The Jessamy Bride

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“I'll hope for better luck than that,” said Oliver.

“Oh, with good luck one can accomplish anything,” said she. “But good luck is just one of the things that cannot be arranged for even by the cleverest people.”

“That is where men are at a disadvantage in striving with destiny,” said Goldsmith. “But I think that any man who succeeds in having Mrs. Abington as his ally must be regarded as the most fortunate of his sex.”

“Ah, sir, wait for another month before you compliment me,” said she.

“Madam,” said he, “I am not complimenting you, but myself. I will take your advice and reserve my compliments to you for—well, no, not a month; if I can put them off for a week I shall feel that I have done very well.”

As he made his bow and left her, he could not help feeling more strongly that he had greatly overrated the advantages to be derived from an alliance with Mrs. Abington when his object was to get the better of an adroit scoundrel. He had heard—nay, he had written—of the wiles of women, and yet the first time that he had an opportunity of testing a woman's wiles he found that he had been far too generous in his estimate of their value.

It was with no little trepidation that he went to the Shakespeare tavern at supper time and inquired for Mrs. Abington. He had a roll of manuscript in his hand, according to agreement, and he desired the waiter to inform the lady that he would not keep her for long. He was very fluent up to this point; but he was uncertain how he would behave when he found himself face to face with the man who had made the life of Mary Horneck miserable. He wondered if he would be able to restrain his impulse to fly at the scoundrel's throat.

When, however, the waiter returned with a message from Mrs. Abington that she would see Dr. Goldsmith in the supper room, and he ascended the stairs to that apartment, he felt quite at his ease. He had nerved himself to play a part, and he was convinced that the rôle was not beyond his powers.

Mrs. Abington, at the moment of his entrance, was lying back in her chair laughing, apparently at a story which was being told to her by her vis-à-vis, for he was leaning across the table, with his elbow resting upon it and one expressive finger upraised to give emphasis to the points of his narrative.

When Goldsmith appeared, the actress nodded to him familiarly, pleasantly, but did not allow her attention to be diverted from the story which Captain Jackson was telling to her. Goldsmith paused with his fingers still on the handle of the door. He knew that the most inopportune entrance that a man can make upon another is when the other is in the act of telling a story to an appreciative audience—say, a beautiful actress in a gown that allows her neck and shoulders to be seen to the greatest advantage and does not interfere with the ebb and flow of that roseate tide, with its gracious ripples and delicate wimplings, rising and falling between the porcelain of her throat and the curve of the ivory of her shoulders.