And now, sir, to face the particulars—to proceed from the fancy embroidery of wit to the solid fabric of fact—who or what is the aggressive demon that you want exorcised?”

“His name is Jackson—he calls himself Captain Jackson,” replied Oliver. He had not made up his mind how much he should tell of Mary Horneck's story. He blamed Boswell for interrupting his consideration of this point after he had dined; though it is doubtful if he would have made any substantial advance in that direction even if the unhappy Scotchman had not thrust himself and his grievance upon him.

“Jackson—Captain Jackson!” cried the actress. “Why, Dr. Goldsmith, this is a very little fiend that you ask me to help you to destroy. Surely, sir, he can be crushed without my assistance. One does not ask for a battering-ram to overturn a house of cards—one does not requisition a park of artillery to demolish a sparrow.”

“Nay, but if a blunderbuss be not handy, one should avail oneself of the power of a piece of ordnance,” said Goldsmith. “The truth is, madam, that in this matter I represent only the blunder of the blunderbuss.”

“If you drift into wit, sir, we shall never get on. I know 'tis hard for you to avoid it; but time is flying. What has this Captain Jackson been doing that he must be sacrificed? You must be straight with me.”

“I'm afraid it has actually come to that. Well, Mrs. Abington, in brief, there is a lady in the question.”

“Oh! you need scarce dwell on so inevitable an incident as that; I was waiting for the lady.”

“She is the most charming of her sex, madam.”

“I never knew one that wasn't. Don't waste time over anything that may be taken for granted.”

“Unhappily she was all unacquainted with the wickedness of men.”

“I wonder in what part of the world she lived—certainly not in London.”

“Staying with a relation in the country this fellow Jackson appeared upon the scene——”

“Ah! the most ancient story that the world knows: Innocence, the garden, the serpent. Alas! sir, there is no return to the Garden of Innocence, even though the serpent be slaughtered.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Abington”—Goldsmith spoke slowly and gravely—“pardon me. This real story is not so commonplace as that of my Olivia. Destiny has more resources than the most imaginative composer of fiction.”

In as direct a fashion as possible he told the actress the pitiful story of how Mary Horneck was imposed upon by the glamour of the man who let it be understood that he was a hero, only incapacitated by a wound from taking any further part in the campaign against the rebels in America; and how he refused to return her the letters which she had written to him, but had threatened to print them in such a way as would give them the appearance of having been written by a guilty woman.

“The lady is prostrated with grief,” he said, concluding his story. “The very contemplation of the possibility of her letters being printed is killing her, and I am convinced that she would not survive the shame of knowing that the scoundrel had carried out his infamous threat.”

“'Tis a sad story indeed,” said Mrs. Abington. “The man is as bad as bad can be. He claimed acquaintance with me on that famous night at the Pantheon, though I must confess that I had only a vague recollection of meeting him before his regiment was ordered across the Atlantic to quell the rebellion in the plantations. Only two days ago I heard that he had been drummed out of the army, and that he had sunk to the lowest point possible for a man to fall to in this world. But surely you know that all the fellow wants is to levy what was termed on the border of Scotland 'blackmail' upon the unhappy girl. 'Tis merely a question of guineas, Dr. Goldsmith. You perceive that? You are a man?”

“That was indeed my first belief; but, on consideration, I have come to think that he is fiend enough to aim only at the ruin of the girl,” said Goldsmith.

“Psha! sir, I believe not in this high standard of crime. I believe not in the self-sacrifice of such fellows for the sake of their principles,” cried the lady. “Go to the fellow with your guineas and shake them in a bag under his nose, and you shall quickly see how soon he will forego the dramatic elements in his attitude, and make an ignoble grab at the coins.”

“You may be right,” said he. “But whence are the guineas to come, pray?”

“Surely the lady's friends will not see her lost for the sake of a couple of hundred pounds.”

“Nay; but her aim is to keep the matter from the ears of her friends! She would be overcome with shame were it to reach their ears that she had written letters of affection to such a man.”

“She must be a singularly unpractical young lady, Dr. Goldsmith.”

“If she had not been more than innocent would she, think you, have allowed herself to be imposed on by a stranger?”

“Alas, sir, if there were no ladies like her in the world, you gentlemen who delight us with your works of fiction would have to rely solely on your imagination; and that means going to another world. But to return to the matter before us; you wish to obtain possession of the letters? How do you suggest that I can help you to accomplish that purpose?”

