TO HIS LANCASHIRE FRIENDS, WHOSE SOMETIMES EXTREME BLUNTNESS OF SPEECH, HE ALMOST INVARIABLY FOUND NEIGHBOURED BY EXTREME KINDNESS IN ACT, THE AUTHOR, IN A “GRADELY” SPIRIT, DEDICATES THIS COMEDY.
THE materials for so long a Comedy as
First performed at the Lyceum Theatre, August 26th, 1858.
SCENE—Hawthorne House, Dorsetshire.
Time—1857-58.
“The bank having noted a further reduction in its rate of discount, the funds rapidly rose from 93 1/8 to 95 1/4; and finally Three per Cent. Consols were quoted at 95 3/8. New Three per Cents, and Reduced Annuities rose in an equal ratio. Business on ‘Change yesterday was exceedingly brisk, and confidence seemed completely restored in the money market.” That’s a comfort; while that ere monetary crisis lasted, and the funds kept a bobbing up and down, and hevery day brought hintelligence of a fresh smash, it was really hawful for people who ‘ad a little money, to think of what was a going to ‘appen.
That is Dr. Playfair, one of the trustees and executors; and as he objects to
everything, he might object to my reading the news.
Has the solicitor—I mean Mr. Cunningham—arrived?
I never confesses total {h}ignorance upon any subject.
Then the greater humbug you. Do you know where the
Yes, sir; it is at this present moment deposited on the table to the {h}extreme left of the apartment.
I object—but there’s no use in objecting to noodleism when you are talking to a noodle.
Shall I do myself the felicity of obtaining and presenting it to you?
No, I shall get it myself; and, hark ye, I object to your society any longer;
so oblige me by leaving the room.
If it wasn’t that he’s {h}executor, and might {h}offer {h}obstructions to my receipt of a legacy, if there should be one, I should tell him that he was no gentleman. I have been in the service of a dook and a marquis, and never was ordered {h}out of a room before. Oh, Jeames Dodsworth, this comes as a punishment on your {h}avarice, and for demeaning yourself to take service with commoners, merely because they give larger salaries, and {h}allows more perquisites. The {h}aristocracy may be poor now and then; but they {h}always {h}appreciates sentiment, {h}elegance of diction, and refinement of manners.
Ah, my dear doctor! I am most happy to see you.
I object to the use of the superlative most—humbug—twice as happy to see a hundred other people. I like you well enough not to be annoyed at meeting you; but don’t deal in humbug.
Ha, ha! always the same contentious, but sensible adviser. I am glad to see you in the positive degree, and comparatively more glad to see you than ——
A dun or a bailiff—no compliment that. I like it the better, and accept it
frankly.
Oh, I never had the slightest reason to indulge an expectation. You know that I am a lawyer, and being cousin to Miss Vavasour, she and her mother have invited me to pass the long vacation here. It’s partly a friendly, partly a professional visit; they may want my advice as to the settlements, after the will has been read.
Oh, she has made up her mind to inherit?
Can there be a doubt of that?
Partially. I know that he was originally poor, but of a respectable family, and ——
Not at all extraordinary—plenty of instances—national and individual—of
progressive ascents from insignificance to wealth and name. Well, his second
wife had no children, and he grew fond of her niece, the present expectant
heiress, Miss Lucy Vavasour; but before adopting, or rather
The brother and cousin you spoke of as having escaped choke damp?
Yes; the brother he traced to a small maufacturing town in Lancashire, but learnt that he was a bad mechanic, a supposed good writer of songs popular among workmen, and a fluent tap-room orator when half drunk, which was usually the case four days out of the seven. Intensely disgusted with each characteristic, he determined to withhold all recognition of such a relative; but shortly before his death he again made some enquiries, and the fact of his brother’s demise, and of his one son’s industry, having raised him into a little independence, which enabled him to support his mother in comfort and respectability, and to look forward to a still better day, was modestly communicated to him by that son. To his surprise he learnt that his brother and family had all along been aware of his success; but from a dislike to subject him to a possible humiliation, had refrained from seeking his assistance in the hours of their greatest privation.
That was very noble.
Perhaps it was—perhaps it was a stupid stiff-necked spirit of pride—don’t know which—but he was touched by it, and again first nature asserted her sway, and suggested the injustice of leaving all his property to a mere collateral relation, while kindred in whose veins his paternal blood flowed, lived, and were deserving, too; and still he felt bound by the moral obligation he had contracted to Lucy. The expedient Hawthorne hit upon we shall know to-day, when the will is read.
Do you surmise its nature?
Quite right. What of the other relative?
Oh, the cousin; he had married some petty farmer’s daughter in Lancashire, and had thriven well in a small way; he, however, made his exit from this world some time before Hawthorne’s demise.
Who are those?
Sir Lionel Norman and the Honorable Augustus Adolphus.
I object to both. The former is too fine a gentleman for my taste, and the latter too complete a puppy; let us walk and shun them for the present.
Good morning, ladies. My dear Mrs. Vavasour, how do you find yourself to-day?
Let me draw this screen between you and the possible draught from yonder door; and where is Miss Vavasour, has she not dawned this morning?
I really don’t know. Euphemia, where is Lucy, have you seen her?
I have heard—not seen. At present, I believe, she is in the gardens, or the conservatory.
What robust habits the girl has, to be sure; acquired them from living as a child so much with Mr. Hawthorne.
Down, Bijou—down; don’t be naughty; you can’t come into the drawing room; don’t look sad, little stupid. I shall see you again, and have another romp with you.
Can that be Lucy’s voice?
Yes; here is Miss Vavasour.
Oh, don’t say so! I am sure that you must derive good from the purer air of the country. I feel as if in another and a much more delightful sphere. The emerald earth and azure sky, the fragrant, and yet nimble, jocund atmosphere, formed, as it were, of beams and ether, dancing from the highmost hill to mingle with the breath of flowers, murmurs of rills, and songs of birds, and all the other healthful, joyous pulses that beat mirthful music in the ear of dear old mother Nature—old, yet ever young—give to me a sort of second-better being.
Poetry!
Enthusiasm!
Nonsense!
I expected as much from your good taste, Sir Lionel.
The shrine is as it should be, in keeping with the divinity.
Meaning me. Oh, that compliment is extravagant and premature! I am not mistress of it yet—may never be.
I wish, Lucy, you would not indulge in such surmises; they are very disagreeable, and cannot possibly be correct. Mr. Hawthorne could not have been guilty of such injustice.
I shall never accuse him of injustice; he was always good and kind to me; but he may have had relations with stronger claims than mine: we should make some allowance for the interests of other people.
Low people in the house! what profanation! Please to ring, Augustus, for James. I must enquire who those people are—what they are like.
Nay, nay, dear mamma! Will not that be a little unbecoming?
At another time, under other circumstances, it might, but the interests of my child are at stake. There may be some conspiracy at work. I should get all information. Don’t you think so, Sir Lionel?
Well, it is but to inquire what company have arrived, and in that sense it cannot be considered a breach of etiquette.
Ave I the ‘onour to be required?
Oh, James, be good enough to inform me who, and what sort of people those strangers are, at present domiciled here.
{H}am I to report as, I think, madam—or {h}as I {h}am bound out of politeness to speak of any guests received into this noble mansion?
Ha! ha! a nice distinction.
Yes, yes, a capital opening. I foresee some strange revelations; let us hear his real opinions.
The truth, James, as you think.
By all means make a clean breast of it, James.
Then in my {h}opinion, madam, they are a rum lot.
What?
I beg parding, but I always speaks graphically, and in keeping with my subject.
Ha! ha! ha!
Yes, sir; I means figuratively and graphically too. They are, madam, a {h}invasion from the lower regions.
Figuratively also; no sulphur or brimstone odour, I trust?
Why? why because he seemed rather out of conceit with himself, which no gentleman {h}ever {h}is.
Ha! ha! ha! Capital.
What a discriminating rogue!
Ha! ha!
What was his name?
Well, I think I knows, but I aint sure; there is some mystery over that part of my {h}information.
The interest increases.
Indeed! pray explain.
He {h}arrived in a sort of a gig, or a dog cart, which was driven by a man in a rough dress.
His servant!
I doubt that, for when he got down he shook hands with him, and said: “Well, good bye Hedmondson,” and the other replied: “Good bye, Frank, lad, and I wish you luck. Luck!”
Luck! Vulgar wretch.
Werry low, indeed, madam.
Why, sir, when we addressed him as Mr. Frank, he hopened his eyes, and looked hastonished like, and seemed ha going to speak, and then stopped short, and shut up as if afraid to speak, and afterwards muttered something to himself habout its being no matter, and discovered soon. Werry mysterious conduct, I call that.
Ha! ha! ha!
A capital story; quite a goblin legatee.
Now for the others, and don’t deal so much in detail.
Oh, the others are a greater mystery than the first; there are three of them.
All in one; a triple ghost.
Oh, no; nothing ghost-like about them; very substantial, especially the {h}elder matron; {h}arrived in a flashy carriage and four, postillion and coachee, but only jobbed from the town where the railway station is; the company, fust a woman——
Why not say a lady, James?
Well, in compliment to the fair sex, I’ll call her a lady; rather a fine figure, but {h}excuse me {h}inclining, to or upon the {h}edge of being reckoned among the ‘as beens.
Ha! ha!
Daughter a nice looking girl, very tastefully dressed, and {h}exceedingly genteel {h}in manner compared to the {h}other; {h}and a son in the most vulgar, flashy style of getting hup that was ever seen at a country fair, or an ‘alf-bred race-course. They made noise enough, and {h}examined {h}everything. The mother said the room into which they were shown was fitted up with gimcracks and tinsel thingumbobs, not worth much.
Ha! ha! ha!
The son said the sofa on which he stretched himself was first-rate—a right
down plummy one. {H}excuse this
The young lady seems to be a favourite with you, James.
A case of love at first sight, eh, James?
Oh, no. I know my station and my dooty to society too well, and I left the room rather than loose my ‘art. Left alone, they wanted refreshment, and rang the bell. When {h}asked what they required, the old lady said, “Best in the house.” I stared, and she said I needn’t, for that she could pay for it. As it was late, I {h}enquired which they preferred, dinner or tea. “I’ll none of your slops of tea,” said the mother; “I’m right down faint wi’ thirst.” “So am I,” said the son; “but I want summat to eat.” I suggested wine and seltzer water for the lady. “Wine—rubbish! it always made her ill; she wanted a mug of beer.” I was so horrified, and in such a state of confusion, that I didn’t know whether I was standing on my ‘ead or my ‘eels.
Ha! ha!
Poor James. I quite sympathise with you.
