First performed at the Royal Strand Theatre, (under the Management of Mr. H. V. Swanborough,) on Monday, July 8th, 1861.
Characters.
Drawing-Room in Lady Lonedale's Villa, Twickenham.
Lord Lonedale's Suite of Chambers in the Albany; afterwards at Lady Lonedale's Villa.
Time. The Present.
Time of Representation—Fifty-five minutes.
I see here that Lady Flamingo has got off another of her gawky girls. I wish the happy man much joy of his bargain; if he's wise, he'll travel a good deal after the honeymoon's over—if he hasn't courage to forbid his mother-in-law from entering his house.
I—I wish you hadn't told me that, mamma—it jars upon my feelings just now; for Lilian is every day becoming less and less a child, and more and more a woman.
Yes, bless her; and more darling and irresistible.
I fear you'll spoil her by your indulgence of all her wishes and fancies; but my greatest uneasiness is with reference to her future. In our painful position, I don't see how we are to be sure of securing a proper alliance for her.
What! because you happen to be living apart from your husband, who has deserted you for nearly fourteen years? Nonsense, my dear; nonsense.
Deserted is hardly the word, mamma; we parted in anger, and we have never become reconciled.
And never will, I hope, while I live. Lord Lonedale is a brute, and deserves to be treated as such.
Well, well, mamma—
But it isn't well; —it isn't well, after enduring such treatment as you have received from
him, for you to speak of him as you do—as if you regretted not having humbled yourself to him
and besought him to forgive you for having resented his brutality with proper womanly spirit.
Depend upon it, my
But you know that it was for Lilian's sake. Unfortunate as her position now is, surely it would have been made yet more so if I had taken the course you suggested.
Well, however that may be, I see no difficulty in the way of settling our darling in life. She is too lovely—and as my heiress, too rich, to want for a proper husband when the time comes. Leave all to me. You know that when I take a thing in hand it is done—and I flatter myself well done— having once decided, nothing turns me from my purpose, nothing.
Good gracious! what is the darling going to do?
Why, my dear Lilly, what pre- posterous trick are you playing now?
Help me—help me to set down my load, or the world's in imminent danger of coming to an
untimely end!
Really, my love, you puzzle me with your questions.
I beg your pardon, then, I won't puzzle you any more. But be a good mamma and tell me, if you were going to write to papa, where would you address your letter?
I—I should not know where to communicate with Lord Lonedale at the present time. He moves very frequently from place to place.
And never writes to let us know his whereabouts.
Well, my love, it doesn't in the least matter.
Oh, but it does matter, grandmamma! To have a papa without ever seeing him is very extraordinary, and I don't like anything that's extraordinary. Now, I tell you what I mean to do, if you won't tell me where papa is; I shall study geography until I make out the road to Japan and Java, by way of Jericho, and then I shall set out alone in search of papa.
There! there! now I've worried you both into the sulks!
No, no, my love, I've got a headache this morning.
And I've got a raging tooth—
Ah! I am an unhappy little girl, always asking some questions or other that fill you both with aches and pains. I'm afraid to ask you whether cousin Charles is coming to-day, for fear of driving you both into convulsions, and yet I'd give anything to know.
Well, then, you cunning puss, he is coming.
More than that, mamma, he is already come.
That's delightful! I wonder whether he's as good tempered and bashful as you say he used to be, before he went to India, and won a Victoria cross, and—
Sir Charles Rocket!
Yes, yes—there, that will do. Forgive me, cousins; but the having my name bawled out by servants makes me—makes me always feel inclined to run away instead of presenting myself.
Even to old friends and relations.
To say nothing of young friends and relations.
Lilly! Lilly! my dear—
Lilly! what! my cousin Lilian, who was a little girl twelve years ago, when I first entered the army?
And who is only a little girl, now that you have finally retired from the army.
Cousin, you must forgive Lilly her quips and cranks of speech.
Forgive her!—
One always feels the heat of the climate here, I suppose, after living in the cool atmosphere of India.
My love! my love! your cousin will think you quite unreasonable, I fear.
