First produced at the Royal St. James's Theatre (under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster) on Friday, August 12th, 1864.
MODERN COSTUMES.
Time in Representation – Two Hours and Five Minutes
Done? Whatever you please! The idea of consulting me when you know you are never guided by me.
The deuce I’m not; every one knows which is the better horse in this team.
Major Oldfield, I must beg you not to be coarse.
I wish you’d give me your ideas about Ally’s letter. Shall I read it again?
No, for I never understand half you say when you do read to me.
That’s civil! well then, read the letter yourself.
That is not necessary, tell me what she says?
Pray, Major Oldfield, speak for yourself.
There that will do, that’s quite enough. Break her heart indeed! She must have a nice tender heart to act as she has done.
What has she done, but followed the dictates of her heart and married the man she loved? If it had been that precious spoilt boy of yours, master Freddy, you’d have had plenty of excuses for his conduct.
His conduct never requires excuses. Don’t be cowardly, Major Oldfield, and attack your own son behind his back!
Oh, I’d attack him often enough to his face, only you won’t let me.
You are so unjust to him, and seem only to take pleasure in thwarting him.
Thwarting him! why I’ve indulged him in every whim! Didn’t he have a tutor at home instead of going to school? didn’t he prefer Cambridge because I suggested Oxford? and didn’t he go into the army because my heart was set on seeing him in the Church? and now don’t he go moaning and spooning about with Jessy because I have told him that I should particularly object to his marrying her?
Marrying her indeed! he’s not so silly, dear boy— he’ll do better than that; besides you must indeed be blind if you don’t see there is some one else admires her.
Who’s that pray?
Percy Wylding.
Percy Wylding, nonsense! he’s a confirmed old bachelor.
He’s nothing of the sort. I’ll find out his sentiments at any rate, and then perhaps you’ll leave off persecuting poor dear Freddy; a better son never lived.
Yes, he can coax and wheedle you out of anything.
He’d never stoop to any such meanness as coaxing and wheedling!
Wouldn’t he? Pray how did he get the money to extricate himself from that last little difficulty?
Major Oldfield, young men will be young men—I’m sure you needn’t hold yourself up as a model, for—
Confound it, Mrs. Oldfield, am I never to hear the last of your lectures on my past conduct? But come, what’s to be done with regard to Alice ?
I really can’t say. Consult our friend Percy.
With all my heart; in fact I wrote him a line enclosing Ally’s letter, and asked him to come and talk it over; he returned it saying he’d be here very soon.
You might have saved yourself the trouble, for he is coming to be introduced to our friend Mrs. Tiverton.
Ah, Jessy!
Good morning, dear aunt.
Thanks, my love, they are indeed.
Good morning, uncle there’s a rose for you.
Thank’ee, my dear; I know which I admire most.
Did you knock at Mrs. Tiverton’s door, my love?
No occasion, aunt she’s in the garden and will be here directly.
Good morning—I fear I’m very late.
Oh, yes, he is, uncle, he’s been in the garden this half hour –
Major Oldfield, hand Mrs. Tiverton her tea.
Famously, thank you. What a charming place you have here; no wonder you were so little inclined to stay abroad last year.
It’s a nice little place, isn’t it?
Little place, indeed! why it’s quite a family house. I really think if I stayed here long I should be tempted to settle in the country.
Not you; the country is very well for old-fashioned humdrum folks like ourselves, but would never suit you, calculated as you are to adorn society.
Major Oldfield, when you’ve done being fulsome, perhaps you’ll give Mrs. Tiverton some breakfast.
Certainly, my love, certainly. What will you take?
Nothing in the way of solids, thank you. I’m a poor hand at breakfast.
Good morning.
You naughty boy, to be so late.
I didn’t think any one would be down before this; it is so very early. I’m sure, Mrs. Tiverton, you don’t approve of such heathenish hours.
Don’t be a puppy, sir. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, which is late enough, I’m sure, even for your breakfast.
Do you return to your charming chalet at Lausanne, Mrs. Tiverton?
No; I seldom go anywhere twice, besides I was only there for quiet. I live but for
excitement, and love
Wouldn’t you? Why, I should have thought the London season just your sphere of action.
I’ve had enough of it. It’s all very well for young girls during the first season or two. By the way, I hope your daughter will be able to tear herself away from town before my visit is over. When I saw her there, she told me she would be sure to be at home by the time of my visit.
Young ladies are not much to be relied on.
I don’t wonder at her staying, for she is so much admired that I don’t believe she’ll be allowed to leave. I thought her charming last year when we met in Germany, but now she is dazzling, and in such spirits. If I were a man, I’m sure I would run away with her.