The young lady, stepping forward, said: “Be kind enough to bring, or order, some refreshments, such as are usually set for a light supper or for luncheon, with a little ale for my brother and mamma; and, please, a cup of tea or coffee for me.”
Good little fairy, that was prettily said.
Well, I thought so myself, miss, {h}at the time; {h}at least, it was a speechies of refined {H}english that I could understand.
Ha! ha! ha!
Oh! James, James! you’ll be the death of me.
Well, now for the names of these anomalies.
Oh, that the {h}old lady told me and the other servants twenty times—Mrs. Betsy Wildbriar, her son Robin, and daughter Jenny Wildbriar.
Is it possible—our Lancashire witches memoried by months of laughter?
I remember something of the occasion, but nothing of the people.
Oh, they are presented to the life. James, you are a capital word-painter—quite a character photographist.
Very well, madam. I think I have opened their {h}eyes, and sustained the dignity of a {hupper} servant.
You really know these people?
Everard in love! That’s excellent!
To be sure; the girl as James reports, very nice and as ladylike. But the great joke was my telling the mother, in confidence, that Everard was a marquis—the Marquis of Banterdown—ha! ha! travelling incognito for reasons of state, and cautioning her not to address him by his title, or to betray the slightest knowledge to him of the secret,
Oh, it was productive of the greatest fun in the world. She first told her daughter, then her son, then all her immediate acquaintances. Then her open admiration of Everard! She addressed him as Mr. Marquis, and then begged his pardon twenty times. Everard was surprised, but never knew at what we laughed, and, for mirth’s sake, don’t tell him now. Let us keep up the jest here. We shall have such a meeting, as I believe both mother and daughter are in love with him. Ha! ha!
I shall be no party to a practical joke.
You will not interfere one way or the other—such vulgar creatures are not
worth a moment’s consideration for or against.
What’s that?
Some one knocked at the door.
Strange—this is not usual with the servants.
Oh, it’s one of our Wildbriars, or the goblin legatee—let us have them. Come in.
Well, you certainly do intrude if you have no further
Sir!
Eh!
Yes—ah! It is very possible; but I thought— that is, I know that I have business, if this is the principal drawing-room, as I was left to surmise. Have I made a mistake? if so, I beg pardon.
Sir!
Eh!
Your chivalry is most distingué.
Much more than yours, Mr. Adolphus, in my opinion.
Mr. Frank, I presume?
One of the relatives of the late Mr. Hawthorne, summoned to attend the reading of the will?
Yes.
In that character, let me, as for the time being nominal mistress of this
mansion, assure you, that your right to enter this room is equal to that of any
one here, and may prove greater. It is the hour appointed for the reading; the
trustees and executors have arrived, I believe, and will be here in a few
moments. Pray remain. I entreat: you will pain me by refusal.
I thank you. Much obliged; sorry to have disturbed you.
Pray don’t mention it. These gentlemen did not, in the freedom and privacy of
an almost family conversation, recollect that strangers had equal business here.
I trust under
Certainly, madam. I never indulge in anger after an explanation. Forget and
forgive is a good—Ah! well, I— I am talking. I beg pardon; pray don’t let me
keep you from your friends.
That was admirably done; ladylike in the extreme.
You did quite right, Lucy. Adolphus was too severe; and, as lady of the mansion, it is your place to show courtesy to all under its roof; but you should not have raised hopes in the young man’s mind by talking of his possible inheritance.
Why not? I was only Mr. Hawthorne’s favorite, not his relative.
What relative is the newspaper solitaire?
I can’t imagine. I never heard of Mr. Hawthorne’s having any relatives, although he too frequently alluded to his humble origin, and was fond of saying that he had no family connections, and was a self-raised man.
Surely, he did not spring into existence from the mouth of a furnace, to engineer his cradle, and model his own pap-spoon?
Ha! ha! ha!
For shame. I will not listen to a jest in connection with his name. He was a great man of his talent, and a good one of his kind heart, and he always loved me.
Who could help that?
He was a rich man, and made himself so, and therefore devilish
clever, I must own.
Eh! but it’s a bonny, a beautiful place, and summat like Crystal Palace. Eh! there’s an old man will tell us the way. Here, you sir, which is road to thingumbob—what do you call ‘um room?
I object to that method of making an inquiry. I shall not answer any question put in such a barbaric dialect.
What’s the man mean? I speak good English, don’t I?
I object to that assumption. I call it a most inexplicable jargon.
Eh! he’s either soft, or right down impudent.
No, no; pray, mamma, give me leave.
Don’t object to that; nice little girl. This is the room, my dear; permit me—
Eh! but my lad, Robin, mun be here first; do you know where he is? I mean Robin, my son, Robin Wildbriar.
Don’t know—and I don’t care.
Drat the lad, I’m sure he’s up to some mischief.
Shouldn’t at all wonder, if he’s like his mother.
Eh! what a lot of fine folks, and nobody to introduce us. Jenny, lass, now’s time to show your education; just astonish them by doing it first rate. You won’t—then I’ll do it mysen.
No, no, mamma; by and bye; it’s not the custom— this is a business meeting—no need of introduction—no acquaintance at present likely to be made; pray be silent and sit down.
Does lass think I’m ashamed of my name or mysen? I’m none going to sit mumchance when there’s people to talk to.
But they don’t know you.
Well, then, I’ll make ‘em know me. Yon old woman seems to be mother of the
family. I’ll speak to her first.
Isn’t she a glorious creature?
Eh!—what the Honorable Mr. Augustus Adolphus, Esquire!—aye, for sure, and how
are you, lad? Eh I I’m so glad to see you, man—and here’s Jenny,—Jenny, come and
shake hands wi’ an old friend:
He’s here—and will be delighted to renew his acquaintance. Your charming Preston acquaintances, Mr. Everard!
Eh! it’s him, sure enough; and how are you, my lor—Mr. Mar— no, I mean Mr. Everard? you’re looking prime. Here’s Jenny—same as ever; shy and backward as ever hur wur. Come forward, lass, and speak wi’ an old acquaintance.
Ah, Mrs. Wildbriar
He’s just same as ever—pleasant and social like. Eh! he’s a gradely man. I wish he wasn’t a Mar—bother that, I’m always boggling over it. If he were only a cotton spinner, or a farmer, he might have her to-morrow, and one hundred thousand pounds.
Permit me. Mrs. and Miss Vavasour; Miss Euphemia Cholmondeley; Sir Lionel Norman.
What! the Baronite!—Proud to see you, sir
It’s his knightly dignity.
Oh, I hate such stuck-ups; the Mar—you know who—is twice as agreeable.
And this gentleman—
Hawthorne!
Hawthorne? Any relation to my old man’s—that wur first cousin—that wur?
His nephew.
Nephew?
Eh! then we are relations, too. You are poor Bill Hawthorne, the poet’s son, that used to write in Bolton Luminary, eh! I’m glad to see you, lad, for your fayther’s sake; he used to come often to our house when on his tramp rambles; many a meal’s meat he’s had wi’ us, and many a good bright shilling I’ve lent him; but he drank it all. Don’t be ashamed; he was a good-hearted man for all that. And your our Jenny’s second cousin? Jenny, come and shake hands wi’ your cousin, lags.
Oh, I’ve heard of you—you’re a good lad—you always took care o’ your mother; and I hope your uncle has taken care of you in his will, as he ought, for you’re his own brother’s son, and blood’s thicker than water.
Oh, I’ll speak my mind, if there were twenty times as many—that I will, for
sure.
A nephew! I never dreamt of the existence of so near a kin; but the moment I saw that man, I had an instinct of something wrong. He’s sure to have been left a large legacy.
I hope so—in mere justice he should.
Mr. Cunningham, solicitor, trustee, and hex-e-cutor.
Good day—good day, ladies and gentlemen.
I believe so.
No—no; my son, Robin, isn’t. Drat that boy, wherever can he be? Robin! Robin!
I object to that noise—not here, will must be read without him.
Stop—stop a bit; here he is at bottom o’ steps. Here, Robin—Robin—this way, lad; they’re going to read will here.
Robin, lad, just come in pudding time—as you always do, when pudding’s first. Lots o’ fine folk here, and some old acquaintances. Take off your hat, make a bow, and I’ll introduce you.
Why, you see, I picked up an acquaintance with a terrier pup that belongs to
these parts, and he and I have been rat hunting in the stream down there. I
wiped boots dry upon the grass of the plat yonder; but if there’s any offence
I’ll take them off, and put them outside.
Silence for Mr. Cunningham,
I beg parding, but as I was five years in the service of the lamented George Hawthorne, Esq., I though it just possible that I might ave a {h}interest, a slight one, of course, in the will.
Didn’t he pay your wages, man?
That’s right lad—an impudent lacquey.
Hold hard, mother; Jenny’s tipped the wink.
James, you are not particularised in the will, I know; as I drew it up.
That’s enough.
As the will will be hereafter open to every one’s perusal, I do not think it necessary to read the somewhat lengthy preamble, which sets forth the testator’s history, and some motives which induced the disposition made by him of his property.
Aye, don’t give us any preamble.
Come to the point, lad.
Hush, hush.
I shall only read the marginal abstract of its several bequests, and thus dispensing with the lengthy forms and technicalities, put you in immediate possession of the whole purport.
Speak plain English, man, and let us ha’ no climclavers.
Shut up, mother.
I shan’t; and you had better not insult me before people, or I’ll give thee a clout on the side of the yead.
Silence, woman!
I say, you’ve napped it, ould chap; haw, haw!
Pray excuse the doctor, madam; he is one of the executors, and is only
anxious that the will may be read without interruption, and I am sure, as a good
lady, you will excuse him, and oblige us all by listening in silence.
You’re right, lass. I’ll do anything for fair words, but I wunnot be driven.
Na, I’m sure ou wunnot; mother’s like a pig feyther had—
That’s me.
“And his sister Jane, or Jenny Wildbriar—”
My lad and lass first.
“The sum of two thousand pounds each.”
Well, we could ha’ done without that.
It isn’t much, but it’s a summat, lad, as a token of remembrance; we’re
independent, thanks to my brother.
“Items—To my old and valued friends, John Playfair, and William Cunningham, whom I appoint joint trustees and executors of my will, the sums of two thousand pounds each.”
That’s as much as he has given us, his cousins.
May be they want it, poor creatures, they look shabby enough.
“Item—To Mrs. Sophonisba Vavasour, relict of the late Henry Vavasour, the sum of two thousand pounds.”
That makes ten thousand pounds in all as yet.
“Item—To my nephew, Francis Hawthorne—”
Eh, that be my cousin—which be he?
Silence, and sit down.
I mun speak to my cousin.
Sit down; sit down do—or leave the room.