No he won't, without he thinks me ugly.
Ug—
Well, you might think me very ugly; for you don't offer to kiss me, as you used to do ten or twelve years ago, when you used to think me very pretty.
And if I thought you pretty then, I, I—
Finish your speech with a kiss, instead of a compliment.
My dear Charles, I don't know what you must think of our wild girl.
Think, cousin? I—I think how fond and proud her father—
Papa?
Yes; I was on foot, and he did not see me.
You must have mistaken some resemblance.
Hush! Have you forgotten?
Yes, yes, go on.
I—if you permit me, cousins, I'll take a turn in the garden by the river. It's very hot in here, and I could never stand heat.
Except in India.
Exactly, that is—
Madame Albert, your ladyship's dressmaker from town.
Say we'll come to her directly.
Will you pardon us, cousin, for leaving you alone for a few minutes?
Pray, my dear cousins, no ceremony.
You're very good, cousin; then I may leave you while I run and give my birds their
breakfast? Ta, ta.
My dear Charles, how could you be so forgetful?
A thousand pardons; but, I hoped that during the years I have been away—a reconciliation—
That will never take place, with my consent at all events.
The most difficult part of my position is, with regard to Lilian, who has so far been kept in ignorance of the actual state of affairs. Until something happens, which may make it necessary that the truth should be told to her—as her marriage, for example, of which there is no present prospect— we are anxious to keep the painful secret from her.
Charles will be on his guard now. Let us quit the
Au revoir, cousin.
What are your plans, Charles, now that you have come in for the baronetcy, and sold out of the army?
As to plans, cousin, upon my word I can't think of forming any. My confounded constitutional bashfulness stops me on every side.
It did not prevent you from winning three steps of promotion for bravery on the battle field and the award of a Victoria Cross for something called an heroic act performed at Lucknow.
My dear coz, if you talk to me in that way, your drawing-room will be the scene of a well- attested case of spontaneous combustion! The only thing I feel sure of being able to do tolerably well is, to do nothing.
Will you not even marry?
Marry? Oh! I've no objection to marriage in itself; but when one has got to win a wife—phew!
Well, who knows what may happen? Meantime, if I may leave you for a few minutes—
By all means, coz—if you will let me pay you a small compliment: you look more beautiful to-day than ever I saw you look before.
Heaven bless you, Charles—your heart was always better than your eyes.
Well, I hope it is so; for one's eyes are apt to fail one in the dark.
Hush!
What is it, you mysterious little beauty—I—I mean, cousin ?
I don't object to your being equally fond and com- plimentary; but first
As you say moments are precious. It's— very warm.
Cousin Charles—a secret has for many years been kept from me by mamma and grandmamma; you can clear it up—and you will do on the spot.
A—a secret?
Now, cousin, you don't know how to prevaricate,
That is—I thought—
Cousin—you're blushing.
It's so warm here.
You've been instructed by mamma!
What can make you think—
You've been bribed by grandmamma!
'Pon my honour—I assure you—don't you feel it's very warm here?
Don't you feel that you're treating me very cruelly?
I! why good heavens! you little darling! treat you cruelly ?
When you see that my heart is breaking to fathom the mystery of my father's absence from home. Tell me why, if he is in London, he does not come to see his wife and daughter; tell me, and I'll love you ten times better than I did before you went into the army! There! don't blush.
Phew!— Well, —
Well?—Oh! what a deep well it must be, that you are so long getting to the bottom of it!
Well, I'll tell you all I know.
I knew you would, you dear cousin! Now, go on.
I will,
Papa?
Is, as you said—neither in Japan, nor Java—
Nor Jericho; go on; my heart told me all that long ago. But why does he not live with us—or ever come to see us?
Phew!
There now, be cool, and answer my question.
I believe it is because—because your papa was very young—much too young, much younger than I am, when he married your mamma; unfortunately they were both a little headstrong; and consequently they did not agree.
But what caused them to separate?
Phew!
Now, be good.
Well, it was said that they had made the mistake of living with their mother.
With dear grandmamma?
