With what story was he to go to her? What excuse was he to make for interfering between her and the carrying out of her whims? How was he to tell her that she was no longer to make a fool of the youth whom she had taken a fancy to fool?

He found no answer to any of these questions which he asked himself. But when he went on to ask himself if she would not have a right to accuse him of impudence and presumption were he to go to her for the purpose of remonstrating with her, he had no difficulty in finding an answer.

He had never set about any business for which he had less aptitude than this. He was sufficiently a man of the world to know that he was the last person who should go to Mrs. Abington to remonstrate with her. The man who interposes in a quarrel between a man and a wife is accounted a fool; but a man who interposes between an actress and her lover is much worse—he is a busybody, and he usually comes off as badly as does an arbitrator, who reconciles two of his friends in order to become the enemy of both.

Dick felt that not only would his mission be fruitless, he would be regarded by both the actress and the lover with righteous rage. And then he was a little afraid of Mrs. Abington. She had availed herself to the uttermost of her opportunities of studying men, and she had, he believed, acquired a knowledge of how to treat individual cases without risk to herself, that was little short of marvellous. A woman possessing such powers was one whom every sensible man feared; the others fell in love with her. And he had promised to go to her upon a mission that would have been odious to him if it had not been suggested by Betsy Linley.

He could not explain to Betsy that there are certain lessons in life that must be learned by all men who wish to be men, and that these lessons cannot be learned from the study of books, but only by experience, and that her brother was learning his lesson at the sacrifice only of a few weeks of his time (he did not believe that at the best—or was it the worst?—Mrs. Abington’s caprice would last longer than a week or two), at a period of his life that could by no means be called critical. Betsy would not have understood, and he was glad at the thought that she would not have understood.

When he had given himself up to thinking with what wisdom on his lips he should go to Mrs. Abington, he did what a wise man would do—that is, a moderately wise man; an entirely wise man would have stayed at home—he went to her without a portfolio. He had no idea what he would say to her; he had no policy to carry out. In dealing with a capricious woman, so much depends on her caprice. About Mrs. Abington nothing was steadfast except her capriciousness; and Dick felt that, in going to her, his success would be dependent on his treatment of her caprice of the moment.

He thought that the hour of his visit to her should be immediately following the departure of Tom Linley from her presence. He took it for granted that Tom would be paying her his usual afternoon visit, and he was not astray. Passing her lodgings, he heard the long and melancholy wail of a violin in which a young man has hidden his heart, turning the instrument into an oubliette with air-holes, so that the moaning and the wailing of the immured can be heard at some distance. On and on went the moan of the imprisoned heart, until Dick felt that the lady was paying a high price for her caprice, if she was compelled to listen daily to such melodies.

No, this particular whim of hers could not possibly last longer than a few more weeks, he thought, as he strolled by and waited for Tom to leave the house. Tom stayed a long time; but Dick reflected that the longer he stayed the better chance there would be of Mrs. Abington’s listening to reason. After the dolorous complaint of the catgut, even reason, though usually unpalatable, would sound grateful to her ears.

In course of time Tom went away; Dick saw him go with his fiddle tucked under his arm in its baize cover. A rapt look was on his face. He had a double inspiration: he was a musical genius, and he was in love for the first time.

“Surely you have the kindest heart of any woman in the whole world!” cried Dick, when he had kissed her hand.

“Yes,” she said, “I believe that I have—at times; but how have you found me out? I fancied that I had done my best to conceal that fact from you.”

“Enough that I have found it out,” said he.

“’Tis not enough, sir,” she cried. “What! do you make an accusation against a poor woman and then refuse to say on what grounds it is made?”

“’Tis a fault that carries its own punishment, madam,” said he, “so I will reproach you no further. Faith, there are few ladies nowadays who lay themselves open to such a charge.”

“All the greater reason why I should know your reasons for making me an exception,” said she.

He laughed, saying:

“Well, if you must know, I passed by this house a quarter of an hour ago.”

“That is evidence of your lack of a kind heart, Dick, not of my possession of such a disqualification for success in the world,” said she.

“True; but I heard the wail of the catgut, and yet when I saw Tom Linley just now his face wore a look of triumph, and so far as I could see, his fiddle was intact.”