Sit down; sit down, sir.
Get off wi’ you!
“Item—To my nephew, Francis Hawthorne, a life interest, chargeable upon the general estate, of three hundred pounds per annum.”
I breathe again.
So do I. The heiress is now clear.
And is that all to his own nephew?—shame of hissen.
Hush—hush, mamma.
I cannot—I wunnot; it’s a shame, and I’ll give him summat mysen.
So will I; we munnot see cousin wronged. Cheer up, lad.
“Item—To my second wife’s niece and long adopted daughter, Lucy Vavasour, a life interest, chargeable upon the general estate, of five hundred pounds per annum.”
Why he’s given her more than his nephew.
Great heaven, five hundred pounds a year, is that all? My poor child! And what becomes of the rest?
I guess; an hospital for ricketty engineers.
Or a bluecoat school for miners’ illegitimates.
“And all the remainder of my property and
“I give, will, and bequeath—ahem!”
To—to whom?
“Jointly—to the said Francis Hawthorne and Lucy Vavasour, on condition of their entering into and fulfilling a contract of marriage within six months from the date of the publication of this my will.”
Eh! that’s capital!
First-rate!
Singular!
Wonderful!
Horrible!
Damnable!
‘And in the event of the said Francis Hawthorne refusing to comply with the prescribed condition, I give, will, and bequeath the whole of the above-named property to the said Lucy Vavasour, her lawful heirs and executors.
He’ll be none such a fou—eh, lad?
“Also, in the event of the said Lucy Vavasour declining to contract the conditional marriage, I give, will, and bequeath the whole of the said property to the said Francis Hawthorne, his lawful heirs and executors.”
She’ll never be so soft—eh, lass?
“And in the double event of the said Francis Hawthorne and Lucy Vavasour mutually declining to accept of the condition, I give, will, and bequeath the whole of my property and estate, subject only to the payment of the aforesaid legacies and annuities, in trust, to my executors, to build and endow a foundation school and hospital, for the pauper orphans of miners, born in the neighbourhood of Alnwick, Northumberland, subject to the annexed rule and conditions.” which I presume, it is quite useless for me to read to the present company. And now, there are six months, short of one hour, left for the interested parties to determine their acceptance or rejection of the condition; during which, this mansion, with its usual establishment of servants, &c, will be at their service, for the entertainment of their friends and families, in accordance with the testator’s directions to the executor’s, endorsed upon this his will.
My poor child!—disposed of!—doomed!
No! neither disposed of, nor doomed. I am still mistress of myself; and who knows—it may be for the best?
I wish you joy!
Joy—joy!
Joy—joy! who knows—it may be misery?
Yes, Miss Jemima Simperton, {h}of all the {h}extraordinary positions that a {h}upper servant {h}as ever been placed in, mine is the most trying and {h}inimical to my feelings, {h}ever since that {h}eccentric will of the formerly late lamented, but now {h}ungretted George Hawthorne, Esq., was promulgated, I ave been in perpetual ‘ot water. How can a {h}upper servant preserve his dignity to the lowers, when he don’t know who is his master, and when he has to deliver his {h}orders as from one to the {h}adherents of the other?
It is very difficult indeed; and nobody but yourself, Mr. James, could manage to preserve any appearance of regularity in a house under such divided control. As in the play, we have the Capulets and Montagues on each side, never meeting but to wrangle.
hexcuse me, but the play aint a comparison at all—hit’s {h}only {h}image is
the House of Commons, with two {h}oppositions, a {h}independent country party,
and some {h}outsiders, that don’t know their own minds; and I’m in the position
of the unfortunate Speaker, who is obliged to listen to all the jaw (eloquence,
I should have said, of the {h}uppers—the lords), and for the sake of the
respectability of the ‘ouse itself, is compelled to keep up a {h}imposing
{h}aspect of attention, and a wigilant {h}eye on the uproarious junior, and
Hirish members; and I see no prospect of a coalition neither; the
What a fine figure of speech to be sure. I should have thought that he was above mercenary motives.
So he is; {h}it’s his dignity that requires to be upheld by the needful, and he must victimize his affections to the {h}integrity of the baronetcy, which is mortgaged to the very verge of bankruptcy.
If Mr. Hawthorne were only a gentleman now, he might be induced to sacrifice the fortune and decline the condition.
If he did he would prove himself a demned fool.
Mr. James!
{H}excuse the wigorous expression; but even an {h}aristocrat of the purest Norman blood could not be expected to resign his claim to such an inheritance on account of being inimical to the co-heiress. The days of such high-flown sentiments and factions is faded and gone. We sacrifice our {h}affections, but we never sacrifice our worldly interests. It {h}aint the fashion in {h}upper, or even in middle life. Such things are only heard of now in {H}east {h}end melo-dramas.
What a nice little bit of flirtation there seems to be going on between Mr. Everard Digby and Miss Jenny Wildbriar.
I ‘ave observed that, and I hardly think it fair. She is the only member of her family that’s deserving of respect, and he ought not to try and turn the girl’s head if he don’t mean marriage, which her low birth and connections would make disreputable for a barrister so highly connected.
I don’t know that; he seems very much smitten, and he’s kept in countenance by the Honorable Augustus Adolphus, who has begun to ogle that vulgar old woman, the mother, and Miss Euphemia Cholmondeley, who actually affects a sentimental attachment towards the cub of a son.
You ‘orrify and astonish me with the noos. What is the {h}aristocracy coming
to after that? Pounds, shillings, and pence is a hobject—‘as ever been, I know,
with the best of us—but some regard for position, for {h}elegance, bought to
accompany it. Miss Jemima, if such should be the case—I—I
Like; very like—and oh, how beautiful! Not the beauty that dazzles at the first glance—dulls upon the second— to grow vapid, vulgar, at the third—the rarer beauty of expression, whose fascination steals over you as you gaze, and seems to wile away your soul. And yet, I think a high spirit lightens in those eyes. She will not sell herself for gold, she will sooner accept poverty. How to win her confidence, to read her heart, to conquer it? No way. She must hate me as the imposed and conditional husband, linked to no generosity, the representative of the niggard doubt that tasked the golden boon. Seldom as we meet, and quickly as we turn from each other, as by some repellant instinct, I have noted that her cheek grows pale, and despite of her self-control, an expression of repugnance—a shudder passes over her form. Well, well, the time will soon come to spare her that; and yet would I give the world to prolong the ordeal that sometimes yields her to my eyes. Yes, yes, to win her smile, I think I could play slave and fool unto the very verge of baseness.
Umph! in the absence of the original, I see you make love to the portrait.
I—I? oh, no. I am an admirer of good pictures, and I was just noticing the exquisite finish of this portrait. I presume, from the style, painted by—by Landseer.
I object to that. If you had looked at the whole picture instead of the face
only, you would have remarked that there was no dog in it, and therefore not
likely to be by Landseer, who in my opinion in addition to being one of the best
painters, is the greatest satirist of the age, for he never paints man or woman
unaccompanied by a puppy.
Out—outside I suppose the fellow means, implying me. I’m afraid its a truth. I have no business to bark at his heels, since he objects to it. Confound him! he always gets the better of me at the wind-up of a dispute, and hang me if I don’t begin to feel a friendship for him. I shan’t be able to object to anything he says by and bye.
I object to that. Never give advice—it’s a complete waste of time and thought; for although everybody asks and endeavours to extort it, no one ever allows it to exercise the slightest influence upon purpose or opinion.
That may be the rule, Doctor, and you will allow me to be the exception.
I object to that. Why should you be a greater fool than your neighbour, as you must be if you permitted anybody’s judgment but your own to guide your conduct?
Well, but, Doctor, you and I have always been friends, and surely I may task your kindness to the extent of an opinion upon a matter that deeply affects my welfare.
Well, the question is, what am I to do with him?
Him—and who is Mr. Him? Your lap-dog, with the snuffles in his nose, or your cast-off beau, with the jaundice in the whites of his eyes?
Oh, for shame! I am serious, and you know very well the disagreeable him of whom I speak.
I object to that, because I don’t.
It’s Mr. Hawthorne. We want to devise some means of preserving the property, and disposing of him.
The readiest way to dispose of him, is to marry him.
You wouldn’t have my daughter marry a clod?
Why not?— It was a clod of the same clay that made all the money; but I object to the term clod, it’s not apposite. If you will be figurative, call them nuggets.
Ha! ha! ha!
Ah, well, the particular nugget that remains I don’t like.
Well, do as I tell my squeamish patients with a draught or a pill, gulp it, and take the sugar after.
Oh, to me, this is rude and unkind.
So it is, and I beg pardon. If you really wish to keep the property——
Oh, that doesn’t admit of a question.
And to get rid of Hawthorne?
That I certainly do.
You must offend him, and incur his dislike.
Surely I have done that by avoiding him.
I object to that—worst way in the world; he was rather struck with you, and sees only the romance of the tie formed by the will. He’s in love with you: I caught him a few moments since gazing in silent devotion on that picture of yours;—he’s always to be found on the terrace, or at one of the windows, slily peering at you every time you go out into the grounds; in fact, he watches and worships your rising and setting, as a fire-worshipper the sun, or a lunatic the moon.
Don’t speak, Sir Lionel. I know you were going to say that that is scarcely possible.
Bosh!
Ha, ha! you hear! but don’t interfere—the doctor and I are old friends.
And gives you four times the number of virtues and graces that any woman possibly can possess. In short, he idealizes you into a divinity; and all this is due to your avoidance.
Now, doctor, you are really too ungallant. Surely you do not mean to imply
that my presence must necessarily
That depends upon your conduct. He’s sensitive and high-minded, and seems to have a good stock of common sense; you have only to surprise him with a little drawingroom coquetry; alarm him with an exhibition of frivolity; vex him with some heartless badinage; and season the whole with a huge admixture of twaddle (you must know how, having lived so long in good society); and, my life on it, he’ll reject you.
Well, I’ll do it; that is, I’ll try to conceal my natural graces—ahem, doctor—and to assume as many disagreeable airs and follies as the aforesaid will permit.
But what if the fellow should prove, as I think, a mere simpleton, and not take umbrage at this treatment?
As a dernier resort, I can always decline.
He’s coming this way to have another gaze at the picture. Present him the original, and commence your game.
Well, if it must be done, the sooner it is got over the better.
Shall we remain?
Oh no! you must be my reserve corps, upon whose aid I can fall back, if necessary; at first, I must attack the enemy single-handed.
You’ll find him a formidable foe, or I am much mistaken; he has always put me to the rout.
