First performed at the New Royalty Theatre (under the direction of Mrs. Charles Selby), on Saturday,
Act I.—Interlachen.
Act Ii.—Giessbach Falls and Interlachen.
I'm afraid I'm on the wrong scent.
It is though, Bill Marks; and what are you doing here?—bank business?
Not exactly. I'll just tell you, and perhaps we may be able to work into each other's hands a bit. You recollect a pair as used to go about together, husband and wife—Doddle Snaggs, the "Old Beau," as used to pretend to be so fond o' fishing?
And Sally Snaggs, "the Countess;" I know 'em.
That's them. Well, their little game was to travel about, and the old fellow 'ud pretend to be a little silly, while the Countess would make some young fellow fall desperately in love with her. Her story always to them is that she was married against her will for family reasons, and that her husband is fonder of fishing than of her.
Then the young fellow takes pity on her. Ha, ha!
Exactly ; and then they'd be just going to elope, when down comes the old fellow as everyone thought so silly and blind, and there'd be a pretty lot o' money to pay afore the pigeon 'ud get off.
Are they here?
Yes; somewhere about. They generally manage to keep clear, but now they've been passing flimsies, and I'm after 'em for that. The worst on it is they've got some alias now as I ain't been able to hit upon ; and as for their disguises there's no end to them. It's the Countess as puts the "Old Beau" up to the work; ah! it's what I always said, Dick, a woman's at the bottom of all the mischief.
You're right, Bill. Why, it's a curious coincidence, but I'm after three o' the soft sex myself.
What will Mrs. Watchitt say?
Never you mind Mrs. Watchitt, Bill; this 'ere's business a private and confidential matter; none of your swindling games. There's two young ladies, a Miss Edith Belton, daughter o' the advertiser, and a Miss Amy Leigh, neice o' the same, has run away from home, accompanied by a lady's maid name o' Mary Crick.
I 'pose you got a description.
O' course I have. What's the good o' that, it they're half sharp they'll be dressed up as somebody else.
Who was it as they run away with?
No one as I know of. There was some family trouble about old Mr. Belton marrying again, and bringing a stepmother into the family.
And then the stepmother and the daughter has a turn up together. I see.
Just so. They've got an aunt—a Mrs. Franks, a foreigner as married Miss Belton's uncle on the mother's side. She is supposed to be living in Switzerland, and it's likely enough the gals 'ud go to her. I must make my enquiries here.
I have. My Countess and the "Old Beau" ain't
And the public does all the work. If you hear anything to my advantage tip us the office.
All right, and you do the same by me.
Hum! I shall make this my headquarters, until I hear from my mate Dark at Dover. Garcon!
Yes, sir.
Ah! you're an Englishman.
Yes, sir. Which noble birthright we may both congratulate ourselves upon. There being so many English at Madame Berliot's, she being a sort of broken Englishwoman herself, that she found it convenient—
To get a quick, sharp, handy London waiter like you.
Exactly so, sir.
A sort of likely young man that knows a good customer again when he sees him.
My case, sir, to a T. I always remembers afterwards them as remembers me first. I never forgot a name or a face when I were second waiter at Smart's Theatrical Coffee 'Ouse, near Coving Garden, where I were in the 'abit o' meeting a deal o' professional talent. But what o' that, sir? "Hall the world's a stage;" Divine Williams.
Ah, you ought to ha' been on the stage.
Which I tried it in the Provinces. The Hordience were prejudiced again' me. The Hordience was a hass. I returned to waiting and took this 'ere leading business. As the Divine Williams says, "There is a tide in the affairs of man" which, taking it at its flood, led me to Switzerland.
Very full here, I suppose?
Three beds wacant on this side o' the establishment, and one on the other.
I only want one.
Werry good, sir. Tray bong, as we say on the Continong.
Nombair twentee. Ya-as.
Great thing to know a furrin language, sir.
But you've plenty of English here?
Full, a'most always.
Has Miss Belton left yet?
