As he went to his chambers to dress before going to dine with the Dillys in the Poultry, Goldsmith was happier than he had been for years. He had seen the light return to the face that he loved more than all the faces in the world, and he had been strong enough to put aside the temptation to hear her confess that she returned the love which he bore her, but which he had never confessed to her. He felt happy to know that the friendship which had been so great a consolation to him for several years—the friendship for the family who had been so good and so considerate to him—was the same now as it had always been. He felt happy in the reflection that he had spoken no word that would tend to jeopardise that friendship. He had seen enough of the world to be made aware of the fact that there is no more potent destroyer of friendship than love. He had put aside the temptation to speak a word of love; nay, he had prevented her from speaking what he believed would be a word of love, although the speaking of that word would have been the sweetest sound that had ever fallen upon his ears.

And that was how he came to feel happy.

And yet, that same night, when he was sitting alone in his room, he found a delight in adding to that bundle of manuscripts which he had dedicated to her and which some weeks before he had designed to destroy. He added poem after poem to the verses which Johnson had rightly interpreted—verses pulsating with the love that was in his heart—verses which Mary Horneck could not fail to interpret aright should they ever come before her eyes.

“But they shall never come before her eyes,” he said. “Ah, never—never! It is in my power to avert at least that unhappiness from her life.”

And yet before he went to sleep he had a thought that perhaps one day she might read those verses of his—yes, perhaps one day. He wondered if that day was far off or nigh.

When he had been by her side, after Colonel Gwyn had left the house, he had told her the story of the recovery of her letters; he did not, however, think it necessary to tell her how the man had come to entertain his animosity to Baretti; and she thus regarded the latter's killing of Jackson as an accident.

After the lapse of a day or two he began to think if it might not be well for him to consult with Edmund Burke as to whether it would be to the advantage of Baretti or otherwise to submit evidence as to the threats made use of by Jackson in regard to Baretti. He thought that it might be possible to do so without introducing the name of Mary Horneck. But Burke, after hearing the story—no mention of the name of Mary Horneck being made by Goldsmith—came to the conclusion that it would be unwise to introduce at the trial any question of animosity on the part of the man who had been killed, lest the jury might be led to infer—as, indeed, they might have some sort of reason for doing-that the animosity on Jackson's part meant animosity on Baretti's part. Burke considered that a defence founded upon the plea of accident was the one which was most likely to succeed in obtaining from a jury a verdict of acquittal. If it could be shown that the man had attacked Baretti as impudently as some of the witnesses for the Crown were ready to admit that he did, Burke and his legal advisers thought that the prisoner had a good chance of obtaining a verdict.

The fact that neither Burke nor any one else spoke with confidence of the acquittal had, however, a deep effect upon Goldsmith. His sanguine nature had caused him from the first to feel certain of Baretti's safety, and any one who reads nowadays an account of the celebrated trial would undoubtedly be inclined to think that his feeling in this matter was fully justified. That there should have been any suggestion of premeditation in the unfortunate act of self-defence on the part of Baretti seems amazing to a modern reader of the case as stated by the Crown. But as Edmund Burke stated about that time in the House of Commons, England was a gigantic shambles. The barest evidence against a prisoner was considered sufficient to bring him to the gallows for an offence which nowadays, if proved against him on unmistakable testimony, would only entail his incarceration for a week. Women were hanged for stealing bread to keep their children from that starvation which was the result of the kidnapping of their husbands to serve in the navy; and yet Burke's was the only influential voice that was lifted up against a system in comparison with which slavery was not only tolerable, but commendable.

Baretti was indeed the only one of that famous circle of which Johnson was the centre, who felt confident that he would be acquitted. For all his railing against the detestable laws of the detestable country—which, however, he found preferable to his own—he ridiculed the possibility of his being found guilty. It was Johnson who considered it within the bounds of his duty to make the Italian understand that, however absurd was the notion of his being carted to the gallows, the likelihood was that he would experience the feelings incidental to such an excursion.