Dear me! Now that I am alone, I begin to feel a little nervous, and my heart
flutters. I wish I had not heard of his admiration of my portrait, or the
doctor’s encomiums on his good sense. It is not pleasant to be obliged to incur
any sensible person’s contempt. I feel a great disposition to run away. No, no—I
am too English for that. He must not see me when he enters, or perhaps he’ll run
away. I’ll entrench myself in this chair, and not open fire until the enemy is
within range.
It is true—my portrait, sure enough, is the object of his attention.
Heigho!
He sighs, poor fellow—fool, I should say; and yet I pity him. Heigho!
La! Mr. Hawthorne, is it you?
Yes; I beg your pardon; I didn’t know that you were here—I shall retire.
Oh, pray do not! Is my company so very—very disagreeable, that you can’t endure it for a moment or two?
Oh, no—no. Can it be possible you think that such is my feeling?
I must think so, if you continue to run away every time we chance to meet.
True—true; but I was only fearful of intruding upon you an unwelcome presence.
Oh, that doesn’t matter; it is—heigho!—our duty to become acquainted. It is not, Mr.—Mr. Hawthorne?
Yes; that is, if it is your pleasure.
Oh, I dare say I shall have much pleasure, if you’ll only permit me. Pray, be
seated.
I can’t look at him. Excuse me, will you do me the favour to hand me my fan?
You will find it on the table near you. tête-à-tête with a gentleman, I can never speak, or even look at
him, save from behind my fan.
My idol’s feet, I begin to fear, are made of clay. Or is this a ruse? If so, I’ll balk it. She thinks me fool. I’ll play the fool.
I saw you looking at my portrait. Do you think it like?
I did—very like.
Did, but don’t. I’m getting on famously. Didn’t you think it rather dreamy-looking with that sort of expression the critics term ideal, but which I call moonishness?
Which does he mean, I wonder? Oh! then it must tête-à-tête. You needn’t wander
all the way back to that distant chair, there is one close by.
As I please! How gawkily done. You admire the Woodlands?
Much. Eh!—that is, I think it a nice place enough.
Nice place! and that is all he has to say of my beautiful Woodlands. He’s
either soulless, or vexed; so much the better. Will you excuse me again? I think
I should prefer my embroidery to this crotchet work, Mr. Hawthorne, you’ll find
a frame and design on that table to my left hand. I can’t shake off this
ennui to-day, and am as changeful in desire as a child. I’ve all my
life been a spoilt one.
You are too tall, or you hold your hands too high— and now too low. See,
there is a footstool upon which you can seat yourself.
Oh! you can be good-tempered enough to laugh at yourself.
Perhaps I should not, if I had not perceived almost from the first that you were acting a part, and disguising your real nature for some purpose.
Pray pardon me, sir, I confess it.
You do? Ah! that is honest, and I most sincerely admire your frankness, and
forgive the ruse.
Oh, dear, what have I done? I’m spoiling all. Yes—yes, I had a motive—a purpose—one I didn’t mean to tell you, though; but I suppose I must, now. I—I wanted to see—to see how you would go in harness.
Yes, you know that under our circumstances it wouldn’t be comfortable to find ourselves straining to go separate roads when we are harnessed.
Excuse me, but I don’t understand what you mean by being harnessed.
Why, married, to be sure. The will says we are to be; and what is marriage, but the fettering of two parties together whose tastes generally differ, but whose interest and convenience it is to travel the same road, and not quarrel by the way.
Dare I tell you what I think marriage to be?
Oh! yes, I should like to know your ideas. I have told you mine.
Pardon me, I think not. You have but echoed the cant of the blazé
inconstants—the reckless roués of the world—who seek to bury principle
in the grave of passion. Marriage is at once the most solemn and the most
beautiful mystery of this life; and as among nations, a reverence for its
sacredness, as an indissoluble, an untransgressible bond between two beings, and
only two, is the highest test of civilization, so the nobler the estimate
individual man or woman forms of its obligations, the higher must each be lifted
in the scale of humanity. Do you not believe me?
I do, I do, with all my heart and soul.
Ah! I thought so.
Oh! I’m ensnared again! I can’t play the game any longer without aid.
Ha! ha! a capital design! I’m so glad that you have made me a party to the joke.
tête-à-tête?
Yes, mamma: you know it is necessary that we should become acquainted.
So, the play begins again.
Oh, yes! Let people be ever so unlikely to be found together after marriage, it is customary to preface the ceremony with a little show of sociality.
Oh, of course; we do as we like afterwards. He can speak tolerable English, I
suppose.
Oh, yes, mamma; he speaks very well, and is not near so dull as you might
imagine.
Is this said to test the extent of my love, or to offend me?
He bears that; his spirit has sunk many fathoms deep in love or stupidity.
As he has just come up, as it were, from the other world, no doubt you found the gentleman’s conversation highly entertaining?
Yes; of its very novelty, however bizarre, it must have served to amuse.
Oh, dear, no! it was edifying. Mr. Hawthorne is rather of a serious bent of mind; and on the solemn subject of marriage, did not fail to improve the occasion.
Ha! ha! ha!
What, a Spurgeonite! imbued with the afflatus of the conventicle!—the large,
the very large conventicle! Catch-em-alive, oh! He would make thee a sister of
grace before leading thee to the tabernacle.
Ha! ha! ha!
The fool laughs at himself.
Really, that pathetic mingling of piety and passion— of the parson in the Romeo—the puritan in the Corydon— seems to me as the most incongruous—the most laughable of bipeds.
I have never beheld one when the spirit moved: I should so like to hear him hold forth.
He doesn’t understand, and is silent.
I addressed you, sir.
Did you? Then allow me to say, that I could not have imagined so fine a gentlemen capable of such point blank rudeness.
Oh! I vow he’s angry!
No; If you can’t lightly give and take, nor yet endure the privileged
sarcasms—the badinage of drawing-room
I thought not.
There, I’ve forgot again;
We may be good friends in time—never, never— did you mean what you say? but you don’t—you don’t; your lips scorn the words that cross them, and your eyes recant them quicker than your lips pronounce, or love conspires with thee to make me slave and fool.
The fellow is a complete puzzle; he’s not likely to be shaken off.
I’m afraid not, and your chance of adding the Woodlands to the entail of the baronetcy is but slight, but you will have a beautiful wife.
She is a very nice little girl.
Oh, the Wildbriars are not so bad after all. Country bred, with amiable aspirations.
Ah, you have been taken into confidence, Adolphus—and see them by the light of a lac of rupees.
Ah, well, their manners are certainly rustic—I may say very rustic—but time will amend these—must, for the widow has been left £250,000.
You astonish me! £250,000? Why, that in amount treads upon the heels of the Hawthorne fortune.
Yes, she talks of giving son and daughter each a hundred thousand, and of keeping fifty for herself, to make presents to her granchildren, when such buds blossom.
Well, although whilst a hope remains of her inheriting, I’m the Endymion proper, most professedly a minion of our Diana of the Woodlands, I think I could contentedly retire from the chase, if that little Hebe, Miss Wildbriar, were to be caught and hid away from her Satyr-like kindred.
Ahem!
Ha! ha! true, it is likely; but Miss Vavasour’s toilet is, I dare say, complete.
And Diana awaits her Endymion.
Here, Jenny, Jenny, lass; Hob, Rob, where are you? Drat that lad and lass, they’re always out of the way when I want them.
Did I not hear Mrs. Wildbriar’s voice? Great heaven! whom do I behold; surely my ear must have deceived me, and yet the contour, the figure can only belong to one— it is Mrs. Wildbriar.
Yes; I’m mysen sure enough. What is’t makes man doubt?
This magnificent toilet has so added to your natural advantages, that, joined, they took me by surprise; and I fancied I beheld a still more beautiful woman.
Got away wi’ you. I’m well enough, but I’m not
I beg your pardon, but I assure you that that dress becomes you amazingly.
Oh, the dress: well, I think it does favor itsen— it ought, for it cost enough of money. Eh! I dunnot mind telling you it took a start out of me when it was first brought home. My servant lass had put it out in the middle of my bedroom, and it was standing up of itsen, and spread out, so that when I saw it, I thought some one was inside, and going to run away wi’ it, and I shrieked out for help—eh! didn’t my lad and lass laugh at me—it was the iron thingamygigs inside—they call ‘em crinoline—that stuck it out like a balloon, and I wouldn’t wear none o’them: I couldn’t ha’ gotten out of door if I had put it on; I’m sure I couldn’t, I’m big enough ‘about.
Oh! you are by no means remarkably embonpoint.
That’s French for plump, isn’t it? I’ve heard it before from my Jenny. Eh! I was as slim as she is when I married my poor old man; he wouldn’t know me now were he alive.
He must have been a very happy man. Heigho!
What’s the matter wi’ the man, aint you well, that you breathe so hard?—hast the cholic-spasm, or a stitch in thy side? You can cure either immediately by taking a sup of burnt brandy.
Oh, no; it’s an affection of the heart.
Heartburn, mayhap?
Yes, my heart does burn.
Well, a little soda, or a bit of magnesia, will make that all right; if they’re not handy, nibble a bit of chalk. I often do myself.
Flutter of the heart, eh? I never had that but once, when I saw my old man in company with another lass, just a day before he got my leave to put up the askings; and he owned to me after that, that he did it on purpose to make me not hold him too cheap. Ah! he was a sly chap, my mester, but a good man for all that. But tell me, have you seen my lad or lass anywhere?
I think Miss Wildbriar is walking in the avenue with Mr. Everard Digby.
With the marquis? I’m afraid he’ll turn the girl’s head; if he doesn’t mean
to marry her it’s a great shame, and
Ahem! I think I may gain favour by revealing the truth as respects Miss
Euphemia. May I propose a stroll while I impart a secret to you, Mrs. Wildbriar?
I wanted either the lad or the lass to keep me company, as I have got the rheumatiz in my ancle, and must have some one to lean on; and besides, I hate walking alone.
I shall be most happy to be permitted to offer my arm; pray lean on it.
Eh! it aint much of an arm you have to lean on, man; I should tire you.
Fear not; animated by a spirit of admiration, it would sustain you for a life time.
Eh! it ‘ud break in two under half my weight in a jiffey; but as I cannot do ‘bout a stick of some sort, I may as well have you as another, and I shan’t lean heavy on thee; so come along, and tell us your secret.
I say, mother!—oh, she’s gone.
And so, Mr. Wildbriar, you don’t share in the general admiration bestowed upon the Woodlands?
No, do you? well that is kind of you; but may be it’s because no one else
cares much about speaking to you;— excuse me, I come fra Lancashire, and always
speaks my mind.
I admire your candour; and it may be a sympathy arising from the neglect we mutually experience, that suggests the friendly interest that exists between us.
