious to see what effect she was producing upon the people within ear-shot to notice that the man whom she was addressing was paying no attention to her.

When the others as well ceased to pay any attention to her, she thought it advisable to bring her prattle to a close.

“Psha! Dr. Goldsmith,” she cried. “We have given you our ears for more than two hours, and yet you refuse to listen to us for as many minutes.”

“I protest, madam, that I have been absorbed,” said Goldsmith. “Yes, you were remarking that——”

“That an Irishman, when he achieves a sudden success, can only be compared to a boy who has robbed an orchard,” said the lady.

“True—very true, madam,” said he. He saw Mary Horneck's hands clasp involuntarily for a moment as she spoke to the man who stood smiling beside her. She was not smiling.

“Yes, 'tis true; but why?” cried Mrs. Thrale, taking care that her voice did not appeal to Goldsmith only.

“Ah, yes; that's just it—why?” said he. Mary Horneck had turned away from the officer, and was coming slowly back to where her sister and Henry Bunbury were standing.

“Why?” said Mrs. Thrale shrilly. “Why? Why is an Irishman who has become suddenly successful like a boy who has robbed an orchard? Why, because his booty so distends his body that any one can perceive he has got in his pockets what he is not entitled to.”

She looked around for appreciation, but failed to find it. She certainly did not perceive any appreciation of her pleasantry on the face of the successful Irishman before her. He was not watching Mary now. All his attention was given to the man to whom she had been talking, and who had gone to the side of Mrs. Abington, where he remained chatting with even more animation than was usual for one to assume in the green room.

“You will join us at supper, Dr. Goldsmith?” said Mr. Thrale.

“Nay, sir!” cried Bunbury; “mine is a prior claim. Dr. Goldsmith agreed some days ago to honour my wife with his company to-night.”

“What did I say, Goldy?” cried Johnson. “Was it not that, after the presentation of the comedy, you would receive a hundred invitations?”

“Well, sir, I have only received two since my play was produced, and one of them I accepted some days ago,” said the Irishman, and Mrs. Thrale hoped she would be able to remember the bull in order to record it as conclusive evidence of Goldsmith's awkwardness of speech.

But Burke, who knew the exact nature of the Irish bull, only smiled. He laughed, however, when Goldsmith, assuming the puzzled expression of the Irishman who adds to the humour of his bull by pretending that it is involuntary, stumbled carefully in his words, simulating a man anxious to explain away a mistake that he has made. Goldsmith excelled at this form of humour but too well; hence, while the pages of every book that refers to him are crowded with his brilliant saying's, the writers quote Garrick's lines in proof—proof positive, mind—that he “talked like poor Poll.” He is the first man on record who has been condemned solely because of the exigencies of rhyme, and that, too, in the doggerel couplet of the most unscrupulous jester of the century.

Mary Horneck seems to have been the only one who understood him thoroughly. She has left her appreciation of his humour on record. The expression which she perceived upon his face immediately after he had given utterance to some delightful witticism—which the recording demons around him delighted to turn against himself—was the expression which makes itself apparent in Reynolds's portrait of him. The man who “talked like poor Poll” was the man who, even before he had done anything in literature except a few insignificant essays, was visited by Bishop Percy, though every visit entailed a climb up a rickety staircase and a seat on a rickety stool in a garret. Perhaps, however, the fastidious Percy was interested in ornithology and was ready to put himself to great inconvenience in order to hear parrot-talk.

While he was preparing to go with the Bunburys, Goldsmith noticed that the man who, after talking with Mary Horneck, had chatted with Mrs. Abington, had disappeared; and when the party whom he was accompanying to supper had left the room he remained for a few moments to make his adieux to the players. He shook hands with Mrs. Abington, saying—

“Have no fear that I shall forget my promise, madam.”

“I shall take good care that you don't, sir,” said she.

“Do not fancy that I shall neglect my own interests!” he cried, bowing as he took a step away from her. When he had taken another step he suddenly returned to her as if a sudden thought had struck him. “Why, if I wasn't going away without asking you what is the name of the gentleman in uniform who was speaking with you just now,” said he. “I fancy I have met him somewhere, and one doesn't want to be rude.”

“His name is Jackson,” she replied. “Yes, Captain Jackson, though the Lord only knows what he is captain of.”

“I have been mistaken; I know no one of that name,” said Goldsmith. “'Tis as well I made sure; one may affront a gentleman as easily by professing to have met him as by forgetting that one has done so.”

When he got outside, he found that Mary Horneck has been so greatly affected by the heat of the playhouse and the excitement of the occasion, she had thought it prudent to go away with the Reynoldses in their coach—her mother had preceded her by nearly half an hour.

The Bunburys found that apparently the excitement of the evening had produced a similar effect upon their guest. Although he admitted having eaten no dinner—Johnson and his friends had been by no means reticent on the subject of the dinner—he was without an appetite for the delightful little supper which awaited him at Mrs. Bunbury's. It was in vain too that his hostess showed herself to be in high spirits, and endeavoured to rally him after her own delightful fashion. He remained almost speechless the whole evening.

“Ah,” said she, “I perceive clearly that your Little Comedy has been quite obscured by your great comedy. But wait until we get you down with us at Barton; you will find the first time we play loo together that a little comedy may become a great tragedy.”

Bunbury declared that he was as poor company during the supper as if his play had been a mortifying failure instead of a triumphant success, and Goldsmith admitted that this was true, taking his departure as soon as he could without being rude.

He walked slowly through the empty streets to his chambers in Brick Court. But it was almost daylight before he went to bed.

All his life he had been looking forward to this night—the night that should put the seal upon his reputation, that should give him an incontestable place at the head of the imaginative writers of his period. And yet, now that the fame for which he had struggled with destiny was within his grasp, he felt more miserable than he had ever felt in his garret.