You see, my darling cousin, there is a mysterious prejudice against the influence of a
mother-in-law in the house of a newly married couple; people say that it always works
Grandmamma! why the dear old creature has no more will than an infant; I can make her say or do anything I please!
Phew! I—I am not in the least surprised at that! But—but I believe there were other reasons that in fact, your grandmamma was not solely the cause of your papa's separation from his wife.
What was the cause then?
A cause that seems almost impossible—you!
I!
You see, your papa was very young and disliked children, and—
And I was intolerable I suppose; always cross, always crying, always cutting my teeth, and turning the house out of windows? Poor papa! but then I've got over my measles, and cut all my teeth now—so he can't object to me on those accounts.
Nor on any other—if he isn't mad or blind. Phew! it's very warm again. But he did not object
to you personally: his objection was that your mamma—will you forgive me for saying it—devoted
herself so exclusively to you as to forget, as your papa thought, her duties to him; being
both very young and very passionate and your mamma, as some said, having an ill-adviser in
your grandmamma, they separated; and for fourteen years neither the one nor the other has
relented in the least
I—I won't cry.
Only one, that is—phew!
Don't stop.
That is –your marriage.
My marriage!
What a prize for some happy wretch!
And once more together— Oh, delightful idea! That's it—bless you! There! I'll give you
another kiss for being so good!
Eh?
And then papa and mamma will come together at my wedding. Oh! I shan't rest till I've seen them united!
But—but, you know, before you can be married,
Now, don't be cruel and suggest difficulties. As it's the only way of bringing about a meeting between papa and mamma, I shall get married at once, and if you don't help me I shall be very angry with you indeed.
Help you!—phew! I'm—I think I'll take a turn in the garden.
First tell me what I'm to do to get married immediately?
The first thing? Well, the first step's the most difficult of all; you'll have to find a husband—phew!
Why how you frighten me! There's no difficulty in that. I'll take anybody the first that comes to hand—you. You'll do perfectly.
Good heavens! am I dreaming?
Now, you don't mean to say you'll refuse to marry me, when you know how much depends upon my being married without a moment's delay? Wasn't I your little sweetheart years and years ago? Come, you won't refuse me this favour, will you? Why do you look so pale? Have I said anything to hurt your dear feelings?
Cousin, you—you fill me with a delight that is very —very like terror.
There—there, then. Don't be afraid of me. You will marry me, won't you? Hark! here comes
mamma—propose for me at once.
I'm glad Lilian has been entertaining you. Have you become as good friends as you were before you went abroad a dozen years ago?
Oh yes, quite as good friends in fact—phew!
She has grown well, hasn't she?
Won—wonderfully!
Why—what's the matter, Charles? Has Miss Impudence been bothering you with her wild pranks? Her grandmamma completely spoils her.
Oh! no—It's very warm here.
Be cool, there's a dear, for my sake.
Something has happened.
Speak to mamma, cousin.
I—I'm only waiting till I have found my gloves; I—I can never speak well without my gloves.
Gloves are a wonderful help to—to conversation,
But we shall never be married if you don't begin. Here, I'll set you going.
There goes the button!
No, no, that wasn't it.
No, not exactly that. But it's so embarrassing to— to break off one's glove-button.
I see there's some jest of Miss Lilly's going forward.
Oh! cousin Charles will tell you that it's anything but a joke.
If I could only be sure of my other glove. Phew!
Cousin, look at the shape of the fender, and think whether it would be pleasant to faint upon it.
As—as I was saying, I had formed a project—
No, I had formed a project.
Yes, Lilian formed the project, and I—phew! I—
You—
I agreed to it; and that is what I was about to communicate to you, when the unfortunate accident of my glove—
'Pon my word, I declare I shall have to call in the aid of a professor of the unknown tongue, to make the least particle of sense out of your wonderful declaration.
Dear mamma, you've understood it perfectly; it's a formal declaration on the part of my cousin, that he loves me to distraction.
Phew!
What new frolic is this?
Oh! it's a very serious affair, isn't it, cousin ?