Oh, I have no interest at all in the matter; you speak to me, and I speak to you in return, and much obliged. I’m a civil lad, and no wastrail. Are you fond o’ toffey?
Toffey!—I must plead ignorance of what it is.
No! Where were you brought up?
In Paris principally.
Ah, that accounts for your not knowing English. It’s made of sugar and butter baked in a pan. I’ve got some real Everton—brought a stock with me—and I’ll let you have a lump when I see you again.
I shall prize any gift of yours.
Eh! you mun eat it, woman, and not prize it. I say, you don’t like their manner of living in this house, do you?
Ahem!—not much.
Neither do I;—there’s no getting a meal in decent time; they eat their breakfast when they should be taking their dinner, their dinner when they should have done their tea, and their tea when it’s supper time, and their supper when they should be waking out of their first sleep.
Earlier hours would certainly be more healthful.
Aye, that they would; and what’s worst of all is the lots of slops and made-up dishes that come on the table before you can get anything substantial to eat, and nothing much then. I did think to enjoy my dinner yesterday, because there was a giblet pie, but there was no black pudding in it, and it warn’t worth much. You like black puddings, of course?
Black currant puddings?
What!—Black currant pudding in a giblet pie? Noa, black puddings made wi’ pig’s meat and groats or oatmeal, Eh! when we lived on the farm we always had such a stock; mother makes them prime! but what’s worst here is that they never have a dumpling to begin with. You know what they are, I suppose?
Yes, when a child I remember being partial to an apple dumpling.
Oh, I mean suet dumplings; hard ones, to eat wi’ gravy, pepper and salt, or it may be treacle—good hard ‘uns; them’s the chaps to fill up; if I could only catch mother out of a fine dress, I’d persuade her to go down into the kitchen and make some, just for once; she makes them better than any one else—first rate. Oh, you should taste mother’s dumplings.
I should be most happy.
Would you?—then, ecod, I’ll get mother to make some to-day, eh? This is the
only bit of pleasant conversation I’ve had since I’ve been here. She’s a
stunning nice girl after all; rather thin, but dumplings would bring her round
soon. She seems to be sweet on me, and I’m in a great mind to make
No; I should like to visit it much—it’s a delightful expectation with me.
No; is it? I say, you’re a rare nice wench to talk to. If I were to offer to gi’ thee a buss, you wouldn’t lug or pow my hair, would you?
I really don’t know what you mean.
Don’t understand Lancashire English at all?
I must confess ignorance of those words.
Ah, I shall be obliged to give her up; never get along wi’ her so ignorant.
But I should be very willing to learn.
Noa, would you?—ecod, then I’ll begin to teach you. You see, this is a buss.
Ha, ha, ha!
Haw, haw! wwhat are you laughing at ? I'll be bound that both on you ha' kissed your sweethearts in secret as well as me, and when you're alone — you wi' my sister, and you wi' Miss Lucy, I don't interfere or intrude on you — do I?
Ha, ha, ha!
Haw, haw! — you may haw, haw, as much as you like; but I'll fight either of you, with or without clogs on, Lancashire fasion, on the grass plat yonder if you please.
I’ll fight you, if I hear you making such a noise in the house. What’s up wi’ you at all, man?
Well, them two stuck-up chaps were laughing at and jeering me, because they caught me give Miss What-you-call-her a buss.
Eh! did you give her a buss?
I did.
Buss her again, lad, if thou likes it; I didn’t think thee had so much pluck in thee. Let them laugh as wins. Gie me a buss, lad; you are as good as they wi’ all their parade, and I’ll make thee some dumplings for thy dinner.
Noa, will you? Hurrah! Dumplings for ever!
Mr. Everard Digby does not seem to know his own mind, except to the extent of being in love with me—that’s of course. Very innocent or very stupid he must be, if he cannot see that I am only waiting to be asked: to blush, hesitate, look aside, and say, or rather sigh, Yes.—This problem I ought to solve, will solve, shall solve. Oh! I know I shall, for I know that I’m a clever little girl, and that he’s in love with me, and that I’m in love with him, and with plenty of money there can be but one solution—marriage! Bravo! clever little girl. But it’s still to be wrought out:—how? Make him jealous. Yes: of whom?—the elegant but sly Sir Lionel Norman, who has seen that I am pretty and well-mannered, if not so handsome or high-bred as Miss Vavasour, and possibly may prove richer, and so spares me a little indirect attention, just sufficiently pointed, when I meet him alone, to suggest a motive, and to be an excuse for a grand avowal, if that should hereafter prove politic. Clever man; but what of that? there never was a male coquette a match at his own game for a clever little girl. Oh, he is here.
One hundred thousand pounds, with a reversion of twenty-five thousand pounds at the least; and she’s pretty, very pretty, and surprisingly well-mannered. Soft! she is here. Young girls like sentiment, and adore heroics. Ahem! “Is it a nymph, a naaid, or a Grace, that with her presence queens this lovely place?”
And “What didst thou muse on, meditating maid?” Shall I go on? “On earth thou
standest, thy thoughts ascend to heaven.”
Oh, dear, no! mine were very terrestrial thoughts, I was just thinking what a beautiful place the Woodlands is, and wishing ——
To be mistress of such another.
Nay; it is too large a setting for a little Lancashire diamond, too extensive
a kingdom to be queened with becoming dignity by such a little rustic body as
myself. I should like to steal a nook out of it, like this; no grand woods, but
orchards and shrubberies, and a petite lawn, that a couple of limes or
sycamores would serve to embower, and a low, quaint, old-fashioned house,
cloisteral in its outward appearance, but luxuriously elegant, and yet cozy, if
I may couple the terms, within. I should feel at home there; a sort of Rosamond
in her bower, or Amy Robsart at Cumnor:
What charming naïvete! Of all wildbriar roses, surely this is the prettiest.
I have heard it said that Norman Abbey is not unlike my ideal, Sir Lionel; is it so?
You have poetized, and yet most faithfully described my ancestral home.
Oh! I should so like to see it.
Would you? you may—you shall, if it so please you.
And yet, no; for if it should realize my dream, I should be loath to leave it.
And you know that I should have to do that.
Oh! now you flatter.
Indeed, I do not: short as our acquaintance has been, Miss Wildbriar, I
assure you that it has sufficed to awaken feelings in my breast of the warmest
admiration, and the most earnest respect for my new and charming friend.
And this is not a mere compliment?
It is a profound truth.
Heigho!
You sigh; surely I have not offended?
Oh, no. Have you to learn, Sir Lionel, that sighs are sometimes expressive of happiness?
Thank you. Sir Lionel. My cousin and Mr. Everard Digby.
It may; I have not much taste in these matters, but it seems to me common
enough.
It is very pretty, but Sir Lionel is mistaken, it is not a camelia, it is a
new and elegant variety of the common pansy, vulgarly termed, “two faces under a
hood;”
I came to look for Miss Vavasour, I was told that she was here, or at least in the shrubberies. Excuse me; I have some business to communicate.
My dear cousin, I shall be most happy to listen, for I’m in excellent spirits, and almost need a sermon to keep me from laughing.
That’s very harsh.
It is true. We are out of our place here, let us not lose here the virtues, the absence of which would make us out of our place at home.
Cousin, you are a very superior man, but you will allow that another member of the family may be clever too—not to the same extent, for you’re a great man, and I’m only a little girl, but on certain subjects clever little girls are just as wise as great men; and now let me give you a bit of advice, not in the way of retort, but out of a cousin’s regard and a woman’s respect for your good heart and your great talents, which she does not like to see subjected to the double grief of insult and disappointment.
I guess—I guess; but go on—I listen.
You are more out of your place here than I am. You love Miss Vavasour, and by
the tenor of the will, despite your low birth, you are authorized to seek a
return of your affection. That is hopeless. She was all but pledged previously
to Sir Lionel Norman. She would have refused you at once, but was over persuaded
by her mother and friends to wait the issue. She has been further persuaded to
play a part likely to offend or provoke you (as your admiration has been
apparent), in the hope that you would decline, and so dower her with the
fortune. If she should be induced, as by Sir Lionel’s doubtful conduct and her
mother’s persuasion she may, to accept you, it will be for the money, and not
love, nor even liking.
Ah, here’s a bonny place, and seats too; that’s right; for I’m right down
tired, and want to rest mysen.
Yes, this, of all places in the grounds, is my treasure trove—my sanctuary.
Heyday, ’tis already occupied. Mr. Hawthorne and Miss Wildbriar
tête-à-tête. Faun and wood-nymph. Oh! it is my turn to be jealous
now.
Thou hast no need, lass—second cousins can’t marry—first may.
Oh, indeed—a consolatory regulation.
Yes; it was arranged under my direction—all the shrubs and flowers are rare exotics—not more beautiful than some native to our gardens; but then the price gives them an additional value.
I object to that; I don’t believe that you are any such exception to the general rule of your sex.
I don’t care what you think; I tell you it is so.
No.
Sir!
Oh, yes; but nothing vexes me so much, as being accused of a paucity of wit.
Not bad—yield him the honours, Adolphus—the Dacian is only learning to fence,
and handles his foil like a club.
We still lack enlightenment, Mr. Hawthorne: your reason against extravagance—woman’s pet privilege.
It’s insufferable!—offensive in the extreme!
I am glad of it; but the habit of extravagance is much worse—more vicious than the word—more hideous behind any mask it may assume; it vitiates and leaves a gangrene—a slime upon the soul.
Truth—truth! I can’t object to that.
But I do; for it’s a very disagreeable doctrine. Our little elegancies of costume—our delicate devices of ornament for boudoir or bower—as they improve our appearance, and shed light and fragrance on our journey through life, lift us above the level of the mere sensual wayfarers, and repay the expenditure.
That arrow sped; the bear has retired to his den to grumble over his discomfiture.
I shall make him come forth again, and speedily.
Oh, you wish it to be picked up?
Oh, no; having asked Mr. Hawthorne, I can receive it only from him.
Oh, if the gentleman can acquire a merit in the performance of the office of a lacquey, by all means let him. It is a service I should never volunteer.
Indeed! may I ask why?
Because I could not suppose you to be so foolish as to throw your handkerchief down, for the mere purpose of having it picked up again.
Throw it down?
You certainly did. I saw you.
I am glad of it; it has, doubtless, enabled you to distinguish the man from the fopling.
Sir, you are personal.
Yes; but hang it—a fopling!
I admit your objection to be classed with the mere neophytes and tadpoles,
such as your friend; and will acknowledge you to be a master in the craft—a B.A.
of the foppish beau-monde.
Ha! ha! ha!
I can’t object to anything this fellow says. I shall be obliged to avoid his
company, or I shall lose the only pleasurable excitement that life affords me.