Miss, miss—not 'ere, sir.
Oh yes, with her cousin, Miss Leigh, and a maid.
Not 'ere, sir. I never forgets anybody; but you can see the list o' visitors in the hall. "List, list! oh list!" Divine Williams—ahem!
Key, sir,
I hope it's not very high up.
The room is somewhat high, but our charge is low. You're not a member o' the Alpine Club, are you, sir?
No—why?
Oh, one of our gents, Mr. Stepitt, is, and he says as the ascent of the stairs is werry good practice.
I'll try them presently.
Ah yes, I recollect.
Pierre! who's that?
Don't know, Mr. Lester. He ain't wrote his name down yet. "What's in a name?" Divine Williams! Ahem!
A tart, Madame Berliot?
Oui. Vat you say in English—he chatter like a —a pie.
Oh, a magpie! Allow me to say, madame—
Ah, dat will do. You have to arrange for de picnic—de 'amper—de baskets and den for de bâl masquè.
You speak English very well, madame.
avec raison. Ven young, I marry an English merchant—I live in England, tree, four year, at de house of my 'usband. I leave because –
No; the climate.
Ah! you're lucky in climate here; we shall have our dance by the light of the moon ; and
Bon jour, Monsieur Stepitt.
Ah, madame! I'm off, you see, to choose a good site for our pic-nic to-day in the mountains.
Now do take great care; you'd much better come fishing with me.
The gymnastic exercise of la perche is not so good as that of la pole.
Oh, Alf!
Oh, Mr. Stepitt!
Rather good, that; we prefer to hook it—over the mountain passes—hook it—see.
Oh, Alf!
Oh, Mr. Stepitt.
Hook—perch—ha, ha!
So at present, Sir Thomas, we won't go out with the "Judicious Hooker ." Shall go up the Jungfrau one of these days—fifteen thousand eight hundred and sixty-four feet above the level of the sea—hang on by your eyelids—one slip, all up with you, I mean all down. Write to the Times—yarn at the club when you get back. Come along, girls.
M'sieu Lester did dem; he 'ave done some more.
Yes, so's this.
They are very like Lady Mosthyn.
So they are—ha, ha! very funny! Come on, girls, we're going "ober de mountain."
Mais oui.
But so so. She's so excitable, she will mix herself up in foreign politics, and they fly to her head.
Then she's not going out this morning?
Going out! She's stopping at home to read the papers.
Yes, fishing is tedious.
'Tisn't the fishing, you know, but there are such pretty girls come down to the bathing house on the stream. I've got my old Margate telescope. He, he, he! and I say, its given me such a capital idea for a fancy dress at the bâl. I shall go dressed as—Who was that lucky dog that saw Diana and her nymphs bathing?
Actæon.
That's the gentleman. He. he, he! He was changed into a stag you know. Good idea, isn't it.
Madame—
I am an ole woman now, and may talk to you. I should 'ave been 'appy in my English 'ome, but for some one dat come between us—between 'usband and vife. De love dat by right belonged to me, was given to anoozer. Von day, helas! I discover to exist a leetle shild dat call my 'usband father.
My dear Madame Berliot, you put too serious a construction upon—
Par-r-rdon, M'sieur Lester. I say dis becos I know dat you vill be 'appier for de 'appiness of ozers, and will find an object worzy of your love.
Ah! that's past.
Colour, madame. I'm a painter.
So I'll just put up my portfolio, and
At your old work I see.
And you—
I'm travelling tutor—a walking passport to polite society. Three volumes of etiquette, bound up in one pocket companion ; master of the ceremonies, teacher of the Queen's English, and instructor of music to his Royal Highness John Grigson, Esq., of Any Hall, Any-where-you-like-to-put-it-shire.
Instructor in music! That I can understand ; let me see: the last time I saw you, two years ago—you have a talent for musical composition, and were studying en amateur.
Now I'm teaching professionally.
Precisely. To speak in a musical way—note for note, as you say.
But, my dear boy, two years ago you had a running account at your banker's?