In one sense, very.
What, do you really love her, Charles?
Say "passionately."
Passionately!
And you, miss?
Oh!—madly !
What do you mean, you wild provoking thing?
Only this and no more, dear mamma: that if you refuse your consent to my marriage with my
cousin Charles, he'll—
I think, indeed, that nothing else in the world would be worth doing.
There—there, mamma! you consent, don't you?
It seems that I have no alternative to save bloodshed.
There's a good, dear little mamma! Cousin Charles, come and kiss your mamma, and tell her how grateful you are for giving you the maddest-pated little wife in the universe.
I—I can't—can't tell you anything about my own happiness—so strangely formed— so unspeakably delightful; but for your own for the happiness of days to come—
Please don't—I—God bless you! Since you love my darling—love her well!
That he will! and be obedient too, won't you? and have no secrets from me? Do you know,
dearest mamma,
My dear Charles—
Don't be angry with him. You know, dear, that I can't be married without papa's presence; and can any occasion be so likely to bring about a reconciliation?
My darling, that—that can never be; it is im- possible.
But, dear mamma, you cannot let your child go to church alone to be married as if she were
an orphan? You won't marry me at all without papa gives me away, will you, cousin Charles?
Quite—quite impossible—phew!
Well, well—when the time comes—I will consent to meet your father; for your dear sake, and for that of your husband, I make this very – very great sacrifice of my feelings. But the ceremony over—
There's a darling mamma! You've made your little Lilian nearly an inch taller —she's so
elated!
To London!
Yes; to get papa's consent. You—why you
I—I'm gone! I'll stop nowhere on the road, except to provide myself with a stronger pair of gloves, to enable me to overcome Lord Lonedale's objections, if he should have any —phew!
There! it's not half so warm as it will be, if you don't fly to papa. Kiss mamma—your mamma!
God bless you, dear mamma!
God bless you, Charles!
There's a good fellow! Now one for me.
One for grandmamma, and then, away!
Good-bye, mamma! good-bye, little wife! good-bye, grandmamma!
Why, Lucy?—Lilian? Are you all gone out of your wits?
It is very warm here—as cousin Charles says.
Another of the Flamingo girls gone off! Well, I wish young Courtley joy of his existence if
he doesn't keep a ring-fence round his home too high for his mother-in-law to climb over!
Sir Charles! God bless me, I did not know he'd arrived
Well, it's as unexpected on my side as on yours, my dear Lonedale. How are you? You—you're thinner than you promised to be at your age.
Why, what the deuce do you mean by talking of "my age?"—How old do you take me to be?—
Old enough to—to—be my father!—Phew!
You old reprobate!—you know there isn't more than five years difference between us; and by Jove you're the balder of the two!—But how long have you been home?
Only came up from Folkestone yesterday. But I'd bet you a thousand pounds to a club toothpick you can't guess from what part of the country—phew!— I've come to Town this evening.
Not Coventry?—nor Bath?—nor Halifax?
Ha! ha!—nor—phew!—nor Jericho!
My dear fellow, you make my boots creak and my hair rise on end with curiosity!
Phew!—you—you're sure you're quite cool and collected, Lonedale?
Cool? —come, I like that from you!—How long have you been out of the frigidarium, —Sir Icilius Spitzbergen?
Don't—don't banter me, Lonedale, about my unfortunate infirmity. Phew!—I—I've something to tell you. It's confoundedly warm here!—
Ha! ha! ha!—Then take a refreshing header deep down into the sea of mystery over which you
are now timidly hovering. Here.—
Phew!
Come, old fellow, whatever it is you have to tell me, out with it—like a woman, if you
can't do it like a man.
Well, the fact is, Lonedale, I—I've just returned from—phew! from Twickenham.
You —you've no ill news to tell me, Charles?
No, no—quite the reverse, quite the reverse—Phew!
Thank heaven!
Yes; you have not seen her for—for—
Not for eleven years.
I had not seen her for twelve years.
And you found her greatly changed, no doubt?
Well, yes, very, very greatly; I hardly know how to describe the kind of change—Phew!
