First Produced at the Royal Olympic Theatre, September 4th, 1848.
A lapse of Three Years is supposed to occur between the Acts.
Time—Present Day.
Mathew. —Black close coat, buttoned ; dark drab trousers. 2nd Act. —Handsome black frock coat; white waistcoat; light blue trousers ; boots and spurs.
Mr. Leeson.—Blue, modern, squarely-cut coat; nankeen trousers, gaiters under; and shoes. 2nd Act. —Dark pepper-and-salt coat; breeches, and gaiters.
Yawn. —Fashionable brown frock coat; handsomely-cut dark trousers. 2nd Act. —Body coat; dark fawn trousers.
Charles Clinton.—Black coat; fawn-coloured trousers.
Tom Tact. —Plain black coat; white trousers. 2nd Act. —Broad-cut body coat; long figured waistcoat; broadly-crossed trousers.
Laura. —Muslin morning dress ; riding habit and hat after. 2nd Act. —Lavender figured silk.
Fanny. —White dress ; blue apron. 2nd Act. —Pink dress; black apron.
Time in Representation, One Hour and Twenty Minutes.
That account's closed—a clear net profit to our house, Leeson and Bates, of nine thousand
pounds for the last year. So that, notwithstanding my little extravagance for music and other
masters for my daughter, I am at least a two thousand pounds better than I was twelve months
since. 'Gad! this is capital—this is well!
— Laura, my own pet, come to my arms! Oh! bless that face! how it reminds me of your dear mother, now in— But there, we won't be melancholy to-day.
Oh ! for mercy's sake, no, dear Sir; this house is not too lively at the best of times.
Well, well—we'll be merry to-day, of all days in the year. But, where's your cousin ? Where's my partner, Mathew Bates ?— what have you done with him ?—where is he ?
Now, my dear Sir, how should I know where he is? I never appear before you, but your first question is—" Where is Mathew ?—what have you done with Mathew Bates?" Is Mathew Bates to be ever at my side ? He loves his desk better than he loves society, I can tell you.
Well, I know he's fond of business; so am I—I always was.
Which, my dear father, I trust may not occur for many— many years.
I hope not, upon my soul. I am very well as I am, and I don't want to change my condition.
Mr. Leeson, good day. Cousin—
Ah, Bates! Mathew, my, boy—my son—you are my son. Is he not, Laura?
Oh, yes, Sir—certainly—your adopted son.
Yes, and will be more by-and-bye—eh, Mathew ?
True, true, Mathew ! Ah, we were mere boys together, poor boys too, with nothing but our
energy to raise us. But we were friends, as you say—fast friends, and we were so to his death.
Poor Harry! We were odd fellows—
In what particular, Laura ?
Oh, if you ask for particularities, we shall come to personalities, and
then I shall be scolded—shall I not, pa ?
Aye, that you will. But, come, I find that we are both richer men;—a net profit this year of nine thousand pounds to our house.
Yes, Sir, to that amount.
Egad, when I think how I toiled to get my first start in the world ! So did your father !
Oh, yes! for there were two girls, poor as ourselves; we loved them, and
they loved us. Tis something to be loved in this cold world, I can tell you.
It is, indeed, Sir!
Well, we struggled and we succeeded, prospered, and, in prosperity, we both married the
girls who had loved us in adversity. Heaven, after, gave him a son and me a daughter, but took
our partners from us; his first—mine after. Her loss weighed heavy upon his heart, and he
shortly followed.—Poor Harry ! I shall never forget his dying hour! "John," said he, "be a
father to my little Mathew!" "I will—I will, Harry," said I, grasping his cold hand, while
tears flooded my eye, and grief choked my utterance. "And if the children like each other,"
placing my hands on your little heads, as you stood almost unconscious of the scene before
you, " your Mathew shall marry my Laura, and be indeed my son!" He raised
his eyes to heaven, in reverence, then looked his last kind look upon us, and left us for a
better inheritance!
Nothing, Sir, nothing.
Come, come, don't be melancholy.
La! how can he be other at this melancholy tale? You know he is not gay at the best, and you will ever touch upon this subject.