I am sorry to say, Mrs. Tiverton, that’s what a man has done.
Major Oldfield!
Uncle, how can you?
Come, governor, that’s too strong!
That’s right, attack me on all sides—what else can you call a clandestine marriage?
I’m sure I’m very sorry that I—
Major Oldfield, you outrage decency! The fact is, Mrs. Tiverton, our daughter has formed a hasty—I may say, an indiscreet—but not a clandestine marriage, for she was married from her aunt’s house, with her brother’s sanction, and in his presence.
That’s a very tame affair. I was in hopes I was going to hear an interesting account of some desperate run-away love-match. I do delight in such things. I always advise all the young people I know to fall in love.
Ha! ha! deuced good!
Major Oldfield!
Yes, aunt.
Feed my birds for me this morning, that’s a dear.
All right, dear mother.
I like that—why what did I say?
Never mind! If we are not troubling Mrs. Tiverton with our family affairs, we might ask her advice.
I’m sure I should be most interested in anything that concerns you.
You’re very kind. Well then, you see, our daughter went about six weeks ago to spend a short time with her aunt, contrary to my judgment.
Pray, my dear, don’t bore Mrs. Tiverton with tiresome details; she knows that Alice was on a visit to her aunt; and not to detain her any longer, our daughter has thought fit to marry, after an acquaintance of three weeks !
That’s rather a long courtship in my opinion! Why I ran away before I was seventeen, with a young man I’d only met at two county balls!
Did you though? Was it a happy match?
You have been sadly tried in losing him ?
Oh dear no—not at all—that is, I mean, of course, only –– I’m resigned.
Widowhood must be a great trial. I’ve often thought if I were permitted to be a widow—
Indeed! what would you do?
I can’t say, but I should always respect the memory of the departed.
Well, I’ve never thought of what I should do if I—it’s not worth while, for I see little chance of any practical experience on the point.
Major Oldfield, how can you say such grossly indelicate things?
Come, come; what is the point on which you were going to ask my advice?
Why, our daughter!
Dear me, how tiresome you are! let Mrs. Tiverton read Alice’s letter.
By all means.
That’s what I say.
It’s what I should have wished, only Major Oldfield makes it a matter of principle to differ with me.
My love, didn’t we agree to refer the question to Percy?
Who’s Percy?
Our next door neighbour, I may say our family guide, Mrs. Tiverton, he’s most anxious to make your acquaintance.
But who is he?
Why Percy ––
That voice! Can it be possible?
I never did in my life know such people, why you’re wasting the best hours of our lives.
We were waiting for you; how are you?
Waiting for me! Couldn’t you wait out of doors?
Good morning, Mr. Wylding, allow me to introduce to you our friend Mrs. Tiverton—Mr.
Wylding.
I’m sure I’m delighted. I hope I’ve the pleasure of seeing you well.
It gives me great pleasure to meet Mr. Wylding!
You’re old acquaintances. eh?
Why yes—well, not exactly – that is –
Mr. Wylding, I hear that you are settled here— not married I suppose.
My dear Wylding, I’m sorry to interrupt any pleasant little passages between you and your friend Mrs. Tiverton, but we want your advice on the subject of Ally’s letter.
Oh, that’s to be ventilated in public, is it?
We consider Mrs. Tiverton quite an intimate friend.
Why there can’t be two opinions about it—of course you’ll go and meet her.
Of course you wouldn’t refuse your own child!
Impossible!
You must be a flinty-hearted old monster if you could even think of such a thing.
It’s been my wish all along to do so, only Mrs. Old- field seems to hang back.
I seem to hang back! Major Oldfield, how can you—
Yes, how can you? I know very well what you are— a regular tyrant—a bashaw! You’re too lenient with him, Mrs. Oldfield, that’s your fault.
I’m afraid it is. I try to struggle against my weakness.
No doubt.
Pray who is your son-in-law? does any one know him?
Oh, he’s a gentleman in every respect, and I hear good accounts of him.
A man of fortune?
His position is all that we could wish.
Then it’s a subject of congratulation after all!
Of course it is; Mrs. Oldfield very naturally regrets having been spared all the trouble of
preparing the trousseau— can’t bear not having the house turned upside down for a
month, in honour of the wedding. Speaking selfishly, I’m delighted the young couple stole
away, for I know what an affair the wedding breakfast would have been. I tremble to think of
the discomfort of new clothes—food all cold and sticky—then the speeches—all the girls
crying—the Major sobbing like an infant, and Mrs. Oldfield in hysterics, with a glass of
champagne thrown over her new glacè silk. No, no, depend on it it’s the best as it is, and we
ought to be very thankful, oughtn’t we, my dear—I mean Mrs. Tiverton? so come, Major, be off
to the train—receive the young couple with open arms, and we’ll all be happy.