Yes; it ran so confoundedly fast that I very soon lost sight of it altogether.
Dear me, I'm really very sorry; I—
Don't mention it.
I'm glad to see you can be merry over your own losses.
Yes; but they're a bad subject for a grand opera. You can't make much out of city or turf speculations. safe to fail. I don't remember
Ah, that's a musician's account of the matter.
I beg your pardon, it was my banker's account of the matter. However, ruined as I was, I still had a voice in my own affairs, and determined to use it. I saw at once that I must fall back on my chest—speaking musically, so I began to give lessons to a young lady, a Miss Amy Leigh, whose charms can only be described by a tenor song, at the beginning of an opera.
And you fell in love with her?
I own it. She saw it, and so did her aunt.
Did she return your passion?
Who? the aunt?
No, the girl.
Yes, and so did the aunt with interest. My passion—'gad! it was a joke to her she stigmatized my teaching, as thorough base—musically speaking at least she wasn't musically speaking—she had the voice of a crow, that Mrs. Belton.
Belton! why—
Ah! of course that's the name of the pretty girl to whom you were engaged two years ago.
Yes, Edith Belton.
Ah! you ought to be married by now—p'raps you are; allow me to congratulate you!
On being still a bachelor. I did love her!
And do?
I don't know. Perhaps I've found metal more attractive. I was told that she was playing fast and loose with me, and that she was really in love with some one else.
Did you not tax her with the duplicity?
No; my letters were returned, and—and I gave her up. I have since thought that her friends misrepresented me to her, and mine did the same kind office by her to me.
One soon gets over those sort of things; and I dare say you've an intrigue or two on here—eh? rum tum mysterious music.
Talking, of music, I wonder how my pupil's getting on.
Your pupil?
Oh, yes! I haven't told you about him.
And got it!
I did! The neglected creature was a good-hearted soul—one Grigson—the son of an anonymous pair of parents ; his father, without ever seeing him, suddenly left him a large fortune, and so the Boots–
Boots?
Yes! my pupil had been earning a respectable livelihood in that capacity. Well, Boots, on stepping into his father's shoes, determined to be a gentleman, but found himself, as you may imagine, somewhat deficient in the ingenious arts.
Boots wanted polishing!
Exactly! I'm doing it ; and this morning, as I've got the superintendence of the musical arrangements at the ball here, I've been coaching Mr. Grigson up in a Swiss song, which he's to sing in a Swiss dress.
Tulla—tul—la—li—e—e—ty! I can't get it, you know. I say, Feversham; looky 'ere.
Here! Here!
I said was here—here, not 'ere.
Ho yes. Now mind yer, halways—I mean always —correct me when I slips—I mean slip—which hain't horften —I mean orphan—
Yes, you are improving.
Cove?
Vell—I mean well—'im in the stylish 'at—I mean
hat—no, 'at; I say, which his it? Don't leave a feller floundering about like this, yer know.
Hat, not 'at. A friend of mine, a gentleman of family. Mr. Lester, Mr. Grigson.
'Ow do you do, sir. Ow—I mean how's your family?
You're very good, sir, but I have none.
Pooh!
How do you like Switzerland, Mr. Grigson?
Well, hit's a sort of a—I mean it's a— do I like Switzerland?
My friend, Mr. Grigson, can scarcely find words to express his admiration. I dare say, Lester, you've made a number of sketches of places that we've visited.
A hartist—I mean a nartist.
You've ascended the Rigi, of course.
Yes, me and 'im was took up there on mules—'tain't nothink at all. Me an' 'im was called out o' bed at four o'clock in the morning, jolly cold yer know, like a hicicle—I mean a nicicle—we was called by the blowing of a cow's 'orn as was playing one o' the tunes o' which the hanimal died I should say ; and then we went hout—I mean out to see the sun rise. Rise! pooh! 'tain't nothink at all, and if you hain't bin, don't go—hit's a himposition!
Then you were disappointed!