He went full of this intention with Reynolds to visit the prisoner at Newgate, and it may be taken for granted that he discharged his duty with his usual emphasis. It is recorded, however, on the excellent authority of Boswell, that Baretti was quite unmoved by the admonition of the sage.

It is also on authority of Boswell that we learn that Johnson was guilty of what appears to us nowadays as a very gross breach of good taste as well as of good feeling, when, on the question of the likelihood of Baretti's failing to obtain a verdict being discussed, he declared that if one of his friends were fairly hanged he should not suffer, but eat his dinner just the same as usual. It is fortunate, however, that we know something of the systems adopted by Johnson when pestered by the idiotic insistence of certain trivial matters by Boswell, and the record of Johnson's pretence to appear a callous man of the world probably deceived no one in the world except the one man whom it was meant to silence.

But, however callous Dr. Johnson may have pretended to be—however insincere Tom Davis the bookseller may—according to Johnson—have been, there can be no doubt that poor Goldsmith was in great trepidation until the trial was over. He gave evidence in favour of Baretti, though Boswell, true to his detestation of the man against whom he entertained an envy that showed itself every time he mentioned his name, declined to mention this fact, taking care, however, that Johnson got full credit for appearing in the witness-box with Burke, Garrick and Beauclerk.

Baretti was acquitted, the jury being satisfied that, as the fruit-knife was a weapon which was constantly carried by Frenchmen and Italians, they might possibly go so far as to assume that it had not been bought by the prisoner solely with the intention of murdering the man who had attacked him in the Haymarket. The carrying of the fruit-knife seems rather a strange turning-point of a case heard at a period when the law permitted men to carry swords presumably for their own protection.

Goldsmith's mind was set at ease by the acquittal of Baretti, and he joined in the many attempts that were made to show the sympathy which was felt—or, as Boswell would have us believe Johnson thought, was simulated—by his friends for Baretti. He gave a dinner in honour of the acquittal, inviting Johnson, Burke, Garrick, and a few others of the circle, and he proposed the health of their guest, which, he said, had not been so robust of late as to give all his friends an assurance that he would live to a ripe old age. He also toasted the jury and the counsel, as well as the turnkeys of Newgate and the usher of the Old Bailey.

When the trial was over, however, he showed that the strain to which he had been subjected was too great for him. His health broke down, and he was compelled to leave his chambers and hurry off to his cottage on the Edgware Road, hoping to be benefitted by the change to the country, and trusting also to be able to make some progress with the many works which he had engaged himself to complete for the booksellers. He had, in addition, his comedy to write for Garrick, and he was not unmindful of his promise to give Mrs. Abington a part worthy of her acceptance.

He returned at rare intervals to town, and never failed at such times to see his Jessamy Bride, with whom he had resumed his old relations of friendship. When she visited her sister at Barton she wrote to him in her usual high spirits. Little Comedy also sent him letters full of the fun in which she delighted to indulge with him, and he was never too busy to reply in the same strain. The pleasant circle at Bun-bury's country house wished to have him once again in their midst, to join in their pranks, and to submit, as he did with such good will, to their practical jests.

He did not go to Barton. He had made up his mind that that was one of the pleasures of life which he should forego. At Barton he knew that he would see Mary day by day, and he could not trust himself to be near her constantly and yet refrain from saying the words which would make both of them miserable. He had conquered himself once, but he was not sure that he would be as strong a second time.

This perpetual struggle in which he was engaged—this constant endeavour to crush out of his life the passion which alone made life endurable to him, left him worn and weak, so it was not surprising that, when a coach drove up to his cottage one day, after many months had passed, and Mrs. Horneck stepped out, she was greatly shocked at the change which was apparent in his appearance.

“Good heaven, Dr. Goldsmith!” she cried when she entered his little parlour, “you are killing yourself by your hard work. Sir Joshua said he was extremely apprehensive in regard to your health the last time he saw you, but were he to see you now, he would be not merely apprehensive but despairing.”

“Nay, my dear madam,” he said. “I am only suffering from a slight attack of an old enemy of mine. I am not so strong as I used to be; but let me assure you that I feel much better since you have been good enough to give me an opportunity of seeing you at my humble home. When I caught sight of you stepping out of the coach I received a great shock for a moment; I feared that—ah, I cannot tell you all that I feared.”