The carriage is ready.
Well then, I’m off, and only too happy. I shall find you here when I return, Wylding—you must detain him, Mrs. Tiverton.
That is a task far beyond my powers,
I must ask to be excused for a little time, Mrs. Tiverton, as I have some household arrangements to make. As to Mr. Wylding, he’s at home.
Pray make no stranger of me, or I shall not be able to make myself as comfortable as I could wish.
Certainly this looks like destiny.
Destiny! of course it is – there’s no escaping it. Well, what’s to be done: shall I go off summoned by telegraph to see an uncle from whom I’ve great expectations, or will you discover that the place don’t agree with you?
I don’t mean to attempt to control your actions, but I am going to remain where I am for a week. I can’t see why this meeting should put us out; it is by no means a novel situation; for the first year after our separation we were always crossing each other’s paths.
I’m sure through no fault of mine.
Whose fault was it, then? I took to travelling as the surest way of avoiding you, knowing what a confirmed stay-at-home you were.
I was forced to travel when you left me, in order to distract my thoughts.
Having me no longer to distract with your whims and fancies.
My dear Harriet —I mean Mrs. Tiverton—let us not refer to the past. May I venture to enquire why you changed your name?
How could I go about as your widow, when every one knows you to be alive; besides, the bore of being asked, “Are you Mrs. Percy Wylding, of Macclesfield?” Was I not always meeting you? Why our luggage was put in the same room at Berlin?—
Very true; it was awkward certainly, and I think you have acted wisely. Your plan of action then, under existing circumstances, is to maintain your position. Very well, I’ll maintain mine. We are merely acquaintances, and solemnly pledge ourselves not to divulge our secret.
By all means.
Widowhood seems to agree with you as well as bachelor-life does with me. What truly sensible people we’ve shewn ourselves to be.
Yes; I flatter myself I displayed no small degree of worldly wisdom when I suggested our separation.
You suggested it, I like that. Why I insisted on it: don’t you remember the dispute we had about whether the breakfast room was to be paper or chintz?
Pray, sir, don’t remind me of the outrage on a woman’s feelings of which you were guilty. When you wished me to have the drawing room amber, when I had selected blue.
I’m sure it was about the breakfast room we differed, but I’ll throw the drawing room in if
you like. I know you drove me from the house, and that I wrote you a note expressive of my
wish that we might never meet again.
I beg your pardon: I went down to Oatlands, with my dear Aunt Fussell, and sent you a note to say that, as far as I was concerned you might break up our establishment.
I took you at your word and sold everything.
Hadn’t the delicacy of feeling even to reserve our wedding presents.
I didn’t wish to be reminded of the blight of my existence. I had done all I could to make you happy, and had failed.
You certainly failed; is it possible you can forget how your impetuosity and blundering caused me increasing discomfort? why, you married me before I knew where I was, and separated from me in a still greater hurry.
My impetuosity? I’m the coolest man alive: Blundering indeed! why every one relies upon my judgment but you.
Pray, how much mischief have you done here with your hasty conclusions and thoughtless acts? Didn’t you break off more marriages and give rise to more false reports—unintentionally I admit—than any other man in society?
How can I help other people being fools, they either tell me half their stories, or make some blunder which misleads me, you yourself were the cause of nearly all the difficulties by telling me only part of what you heard.
Mr. Wylding, allow me to observe we are treading on dangerous ground. We are separated—1 am
happy, so are you—we’ll not make ourselves the talk of this place, therefore not a word. A
week is a short time for us to practise the self-denial of meeting and not quarrelling, so
let us be friends externally at any rate, and forget we were ever man and wife.
Good morning. Gad, she’s a wonder! to think of our meeting in this manner after being
separated for more than three years; well, this is the end of a love match. How I doted on
her from our first meeting till we were married—it
tete-a-tete with her in a railway carriage; but as she read perseveringly, and I
slept, we got on very well to the next station. I was set down to cards with her at the
English Embassy at Vienna, and we met twice on the Swiss Lakes; so I gave up travelling, and
betook myself to a rustic life, settled down here, and was as I thought safe from her; when
after a little breathing time, here’s my wife again. Well, what’s to be done? I suppose she’s
right, we had better fight it out, retreat on either side would only excite suspicion.
My dear Mr. Wylding, I am so glad to find you alone, for I want to talk to you about a little scheme I have in my head.