He’s a d—d deal too clever; and I rather suspect that he has seen through our
game from the first.
If so, how he must despise me—with what a sense of superiority he must look down upon this petty device.
Bravo, cousin; he begins to understand the game, and to play it well.
Here, Rob. Eh! now I shall have some one to speak English to me, and needn’t sit mumchance any more. I haven’t understood a word that has been spoken here for the last half hour. What does thee want, lad?
Eh! all the nobs here—and Jenny, too—to frighten the thoughts out of my head, whenever I open my mouth, with her winks and nods? Mother, I mun speak in private wi’ you.
No, lad; speak up—whispering ain’t good behaviour in dacent company. What’s got to say?
What’s o’clock? my watch has gone down; but I know by my stomach that it must be near mealtime, and them dumplings mun be done.
No; I dunnot want thee now. I’ve got my lad, Robin. Get off wi’ ye.
Corydon without his Phillis. Ha! ha!—Mrs. Vavasour, the gentle Euphemia has proved susceptible, and made a conquest, too, at last.
What mean you?
What’s he calling me names for?
Woo the mother, eh?
What's that, Adolphus?
Eh! you can speak Lancashire English?
Yes, lad, and I needn’t be ashamed, for it’s getting into great favor in this quarter. Which is to take place first, thy mother’s wedding, or thy own?
My mother’s? Haw! haw! haw! She’s none going to make such a fou of hersen.
I don’t know that. There’s a gentleman here so much attached to you and yours, that he’s anxious to become thy stepfeyther.
A gentleman! No—eh! Shan’t I have such a laugh at mother. Which be he?
Oh! Of course the gentleman who accompanies her in her morning walks, and who just now was so desirous to save you the trouble of helping her from her chair.
What, that whipper-snapper? What, that chap with the Billy-goat beard? Haw!
haw! haw!
Noa, lad. What’s put that in thy head.
It’s nought o’ sort!—it’s nought o’ sort!
He wants to be my feyther. Haw! haw! haw! What a feyther he’d be!
Get along wi’ you. If I thought he wur, I’d box his ears.
It’s for sure. What does he go a walking wi’ you for, and a sniggling up to thee, and offering his arm? It’s thy money he wants, and not thee, woman.
Ha! ha! ha!
Eh! if I was sure he meant it, I’d break his head.
I shouldn’t object to that.
How dare he think a woman of my time of life would have the loikes of him, a laced-up dandy, wi’ a waist as small as my Jenny’s? Eh! if I wanted a husband, which, Heaven be thanked, I dunnot, it’s summut of a man to look at I’d have, and not a hop-o’-my-thumb skipjack. He’d better not come near me agin, or I’ll slap his face.
No, no; I assure you, on my honor, it’s all a mistake.
I object to that; I believe he meant it, on my soul.
Oh! well, if it’s displeasing to you, never mind; but it’s plain to be seen, for all that. I always speaks my mind.
That’s right, mother; so do I! no double fence about straight-forward Lancashire folk.
Achilles upright in his armour, but mine is only club wit, and boasts no point at all; and yet, abroad in the Woodlands, I thought your Arcadian reveries might have suggested a supposititious Endymion, who, in the chase of a Diana, had marked down a Hebe among the satyrs, as a prize positive, if the superlative divinity should escape.
Ha! ha! ha!
Sir, this inference is impertinent.
What, you bleed? But I forgot when Achilles knelt at Hymen’s shrine, he laid aside his armour, and proved vulnerable in heel as well as heart.
Sir, I—I—damnation.
Gentlemen, adieu! don’t follow, or beware the fate of Actaeon. Mr. Hawthorne, we shall meet, I hope, at dinner.
You have fairly avenged yourself.
You have taken an unfair advantage in the repetition of words not intended for your ear.
You meant to take an unfair advantage in assailing the barbarian, as he was deemed, with the weapons of your supposed superior civilization.
To end this, sir, I demand an apology.
Which I decline to make.
I thought so.
Then, sir, you compel me to waive all further courtesy of consideration, and to seek the satisfaction usual amongst gentlemen.
A duel? I thought that had become unusual amongst gentlemen; but I forgot, you would rather type one of the actual paladins of the past age, than be the representative of their spirit in the present. How if I refuse?
I shall feel authorised to speak of you in public as an insolent, and a coward.
A disagreeable alternative enough, although a man of sense might hope to live it down. Let me see; I heard you boast the other day that you were a capital pistol shot.
As you may be.
I am not good enough to make it a boast.
The assassin-like sentiment of your friend, Sir Lionel, I will suppose you are too lineal a descendant of our chivalric conquerors to echo.
Confound his quick ear.
You said, at the same time, that although you had been a pupil of Angelo’s,
from your disinclination to enlarge or afflict with ridges your
characteristically small hand, you had never practised with the broadsword;
neither have I, and my hand, by some extraordinary freak of nature, is as small
as yours. The only shadow of a grace that can belong to a duel, is that which
makes the chances equal between the belligerents. Suppose we send for a couple
of Andrew Ferraras,
Sir, the proposal, if seriously meant, hath an air of complete savagery. It would sink us at once to the level of mere barbarians. No, sir, to that I cannot consent.
But you would level your pistol at my body, in the confidence of a skill
certain to send a bullet through heart or brain. The savagery is worse, because
more cold-blooded and assassin-like.
Enough, sir. To-morrow, at sunrise, beyond—
Which he most readily accepts.
The last day of doubt has passed; within an hour or two must hesitation cease, and yet she gives no sign. True, since the day on which I was surprised into a betrayal of my feelings, and then goaded into a retort of her friends’ scorn, her manner has changed. It is now deferential and observant, at times hesitating and nervous, as still doubtful of the result. Hopeless of inducing me to recede, and persuaded by her mother and her friends that it were better to sacrifice her feelings than the fortune, she accepts me as a fate, and is endeavouring before marriage to accommodate her manners unto mine; a submissive baseness of soul, of which I did not think she could have been guilty. I wish that she had kept up the mask—the play; it was finesse, but still warfare, and I could have carried into solitude a reverence for the idol of my dream, though that idol had not listened to my prayer.
Alone, and soliloquising? I object to that upon your wedding day.
My wedding day?
Yes;—if by twelve o’clock you are not married, the fortune either goes to the lady, or comes to you, or is locked up in trust for an indefinite number of unknown brats. I object to that, and to the principle of Chartered Charity Schools in general: their endowments—particularly if they increase in value—always become objects of peculation to trustees and governors, and in the end the greater portion is subverted from the original purpose of the investments; schools turned into close boroughs, that there’s no poking any little snub-nose into without some great influence, like a hydraulic ram at his back;—mostly used for rich men’s illegitimates, keeping fatheaded deacons in greasy sinecures, and a few unfortunate boys in a fantastic dress, that makes them ashamed of themselves for the rest of their lives.
That was premature; our formal consent to an
Your formal consent goes for nothing without the marriage, as the will is worded: thought of that; and as you are the only man to whom I don’t object, resolved to look after your interest in time.
Well, well, I thank you, and it matters but little.
You speak lightly, and I object to that upon so important a subject. You surely can’t be careless about your wife; you did admire, respect—did love her; must so still.
Yes; no.
I object emphatically to such a contradictory reply. People should know their own minds.
Well, I don’t object to that.
I will confess to you that I did love, and still could love, Lucy—Miss Vavasour; that I did admire, respect, even when most consciously the object of her scorn; but that now I cannot give my esteem, nay, have some difficulty in withholding my contempt, from the woman who seems base enough to give her heart to a title, and yet sell her person for wealth.
Doctor, doctor, this is special pleading. The cant of the nursery, or of the
boudoir, should neither find utterance on the man’s lips, nor echo in the
woman’s heart. No, no; romance may heighten, beautify with its tinted light the
sacrifices made for truth’s sake, even as the hues of the stained window serve
to enrich the twilight atmosphere of the cloister, or to soften the sunbeam on
the cenotaph; but you must not take it into the service of self-interest, or
make it pander to the legalization of vice, and hope to preserve its loveliness,
or to make its charms a plea for sinning. Romance risks poverty, adventures
peril, to wed hands with hearts, even as natural alliances are made among the
simplest, least sophisticated, and
Can’t object to that; he always gets the better of me in an argument.
But dismiss your fears on my account; with moderate desires I can live, even without the annuity accruing to me, should I refuse a joint share in this princely inheritance.
My dear doctor, what I shall do as yet, short as is the time, is a secret to
myself. The sequel you will know almost as soon as I shall.
Gentlemen, good day. Mr. Hawthorne, if you are not particularly engaged, I should feel obliged by a few minutes’ private conversation.
Certainly, if Dr. Playfair will give me leave.
Oh! I don’t object to that.
Oh, yes; but not without an enormous sacrifice of wealth.
Which enormous sacrifice she has sent you to suggest that I should make?
Oh, no; she is not aware that I have interfered in the matter.
Then why do you?
Why out of consideration for her, as she does not love you—In fact—ahem!—may be presumed to have long loved another.
What a delicate gentleman!
No, not exactly; but it is an inference—a fact to be implied from the whole tenor of her conduct.
Indeed! I had thought, Sir Lionel, that the sacrifice
Well, neither is it; but as you are a new man, and seem to have stricter principles in these matters, I thought your early prejudices in favour of the opposite kind of sacrifice might induce you—
To make myself the victim, and enable Miss Vavasour to become Lady Norman, and Sir Lionel Norman lord of the Woodlands! Upon my word, Baronet, you compliment me so highly by your generous and chivalric opinion, that I should be only too happy to oblige you. But, pray why did not this suggestion come from Mrs. Vavasour, who must have her daughter’s confidence in the matter.
Oh, because she did not think you likely to be persuaded; and, believing that the marriage must take place, she was fearful it might prejudice her daughter’s future peace of mind, should it provoke your anger.
Oh, she does not hold so high an opinion of me as you do. I am again your debtor, Sir Lionel, but at present can hold out no hope of compliance with this particular request. It is too late; wants but an hour or so of the appointed time. Egad, I must go and dress. You will be present at the ceremony, of course?
Um! I gave him credit for more high principle: the mercantile spirit of the age has depraved even the scholar and the puritan.
And are you sure—quite sure—that Mr. Hawthorne is the author of these words?
Am I sure? Am I a clever little girl?—Listen and judge. Yesterday, passing one of the rooms upon our side— the Montague side of the mansion—I caught the sounds of a piano; I entered, and found my cousin Romeo, I mean Frank, playing from a new score, and humming, rather than singing, the words. He was confused, apologised for having remained, and when I enquired his theme, said it was an old strain he had been endeavouring to arrange to some new words, but as the work was imperfect, he declined to submit it to my judgment. In his confusion, and the haste of his exit, he did not notice that on the table he had left a copy—the first, I should presume, from the erasures. I found it, liked, and thought it expressed a feeling that you ought to know.