She was very handsome when I saw her last.
She was very beautiful, Lonedale?
Very.
But, if you'll believe me, she is much more beautiful now.
If you say so, Charles.
And greatly changed, too, in character, I should imagine.
I was about going to dine at my club; will you come and take a quiet dinner and then, if you're free, we can stroll into the Opera for an hour. I shall be glad to hear all about your adventures and your plans.
My plans—are—phew! my plans are just what I have come to see you about; but, if you are not very hungry.
On the contrary—I've no appetite.
Now comes the tug of war! If I could only —be sure of these gloves!
My daughter! You're jesting? Lilian! why, she's a child—a little school girl!
She's—she's nearly eighteen years of age—and more womanly of heart than ever I shall find words to tell.
Eighteen! Good heavens! so she is! Tell me— what is she like?
She represents most completely her parents; she has her mother's beauty, and her father's natural gaiety—phew!
And all their unhappy infirmities of temper combined?
Yes—if that is expressed by an overbearing—phew! sweetness and winningness that nothing can withstand!
If any other man than you, Charles, had told me this, I should have smiled derisively; but
I know your absolute truthfulness—and I quail before the rising dread of having to take upon
myself too great a share of blame for the past!
Or had you known that an angel had become the ruling spirit in your house?—phew!
Charles—tell me frankly—I know you will—as man to man: is this question of your marriage with my Lilian real? or—
Real! We love—I cannot tell you how it came to pass, for it's like a delightful dream—phew? but so it is; I have her consent, and Lady Lonedale's, and I have only to get yours, to be a king of happy fellows!—phew! I think I shall even get over my bashfulness—in time! But I am anxious just now for Lilian's consent was given on condition that you—phew! that you, you understand, will join our hands— to—to—night. There! I've said it !—phew!
You must give me half an hour, Charles—to strike a balance between the past and the future.
If—if I can say the word which shall make you happy, I will say it. My heart's too
full—too full to say any more now.
I'll—I'll—take a turn or two in the open air. Phew!
The whole proceeding is more like the action of a novel or a dream; I can't realize it.
What can't my dear grandmamma realize?
Why the fact of your having in the course of a few minutes arranged to marry your cousin, Rocket!
Well, but you know that it was a very old attachment. Don't you remember, he used to take
me on his knee and call me his little wife—oh! a dozen years ago? And do you think that
merely because I've grown a little bigger, I'd break my faith with him?
Why, my darling, I confess that though my heart was overcome with joy at the idea of your becoming the wife of your cousin Charles—one of the bravest and best of men—the circumstances are so strange—so sudden.
Telegraphic message from London for Miss Lilian.
How I tremble!
My Lilly, dear—what is it?
Kiss me—many—many times.
To dress!
And you too, dear grandmamma; both of you in your most becoming dresses. Now, don't be naughty and argumentative, but indulge your poor Lilly—who doesn't often have her own way!
But, you provoking child! what are we to dress for?
As if I hadn't told you! To receive papa's consent with proper ceremony.
You're mystifying us in some way, I know, you incorrigible little puss. Has Lord—your papa—sent his consent in writing?
No, he hasn't sent it.
Then he's going to send it this evening?
Well, not exactly. But you will go and dress now, won't you?
I see how it is; your cousin Charles is to bring it back himself?
And in that case, you won't refuse to humour my whim? and let Waters re-dress your beautiful hair.
Lilly, my darling, you must answer me frankly; you expect your cousin Charles to return from London, accompanied by—by—
Good heavens! not by Lord Lonedale?
Don't both be very angry with me.
Angry!
I am really getting quite bewildered, but—but I will not receive Lord Lonedale.
But that would appear so rude, dear grandmamma.
And what better treatment do you suppose such a person—
Pray don't call papa a "person," it gives me the earache. After papa has come all the way down to Twickenham, to give his consent in person to my marriage with cousin Charles, you can't think of shutting the door in his face?
Lord—your papa—ought to have more delicacy.
Go on, grandmamma, I'm nearly crying.