Disappointed! rather. The performance deserved 'issing and I 'issed it.
Hissed.
Eh?
Are you looking for the h you dropped? Hissed, not 'issed.
Now mind you halways—I mean always correct me, 'cos that's our bargain yer know.
Now this is what I calls jolly. I say, you've hordered our dresses for the bal marsky?
Yes, you're to be a merry Swiss boy.
Ho, gemminy!
Will you? can paint.
Ah! then you'll come to me.
Eh, why?
I know he was a laughin' at me.
You must get accustomed to this light sort of badinage; give and take.
Oh, I can give, you know, but as to taking—
Yes, that's quite another pair of shoes.
Now don't talk about shoes, it ain't kind of you, particular as you know the commercials always used to call me Stockings.
Stockings! why?
Well, 'acos I was under-boots; so don't say it again.
The thought of my hard lot in life ; married for family reasons, to an old man, who cares more for fishing than for me.
'Tis in your power to change it.
In my power? how?
How!
Oh, Mr. Lester, I—
You will trust me, will you not?
I have ceased to trust anybody.
Except one, who could not deceive, because he loves you.
Love! Oh, Mr. Lester, it would have been better for both of us if we had never met.
Say that you will meet me to-night.
Hush!
They're a going it.
Capital duet for music.
The dressmaker vish for to speak vid you, Madame Mosthyn. Ah!
If my husband returns for the pic-nic before I am able to see you again, I will send you a note, and appoint when we shall––
Meet?
Alone.
I hear.
Den, Monsieur Feversham, I shall depend upon you for ze direction of ze music at de bal, and for everything dat amuse.
Madame Berliot, I undertake the responsibility of master of the ceremonies, and my friend will assist.
Ah, but you know I came to Swizzleland on business.
Some law business, madame.
And I was talking of plaisir.
Yes; but I must harsk you somethink, mum.
I hain't a good 'and at a story, but you understand me, I come to Swizzleland to look after a hold lady which it might be you ; no hoffence meant, mum, where none ain't taken.
So you told me, but that's the point where you always stuck. Sing it.
I can't get on if you do that. You see my mother died before I was born—no—I mean I never 'ad a mother, that is her name was Grigson. Leastways my father's wife was a farrier—I mean a furriner, and she went away, and nobody never 'eard nothink at all about her. You understand, mum?
Eh, bien?
Well, where was I? oh, well, when my guv'nor goes off the hooks—
Ze hook?
Translate—dies.
Ah, oui.
Then he leaves all his money to you, that's what you were going to say.
No, it harn't. But the will says this 'ere to his executors and designs, 'arf to my wife, who's abroad, Mrs. Franks—which was his name if she can be found. Hallo, mum! what's the matter?
'Tis nothing; ze weather.
first wife! Grand Dieu ! Den she too is dead?
Well, I knew dem both. No one 'ave heard of Mrs. Franks for many a long year.I tink now dat she must be dead too.
We'll go and see them.
Ah! that was a fancy sketch. I wish I could get an original for a model. The genus have vanished from the land.
Tulla-li-e-ty! Oh! I can't do it.
So, Edith, the only chance of finding our aunt has
Amy, you really are frightened at anything and by anybody.
I can't help thinking that it would have been much better to stay at home, instead of coming out like Rosalind and Celia.
What! and submit to stepmother, who treated both of us cruelly?
Well, but our money's getting less and less.
But just now he made an appointment with that Lady Mosthyn.
No, she made an appointment with him ; but I'll soon take him away from her, that is, if I find he's worth the taking.
But how will you manage?
That's my secret ; only don't be surprised if I leave you alone for a few hours.
I know we shall be found out.
Nonsense. Our names are down in the visitor's book as Colonel and Mrs. Smart, of New York. What sort of person was this?
I don't know, miss—I mean Colonel. But I can't help fancying that he's a police—not a riggilar Blue, but a Defective.
But I can't wear it; it's several sizes too small. I can't be a merry Swiss boy of seven years old.