“Psha! Dick, you should not cultivate that roundabout mode of speech unless you mean to be taken for a poet. I was not thinking of Tom Linley—’tis minutes since he was here. No, I had a fancy that you called me kind-hearted because I did not reproach you for failing to visit me once, though I have now been here several weeks.”

“I was wrong—very wrong. But, you see, with Tom Linley——”

“Ah, poor Tom! Yes, he has certainly been here more than once. I have really become quite fond of Tom. He is such a nice boy—surely the handsomest boy that—that——”

“That was ever made a fool of,” suggested Dick, when the lady paused.

“Well, we shall say that ever made a fool of himself—that frees every one else from responsibility,” laughed the lady. “Dick, the man who is wise enough to make a fool of himself every now and again is indeed the wise man. But Tom is a mighty pretty fellow. He is coming up to London, too.”

Dick’s face became grave. He shook his head.

“That is past a jest,” said he.

“Past a jest? Pray, who was talking of jesting?” she asked quite gravely.

“Would you not regard his going to London in the light of a jest?” he asked.

“Not I, sir!” she cried. “On the contrary, I have done my best to dissuade him from such a project, knowing as I do, how serious a thing it would be for him. But you boys are all equally self-willed, Dick; I can do nothing with any of you. I am as the potter’s clay in your hands.”

“How does Tom Linley mean to live when he goes to London?” he asked, after a pause.

“Lud, sir! how should I know?” she cried very prettily, holding up her hands.

“You do not mean to take him up to London with you to starve?” he said.

“And this is the man who swore just now that I had the kindest heart among living women!” she cried. “Mr. Sheridan, did you come hither to-day solely to talk about Tom Linley?”

“Yes,” he said, “solely to talk about Tom Linley. My dear creature, I shall have to throw myself on the kindness of your heart before I have done, for I want to tell you the truth.”

“You had much better refrain, sir, from venturing into such an unexplored region,” said she. “I have noticed that when people threaten you with telling the truth they invariably become rude.”

“It will not be rudeness on my part to suggest to you that it is not quite fair for you to stake counters in a game where the other player stakes gold.”

“In other words?—pray let me have the interpretation of this fable.”

“In other words, Tom Linley has staked his heart against—against——”

“Against what, sir? Against mine, do you say?—against my heart—my kind heart? And you hold that my heart is a counter—something spurious—something base?”

“Nay, madam, I was not so foolish as to fancy for a moment that your heart had any connection with this game. But that is where you do not play fair. You know that poor Tom Linley’s heart is laid at your feet, and yet——”

“And yet? Pray continue your criticism of the game, sir—I vow ’tis vastly diverting. And yet—— Well, sir?”

“And yet—well, surely with your many conquests, Mrs. Abington, you cannot set any store upon the devotion of Tom Linley!”

“Why should not I?” she cried. “Why should not I do so, if it so please me? He is, I repeat, a delightful boy, and why I should not value his devotion simply because I have had conquests and he has had none—that is your argument, I think—I cannot at this moment perceive.”

“If you had any real affection for him you would not seek to spoil his career at the outset. The manager of the concerts told his father that Tom need never hope to get a hearing in Bath so long as he lives. You took him out driving with you when he should have been playing at the concert. Ah, my dear madam, one who is so strong as you are should be merciful.”

“You come here to tell me that, do you? O Dick, you have, after all, no true sense of comedy, though I fancied that none could surpass you in that respect. Is’t possible that you fail to see how ludicrous is your appearance here to-day pleading to me for—for—what? You have not yet told me what ’tis that you plead for.”

“I plead with you to send Tom Linley back to the career which will surely be his if you set him free. Dear madam, you can have no idea in what anxiety his family are about him just now.”

“They have been reading the parable of the one ewe lamb. They ask if Mrs. Abington has not at her feet flocks and herds which she devours at her leisure and when she has an appetite, and demand to know why she should want their one ewe lamb. They have not the wit to perceive that one may tire of beef and mutton, and so ask lamb by way of change. They are not good housekeepers. Besides, now that I come to think on’t, they have more than one ewe lamb: are they not at the point of sacrificing one of them—the flower of the flock?”