Because I can't forget it. Never shall! But come, Mathew, give me your hand—I will not
mention it any more. Come, Laura, cheer him up; talk to him, while I go and talk to the
clerks. I shall be back shortly, and we'll have a merry day of it. We have no reason to be
other; we are prosperous, and there's no reason on earth that we should be miserable; for
myself, I'm determined to be merry— nothing shall make me otherwise.
suppose, cousin
?
We sometimes hold the book unconscious of the page; as we sometimes sit, unconscious of the presence of those by whom we are surrounded.
True; what we take no interest in, we seldom think much of.
By such rule, I might be in your presence and you unconscious.
Aye, that you might.
Indeed!
Indeed! Ha, ha, ha! Why that strange look? do you think yourself so handsome, or so full of
grace, that I must have you ever in my thoughts?
How in woman ?
We test not woman so strictly—vanity in her is scarcely vanity.
Indeed!
Yes, indeed! by education taught to be so,—schooled in restraint, her thoughts, her feelings even as a girl, are pent up from the world: her own heart is the sanctum in after life, even of that love she pines to own, another may be dying but to know; but when known, he loves her more for the suffering she has caused—for he feels that she is master of herself—the greatest mastery achieved on earth.
Forgets that, master of herself—she may be his master too.
Woman, however she conceal her power, is ever so; for by submission, and by complacent kindness—that ever winning grace, by which woman rules instead of serves—she may win the roughest temper, and the rudest mind, to follow and to worship.
Oh, really, cousin—
Whom should I love ?—you ?
There now—don't let us talk over such nonsense any more. You understand debtor and creditor
better than Cupid and Hymen, depend upon it. Go to your desk.
You wish my absence?
I don't desire your presence.
Then, Laura, you shall be no longer troubled with it.
Well?
I have not, I hope, offended ?
No—no, Mr. Sanctity.
Will you give me your hand in assurance ?
I'll be so no longer.
Young Mr. Clinton, Miss, requests to see you.
Clinton ? ha! now we shall have some life. This is delightful. Shew him here—
By-the-bye, I plead pardon for the liberty, but I have ventured to bring a particular
friend of mine; trust I shall be excused. Permit me to introduce to you the Honourable George
Augustus Collander Yawn; a Parisian friend, a young gentleman of the highest expectations and
connections, I assure you; of profound wit and astonishing knowledge.
Sir, I am delighted at the introduction.
I hope you enjoyed your Paris trip, Mr. Clinton.
Oh, delighted ! Never was happier in my life—never! 'Pon my honor, do you know, when I arrived in town here, it had such an effect upon my nervous system. Everything was so dull—so flat— everybody looked so stupid—the atmosphere so heavy, that I fell fast asleep upon the sofa, as soon as I sat down, and they couldn't wake me for two days. I was in a perfect state of coma. Wasn't I, George ?
Ye-es—dreadful place, England—I wonder the people keep their eyes open at all, really—
And yet they continue to see as far as their neighbours, I believe, Sir.
It's a mystery to me, I'm sure. I never could conceive anything—
What did you see in Paris, Mr. Clinton? Come, give me some account of the wonders.
Oh, I saw the—George, what did we see ?
Oh, we saw the—the—ah !—the—
Come, Mathew, I insist upon it. Oh, here she is, with Mr. Clinton. I heard he was here. Ah!
Mr. Charles, how do you do ?
Thank you, Mr. Leeson. Ah, Mr. Bates! how do you do?
I was just enquiring, Pa, as you came in, and I find him somewhat mercantile in his
answers. He gives them in a sum total —he says he saw everything.
Ha! ha! ha!
My most intimate friend. I have taken the liberty of an introduction. Permit me, Mr. Leeson—the Hon. George Augustus Collander Yawn.
Proud to see you, Sir.
Sir, I'm grateful—really I—
I saw your horses at the door, and I proposed to my partner, Mr. Bates,
With great pleasure.
Ye-es, certainly—anything for a little excitement.
Laura, what say you ?
You'll risk your neck in the attempt—how chivalrous !
Aye, that he would—would you not, Mathew ?
Not another word—I'll go and prepare.
That's right—'Gad, I am delighted to see you, Clinton! and you, Sir.
Yawn.
With pleasure—should be delighted—what say you?
Ye-es—anything—certainly.
Will you walk into the drawing-room? Mathew, you can wait for your cousin, if you
like.
Splendid—very.