Well, get another.
She's helegant.
They're the Americans who came this morning. Now, if you want to make your name for gallantry, pick up that handkerchief, and offer it to her.
Oh, but I say, yer know.
Boots!
It's just what I want for my little boy. Take the costume, Nat.
Coming ––
Am I dreaming?
The very remark I was going to make myself. Am I snoring? No—is this a chair? it is, and a 'at, the hartist's 'at—it is.
Do I? the only girl I ever loved!
You! Amy Leigh!
No; Mary Crick.
As I was saying, the only girl I ever –
It is.
Don't you take it or I shall get into a row.
That must ha' been Mary Crick's brother. Bother the handkercher! I can't give it to the lady; I'll leave it 'ere,
Confound the flies! Halloa—a note!
What's this? "Dearest"! "Oh my! Dearest, meet me during the pigs—p-i-c-n-i-c!" Ho! pic-nie! "And settle all for to-night ." Oh! my figure's caught somebody's heye. I wonder 'oo hit is.
Not a single word or a message. Can she have changed her mind?
Yes; my hat.
Now, then, form in procession. Pierre, send on the waiters with the hampers.
Now then, band first. Now where's my chorus? here.
Then quick, quick—the dress!
If this ain't hot work, I'm blowed—I'm blowed as it is. I think I might wenture on some refreshment out o' this 'ere basket.
Can I help you, Mr. Pierre? Oh! I'm ashamed on you, I am. You're old enough to know better.
Old enough?
I didn't say how old.
Now, look here, young two penn'orth o' halfpence, I ain't a going—I say I ain't a going—
Ain't yer, I wish you were.
I ain't going to stand any o' this!
Oh! then what are you going to stand? Give it a name.
me, as if you were the hemperor o' the place.
Emperor o' the place, why not? You're a Pierre of the realm. Now then, come!
I say, don't go at such a confounded pace. Yer know I hain't a mounting goat, or a young gazelle to glad yer with it's bright blue heye—I mean eye.
Ah! here is a seat, thank goodness.
No; nothing of the sort. I've got a message for you, Mr. Grigson.
A message?
Yes. There's a young lady as you used to keep company with a—going to be at the bâl masque to-night.
And her name is—um—um.
No, it isn't, sir; nothing of the sort. Good morning, sir.
Well, I've known a many queer goes, but of all goes this 'ere is the—
Miss!
It won't do any longer. Capital get up, Miss Amy!
Hamy!
Why don't you resume your natural crinoline and petticoats?
Let me give you a wrinkle. When you want to remain unknown don't carry handkerchiefs about with your name on 'em—"Miss Amy Leigh !"
Ha, ha! you sly dog!
Whose then?
Why I got that from—from a—
Hush!
Well then don't make them 'orrid noises. Hunhedicated furriners!
Well, this handkerchief—
Hit belongs to a lady at the 'otel. She'll be at the marsky ball this hevening, and hi'll p'int her out.
Very good; then I'll keep my eye on you.
Little meeting,! Lady, as I know on, at the Masky Ball.! Amy Leigh—
Here! hi! this his interfering with the liberty of the subject!
You didn't say from whom you got that handkerchief.
No; 'cos hi didn't know.
You mustn't know; if you're asked again, refuse to tell—'sh! we're watched.
Yes, but––
Nobody here? now then to cut the string. Take a little owe de wee. Now for the cut.
This is indeed romantic.
Delightful!
Charming!
Yes, I think I selected the place pretty well.
Good opening scene for an opera—chorus by everybody—orchestra playing—
Let me play a knife and fork.
Where's Grigson?
It looks a good deal more like tumbling down. Hi, hi—yeo—ho!
Now then put on the steam.
Oh lor'! I'm done.
Why your pole's broken?
He means your Alpenstock.
Yes, that broke as hi was trying to cross a waccwum. It came in half and I went into the hole.
You can tell Mr. Lester of what you noticed on your road; there were many fine points.