Well, I'll not discuss.
Oh yes, make me cry.
No, I'll—I'll go and shut myself up in my own room, and—and—
Here are the tears at last.
There, there, I'll go to my own room, and—and— dress.
I knew you would, you dear creature.
For your sake, darling, for your sake.
God bless you, dear. Shall I have my cry out? no, I might not have time to get it over
before papa comes; and then I shouldn't be fit to be seen, with my eyes all red and puffed
up, and my words coming like wine struggling in the neck of a bottle; no, I'll put off my cry
till we're all happy, as we shall be, I'm sure of it; and when I'm quietly out of sight of
everybody in my own room—
I'm—I'm a little early—Phew!
But you haven't come without—without—
No, no, papa is in the garden; but he wishes to see you for a moment even, alone, and before—phew!—before—
Before meeting mamma. Go to him—stay. Is he happy in the thought of seeing us again? He comes, not unwillingly?
Oh, no. When I told him how—phew! how you have grown, and—
And got over my teething and hooping-cough and all that? Yes?
And how beautiful—
Mamma is—yes. Go on.
He –he owned that his life had been an unhappy mistake.
Don't wait to tell me any more. I shall find it all out in his eyes, if he will let me look
into them. Go and bring him to me.
Cousin—phew!
Don't introduce me to my own child, Charles; thank God, I feel I have, at least, not lost
my instincts. Lilian! My daughter!
Father!
Phew! I'll go and take a turn or two in the cool garden.
Thank you, papa, for being so kind as to come—and for giving your consent so readily to my marriage with my cousin Charles.
That he should have had to seek me away from your side—seems—now that I hold you in my
arms—an impossible dream. Lilian—may you never know the bitterness of soul that makes one say
"if—if I had my life to live over again!"
Don't cry, papa. You see I don't—I put it off. We shall all be happy now. And we've a great deal to do— you and I. There's my wedding to be arranged. Let us settle that first.
You're a little angel.
No—I'm a little pert, forward, chatterbox; always scheming, and always getting my own way of everybody— somehow—and especially of dear grandmamma.
Of your grandmamma?
Oh! yes; I guide her with a word and rule her with a kiss.
Good heavens! what new wonder will spring up to confound me!
You shall see with your own dear eyes.
And—
Mamma? She's a larger me! only more gentle, and accomplished and infinitely more beautiful.
Good heaven! have I been for fourteen years living in the midst of delusion?
I—I've not offended you papa—have I?
Offended! my darling, your words fill me with an inexpressible delight!
May I go and fetch her?
If—if you think she will receive me.
If! You shall see! forgive—oh!
I'll soon make them both forget!
Charles has not deceived me; a wonderful and mysterious change of character has been
wrought in the actors of my life's domestic drama; dare I hope from this that all will end
happily? Yes, I must hope. Under the sweet fascination of my lovely child, everything seems
possible to me; the pride, the obstinately-pampered sense of injury, which have hitherto
prevented even an approach towards a reconciliation, now fade into nothingness, like ugly
dreams on waking! If—if she will only give me opportunity—
Here, papa, here's dear mamma!
I do not know whether Sir Charles has informed you precisely of the circumstances under
which his altogether unexpected proposal for the hand of your—of our— daughter has been made;
my reasons, however, for accepting him—subject, of course, to your legal authority over the
disposal of Lilian's hand—will, I conceive, appear to you sufficiently just to warrant the
course I have taken.
Good gracious! where did mamma learn to talk so like a lawyer? This will never do.
Deprived, as she has been, of the protection—
Madam.
I—I am merely explaining the motives of my conduct; I do not reproach you, Lord Lonedale.
Oh! no, papa dear! You hear? Mamma never dreamed of reproaching you.
My darling, if I could speak my thoughts this moment with the sweet persuasion of your voice, I could hope to make your mother believe that to-day—and most of all at this moment—I recognize the sad truth, that I may even have deserved reproaches.
No, no, nobody has deserved reproaches—except myself, perhaps!
You!
Oh, yes; I know I've been the cause of all that has—
Lilian!