Is he not yet conscious of its being in your possession?
I don’t know—I have not seen him since; he is very sensitive, and if he has
discovered its loss, would rather slight
Yes ; that is in keeping with his character.
(r.) Oh ! you have taken some notes of that. Have I guessed rightly in believing that you have learned at last to feel a little interest about this self-willed cousin of mine?
The peculiarities of his character are too apparent to escape notice, even had not the relation in which we stand compelled some observance.
That is said in the very spirit of a grand lady ; but the grand lady has a heart in her bosom, as well as the little girl; and yours, which I am sure has not been vitiated, must be susceptible of a nearer interest than can possibly belong to mere observance about the character of your future husband.
(l.) My future husband—who knows ?
(r.) Love ever suggests liking in return, and he loves you.
Nonsense, child. He dreamt of an Egeria,—an ideal mistress—but, looking on
the idol, found it false-—very dross and clay. Love me !—he makes no effort to
win my love—he moves, speaks, and thinks, independently of all reference to me.
No, no ; he accepts me as his destiny—hopeful, perhaps, that at the last moment
I may refuse. It is but a fair retort; I did the same, and earned his contempt,
and my own, too. {
Jenny,
Sir Lionel?—-perhaps.
You can sing at sight; I wish you'd just try over that song for me.
No, no; I—I couldn't.
Do, do; see, here is a piano; let me accompany you; it's very pretty; just
listen,
No, no. Pshaw—it's very childish.
Then please give it back to me, as you don't like it, and I do.
Take it; and yet I—I should like to copy the words. {
{
The ceremony—will it ever take place ? And are these his real sentiments, or
is it a mere poetical fancy ? There is an air of truth in the very simplicity of
the words ; they are not brain wrought, but heart sung : should I reject him,
'twere noble; but then, how to convince him of my motive,
Pardon, Miss Vavasour, if that I intrude. I have been speaking seriously to your mother, and the result is a desire to do my duty honourably by you.
Sir Lionel, one word first. I have not the remotest claim upon your consideration or duty, and perhaps this assurance will spare you further avowal.
{
I have not noticed it, and fully pardon that which gave me no concern.
What sacrifice ?
That of your feelings to your interest.
What feelings?
You do not reply.
It is useless to particularise feelings that must of necessity be laid aside, and buried with the past.
To marry another man, whom you think I do not like ; and yet you talk of
respecting—loving me in the same breath. Oh, shame ! Oh, Chivalry, thou hast
indeed fled the earth, and Mammon has established his empire over the heart of
youth itself, in peer and peasant,
Pardon me, it is not for myself I speak, it is from a consideration of your welfare.
Which you think more likely to be assured by a fortune than by your love.
That is probable ; but I will give you more credit than you do yourself, Sir
Lionel: your advice commits no outrage upon the character of your love, which
could not co-exist in the same breast with the feelings that prompted your
honourable consideration for my welfare. You never loved me, nor I you, of that
I have been long convinced : we moved in the same society, went to the same
balls, danced in the same set of quadrilles, applauded the same operas, and
being equally young and heartless, thought we were a pair, but we were not; and
this act, which completes, or rather establishes, the fact of our severance,
does not cost the slightest pang to either.— Good day, sir.
Sir Lionel, I am fortunate in finding you, as from your professed friendship, I am sure of your advice on what is to me a very important subject.
Miss Wildbriar, I am most honoured by your confidence. Command every service in my power to render you.
You have so often noticed me, and always with so much kindness, that not having any one in my own family who is familiar with high life, or capable of advising me, I thought of you the moment I was asked to become a marchioness.
A marchioness!
Yes; and I said to myself, Sir Lionel, who is the very pattern of high life, the beau ideal of a fine gentleman, can best tell me whether or not I ought to accept this offer— whether I could hope to move in the fashionable world without provoking a question as to my birth and breeding.
You, Sir Lionel—you—why, I always thought you were in love with Miss Vavasour.
Miss Wildbriar, I shall be candid with you, and own that for a long time I was devoted to that lady—was indeed— until your star rose over the horizon, and drew the eye of my affection after it; doubtless with more ease, because the terms of the will made it a duty, upon my part, to avert my thoughts from Miss Vavasour.
Oh, dear me ! I wish I had known this sooner; for as a baronet is not so high up as a marquis, I think I should not be so likely to lose my self-command and stumble ; and the worst of it is, I have given my promise.
Promise ! This is really too bad, Miss Wildbriar. Why come to ask my advice as to what you should do, when you have already decided your fate?
Miss Wildbriar, I should else be worse than a scoundrel—a puppy !
And you would make me mistress of that dear delightful place, Norman Abbey ?
And of its master, too,
Miss Wildbriar, as your mother and brother, I should respect them, at a distance. I must be candid. I could not introduce them into my circle.
Oh! and I should never see them?
Nay, I should not object to your visiting, and passing a day or so with them once a year.
But they might never come to Norman Abbey ?
Don't you think, Sir Lionel, that all circumstances considered, it were better for you not to risk any connection with a family you regard as likely to bring you into discredit even with your servants ?
Oh, no. The beauty and manners of Lady Norman are certain to approve Sir Lionel Norman's taste, and the wife's individuality is merged in the husband's. Not so with her family. I should marry you, not the others.
Not though each of them was dowered with £100,000?
No.
Well, Sir Lionel, your honesty has a particular merit on the part of a very fine gentleman, and compels a like return of honest avowal upon my part. I would not marry a marquis who was ashamed either of me or mine. From the first moment of our acquaintance, I have seen that my mother and brother's provincialities were subjects of scorn and of ridicule to you, and to your clique, and yet each one of us has been tolerated and flattered in private, as the great people's interest suggested. While making love to Miss Vavasour you coquetted with me, and I confess that I did the like with you, for the purpose of leading you on to this proposal, and of paying back the slights put, both covertly and openly, on plain, but honest people whose possessions are coveted by fine, but disingenuous gentlemen. Sir Lionel Norman, the little Lancashire farmer's daughter begs to decline the honour of your alliance.
Oh, no: I suspected that jest the moment I heard it, and almost immediately satisfied myself by reference to a directory, which told me there was no such peer as the Marquis of Banterdown, but that there was a Mr. Everard Digby, barrister.
Well, Miss Wildbriar, I am in your hands. You have gained your point; you triumph, and I seek no mercy.
Spoken like a hero that deserves some. I am mute Sir Lionel, from this
moment, as to the past; and as I think Miss Vavasour did once like you, and may
be induced again and as my cousin is a strange man, let me advise you to keep
Thank you, my good fairy.
Poor Sir Lionel! I think he will give over coquetry from to-day.
She his {h}alone at last. I thought the baronite was about to {h}anticipate me, but, from the 'igh tones in which they spoke, there can have been no proposal. Miss Wildbriar, may I 'ave the {h}extreme 'appiness of {h}addressing a word to you?
Mr. James, is it you? Certainly. What is it? A message from Miss Vavasour?
No, Miss Wildbriar; it's a message from my 'art; it's a personal communication, which you will be pleased to consider marked private and strictly confidential.
Dear me, you surprise me ; what is its nature ?
Miss Wildbriar, let me ask you, hare you {h}aware of my {h}antecedents, and of the 'igh position I 'ave {h}ever held as a {h}upper servant in the most recherchiest establishments in Belgravia and May Fair ?
Well, no, Mr. James.
What's Jenny talking to that flunky for? I'll listen.
Miss Wildbriar, I {h}am {h}of a particularly sensitive nature, {h}and I meditate retiring into private life. I am proud to say not without resources. I have an account at Coutts', and credit for three oughts with a very respectable numeral before them.
I am glad to hear it; your's will be a dignified retirement.
I 'ope it will; but I 'ave all my life been accustomed to society, and I hope to be accompanied {h}into privacy by a companion of the softer sex.
Oh, you are going to be married, I presume to Miss Jemima Simperton ?
Oh, no ; I {h}am {h}aware that there is a softness in that quarter, but I have had a glimpse into her bank-book, and the figure don't suit.
Then who is to be the happy woman?
In your mind's eye, I presume ?
I {h}am not {h}aware that my mind has any {h}eye. No ! I sees her now with the {h}eyes in my 'ead.
What, me ? Oh, this is too good.
Oh, no; I don't want to make a merit of the condescension. I have but one objection to make, that his to the other members of your family, whom I should {h}expect you, as soon as the settlements are made, and your fortune secured tightly, to cut altogether.
Kind and condescending, Mr. James—even more exacting than the baronet. Oh ! if mamma could only hear this. Mr. James, upon this subject I must refer you to mamma.
I perceive this must be a case of Gretna Green, Miss Wildbriar, if it is to come off at {h}all.
Ha! ha ! ha !
Be off wi' you, or I'll Gretna Green thee. I shall forget mysen if thee doesn't go, and shake all the flower out of your powdered nob.
{H}assaults are {h}actionable.
Do, Mr. James, and preserve the dignity of an upper, in the calm contemplation of a great mistake.
That's very pointed; she rejects and turns me into reticule—sneers at me,
too.
For shame of thysen for laughing at, or listening to, him at all; thou ought have boxed his ears, and thee going to wed wi' a marquis.
Oh, dear no, mamma; truth must out: Mr. Everard Digby is no more than a barrister.
Aye, to be sure; that's his cognito.
Ha ! ha ! mamma, the fiction of his being a marquis
Eh! have they all been laughing at me for my mistakes. Well, they may call themselves ladies and gentlemen, but they couldn't do more if they were Bolton trotters; but never mind, I'm not so foolish as to make them laugh more by losing my temper. Thee shall wed wi' him all the same ; and may be it's all the better, for thou might'st make a very good wife, wench, to a plain gentleman, and be but a poor catch for a marquis.
Oh, mamma! a marquis can be no more than a gentleman. But you are right, I
might falter, and trip under the weight of a coronet and an ermined robe; for
I'm only a Lancashire wild rose, after all.
Well, you see, there's a lot of folks going to be wed. Jenny and her cognito—that's either a lawyer or a lord—I don't know which; and cousin and Miss Lucy; and so, ecod, 1 think I may as well have a turn mysen.
What do you mean ?
Why, I wants to get wed, too.
Go on wi' you—it's too soon yet, wi' your smock face, to think of getting wed.
Why, I have as much right as Jenny, and more, if it comes to that; for I'm older, by a matter of two years.
That's nought to signify. The lad should always be a deal older than the lass. I don't mind thee flirting and sweet-hearting a bit, for lads will do it—it's only natural; but thee munnot think of getting wed these four or five years, when thee'lt look summat like a man.