I’m all attention.
Why, I’m rather in a little bit of a difficulty about Freddy.
What, that boy again in a scrape, he’s incorrigible.
Well, no—not in a scrape—but I’m rather puzzled with respect to him and his cousin Jessy. I don’t quite see my way in that quarter, and I’m naturally anxious.
Yes yes. I see it all.
The truth is, the major has a very strong objection to Jessy as a daughter-in-law, because he thinks that the world will say he planned the marriage in order to get Jessy’s money into his family.
Jessy has money then?
Why you knew that, didn’t you?
Never heard of it till now.
Her father left her twenty thousand pounds; and as the major is her guardian and one of her trustees, that’s the reason he sets his face against this match. As for me—
I quite understand.
Now, seriously, what is your opinion of Jessy? that’s what I want to know.
Charming girl. I quite love her.
I knew you did.
First-rate, and such a fortune! Is it settled on herself?
Then I’ll soon manage it. Consider it as a settled point, as far as I am concerned. I quite understand the delicacy of your position.
A thousand thanks; but, my dear Mr. Wylding, will you let me say I hope there may be no long courtship; 1 do hate that sort of thing.
So do I; I always like to strike while the iron’s hot. Two people mooning and spooning about, wishing everybody else anywhere out of their way; and such a bore when you come on them suddenly, it’s so deuced awkward. I’m sure I’m the last man to encourage any such folly—sharp’s the word.
I know that I may leave everything to your taste and judgment.
You have relieved my mind: many thanks; there’s Freddy coming: I’ll not meet him just yet: he must not think I’ve had any hand in the affair—so good-bye.
Good-bye, dear girl, good-bye.
Hallo! What are you up to?
My dear friend, congratulate me I know you will— I’ve just told my love to dear Jessy, and she’s accepted me.
She has! Well you’re a cool hand—what will the major say, and your mother?
Oh, I expect all sorts of opposition, but must outlive that. Jessy will be of age in six months, and we will then marry in spite of guardians.
You will, will you—then you’re a nice wilful pair— what dou mean by enticing a pretty girl into wedlock? I’m ashamed of you.
But, my dear Percy, I’m sure I may rely on your good offices with my parents.
That you may, I can tell you as far as your mother goes, you’re all right there.
You don’t mean it. Why she has been pestering me to death about the wealthy Miss Potts, the drysalter’s daughter.
Nonsense, your mother wishes you to marry Jessy. Now, I know it –don’t interrupt me—so you’ve nothing to do but to get married as soon as you can.
No! you are not serious?
I am. Your mother has told me all about it, in confidence—not a word– your father would make a show of displeasure to save appearances; so my advice is that you go off quietly and get married on the sly—don’t interrupt me, my boy—I’ll manage it all with your parents—you won’t betray me?
Betray you! what do you mean?
Why, don’t say I told you; the truth is that both your parents wish the match. They can’t say so; and I’ve undertaken to manage the affair.
Jessy will never consent to an elopement.
Leave her to me; you are all coming to lunch with me to-morrow; and I’ll talk to her. Consider it as a settled thing at any rate with your father and mother.
Well, if you were not so positive, I should say you were mistaken.
Mistaken, indeed! I’m never mistaken; I never made a mistake in my life; I’m sharp, but sure; but I hear the carriage—it’s the happy pair I’ll be off till the first interview is over with mamma.
I shall cut that, and go and find Jesse, and tell her my news.
Here we are welcome home, my love.
Thanks, dear papa. Harry, why don’t you say “Thank you.” How dull you seem.
My dearest love, I’m sure I’ve expressed my thanks.
Then do be a little lively, that’s a dear, else mamma’ll think I’ve married a mute. Where is dear mamma?
She’ll be here directly, no doubt. Ah! I said so!
Ah, Alice, how d’ye do? how d’ye do, Mr. Egerton?
Mr. Egerton, dear mamma! Don’t look so coolly on me, please don’t; you mustn’t be cross with Ally now that she has come to see you and brought her husband! Harry, come and kiss mamma and say you're a good boy now, and will never do it again.
Dear girl, how she runs on.
Pray, Major Oldfield, don’t interrupt me when I’m going to speak to Alice and her husband—I’m sure I’m glad to see them.
Well, you look very cordial, I must say! My dear, Ally must want some lunch.
It will be ready almost immediately.
Now, dear mamma is going to be very kind, I know she is! Harry, why don’t you come and talk to mamma?
My love, I’ve not had a chance of talking yet.