I'm a dangerous little character—born to be a torment to everybody about me
No, no, my darling! there is a great task that you —and under heaven, I think you alone can accomplish: win from your mother's lips, two precious words.—"I forgive!"
Mamma?
Lilian!—Frederick!
Lucy !
There's a dreadful failure!—Oh, if I could only dance, sing, laugh, and cry, all at once! But here's grandmamma! I've got to fail with her before my cup of wretchedness is quite full !
Why—good Heavens!
Oh, don't be alarmed, dear grandmamma, papa won't hurt her!
Well!
Yes, dear, he's quite well!
Of course, Lord Lonedale! I conclude that your presence here has special reference to my granddaughter's marriage with her cousin, Sir Charles Rocket. I suppose you've no objection to the match? I don't see how you should, in reason. As to dowry or settlement, I don't see that you need trouble yourself in the matter. We've managed for her for fourteen—
Mother!
I beg, my love, that before objecting to what I have thought it proper to say to Lord Lonedale, you will consider the impropriety—under all the circumstances of the case—of—
But—but, dear grandmamma, you know that if you suffer yourself to be so excited you'll make your dear head ache!
Well, well, my darling! since there is nothing here requiring my presence, I shall retire to my own room. Lord Lonedale—I wish you good evening.
There! now I fear I really have failed!
May I come in?
Why, you poor dear! you must be perished with cold?
Oh, no! on the contrary; I find it still very warm. Phew!
Of course you may; —papa, and mamma, and —no, never mind me; I'm nobody.
Everybody! Everything!
Not me —I—phew!
Well, well, my dear fellow, I will not pay my obligations in the shape of embarrassment. Moreover, there is a little deduction to be made your representation as to Mrs. Blackmore has scarcely been borne out; for according to recent appearances, she is still implacable in her hostility.
I don't know what to suggest with regard to mamma.
And I don't either. It's very provoking to find her so naughty to-day of all days; and she
is usually so very docile.
There is, I fear only one course open to us; it is, to leave her in possession of this house, which yet I should greatly—very greatly regret to quit, since it is the scene of a reconciliation.
You are not called upon to make any such sacrifice—Frederick!
Frederick!
Madam, may I hope that my great happiness is to be made complete—by—
By being seasoned with the pepper and vinegar of my tongue.
Grandmamma!
There, then! I've no will of my own. For my tyrant's sake, I'll—shake hands with you, Frederick.
There's a dear!
In taking your hand once again, mother, let me say how much I hope the future—
No, don't say anything about either the future or the past and don't let either of us make any speeches. A few moments' reflection ended in my putting on my bonnet and shawl. Charles is, I suppose, going back to town to-night, and if he is, I shall get him to take charge of me; if he isn't, I am old enough to take charge of myself.
But, dear mamma! at all events, there is no need for such haste.
You can't too soon carry out a good resolution, my love.
My dear mother—
You'll find that's much the safest plan. And now, what about my Lilly? The marriage?
Phew!
Oh, there's no need for me to be married now. Papa and mamma are re-united.
Why, Lilian, my darling, what new vagary is this?
No vagary at all! Cousin Charles won't think it one, will you?
Phew!
Now, don't be hot and passionate; but listen to reason. Didn't I consult you as to what I could do to bring papa and mamma together?—and you suggested that I could do nothing but get married? and I said I would—directly!
And and almost sent me out of my senses with delight, by saying that you would marry—phew!—me!
Why, yes. But you see, you've managed so badly that you've brought mamma and papa together
without marrying me at all; and—and—therefore you see how unreasonable it would be to marry
me, now that there's no occasion.
Beware, Miss Mischief! I may withdraw—
Help! Parsons! Lawyers!— with enormous bags full of unreadable papers—I call you to witness that I am here, ready and only too happy to render up myself a victim for sacrifice at the Hymeneal altar!
Phew! I think there must be a conflagration some- where near!
Take her, Charles—and own that I have ten thousand times more than overpaid my debt to you!
Printed by Thomas Scott, 1, Warwick Court, Holborn.