“However shocked you were, dear Dr. Goldsmith, you were not so shocked as I was when you appeared before me,” said the lady. “Why, dear sir, you are killing yourself. Oh, we must change all this. You have no one here to give you the attention which your condition requires.”

“What, madam! Am not I a physician myself?” said the Doctor, making a pitiful attempt to assume his old manner.

“Ah, sir! every moment I am more shocked,” said she. “I will take you in hand. I came here to beg of you to go to Barton in my interests, but now I will beg of you to go thither in your own.”

“To Barton? Oh, my dear madam——”

“Nay, sir, I insist! Ah! I might have known you better than to fancy I should easier prevail upon you by asking you to go to advance your own interests rather than mine. You were always more ready to help others than to help yourself.”

“How is it possible, dear lady, that you need my poor help?”

“Ah! I knew the best way to interest you. Dear friend, I know of no one who could be of the same help to us as you.”

“There is no one who would be more willing, madam.”

“You have proved it long ago, Dr. Goldsmith. When Mary had that mysterious indisposition, was not her recovery due to you? She announced that it was you, and you only, who had brought her back to life.”

“Ah! my dear Jessamy Bride was always generous. Surely she is not again in need of my help.”

“It is for her sake I come to you to-day, Dr. Goldsmith. I am sure that you are interested in her future—in the happiness which we all are anxious to secure for her.”

“Happiness? What happiness, dear madam?”

“I will tell you, sir. I look on you as one of our family—nay, I can talk with you more confidentially than I can with my own son.”

“You have ever been indulgent to me, Mrs. Horneck.”

“And you have ever been generous, sir; that is why I am here to-day. I know that Mary writes to you. I wonder if she has yet told you that Colonel Gwyn made her an offer with my consent.”

“No; she has not told me that.”

He spoke slowly, rising from his chair, but endeavoring to restrain the emotion which he felt.

“It is not unlike Mary to treat the matter as if it were finally settled, and so not worthy of another thought,” said Mrs. Horneck.

“Finally settled?” repeated Goldsmith. “Then she has accepted Colonel Gwyn's proposal?”

“On the contrary, sir, she rejected it,” said the mother.

He resumed his seat. Was the emotion which he experienced at that moment one of gladness?

“Yes, she rejected a suitor whom we all considered most eligible,” said the lady. “Colonel Gwyn is a man of good family, and his own character is irreproachable. He is in every respect a most admirable man, and I am convinced that my dear child's happiness would be assured with him—and yet she sends him away from her.”

“That is possibly because she knows her own mind—her own heart, I should rather say; and that heart the purest in the world.”

“Alas! she is but a girl.”

“Nay, to my mind, she is something more than a girl. No man that lives is worthy of her.”

“That may be true, dear friend; but no girl would thank you to act too rigidly on that assumption—an assumption which would condemn her to live and die an old maid. Now, my dear Dr. Goldsmith, I want you to take a practical and not a poetical view of a matter which so closely concerns the future of one who is dear to me, and in whom I am sure you take a great interest.”

“I would do anything for her happiness.”

“I know it. Well you have long been aware, I am sure, that she regards you with the greatest respect and esteem—nay, if I may say it, with affection as well.”

“Ah! affection—affection for me?”

“You know it. If you were her brother she could not have a warmer regard for you. And that is why I have come to you to-day to beg of you to yield to the entreaties of your friends at Barton and pay them a visit. Mary is there, and I hope you will see your way to use your influence with her on behalf of Colonel Gwyn.”

“What! I, madam?”

“Has my suggestion startled you? It should not have done so. I tell you, my friend, there is no one to whom I could go in this way, saving yourself. Indeed, there is no one else who would be worth going to, for no one possesses the influence over her that you have always had. I am convinced, Dr. Goldsmith, that she would listen to your persuasion while turning a deaf ear to that of any one else. You will lend us your influence, will you not, dear friend?”

“I must have time to think—to think. How can I answer you at once in this matter? Ah, you cannot know what my decision means to me.”