Pray, sir, let bygones be bygones, though I must say—
My dear, let bygones—
Don’t interfere, Major Oldfield,
Mamma, mamma! you’re going to be angry, I know you are. You mustn’t be cross with any one but me, and when we’re alone you may beat me if you please, like a kind, dear mamma as you are.
My dear Alice—
No, not Alice, but your own naughty spoilt Ally. Come, pray forgive me.
Many thanks. Mrs. Tiverton, allow me to introduce my husband.
Most happy to make his acquaintance. Ah, Mr. Egerton! is it possible?
You know each other, then?
Yes—that is –we’ve met before.
Ah, Alice, my dear—I mean Mrs. Egerton, how d’ye do? I’m delighted to see you! wish you
joy!
He’s mighty cool!
Thank you, Mr. Wylding. Harry, this is our dear friend, Mr. Wylding.
Delighted to see you.
Thank you.
All right. Wish you joy, major, and you, Mrs. Oldfield. This is jolly to have Alice with us again!
Thank you, Mr. Wylding.
Lunch is ready.
Come along, I’m as hungry as a hunter! and so you must be, Mrs. Tiverton, for you had no
breakfast.
Mr. Wylding, take Harry in to lunch; mamma and I will follow directly.
All right. Come along, Mr. Egerton.
Dear mamma, let us understand one another. I have come here to ask you to forgive me for the only act of disrespect towards you that I have ever intentionally committed. Is it your intention to keep up this rigid demeanour towards me?
My dear Alice, you must feel that I have reason for being displeased.
Yes, yes, abundant reason. I do not appeal to your reason, but to your own kind heart; 1
have been rash, but I believe I have done wisely. Oh, mother, Egerton is the noblest, finest
of natures he loves me to devotion! I could not be deaf to the entreaties of such a passion
as his. I ought to have reflected; but, my own dear mamma, it is all your fault. I have been
brought up in such a loving manner that my heart was like tinder, ready to ignite at the
first flash of affection. Now, dear—dear mamma, you will forgive your own Ally—
My dear Alice, your father has sent me to fetch you.
It’s all right, dear Harry, mamma has forgiven us.
Mrs. Oldfield, I cannot express my gratitude.
We’ll say no more about it. Come along to lunch.
Alice, love, I’ll keep our promise to your aunt, and write her a few lines. I’ll follow immediately.
Do, dearest; she’ll be anxious to hear how we got on.
Come, Ally.
Coming, dear mamma.
I don’t know why, but I feel almost like a criminal; this happy home recalls scenes which
bring sadness to my soul. Why did I not tell Alice the truth? I am, indeed, happy. I love her
as devotedly as I ever loved; and yet, at times, a sweet face appears to cast a glance of
reproach at me, and the voice of her I once so fondly loved seems to say, “And is this really
man’s affection?”
What a time you’ve been, Harry.
Nothing, love.
Have you written the note for me?
No, I’ve been—I’ll do it at once.
Harry, there is something in that desk that has made you sad—what is it? I must and will
see what it is. I shall look through your papers, sir, and destroy everything that is likely
to make you melancholy.
Alice, don’t touch anything there, I entreat you.
Entreat! What can you have there unfit to meet the eye of your wife? Is this the perfect confidence which you say is the mainspring of happiness between man and wife? You’ve a secret; I’ll find it out.
No! no! Alice, there is nothing.
Well, then, let me look at the desk.
No, no, not now—let me write the note.
You are evading me. What is there in this desk?
Nothing whatever.
Ah, a woman’s portrait!
Ha! ha! capital; but you don’t mean to say, Percy, that he married her?
Married her! of course he did.
Poor fellow! I dare say she bullied him to death. I remember a young fellow who made a hasty marriage, and caught a tartar.
Major Oldfield, pray don’t use such revolting language; you are quite forgetting yourself before our friends.
She certainly was a lovely creature—wasn’t she, my dear?
Don’t appeal to me about such a person.
I forgot you women never could forgive her for being the prettiest woman in the regiment.
She was nothing of the sort. I, in common with all the ladies, could not tolerate a person who, after neglecting and thwarting her husband in every way, left him under pretence of illness, and returned to England.
But, my love, all wives are not such models as you.
Well said, papa.
Ah! first love is the only true and lasting love, isn’t it, Harry?
Why that depends—yes, I mean, of course it is.
Don’t you think it possible to love twice, Mr. Egerton?
We have indeed.
Yes; first love is a first-rate thing as long as it lasts, but if it grows threadbare, why it must be laid aside.
Quite right. I think that when people cease to agree they’re better apart.
Major Oldfield, what monstrous things you say. I’ll appeal to Mrs. Tiverton—can anything justify a woman separating herself from her husband.