Yes, there were a great many fine points and werry rocky ones too.
I beg your parding, they wos very much in my way; I either sat or fell upon every one on 'em.
"
Now for the food, Grigson.
"Little Jack Horner sat in a corner ."
Oh no, he only wants a little brushing up.
Bread, Grigson.
Bread.
Bread.
Bread.
Bread.
Bread.
Bread.
And bread here, Mr. Grigson.
Um!
Knives please, Mr. Grigson.
Knives, Grigson.
Mustard please, Mr. Grigson.
Oh, yes, Mr. Grigson, and salt.
I say, I'm getting a headache, I really can't—
Any chicken there, old fellow?
Then look, look.
Thank you, some chicken, Mr. Grigson.
And you may cut a bit for me too.
Now for a morsel.
And me too.
I say—
For a lady.
I'm afraid we're giving you a great deal of trouble?
Well
Some ham, please.
What a sketch you can make of this, Lester.
Eh?
A cork.
Glasses, Mr. Grigson.
Glasses.
This won't do, you know, Hi can't get nothink at all.
My dear Mr. Grigson, you really think of nothing but eating and drinking.
No soul for the beauties of nature.
No appreciation of the picturesque.
No ideality.
No pure love for the country.
No manliness of tone.
Oh, Grigson! when will you learn?
Oh, Mr. Grigson!
Now looky 'ere
Here.
Well, here all on you; Hi don't care for chaff, that tain't nothink at all, and hif the ladies likes hit, Hi'm agreeable.
Question.
Order.
Which I can't horder—there not bein' no waiter in the room—but hi ain't a-going to be done out o' my lawful wittles, not for nobody.
I can wait, sir, till the gentleman's quite done.
And now for some music. First the time and place. Halt of the caravans. Aged chieftains reposing require something to cheer them. I'm the aged chieftain! Strike the light guitar. Now then, Hetty! Pierre, fetch one of them fellows with the instrument.
Now, Grigson, give us a song.
Give us a song.
No excuses about a cold. That little sentimental thing I taught you—"Ever of thee." I'll do the accompaniment.
No you won't. Now then. Here's a fresh pole for you.
Hi say, hain't that—
a la Jullien Hsssssh!
Decidedly operatic. Comes down to music.
The very model I want.
Come, Lady Mosthyn, we'd better not interrupt the artist in his studies.
I am quite ready.
I will return alone.
"
Awkward!
No, sir. My home is far from here. But I had a cruel stepmother, and so I ran away to others, who I thought loved me—loved me! But––
Eh! crying?
Stop—don't move! That's the expression—admirable! You couldn't have posed yourself better if you'd studied all your life.
Do you love, sir?
I!
Yes, that handsome lady who spoke to you just now.
Perhaps you're going to be married to her, sir?
And you don't love her then?
Love her!
Stop—stop! don't move a step forthe world! I've got it to the life! That's something quite new. Charming!
Never!
I think I can, sir.
You were talking of the lady with whom you were in love.
Ah!
He was?
Yes; his Art! An imperious mistress 'tis true, admitting no rival. And yet when an artist does love, what a passion is it ! the beloved form is always in his heart at his hand—in his thoughts—absent, yet, breathing life-like from the canvas ; she adds a new pleasure to his work—she is his life—a sweet embodiment of his glorious art!
Yes, yes.
And then—tut, tut, tut! What an ass I am; you can't possibly understand this.
I do; for I love
With you?
Yes; live with me and be my pupil. Come, you won't get a better offer than that.
Edward!
I've got it—we'll play him a trick. Here;
My new pupil, Lady Mosthyn, and a great admirer of yours. I can tell you, Antoine, you shall dress up as a girl to-night at the bâl masquè, and we'll have some fun with Grigson. Don't forget, Antoine.
Edward, I may trust you! Then during the bâl masqué at twelve o'clock to-night, at the rose-tree arbour in the garden.
I will take care that a carriage is ready at the gate; and then—
Then I am yours.
The picture?
