“A young philosopher shows his wisdom only if he is a young fool,” she said. “But you are not so foolish as to be a philosopher at your time of life, Dick. Equanimity—there’s a word for you! But you never felt in peril. Mr. Long is an old man. Do you fancy that Betsy Linley will forgive you for fighting him?”
“Mrs. Abington,” said Dick, “you have been like several other people in this town—the victim of a very foolish and malicious piece of gossip which seems to have been most persistently spread abroad. I have been concerned in no duel, and I swear to you that for no earthly consideration—not even if my own honour were in peril—would I fight Mr. Long. I have a greater respect—a deeper affection—for Mr. Long than I have for any living man.“
The lady stood before him speechless. She was breathing hard. The hand that she had laid upon the upper lace of her bodice rose and fell several times before the expression that had been on her face gave place to quite a different one. The new expression suggested something more than relief, and so did the long sigh that caused her hand to remain for some moments poised above her lace, like a white bird on the curve of a white wave.
She sighed.
Then she gave a laugh—a laugh of pleasant derision—the tolerant derision that one levels at oneself, saying, when things have turned out all right, “What a fool I have been!” Those were her very words.
“What a fool I have been, Dick! I was told that—— But I was a fool to believe anything that came from such a source! Did Mr. Walpole invent the whole story merely out of malice? He is quite equal to it. Or was it a woman? Most likely it came from a woman; but, lud, if you were to try to find the woman who started the lie you would be overcome, for there’s not one of the whole set that wouldn’t take a pleasure in’t. I’m so sorry, Dick! But the story at first was that you had received an injury. What a state I was in! And then some one came with the news that ’twas your opponent who was hurt. Oh, the liars! liars all! But you are not hurt—I mean, you are in no way hurt, my Dick, by this silly story?”
“Hurt? Why, I am overwhelmed with conceit at the thought that my condition should cause so much concern to my friends,” said Dick. “’Tis a great feather in my cap that I should become all in a moment, and without doing anything for it, the topic of the day in a town which is fastidious in its choice of topics. You were talking a few nights ago of my writing a comedy. Well, here is one scene in it ready-made. Scene: A room in the house of Lady—— What shall we call her—Lady Sneerwell or the Countess of Candour? The members of the Senate of the College of Scandal have met. ‘What, you have surely heard of the duel? Oh, lud! is’t possible that you have not heard it? Where can your ladyship have been living? Oh, faith, ’tis but too true. They met in Kingsmead Fields by the light of a lovely moon last night, and, after a pass or two, Mr. Thompson’s sword pierced the lungs of old Sir Simon, and——’ ‘No, no, sir, you are wrong there; ’twas with pistols they fought,’ cries another gentleman, who enters hurriedly. ‘Pistols, sir? Swords, as I heard it.’ ‘Nay, sir, you cannot believe all you hear. They fought with pistols, I give you my word. They exchanged seven shots apiece, and two of the seconds and one of the surgeons fell mortally wounded; it was the seventh broadside that struck a knot in the third lowest branch of a pollard ash at one side of the ground, and glancing off at an acute angle, passed through a thrush’s nest in a Westphalian poplar containing four eggs, three of them speckled and one of them, strange to say, plain, all within six days and two hours of incubation. The bullet smashed one of them, containing a fine hen bird, to atoms, but without disturbing the mother, who continued sitting on the clutch, and, touching the third button on the left-hand side of the peach-coloured coat, made by Filby, of London, and not yet paid for, of one of the onlookers, glanced off to the right shoe-buckle of Sir Simon, and cut off the great toe of his left foot as clean as if it had been done under the surgeon’s knife.’ ‘Nay, sir, you are sure in error. ’Twas Mr. Thompson who sustained the wound, and let me tell, sir, that ’twas his right ear that was cut off.’ ‘With respect, sir, ’twas the elder gentleman.’ ‘Nay, sir, I should know; ’twas the younger, I assure you.’ ‘Sir, you take too much upon you.’ ‘And you, sir, are a jackanapes!’ Enter Sir Simon and Mr. Thompson, arm in arm. There’s the scene ready for rehearsal. Oh, I should feel extremely obliged to my kind traducers for suggesting it all to me.”
Dick had bustled through the imaginary scene with the greatest vivacity; and Mrs. Abington perceived that he did it very well and that he had acquired something of the true spirit of comedy, though he exaggerated everything, after the manner of the schoolboy who takes the clown as his mentor. But after she had greeted his performance with a laugh, she pouted and protested that he had offended her. She seated herself on the sofa, and turned her head away from him with the air of the offended lady.
Dick watched her performance critically, and fully appreciated the delicacy of her comedy—all the more as he was elated with the scene which he had just invented. He hoped that he would have a chance of introducing something like it in a comedy, and he had such a chance a few years later, nor did he forget to put Mrs. Abington on in that scene.
“Why should you be offended, you beautiful creature?” he said, leaning over her from behind.