Well, I’m not sure that, under some extreme— very extreme –circumstances, a woman might not be justified. What say you, Mr. Wylding.
It’s a conceivable case certainly.
That would be insupportable, indeed.
Major Oldfield, your known laxity of principle makes you defend any conduct, however incorrect. I blush for you. I consider a man and wife separated as an insult to society. I’m sure Mrs. Tiverton will agree with me.
Come, I say; I didn’t invite you here to have a lecture on the duties of married life; but if we are to have it, by all means let the young couple have the benefit of it. Mrs. Egerton, you must consider this lecture a matrimonial affair, an admonition to persons just entering that estate.
I’m quite ready to be advised; in fact I want to ask an opinion: Is a man justified in having a secret from his wife?
Certainly not.
Is a woman entitled to withhold anything from her husband?
That depends on circumstances.
A wife may withhold disagreeable matters from her husband, may she not, Mrs. Egerton?
I can imagine a wife doing so from a good motive, but in my opinion, a mistaken one.
Pray, does not that remark apply equally to the case of a husband?
A husband has the right to exercise his discretion.
I protest against that view of the matter, unless in all cases he trusts to his wife’s discretion.
But if he trusts to her discretion, he must also trust to her indiscretion?
You are hard on the ladies, Mr. Wylding; but in my opinion, a wife is best judge as to what her husband should know.
That’s what a man is as regards his wife.
I intend to know everything about my husband’s affairs.
Quite right, Mrs Egerton; but don’t carry the spirit of inquiry too far, or you may make awkward discoveries.
Egad, you may; for I remember once a lady who—
Major Oldfield, I must insist on your keeping your experiences of life for the ears of others.
Confound it, I never can open my lips.
Augustus! Augustus!
Oh, come up to the rocks, there’s a match between two yachts.
Alice, won’t you come and see it?
Not just now, my head aches.
The fresh air would do you good; it is so delightful, I shall climb up to the highest point to enjoy it.
Alice, I wish you’d come.
Not at present, Harry; you go and assist Mrs. Tiverton.
Oh dear, no; don’t mind me; I can manage very well.
Harry, why don’t you offer Mrs. Tiverton your arm?
By all means.
I must have my doubts settled one way or another That miniature, it was of a young and lovely woman; from the glance I got of it, it struck me it was like Mrs. Tiverton; I’m almost certain of it; it must be—but yet —Mr. Wylding, I want to speak to you..
It may seem rather odd, but I want you to tell me what you think of my husband.
Precious odd! Think of him! Why, he’s a capital fellow; he’s a little bit serious at times, but that’s nothing; I’m serious myself.
It is about that very seriousness that I want to speak. He appears to love me devotedly,
yet I feel that I do
My dear Mrs. Egerton, I really couldn’t undertake such a task.
Pray, do, for I have reason to be distrustful. Have you observed his behaviour with Mrs. Tiverton?
What do you mean?
They have met before; that they acknowledge, but I can’t get Harry to say much about their former acquaintance, and Mrs. Tiverton pointedly avoids the subject, but I suspect—
No, no, my dear, you must not suspect.
Well, it doesn’t amount to suspicion, but I am curious to know when and where he knew Mrs. Tiverton. She’s a dangerous woman.
Oh, dear, no!
She’s an attractive one, and that is the same thing. You men are such clever fellows, so grand and mighty, ruling the world and all that sort of thing, and yet if a poor weak woman lay out her nets to catch you, there you are down on your knees, her most devoted slave.
If this is your view founded on experience, why do you feel any doubt about Egerton?
It is not exactly doubt, but a desire to discover whether he has been given to flirtations. I fancy him the type of constancy. I suppose I’m jealous at the thought of his ever having loved any one else. My idea of happiness is, to be the sole object of a man’s affections.
Well, I think second love is very like a fire made of cinders, there is little real warmth in it.
Now I fancy Mrs. Tiverton is an old flame of his.
Oh dear, no!
I want you to watch them, and tell me what you think.
In order to give you an opportunity to observe their conduct. I must say, her frankness of
manner gives me confidence, but I’m getting very suspicious. I shall go into the house for a
little while, and keep quiet, for I have a head-ache. Mind you keep watch for me, and strict
watch too.
Oh, I’ll watch, trust me! Well, this is an agreeable affair, certainly; if she were not my
wife I should not be justified in such a course, but a man may keep his eye on
Oh, Mr. Wylding, I’m so glad I’ve found you; Freddy has told me all that you’ve said. I can hardly believe that you are serious.