Dat is strange! You say a gentleman comes to ask you for young gals dat ron avay from England.
Oui, Madame Berliot, he mentioned as they'd run away to their aunt, who is supposed to be hereabouts.
Their aunt?
A, let's see. What was the name. What's in a name?—Divine Williams.
Villiams—a Mrs. Villiams.
Is Sir Thomas Mosthyn returned from fishing?
No, mum, silly old gent, he never gets a bite.
He vill get more dan he likes, some day.
Just exactly what I was observing, Madame Berliot, for, says I, he's out all day, while Lady Mosthyn is, to say the least of it, a-going on in such a way with a certain party as 'ud make the werry mildest Christian jealous. "
Green eye—vat dat?
Divine Williams, mum, as usual.
So you talk of dis vid your companion? My 'otel vill be de scandal of Interlachen.
Yes, 'um, there's a good deal said one way or another about that Mrs. Colonel Smart—
Vat of her?
Oh! nothing, except as I see Mr. Feversham a kissin' 'er 'and like mad, and then when I gave a little cough, she gave a little scream, and he turns round and says, as cool as new-born cucumbers, "We're a rehearsing a part for the bal marskey,"
It was de part of de lover, dat he take.
I shouldn't ha' mind taking that un.
Vat you say? I shall discharge you from my respectable hotel if you come dus to talk to me like a Don Juan.
A Don Juan, madame?
Vat for you defend such conduct as dat of Mr. Feversham?
I defend him, Madame B.! no, no, no, no, I merely said as I shouldn't mind taking his part.
Ah! den if you will not be a Don Juan, you shall assist me in my trouble. Dese two girls dat have run away in disguise– I ask your advice—vat shall I do?
Well, Madame Berliot, I speak from experience ; and, as they're in disguise, of course you don't know them?
I! vat for den should I ask you?
Ah! precisely, madame ; then, as I said before, as they're in disguise, you'd better begin by—by—
By—by—
I speak, Madame Berliot, as an adviser of the crown —your crown. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," although it strikes me it would be uneasier without it—Divine Williams.
Au diable vid your Divine Villiams; I tink you take some ob de vine vidout de Villiams. Vat is Villiams to me?
"Or he to Hecuba?"—beg pardon, mum ; but as I was saying, regarding these two parties in disguise, the best way to begin is by finding 'em out.
Ah! you are no better as von jackass; you can go.
Thankye, Madame Berliot. "Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass."—Divine Williams. Yes, Madame Berliot—toot sweet.
Vat shall I do?
Ah, Madame Berliot, preparing yourself for the grand fête of the evening by a little calm reflection? May I trespass upon you for a pinch?
Avec tout plaisir, M'sieur.
An excellent beginning to a conversation is snuff, and in a lady so aristocratic. By-the-way, can you spare me a few moments for a word or two?
Certainment, oui.
Your establishment is very highly patronized! I
No, m'sieu!
Ah; then they're coming! Sir Thomas Mosthyn has probably left—
No, he stop here now.
Within?
Not at dis moment.
Nor Lady Mosthyn?
Both out all day! He go vun vay to fish—she go —another vay; I know not vere!
I do not understand.
You shall, ma'am, in one minute. A scandalous story about the Berliot Hotel et Pension would ruin it.
Ah!
Suppose now that there was going to be—allow me —
Lady Mosthyn and M'sieu Lestaire! De advice I give dat young man! Oh, dat Sir Mosthyn, he is always out fishing.
Pardon me, ma'am; having your interest at heart, I would say, keep quiet, or else a premature disturbance will be made –the guilty parties be on their guard—and people will say that Madame Berliot is too fond of mischief-making.
I! I?
They will talk.
Then what shall I do?
Allow me! Previous to stepping into the carriage, the unhappy couple will meet at the Rose Arbour, at twelve to-night, in your garden.
My garden? Dieu!
Sir Thomas appears weak and silly.
Ver' silly! he is out fishing all de day.