Mr. Leeson has urged me to speak boldly to Laura this day, to entreat her hand; I have
promised to do so for his happiness and my own. But there's something here.
Now for our ride.
They are with your father in the drawing-room.
And why are you not with them ?
I waited to attend you, Laura.
Waited to attend me! You are ever waiting to attend me—'tis the strangest thing to me,
cousin; I never turn round to look for this or for that, but I see you ever at my side—ever
waiting to attend me; 'tis really vexing.
Well, Laura,
How can any one be welcome, who, uninvited, comes at all times—allow this—permit
that—suffer me to hand you here!—to lead you there! I have no patience !
You go, then, alone ?
Your father desired——
I want to see the governor. It's quite impossible I can carry on any longer at the rate I
go, on seventy-five pounds a year : and I don't see why I should remain a junior clerk till
I'm a senior in years This is a strange world—they say it's round; it certainly is not a
square one, if I may judge by my domus and this. Here's luxury! Ah !
well—one man's born rich, another poor; I shouldn't have found so much fault with the world if
I had been born rich; but, to be poor is the very deuce. A man can do nothing when he's
poor!—he can't be witty—for no one will laugh at his jokes, however good they may be—he
can't—yes, he can do one thing—he can make love, which generally makes him poorer still.
Ah! enjoyment, Mr. Fact, is only for those who can pay for it.
The very thing I was saying to myself as you came in. Singular reciprocity of feeling, isn't it?
You have a snug situation here, I suppose, Miss Fact ?
Pretty well, Mr. Tact.
Fact and Tact—very odd—singular coincidence—though odd—perquisites, of course ?
Yes.
Tolerable wages?
Yes.
That's right!—give you joy, Miss Fact, of so comfortable a position in life.
I don't know about comfort, Mr. Tact; there are other things than those you have named, to make up comfort.
You are right, Miss Fact!—I know—home—your own home—fire-side—snug corner—Mr. Tact—Mrs. Tact—the little Tacts—one's own master!
Exactly, Mr. Tact—there's no knowing what we servants have to put up with.
I have a great deal, I can assure you.
Oh yes! I have one on Monday next.
That's very odd ! I've one on Monday next. You'll take a trip, of course ?
Where am I trip to, and with whom ?
Ah, that I should ! Do you often take a trip, Mr. Tact ?
Oh yes, very often!
Oh! suppose we say to Hampton Court by rail—dine—walk—then tea—back to Town—the theatre—home,—that's not much.
Well, I'm sure! Good day, Mr. Tact! A calculating gentleman,—nothing speculative about him but his eyes—has all the inclination for the enjoyments of life, but lacks the enterprise : one eye on matrimony—the other on the savings-bank.
Thank you, Sir!
The husband, of course, you must manage yourself.
Ah, Sir!
Nonsense, girl; there's plenty of fish in the sea.
Yes, Sir, but husbands are not fish—you can't catch them half so easily.
Stuff!—you don't cast your net properly.
Single blessedness ?—there never was such a thing!
Oh, yes! pardon me, Sir; I'm single.
And do you consider yourself blessed ?
I must be blessed—with a happy disposition to put up with it.
Egad ! that's an open confession—and it's true. No one can be happy without a partner. Did you ever contemplate a bachelor, Fanny?
A good many, Sir. I've contemplated them a long time. There's a sort of I'm-by-myself-I
about him. He goes out for a day's enjoyment, and on arriving at the first corner, leans
against his brother—the post—uncertain which way the wind may carry him. He has no guiding
principle—as they say—or impulsive power. He wants to find out which way will lead him to his
point, forgetting all
Ha, ha, ha !—excellent! Now, tell me, have you ever heard my daughter talk of matrimony ?
Ah, Sir! She makes a jest of it. I often think she'll suffer for it in the end.
Does she ever speak of her cousin ?
I don't think she loves him, Sir.
Dear me! I was in hopes—in fact, I had made up my mind that she did.
That's it, Sir! Once let a young lady know that her father has a particular husband for her, she is sure to have a particular objection to him,—it's a sort of general rule amongst the fair.
Dear me !—you surprise me !—you astonish me !—you—— Hark!—they are at the door—I hear their horses.
I must go and attend her, Sir. Never you depend upon a woman's doing exactly what you want
her,—it isn't natural to her, at all.