Get off wi' ye! I mun not ?
No ; you mun not.
Then all fat's i' th' fire; and you mun pay damages for breach of promise.
Why; what hast done ?
Why, I ha' done it.
What hast done?
Why, I dun it—axed lass to marry.
Well, she'll take no harm o' that, and won't die of fright.
No ; but you told me I might gie her a buss; and when I met her again, and
tried to, she wouldn't let me, and said that it was only proper between folks as
wur going to wed; and so I up and axed her to wed wi' me; and she seemed struck
of a heap, and couldn't answer; and that Mr, Adolphus coming
That was right enough, and straight forward.
Well, then, she said summut about it's only being a joke, and that I wasn't in earnest; and Mr. Adolphus told me I mun write a letter, promising to marry her; and he wrote out a form, in which I promised to wed her right off, or forfeit £5,000; and I signed, and gie'd it lass, and she took it, but wouldn't gie me a buss then, till she saw you, and had your consent.
Eh ! you soft one—I'll consent her—where is she?
There, outside the door, waiting till I call her in, to get your blessing.
Call her in. I'll give her a blessing.
No, will you? It's all right, then—come in, lass, mother consents.
Come here, and look me in the face ; thou shameless baggage, to go and take advantage of a poor, soft, ninny loike that lad, and hook him into a promise. For shame o' thysen; but thou shan't have him, nor touch a penny o' my money. I'll spend it all, to the last fraction, sooner than thou should'st get a farthing.
To come over lad wi' your sly ways, and your coaxing looks, and your humming and hawing, and all the time you don't care the snap of my finger for him, and only want to get a tight hould of his bit o' money.
Oh ! this is too much,
Na, na, mother,
Eh! that's more than lad ever said to me before.
Oh, Mr. Wildbriar, you should not make use of such language to your mother on
any account. Don't let me be the cause of strife. Forget me—I make no claim—have
And he talks of never seeing me, never no more, and all on account of you.
He does not mean it; as for me, I shall not be the cause of dispute—I resign
my hopes—I give him back his promise,
No, will you—the written one?
What written one ?
Haw! haw! haw!
Not take bond for £5,000!
No !
No ! for by refusing five, I made sure of a hundred.
Nor give me a promise without your leave, and then I made up my mind to have her; but I thought it best to trot you a bit first, and I have done it nicely, too. Haw ! haw! haw !
And my feyther's, too.
Come here, lass, thou'rt a good wench.
Get off wi' ye, five or six years !
Well, then, a year or so; thou shalt have him, one hundred thousand pounds, and my blessing.
Aye, that we will.
Eh ! that she is, or she might ha' whistled for me.
I have been informed, that you wish to speak to me, madam.
Yes, Mr. Hawthorne; our mutual position, on the verge of a very close relationship, must excuse the freedom and confidential character of my speech. You appear to have taken umbrage at the little device Lucy and I put in practice in the early stage of our acquaintance with you, the motive of which was rather to elicit your character than to offend you.
You are quite sure of that?
Now, although previously Lucy may have had other prospects, of course she has of late looked forward only to her union with you, and has endeavoured to adapt herself to your ideas and views; and it has pained me to observe that you have not seemed to appreciate her amiability in this matter.
I thought the compliment was paid rather to the future fortune than to the future husband.
Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, you do yourself and my daughter, too, an injustice. Of course the fortune is an object —a great object—but we must have some little consideration for the husband as well.
Now, Mr. Hawthorne, Lucy has noticed your neglect, and, I perceive, feels it deeply. I have seen traces of tears in her eyes even this morning, and I wish that just before you depart for the church, or sign the settlements, you would say a few gentle words to Lucy, which will assuage her fears of not being liked by you, and give a little grace to the sacrifice she has made of all former views.
Well, madam, I shall think the matter over.
Oh, I am sure that you will oblige me; it will so comfort and encourage my
poor child.
How anxious this woman is to rose over the sacrifice of her child's feelings;
what tender care, what a delicate consideration, she has for appearances; and
with what cold-blooded determination she puts the knife into the breast of a
first affection, that murmurs rebellion against the sway of self-interest! With
what surgical indifference she cuts off the superfluous growth of passion, and
smiles the while the patient writhes and groans! And yet she thinks herself a
good mother, and is really acting and speaking under the instinct of a fond one.
It is the Mammon worship that has perverted and corrupted in her breast that
purest and most holy of all instincts, a mother's love, into a worldly policy,
and made it a blight, and not a beauty—a curse, and not a blessing.
Where are the other parties ?—no time to waste; must put in appearance before twelve o'clock; just eleven hours three minutes and fifteen seconds of the day gone ;—it will take fifteen minutes to sign settlements, &c, and another quarter of an hour to reach the church.
I object to that—only ten minutes, as the carriages are ready at the door.
Tut! we must make allowance for the ladies, shawling and bonneting, sure to waste time.
I don't object to that; they always do.
Good day, good day, ladies and gentlemen. You are all aware that this is the
last hour of the six months prescribed for determining the recipients or
application of the large amount of the late Mr. Hawthorne's property, under his
will, formally read by me. Here are two forms of assent and dissent, for Lucy
Vavasour and Francis Hawthorne, either of which they will please to sign within
the five minutes
No, madam; your daughter's feelings, or her policy, must direct her choice. I shall not light one false beacon on her path, nor cast the lure of one persuasive word to tempt her into infamy.
Well, well, don't speak so loud, she might hear you.
Oh ! Lucy! Lucy! don't refuse; don't rush into poverty. I'm sure he'll be a kind man, and let you have your own way.
Heaven grant that now he may prove a harsh one.— But, hush! mother, hush ! I am listening to my heart.
,
Mind what you're about, lad; and don't sign wrong paper.
Tis done!
Mr. Hawthorne—Miss Vavasour—the five minutes have expired. The assentforms that you have signed, if you please.
Here, here, Mr. Cunningham, is my daughter's— good child. I am so happy !
Ha! ha! ha!
Eh ! the lad thinks a wedding like New Year or Christmas day.
Hush ! mother, hush !
No.
Why, he's gied her all the property.
Aye, look angrily ; it had become thee better but a moment before. Listen—harken all—my motive for this deed, not from vain-glory do I publish it, but to vindicate the act from any suspicion of recklessness, or want of due consideration. I did admire—did love this woman. I have no shame in the avowal, even when I knew she loved me not. I might have continued to love her, had she continued to make plain her known dislike, but tempted by this mighty wealth, she made a bargain with her pride—her heart—to hide themselves, till she had grasped some part of the golden prize.
Indeed, sir?
Indeed, indeed. What, then, remained? The sacrifice of wealth— vast wealth,
'tis true, and almost fabulous, or the sacrifice of honesty and self-esteem, the
double sacrifice between us —man's honor, woman's purity—those first great
principles, in which consists the soul's true likeness to its Maker—more vast
than time or space—the true illimitable—the eternity ! I could
He's a great character.
Spare thanks—acknowledgments. I do not reciprocate your esteem. I have no
wish to be rude, but henceforth we are strangers.
Hush ! No, no, mamma.
Second cousins can't marry, you know.
Then I'll have him mysen, if he'll have an old woman and £50,000.
Get off, and sit down, do. Shut up, mother!
It needs but our attestation as witnesses, that we have seen him sign.
Let that be done, and, pray, in the gentleman's presence.
It does.
How?
Oh, heaven! Can this be true, or is it a cruel jest ?
I knew your doubts; I guessed your proud resolve. Had I refused, all had been lost. This mighty wealth, your just inheritance, I made but mine to give it with myself to thee,
Lucy,
Hurray ! hurray ? Lancashire for ever !
Silence !—No, I don't object to that. Hurrah !
Who cares if thee did, man ? The lad's our cousin, and lass mun be our cousin now, and I'm glad on it, for she's best in house.
It was my device that brought you together—taught you to know each other. You owe all your happiness to me.
I object to that, doctor. My cousin will own to having taken a hint from a clever little girl, and Lucy must admit being in my debt for a glimpse into her lover's heart.
No, no; I will not admit being in debt to any one but to my husband, to whom I owed all my heart three months ago.
My love had still an earlier date ; it sprang into existence with my first glimpse of thee.
There's ingratitude!—what selfish creatures lovers are!
I object to that, or you and I would mind our own business.
Why you are not in love, are you? With whom?
I object to telling you, or anybody else.
Never mind, I shall find out, as sure as I'm a clever little girl. I suspect already it's with my mother.
No, no, no; I object to that.
Ha! ha ! ha! that's the very reason I believe it. Ha ! ha ! mamma, will you have the doctor for a beau ?
Noa, I should object to that; no, thank you; if I wanted to make a fool of mysen, I should have a better excuse for it than a cranky old body like that.
But the baronet has received a lesson that has raised him above participation in such regrets. Mr. Hawthorne, I trust you will this time accept the congratulations on your great and deserved felicity, which I most sincerely proffer.
Manfally and generously spoken, Sir Lionel, and in the true spirit of that
chivalry which has ever been, and I trust ever will be, the prevailing
characteristic of an English gentleman.
Unfortunately, I have no overstock of modesty or of common sense, or, in charity to your need, I should lend you some, Mr. Adolphus.
I should object to your lending him anything. Both his head and his heart are fruitless soil, and never would repay culture.
I beg pardon ; look at my hair and whiskers.
Well, I don't object to that, for I hope never to see you after to day.
Here comes James, to tender his resignation.
Oh, no; I perceive there is going to be a coalition between the {h}opposition and {h}independent parties, and as my politics are very promiscuous, I beg to say, that I am willing to continue in {h}office, which his always the grand {h}object of a {h}upper.
Ha! ha! ha!
And so the great Hawthorne property having been legitimately disposed of, and to everybody's satisfaction, ladies and gentlemen, I beg to inform you, that we have just thirty-five minutes, seven seconds, and a half left, to reach the church and get the marriage over: make haste; even a wedding can have no greater grace than punctuality.
Oh, yes, yes!
Indeed I shall give you one minute and a half, to name its rivals.
High connexions !
Good investments !
Honour and affection !
A little shrewdness !
No double dealings on either side !
Sentiment and simplicity !
Ay ! wedding first, and dumplings after !
A little objection to be got over.
{H}office and perquisites to follow.
A great inheritance.
No ; the union of hearts with hands,
The truth lives not alone in one grace, one virtue, but in all; and as we are certain to lack some, to ensure happiness we should temper the conscious pride of our respective merits with a charitable consideration for their companion faults, and so preserve them from that dangerous affinity to vice, which virtue's self acquires when she runs into Extremes.