He had left his chair once more and was standing against the fireplace looking into the empty grate.

“You are wrong,” she said in a low tone. “You are wrong; I know what is in your thoughts—in your heart. You fear that if Mary were married she would stand on a different footing in respect to you.”

“Ah! a different footing!”

“I think that you are in error in that respect,” said the lady. “Marriage is not such a change as some people seem to fancy it is. Is not Katherine the same to you now as she was before she married Charles Bunbury?”

He looked at her with a little smile upon his face. How little she knew of what was in his heart!

“Ah, yes, my dear Little Comedy is unchanged,” said he.

“And your Jessamy Bride would be equally unchanged,” said Mrs. Horneck.

“But where lies the need for her to marry at once?” he inquired. “If she were in love with Colonel Gwyn there would be no reason why they should not marry at once; but if she does not love him——”

“Who can say that she does not love him?” cried the lady. “Oh, my dear Dr. Goldsmith, a young woman is herself the worst judge in all the world of whether or not she loves one particular man. I give you my word, sir, I was married for five years before I knew that I loved my husband. When I married him I know that I was under the impression that I actually disliked him. Marriages are made in heaven, they say, and very properly, for heaven only knows whether a woman really loves a man, and a man a woman. Neither of the persons in the contract is capable of pronouncing a just opinion on the subject.”

“I think that Mary should know what is in her own heart.”

“Alas! alas! I fear for her. It is because I fear for her I am desirous of seeing her married to a good man—a man with whom her future happiness would be assured. You have talked of her heart, my friend; alas! that is just why I fear for her. I know how her heart dominates her life and prevents her from exercising her judgment. A girl who is ruled by her heart is in a perilous way. I wonder if she told you what her uncle, with whom she was sojourning in Devonshire, told me about her meeting a certain man there—my brother did not make me acquainted with his name—and being so carried away with some plausible story he told that she actually fancied herself in love with him—actually, until my brother, learning that the man was a disreputable fellow, put a stop to an affair that could only have had a disastrous ending. Ah! her heart——”

“Yes, she told me all that. Undoubtedly she is dominated by her heart.”

“That is, I repeat, why I tremble for her future. If she were to meet at some time, when perhaps I might not be near her, another adventurer like the fellow whom she met in Devonshire, who can say that she would not fancy she loved him? What disaster might result! Dear friend, would you desire to save her from the fate of your Olivia?”

There was a long pause before he said—

“Madam, I will do as you ask me. I will go to Mary and endeavour to point out to her that it is her duty to marry Colonel Gwyn.”

“I knew you would grant my request, my dear, dear friend,” cried the mother, catching his hand and pressing it. “But I would ask of you not to put the proposal to her quite in that way. To suggest that a girl with a heart should marry a particular man because her duty lies in that direction would be foolishness itself. Duty? The word is abhorrent to the ear of a young woman whose heart is ripe for love.”

“You are a woman.”

“I am one indeed; I know what are a woman's thoughts—her longings—her hopes—and alas! her self-deceptions. A woman's heart—ah, Dr. Goldsmith, you once put into a few lines the whole tragedy of a woman's life. What experience was it urged you to write those lines?—

'When lovely woman stoops to folly.

And finds too late. . .'

To think that one day, perhaps a child of mine should sing that song of poor Olivia!” He did not tell her that Mary had already quoted the lines in his hearing. He bowed his head, saying—

“I will go to her.”

“You will be saving her—ah, sir, will you not be saving yourself,” cried Mrs. Horneck.

He started slightly.

“Saving myself? What can your meaning be, Mrs. Horneck?”

“I tell you I was shocked beyond measure when I entered this room and saw you,” she replied. “You are ill, sir; you are very ill, and the change to the garden at Barton will do you good. You have been neglecting yourself—yes, and some one who will nurse you back to life. Oh, Barton is the place for you!”

“There is no place I should like better to die at,” said he.

“To die at?” she said. “Nonsense, sir! you are I trust, far from death still. Nay, you will find life, and not death, there. Life is there for you.”

“Your daughter Mary is there,” said he.