Everyone will wear a disguise—lead him down at the time to that arbour—say a lady wants to speak to him—
And show him to his own wife. Ah! 'tis good!
They will then go off together and all scandal be prevented.
A t'ousand t'anks, M'sieu; and I vill tell him—
Not a word about me. Delicacy, my dear madam,
I see, von must be delicate. But I dread ze moment he find her out he vill be transported vid rage.
Au revoir, m'sieu. Vat a fool old men is to go out fishing. Ah!
Here!
This here night—all night.
Capital notion that of mine for you—Neptune.
Who's him?
God of the sea! "The sea— the sea!" Rules the waves.
I thought that was honly Britannia as is on the halfpennies. If he's always on the water, what's the good o' this 'ere toasting fork.
We've provided you with an Amphitrite.
Hallo! Why it's ––
Amphitrite! Come and dance in the quadrille.
I say, miss, will you make up a figure?
It's her I know it—it's ––
Amphitrite!
Oh, well!
Hall in to supper. "'Tis a knell as summons yer to Evins or to"—well, Divine Williams.
Here's the rose bower.
He is to fly with her to-night. I still dare to hope 'tis in my power to prevent him. Oh! if he loves me! He is here, and I have scarcely courage to meet him!
To what mad act has my confounded impetuosity led me! A quarter to twelve—and at twelve—I almost wish that—Oh, Edith! Edith! your love might have saved me from this! What makes me think of her now? Ah! of course; the strange likeness in that boy Antoine! Ah, well! it's my own act, and I might as well begin regretting my whole life at once.
She's here.
Antoine!
Did you not tell me to dress as a girl to deceive your friend?
Antoine! you! 'tis impossible. Those soft eyes that I have seen so sad.
Sad!
No, no—'tis Edith!
I?
I am sure and then the likeness! Oh, what a blind idiot I have been! Pardon!
But I ––
Oh, yes! speak to me as you did two years ago; for it all wildly returns now. Speak to me –I cannot be mistaken.
Tell me –tell me that you are Edith—my Edith!
Leave me!
I know it—you are.
They told me ––
Aye! as they told me –that you were heartless, callous, and cared for some one else ; they sent back your letters, I refused to believe them ; but when I found that you did not come –that you did not make one effort to see me—then– then I thought my heart would have broken.
Edith!
Your friend told you, "One soon gets over these things." I accidentally heard that. And that "You may have found metal more attractive." I have seen that. So now, Edward Lester, we are both of us free.
Free! I am free, free still to choose when I will. I have never forgotten you; never ceased to love you. What was it that drew me towards the peasant boy Antoine, but his resemblance to you? I have been culpable, selfish, capricious, but my first and only love is for you.
And Lady Mosthyn?
Go then. I shall never love again.
Never! You cannot for my one foolish rash act, contemplated not committed, condemn both of us to unhappiness!
Here is my hand, Edith. You lead me to honour, she to disgrace. Save me, as my good angel, save me.
I!
Guilty as Lady Mosthyn may be, remember that for me she sacrifices wealth, husband's position everything! Yes, we will part. Farewell!
Hers! never!
I do.
Mon Dieu! vat do I see?
Halso Miss Mary Crick has hisn't hany longer to be.
Madame Belton send you to look after dese young ladies.
Which I will, mum, like a mother.
You vill not be vanted, Mr. Washitt, as I, myself, take charge of dese—my nieces.
Nieces! Then you are—
Dere aunt—Mrs. Franks.
Hallo! 'arf my property goes. Hi say, you'll 'ave to prove you were born, you know—I don't believe yer were.
Oh! I make no claim of dat. I vant not ze money.
That, mum's a sentiment as do honor to your 'ead and 'art.
Oh! Sir Thomas, I've been looking for you everywhere—and I tink dat–
In the arbour.
Lady Mosthyn!
That's the way we join 'em in holy matrimony.
But vat dis mean?
Ah, but de name? Vot vill de people say?
You'd better ask them, aunt.
Eh, bien.