“Why, madam, it is you to whom I come for suggestions. I saw the man in conversation with you first at the Pantheon, and then in this very room. It occurred to me that perhaps—it might be possible—in short, Mrs. Abington, that you might know of some way by which the scoundrel could be entrapped.”

“You compliment me, sir. You think that the entrapping of unwary men—and of wary—is what nature and art have fitted me for—nature and practice?”

“I cannot conceive a higher compliment being paid to a woman, dear madam. But, in truth, I came to you because you are the only lady with whom I am acquainted who with a kind heart combines the highest intelligence. That is why you are our greatest actress. The highest intelligence is valueless on the stage unless it is associated with a heart that beats in sympathy with the sorrow and becomes exultant with the joy of others. That is why I regard myself as more than fortunate in having your promise to accept a part in my next comedy.”

Mrs. Abington smiled as she saw through the very transparent art of the author, reminding her that she would have her reward if she helped him out of his difficulty.

“I can understand how ladies look on you with great favour, sir,” said the actress. “Yes, in spite of your being—being—ah—innocent—a poet, and of possessing other disqualifications, you are a delightful man, Dr. Goldsmith; and by heaven, sir, I shall do what I can to—to—well, shall we say to put you in a position of earning the lady's gratitude?”

“That is the position I long for, dear madam.”

“Yes, but only to have the privilege of foregoing your claim. I know you, Dr. Goldsmith. Well, supposing you come to see me here in a day or two—that will give both of us a chance of still further considering the possibility of successfully entrapping our friend the Captain. I believe it was the lady who suggested the trap to you; you, being a man, were doubtless for running your enemy through the vitals or for cutting his throat without the delay of a moment.”

“Your judgment is unerring, Mrs. Abington.”

“Ah, you see, it is the birds that have been in the trap who know most about it. Besides, does not our dear dead friend Will Shakespeare say, 'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps'?”

“Those are his words, madam, though at this moment I cannot quite perceive their bearing.”

“Oh, lud! Why, dear sir, Cupid's mother's daughters resemble their little step-brother in being fond of a change of weapons, and you, sir, I perceive, have been the victim of a dart. Now, I must hasten to dress for my part or there will be what Mr. Daly of Smock Alley, Dublin, used to term 'ructions.'”

She gave him her hand with a delightful smile and hurried off, but not before he had bowed over her hand, imprinting on it a clumsy but very effective kiss.

He remained in the theatre until the close of the performance; for he was not so utterly devoid of guile as not to know that if he had departed without witnessing Mrs. Abington in the second piece she would have regarded him as far from civil. Seeing him in a side box, however, that clever lady perceived that he had taste as well as tact. She felt that it was a pleasure to do anything for such a man—especially as he was a writer of plays. It would be an additional pleasure to her if she could so interpret a character in a play of his that the play should be the most notable success of the season.

As Goldsmith strolled back to his chambers he felt that he had made some progress in the enterprise with which he had been entrusted. He did not feel elated, but only tranquilly confident that his judgment had not been at fault when it suer-gested to him the propriety of consulting with Mrs. Abington. This was the first time that propriety and Mrs. Abington were associated.

The next day he got a message that the success of his play was consolidated by a “command” performance at which the whole of his Majesty's Court would attend. This news elated him, not only because it meant the complete success of the play and the overthrow of the sentimentalists who were still harping upon the “low” elements of certain scenes, but also because he accepted it as an incident of good augury. He felt certain that Mrs. Abington would have discovered a plan by which he should be able to get possession of the letters.

When he went to her after the lapse of a few days, he found that she had not been unmindful of his interests.

“The fellow had the effrontery to stand beside my chair in the Mall yesterday,” said she, “but I tolerated him—nay, I encouraged him—not for your sake, mind; I do not want you to fancy that you interest me, but for the sake of the unhappy girl who was so nearly making a shocking fool of herself. Only one girl interests me more than she who nearly makes a fool of herself, and that is she who actually makes the fool of herself.”

“Alas! alas! the latter is more widely represented in this evil world, Mrs. Abing ton,” said Oliver, so gravely that the actress roared with laughter.

“You have too fine a comedy face to be sentimental, Dr. Goldsmith,” she said. “But to business. I tell you I even smiled upon the gentleman, for I have found that the traps which are netted with silk are invariably the most effective.”

“You have found that by your experience of traps?” said Goldsmith. “The smile is the silken net?”

“Even so,” said she, giving an excellent example of the fatal mesh. “Ah, Dr. Goldsmith, you would do well to avoid the woman who smiles on you.”