Bless my soul! Phooh ! I'm all in a twitter! Well, it will be a blow to poor Mathew; but we
must let the matter work its own cure. I suppose time tries all.
I am vexed—annoyed—to be teazed thus ! I'll not bear it! I'll suffer it no longer ! My cousin never quitted my side,— Mr. Clinton, or his friend, could not even speak to me. There was my dull cavalier—jog, jog, jog, by my side—sitting his horse so ungracefully—mumbling compliments without elegance—sentiment without expression! I will not bear it—I am resolved! My father, this morning, hinted at his promise that we should wed—seemed to expect it! But I'll not wed my cousin!—no, never—never !
My dear Laura!
Permit me.
No, I can do it myself,
Allow me, cousin.
Thank you, Mathew.
Shall I tell you why?
Because I see no charm in marriage—because I do not feel that I can ever love sufficiently to confer happiness on any one.
I say so—feel so, Mathew. My choice, if my heart would lead me to it, would be to fulfil my father's wish, and (you willing) to become your wife,—but that can never be !
Never, Laura?
Would be hopeless—vain! If such has been your hope, dismiss it from your
heart—your mind. I can look for no other happiness than in the affection I bear my father, and
a sisterly regard for you. If you have, then, treasured other thoughts, discard them,
Mathew; and, as a sister only, take my hand.
He's gone ! The truth is told ! Will he to my father ?— and will he force this bargained
match ? If he attempt it, I'll quit the house—wander penniless rather than wed! I cannot, and
I will not, marry him!
Well, Laura, have you enjoyed your ride, eh?
And Mathew, your cousin, how did he behave?
Bless my soul! is the girl out of her senses ? Come, come, no more of this! Go and dress for dinner, for you know Charles Clinton and his friend join us. 'Gad! we'll have such a happy evening!
Here we are, you see—perfectly prepared for an evening's enjoyment,—are we not, Augustus?
Ye-es, perfectly.
And we'll have one, gentlemen.
A letter for Miss Laura.
Mr. Bates.
Yes, Sir.
Read, read, Laura!
Oh, certainly !
Read, girl, read!
You, then, have rejected him ?
And he! Where is he ?
Mr. Bates—where is he ?
I know not, Sir. When he gave me that letter, a coach had been sent for; he stepped into it, and drove away.
La, Miss! I declare I don't know how to please you; I brought a catalogue with a list of every book the man had in his shop, and you couldn't choose yourself; how was I to know what you wished to read ?
Well, I asked for something interesting, something about love and trouble, ending with a happy marriage.
Love—marriage! What is there interesting in such trash ?
To you, perhaps; but to me 'tis folly—madness.
Ah, Miss Laura, you may depend upon it there's something wrong in your mind, something that you don't comprehend yourself, or you would never talk as you do. If love is madness, it is the most agreeable madness I know of; and as for matrimony, that always brings people to their senses, they say.
Certainly, Miss.
Three years since, Mathew left us, to superintend our foreign house at Lyons. Three years! I thought myself then free— free as the bird that skims the air in its wild and happy flight—free to fix my choice if the object came without restraint or control; and suitors have come—have offered for my hand, yet all have I rejected —and why ? Because my beau ideal of a lover was but a dream ! I looked for outward grace, and not for inward worth, that solid base on which our choice should fix. Charles Clinton ! a fashion's fool. Strange! since cousin Mathew left us, without to me even an adieu, he has been ever with me; as each week, month, year, has passed, he has come nearer to my fancy's image. Time has told its tale upon my heart, thoughts, and feelings; and I who drove him hence, would give the world to draw him back to me—but pride says no. In my dreams he is with me, in my waking hours ever in my mind. Remembrance of the pain I caused him strikes the chords of self-reproach, till I am unfit for converse or society.
Here she is. News, daughter, news—a letter from Mathew !
Tell me, is Mathew well ?
Well? to be sure he is—in robust health, if we may judge by his letter—here, read—here's
something about you.
What's the matter ? Dear me, you are fainting—where's your salts ?—here,
Fanny!
Come, come, don't wrong him; you should have seen him before he left us, as I did—he loved you too well, my girl.
Well, I am grateful for his kindness in forgetting me. It was my gratitude for
that, caused my tremor.