I am quite serious; now you come for a turn with me in the garden, and I’ll tell you all about it. You must be guided by me.
That I will, readily, though I can’t consent to an elopement, that’s too much.
It’s nothing when you’re used to it!
Mr. Wylding, how can you ?
I didn’t mean that—no, I meant you’d soon get used to it. Come into the garden, we’ll
discuss the matter coolly.
There, Major Oldfield, will you believe your own senses? Did you ever see more perfect billing and cooing?
Well, to me it looks much more as though he were reading a lecture.
You know nothing of love making, how should you?
How, indeed! it’s so long since I tried my hand at it; not that I’ve forgotten it, either, for though we do disagree on little points, m dear. I’m sure it’s from no want of love. We’re quite specimens of matrimonial happiness!
I try to make you happy, Augustus.
You quite succeed.
Why, what has become of everybody?
This is Liberty Hall, every one does as he pleases here, including the master! isn’t he a nice fellow?
Very agreeable!
Such taste, too—isn’t this cottage perfection?
Very beautifully situated, but one misses the hand of a lady about it,
That’s precisely what I say to him every time we discuss his home arrangements.
What does he say?
Evades the subject. I always fancy that there has been something very disagreeable in the matrimonial quarter.
What do you mean? is he married?
Why, Mrs. Oldfield fancies so, though he never alludes to the subject; she has an idea that he married some old dragon for money.
Then, Mrs. Oldfield is wrong, for he did nothing of the sort.
Then you knew his late wife?
I said nothing of the kind, I only was sure Mr. Wylding would be incapable of anything so contemptible as marrying an old dragon for her money.
Bravo! I’m glad you take his part. Well, between you and me, I think he’s getting out of his bachelor ways.
Indeed! How?
Look there
Mr. Wylding, walking with Miss Ashton.
Yes, and talking very earnestly too, pleading his cause very ardently; at least, so Mrs. Oldfield says.
He’s talking to her, but not making love.
That’s what I tell Mrs. Oldfield, but she’s such a woman; she’s set her heart on it, and so she’s been at him till he’s consented to the arrangement.
What arrangement?
Why, his marriage.
His marriage! With whom?
It’s quite a seeret, but I don’t mind telling you; with Jessy—
Nonsense! I tell you it’s impossible, it can’t be done! you don’t know what you’re talking
about. I’ll not allow it
Oh! oh! I smell a rat. Well, at any rate, don’t say a word!
I certainly should like to see him married to Jessy, but quite think he would find a more suitable match in Mrs. Tiverton.
Pray, don’t mix me up in any way with Mr. Wylding.
Certainly not.
Blessed with whom?
With you. I’m sure he admires you very much.
My dear Major, pray don’t let that thought enter your head. Mr. Wylding and I must ever be to each other what we are; my destiny is fixed, I have no longer a hand or a heart to give. I regret to say, that a letter received to-day will oblige me to shorten my visit to you.
I hope not.
I’m very sorry to leave, but I’ve some important business at Doctors’ Commons that demands my presence.
Indeed.
My dear Major, should the opportunity present itself, I should be obliged if you would let
Mr. Wylding know my sentiments respecting him.
There’s no hurry, I dare say; we shan’t go for this hour to come.
At any rate, I’ll get ready to go.
She’s a charming woman, but, I should say, knows her way about. But that Master Percy’s a bit of a flirt; I must talk to him.
Hallo, Major! what, alone? Well, I think we’ve had a pleasant afternoon.
Charming! How could it be otherwise in such a spot, with such company? Come, I want to talk to you a little about Jessy.
I’m all attention.
You quite understand my sentiments respecting her marriage.
For certain reasons, I’ve a particular wish not to be in any way mixed up in the affair. The fact is, that were I to interfere about it, I should appear to be behaving unhandsomely by my co-trustee, who is anxious that his cub of a son should marry her. So, you see, I want to be able to say that I know nothing about the matter.
Yes, yes, I quite understand; if Jessy wishes to
Precisely. Let Mrs. Oldfield conduct the whole affair; I wish to know nothing about it. My co-trustee will be displeased; but, really, his son is such a lout, I couldn’t bear to see the dear girl so sacrificed. He only cares for her money.
The deuce take him; he shan’t have her. I’ll take care of that.
I know you will—I’m delighted; but, I say, old fellow, I must tell you that I thought you a little too sweet on the fair widow.
What widow?
That’s a good ’un! Why, Mrs. Tiverton; but you don’t stand any chance there, I can tell you—she’s booked.
Booked! Who’s booked?
Why, Mrs. Tiverton.
What on earth do you mean?