“Leaving parables out of the question, dear madam, let me ask you if you do not think that it would be to the advantage of Tom Linley to remain under the influence of his home for some years, free from the distractions of the town? I have heard that he promises to become a very great musician; but if——”

“You have some skill as a pleader, Dick. But I am thinking at this moment what it is you hope to gain by bringing me to a sense of my own iniquity in listening for an hour or two every day to the fiddling of a youth who is fresh and natural and a genius to boot.”

“What do I hope to gain?”

“Yes. I take it for granted that the eldest sister of the genius implored of you to come to me: you would not be such a fool as to come of your own accord. You know too much of the nature of women, Dick, to believe that one would relinquish even the youngest and most innocent of her adorers just when she had the satisfaction of learning that she was looked on as dangerous—so few women attain the distinction of being thought dangerous, though most of them aim at it.”

Dick laughed approvingly; he felt that it would never do for him to neglect any of the conciliatory arts of the pleader.

“Tom is, as you say, young and innocent, Mrs. Abington,” he said indulgently. “That is why I offer to you the parable of the fisherman. A good fisherman—one who fishes for sport and not for the fish-kettle—never fails to take the hook out of the jaws of a young and innocent fish, and to send it back to its sorrowing relations.”

“Faith, ’tis a pretty parable, Dick,” said she. “But how if your fisherman has been angling all the day for a fish on which he has set his heart? Failing to catch it, is he to be greatly blamed if he retain the little one which he has hooked, and try to make the most of it, dangling it at the end of the line before the onlookers?”

“Nay. When he has in his basket all the fish that swim in the river—when he——”

“Dick Sheridan,” whispered the actress, going close to him and putting her face closer still,—“Dick Sheridan, I will let Tom Linley go down the stream if you will take his place.”

He started back and felt himself flushing all over—the woman had revealed herself; and she too was flushing through the force of her revelation.

They stood there looking at each other, separated by only a few feet. Some moments had passed before he said:

“Ah, you were born a coquette! Dangerous—you were born dangerous, you beautiful creature! You would lure me on to make a fool of myself. Nay, seriously, my dear madam——”

He did not act the part very well; she could have given him a lesson as to the exact inflection of the phrases. But just then she was not inclined to be a severe critic.

“Dick,” she whispered, with tremulous tenderness, “is it so hard for you to love me—to love me a little—not as I love you, Dick—I don’t expect so much as that—you are only a man, but still——”

“Stop! for Heaven’s sake, stop! Ah, you do not know what you say—you do not know what you ask!” he said.

“Alas! I know it but too well,” she said, her voice broken by sobs. “Dick, dear Dick, I can be a good woman for your sake. I know that I am older than you by some years—oh, what do the years matter when the heart has not grown old? Dick, there is not a grey hair in my heart. I have been vain, I know; I have loved seeing men make fools of themselves, but none of them all has ever made a fool of me. No, don’t tell me that I am making a fool of myself before you now! I am not—I am not!”

“No—no, that is not what is in my heart,” said he gently. The thought that was in his heart at that moment was that though he had gone to her to plead, it was she who was doing all the pleading with him.

“Am I unwomanly? Ah, my fault has been that I am too womanly.”

“I do not know what it is that you suggest,” he said slowly.

“Ah, Dick, do not overwhelm me with scorn. Say a word to me—speak words to me, not icicles, that cut me as icicles cut one.”

“I am thinking,” he said. “You give me so much to think about. My first thought is that you are a free woman. You can marry whomsoever you will?”

“I am free,” she said. “I can marry—one—one.”

“You would not be afraid to marry that one?” said he.

“Afraid! Ah, my only fear would be that I could not do enough to make him happy.”

“Would you be afraid to marry me?” he said in a low voice.

“Ah, Dick, only for the reason that I have said!” she cried.

“You need not be afraid on that account. I shall be happy—I shall be happy. Dear madam, I kiss your hand.”

“O Dick, my own dear Dick! I shall make you happy—not so happy as you have made me, but still—— No, no, Dick, not my hand, my cheeks—my lips—all are yours, Dick, and you are mine—mine—at last—at last!”