He will be here shortly.
Ha—here !
Yes, here. He tells me he shall shortly surprise us with a visit.
And to remain with us ?
Oh, no—he says he's too happy where he is; the country is so pleasant, the society so inviting, everything so gay, his friends so numerous, that he prefers Lyons to England.
I have more pleasant news than that for you, for in a letter I have from his confidential
clerk, he tells me
Was about to be married—ha, ha, ha!
Yes, to a beautiful English lady he met there, and who is now in England, and that that was the secret of his being about to visit us; ha, ha, ha! 'Gad ! he's a sly dog—well, I hope he'll be happy.
A card, Sir—the gentleman waits.
I'll come to him; don't go away, Laura, I'll not be long; I I want to talk to you—where is the gentleman ?
The Honourable Mr. Yawn.
Ha! 'tis well. Shew him in.
—Now will I show my father how much I care for Mathew.
Mr. Yawn, I'm delighted to see you.
I bow.
Dear me, what a stranger you have been to us ! Why, 'tis six month's since you were with us, Mr. Yawn.
Ye-es—I dare say—Charles and I have been down to Melton for the excitement of the
steeplechase, for some time;
I have read of the sport, but never witnessed it.
Then you have lost one of the greatest treats in existence, Miss Leeson—really.
'Tis a most dangerous sport, is it not?
That's the charm! Can you imagine a more gratifying and lively sensation than being in danger of breaking your neck, for a whole half-hour together ?
It must be very exciting indeed!
You can't conceive—really—
You rode, of course.
Oh, ye-es; but I met with a very serious accident on the first day.
Indeed!
Ye-es. Five of us were neck-and-neck, about a hundred yards from a rasper. Set to it, and
went over it gloriously—that is, they did. I thought I was following them. However,
when the affair was over, I was nowhere to be seen, and, on going in seach of me, I was found
in a perfect state of insensibility, a few yards from the rasper.
Were you hurt?
No.
Your horse ?
No.
Had he thrown you ?
sudden stoppage of the action of the
brain; for I was fast asleep, and my horse browsing by my side.
Ha, ha, ha! unaccountable indeed.
Caused a wonderful sensation in the neighbourhood. Strange instance of an overwrought
imagination.
No, Sir, I am still free—still unchained.
I—a—
Sir?
What did you say ?
Oh, I was saying that you had made a lively impression upon my heart.
Well, Sir, proceed.
I can assure you I should experience the greatest happiness if I could prevail upon you
to——
To what, Sir ?
To bless me with your consent to become the Honourable —Mrs. George—Gustus—Yaw-a-a-aw!
Where's Mr. Yawn ?—well, Laura, has Mr. Yawn waked you to a little reason, eh ?
Bless my soul!—why, Mr. Yawn—Mr. Yawn!
Eh?—ye-es.
Ye-es.
I don't think she said anything.
Father, I would be alone,
Certainly, with pleasure—I'm going to Brighton for a month—when I return I'll drop
in—grateful for this reception, really —adieu!
Well, I didn't expect you would, so that's soon settled. I want to talk to you very seriously; do you never intend to marry anybody ? for you have rejected every one as yet. 'Gad ! you seem to have an antidote against love.
No, no, you little gipsey, no; you are my only joy, now Mathew is gone from me.
Zounds! Don't all marry ?
Not all.
Yes ! All who have hearts to feel and eyes to admire. I was but seventeen when I was over head and ears in love with your mother; and truly I believe, if I hadn't fallen into love, I should never have fallen into luck. It cheered me in my poverty—gave me courage to encounter difficulty, strength to toil, energy to acheive reward for all; for I met a kind eye to look upon, a heart to feel for me—to guide me through every difficulty. And, more than that, I found that I toiled for other than myself.
Ha ! ha! ha! Romance, dear papa, romance !
No, no! Sense—good sense—common sense, which, in spite of all schoolmen and philosophers
may say, is the best of sense. Now, only think, when I die—and I must die, I can't help it—I
shall leave you alone in the world. Alone! Only think of that. Isn't it chilling ?
Wh-o-o—doesn't it make one freeze—shiver ? Oh ! my dear Laura,
Don't be silly, father.
Well, fathers are fools, I suppose; at least, their children think them so.
