A Nest of Linnets

by Frank Frankfort Moore

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.”