“Alas! madam, the caution is thrown away upon me; she smiles not on me, but at me.”

“Thank heaven for that, sir. No harm will come to you through being smiled at. How I stray from my text! Well, sir, the wretch, in response to the encouragement of my smile, had the effrontery to ask me for my private address, upon which I smiled again. Ah, sir, 'tis diverting when the fly begins to lure on the spider.”

“'Tis vastly diverting, madam, I doubt not—to the fly.”

“Ay, and to the friends of the spider. But we shall let that pass. Sir, to be brief, I did not let the gentleman know that I had a private address, but I invited him to partake of supper with me on the next Thursday night.”

“Heavens! madam, you do not mean to tell me that your interest on my behalf——”

“Is sufficiently great to lead me to sup with a spider? Sir, I say that I am only interested in my sister-fly—would she be angry if she were to hear that such a woman as I even thought of her as a sister?”

There was a note of pathos in the question, which did not fall unnoticed upon Goldsmith's ear.

“Madam,” said he, “she is a Christian woman.”

“Ah, Dr. Goldsmith,” said the actress, “a very small amount of Christian charity is thought sufficient for the equipment of a Christian woman. Let that pass, however; what I want of you is to join us at supper on Thursday night. It is to take place in the Shakespeare tavern round the corner, and, of course, in a private room; but I do not want you to appear boldly, as if I had invited you beforehand to partake of my hospitality. You must come into the room when we have begun, carrying with you a roll of manuscript, which you must tell me contains a scene of your new comedy, upon which we are daily in consultation, mind you.”

“I shall not fail to recollect,” said Goldsmith. “Why, 'tis like the argument of a comedy, Mrs. Abingdon; I protest I never invented one more elaborate. I rather fear to enter upon it.”

“Nay, you must be in no trepidation, sir,” said the lady. “I think I know the powers of the various members of the cast of this little drama of mine, so you need not think that you will be put into a part which you will not be able to play to perfection.”

“You are giving me a lesson in playwriting. Pray continue the argument. When I enter with the imaginary scene of my new piece, you will, I trust, ask me to remain to supper; you see I grudge the gentleman the pleasure of your society for even an hour.”

“I will ask you to join us at the table, and then—well, then I have a notion that between us we should have no great difficulty making our friend drink a sufficient quantity of wine to cause him to make known all his secrets to us, even as to where he keeps those precious letters of his.”

Oliver's face did not exhibit any expression that the actress could possibly interpret as a flattering tribute to her ingenuity—the fact being that he was greatly disappointed at the result of her contriving. Her design was on a level of ingenuity with that which might occur to a romantic school miss. Of course the idea upon which it was founded had formed the basis of more than one comedy—he had a notion that if these comedies had not been written Mrs. Abing ton's scheme would not have been so clearly defined.

She perceived the expression on his face and rightly interpreted it.

“What, sir!” she cried. “Do you fail to perceive the singular ingenuity of my scheme? Nay, you must remember that 'tis my first attempt—not at scheming, to be sure, but at inventing a design for a play.”

“I would not shrink from making use of your design if I were writing a play, dear lady,” said he. “But then, you see, it would be in my power to make my villain speak at the right moments and hold his peace at the right moments. It would also be in my power to make him confess all that was necessary for the situation. But alas! madam, it makes me sometimes quite hopeless of Nature to find how frequently she disregards the most ordinary precepts of art.”

“Psha! sir,” said the actress. “Nothing in this world is certain. I am a poor moralist, but I recognise the fact, and make it the guide of my life. At the same time I have noticed that, although one's carefully arranged plans are daily thrown into terrible disorder by the slovenliness of the actors to whom we assign certain parts and certain dialogue, yet in the end nature makes even a more satisfactory drama out of the ruins of our schemes than we originally designed. So, in this case, sir, I am not without hope that even though our gentleman's lips remain sealed—nay, even though our gentleman remain sober—a great calamity—we may still be able to accomplish our purpose. You will keep your ears open and I shall keep my eyes open, and it will be strange if between us we cannot get the better of so commonplace a scoundrel.”

“I place myself unreservedly in your hands, madam,” said Oliver; “and I can only repeat what you have said so well—namely, that even the most clumsy of our schemes—which this one of yours certainly is not—may become the basis of a most ingenious drama, designed and carried out by that singularly adroit playwright, Destiny. And so I shall not fail you on Thursday evening.”