They say ? They say everything, when nothing is ever said. Men gossips—tattlers—prating fools—idiots!
Report's a common liar, Sir. And if he has another, what is that to you, or me, or
any one ?
Nothing to you, of course. You would not have him—that's no reason another should not.
Father!
Daughter!
Speak not to me of this—of him—or her—or——
Oh, Sir!—Oh, Miss!
What?
Well; I have just received a letter from him.
Then he must have brought it himself, for he's at the door.
Ha!
At the door !—it must be his ghost.
Oh! no, Sir; he shook me by the hand—real flesh and blood.
Phooh! It has quite alarmed me—
He is here, Sir.
Ah! Mathew, my boy!—ten thousand welcomes.
Nay, Laura, do not shrink from me—do not fear me now. You remember my promise on my departure—never to return till I could regard you as my sister; I can do so now—so, sister your hand.
'Tis yours, Mathew.
Why, bless me, Mathew—you have grown!
Grown, Sir?
No, I don't mean grown, I mean you have improved. You don't look the same man—your cheeks, your hair, and eyes, shine with their boyish lustre.
I am a boy again, Sir! I return a cured patient. Time, with its electric touch,
has put new energy into my heart, and I believe, as you say, new fire into my eyes. Ha, ha,
ha! I have frequently laughed at my folly, very frequently,I am out of danger, and so are you ; tell me, how have you fared ? I
thought, ere this, though I was not smiled upon, another would have been blessed,
Cousin!
'Gad, so did I; but there she stands, just as you left her.
Father!
Well, I have heard that—
Wouldn't I—wouldn't I ? I'd treat her as my own child.
Cousin, pray do not quit us yet.
I will return. I will not be long.
No, no!—to tell you the truth, Mathew, I don't know what to make of her. After your departure, Clinton proposed—no use; Danvers—no use ; Young Morland (you know him) was sent packing yesterday.
I see—no mind to quit you.
I congratulate you. How I long to see your intended wife!
You shall shortly do so, and embrace her too.
Embrace her! I'll hug her—kiss her! You won't be jealous ?
'Gad, I am your father—will be your father! Shall I not?
Come along!
Well, upon my word ! To tell me to quit the room. Her temper is unbearable of late—it gets
worse and worse. I merely told her she looked a little pale, when, oh! what a rage she flew
into ! —told me to quit the room! I'll quit her service, I'm determined!
That's it, Sir.
remained here; but how long I shall
remain, I can't tell—I'm getting tired, I assure you.
I sup-pose so. It must have been very dull while we was away, eh ?
You have had a pleasant time, I suppose, Mr. Tact?
Oh, delightful! So much fun—so much beaucoup de plaisir—so much life—so much enjoy-
mong .
And very cheap, I suppose ?
didn't take !
Was Mr. Bates very melancholy ?
Not very; a little dull at first; but recovered very soon.
Do you return with him ?
Oui!
We?
No, no—that is, yes, ye-es. Oui is translate French for yes. You must pardon my not speak
very good English, I have been so long on the Conti-nong , I have almost forget my
tongue.
You are single still, I suppose, Mr. Tact ?
I am, I am very sorry to say.
Because I don't feel at home wiz myself. I have always got a sort of I-don't-know-what-to-do-wiz-myself sort of feeling. It has struck me, Miss Fanny, very strongly of late, that having no fixed principle is just as bad as having no principle at all, and is the principal cause of our principal errors in life.
Not a doubt of it, Mr. Tact.
Well, then, my principles proving wrong, should I be ashamed of imitating my betters to change my principles ?
By no means !
Miss Fanny, you inspire me wiz hope. Fanny Fact, I am a bachelor!
Mr. Tact, I am a spinster!
So do I, really, upon my honour.
I never said I loved you.
You never said you hated me. Will you pledge yourself ?
Let me see how you behave; you sha'n't despair.
Oh, happy Tommy Tact!
Hem!
Fanny, go to my father, tell him I must see him instantly.
Yes, Miss!
ser -voir.
Stay, Mr. Tact. How long do you and your master remain here?
That is the purpose of his visit, then ?
So it's reported, Miss.
No, Miss, not I.
And her father—do you know him ?
Haven't the slightest knowledge of him.
You may go.
This is his triumph—his manly triumph! He is another's —and I—oh! how lone I feel. My
father was right. I shall see him leave me in the world alone—lone in heart. And for whom? My
cousin Mathew—for I cannot deny it to myself—I love him: I scarce dared look upon him, while
his manly eye was fixed and firm. Oh ! how I longed for the love glances which, even in his
boyhood, he lavished on me. I could have borne all, but the confession that he was
another's—that I was nothing to him—his sister—oh, yes, sister! —fine term,
truly!—and I must see him marry—present his bride to me. Never, never!
Now, Laura, what is it ?—-for Mathew and I——
Father, mention not his name to me—I'll not hear it
Bless me, girl!—are you mad ?
And if I am, who has driven me to madness? You—him!
By what means ?
The most cruel! Was I not happy in his absence? Did I complain, enquire for—wish for his return ? Why came he, then ?
To see us. To take back a wife, to be sure!
Let him do so, but bring her not here—let me not see her!
Not see her! Why not ?
He shall not boast his lordly power in my presence—lead her here, that she may smile in
cold disdain upon me! Me, the lone, despised, heart-broken Laura!
What can be done? You first reject the man, who, for your sake, quits his early
happiness. You ridicule him, his very name; and when, cured of the wound you have inflicted
upon his heart, about to wed another, you ask, can aught be done to save you ? What can be
done? Daughter, this is the first unkind word I ever spoke to you—what can he do, but wed her
to whom. he has given his honour? Can he wrong, break his plight to her—for one, who lightly
cast him off, to gratify, as it now appears, a captious and unfeeling tyranny ?
I have done wrong, and I now suffer—forgive me!
I do forgive you—I pity, but cannot aid you. No, I cannot ask the man, whose boyhood I have schooled in honour, to break his word—forget his plight to one who, doubtless, fondly loves him.
Now, my dear Sir, I must quit you for a short time,—my sister, I am sure, will
excuse me.
I will,
You know her will was ever my law.
has astonished me.—What a
whirlabout world this is, and woman generally sets the turnabout going.
sister.
True ! Could I celebrate so happy an event on any other spot, Laura?—and without the presence of my earliest friends—my father—and my sister ?
Yes! my only purpose.
Strange—very strange !
Not so. My first remembrance is here. Your father, my protector; you, my playmate; and, as
time shadowed forth all coming hope, you were the ministers, through whom I was to receive
fortune, content, and love; and when, as in a dream,(time flew so happily on)I stepped from
boy to man, the same feelings strengthened; day by day, I saw you pass from girl to woman's
stature, loveliness—
And you did so, Mathew, without entreaty, or——
Oh, what entreaty could equal the devotion, that from boy to man I lavished upon you,
Laura? I could not entreat; your words iced my heart, freezing my every vein; I could not ask
that I knew must be refused. I loved you too well, with too much honour, to beg your hand, not
coupled with your heart. Your happiness, not your misery, was my aim; and, rather than inflict
one pang on you or yours, I fled a home, which else to me was heaven,
There are moments, Laura, when the bravest man is palled; but be he man, he calls his
manhood to his aid, and looks again towards hope; and so with me—wrecked in the love I bore
you, I hoped, I struggled, I conquered. 'Twas your wish I should discard you from my
thoughts—regard you only as a sister. Sister, I have done so.
'Tis well! 'Tis bravely done! Tis kind—very kind, and I must thank you.
Your horse is ready, Sir.
Oh, very well. sister ?
How?
I shall then indeed be blessed. Adieu!
Not so, Laura !
Here to bring you happiness, I trust, and, if so, joy tenfold to me. I have played the listener (pardon the act); but, can I speak my wild delight to hear your lips confess you love me ? Laura, will you be mine?
Yours! Can that be ?
It can.
Your wife?
Is here—you, Laura—the other but in fancy—the better to fortify me in my visit here ! I thought I had conquered. 'Twas but again to look upon you—again to love you. And, hearing others had been cast aside, I dared to hope, though late, a fond return. Say; am I blessed ?
I told you, Sir, that you should shortly see my wife
What ? no—it can't be! You told me you were going to visit your other wife.
I have no other, Sir, 'twas she I meant; you see her; and in yourself, her father.
True?
True, indeed!
Bless you both.