Why, I mean that Mrs. Tiverton is going to be married again; I’m certain of it.
The deuce she is. But who told you, and what’s your authority?
The best possible—Mrs. Tiverton, herself.
The devil! this is a pretty go.
You seem taken aback.
Do I?—oh, dear, no. But how came you to be admitted into her confidence on the subject?
Why, the truth is, I rather joked her about your attentions.
What did she say?
Was up in a moment, and said that her mind was made up; and, in fact, seemed to have very strong feeling on the subject.
An aversion to me, eh?
I didn’t say that exactly. She says her plans are fixed for life –that she has given her hand and heart: between ourselves, I suspect—
What do you suspect?
That our fair widow, is only a widow bewitched.
What do you mean?
Why, she talks about having important business in Doctors’ Commons. Now, what can that be but a divorce affair?
No doubt you’re right: she’s getting up a divorce.
Well, at any rate that’s no affair of ours—dismiss her from your mind. I must be off: I
say, be less attentive to Mrs. Tiverton, or you’ll get yourself talked about, and that would
be awkward under your circumstances—good-bye for the present
Under my circumstances! What does he mean by that? She can’t have told him our real position, and taken him into her confidence that he might break the matter of the divorce to me. The way that bridegroom has been going on with her is decidedly suspicious; certainly there must be something between them, for I saw him talking to her so earnestly, seeming to implore her forbearance, and she was giving him a good lecture I should say at least, so it seemed to me from the distance. Oh, here he is; altogether I’ve got plenty on my hands.
I was just coming to look for you.
Very probably: I’ve been a great traveller.
Yes, to be sure, it must be; but, no, it’s impossible; you can’t be the man I take you for.
Why impossible?
Because he’s dead. I was on board a Mediterranean steamer with him—we were run down in the night –in the general confusion I saw your likeness struggling in the water –I tried to assist him in vain.
Mr. Wylding, I should indeed be ungrateful, were I not both to recognize and thank you. I am the identical man you attempted to help on that fearful night.
Are you indeed. I’m deuced glad you were saved.
I would have called myself to your recollection be- fore, but that I wished for an opportunity of doing so privately, as I do not wish my wife to know of that terrible affair at present: I am sure I may rely on your not alluding to it in any way.
Certainly.
That was indeed a heavy night for me –in it I lost a treasure.
What do you mean?
My wife.
Did you? It was an awful affair. I was lucky enough to save one lady: I held her up in the water till the boat of the Messageries picked us up. Her sole anxiety was to know the fate of her husband. I met her again last year in Switzerland, and would have called on her, but she was living in such seclusion that she declined seeing me: in fact, she was not as grateful as she might have been.
What was her name?
Mrs. Thornton.
Mrs. Thornton saved? Impossible!
Nothing of the kind; she was saved by me.
Mr. Wylding, for mercy’s sake, you are jesting or dreaming! Mrs. Thornton, my wife, escaped a watery grave?
Mrs. Thornton your wife? impossible! is your name Thornton, then?
It was; I changed it to inherit property.
Stop; you don’t mean to say that you’ve married again under the impression that you lost her on that night?
I have indeed.
Good gracious! what’s to be done?
What indeed! are you sure that you are not mistaken?
I’ll tell you who can verify my statement.
Who is that?
Mrs. Tiverton. She and Mrs. Thornton were acquainted; I’ve seen them together.
I must see her instantly, and ask her; but for heaven’s sake don’t breathe a word to a
soul. I’ll see you again to-night, and consult with you as to what’s to be done. I must act
promptly.
No, no, wait till you’ve seen Mrs. Tiverton, at any rate.
No, I’d better fly immediately; as to Mrs. Tiverton, she already knows too much, for to tell the truth, I’ve had to ask her to be silent. Ah! not a word now.
Nothing, my love, nothing; I’m only a little out of sorts.
I’m sure he’s ill—very ill—is he not, Mr. Wylding?
Well, I should say that he was not very well.
I’m all right now; I’ll get a glass of water.
Let me get you one.
No, dearest, I’ll go myself.
What can be the matter with him? Tell me, Mr. Wylding, what has he been talking about? I heard him mention Mrs. Tiverton’s name.
Did he? well, yes, I believe he did.
What is odd and awkward?
Why, his being taken ill.
But you know the cause of this attack—I’m sure you know.
Don’t you be sure of anything! I really can’t say what the cause of his illness may be.
My dear Mr. Wylding, as a valued friend, I implore you, tell me—don’t keep me in suspense.
I can’t—I’ve nothing to disclose. imbroglio—how’ll they get out of it? I don’t see what’s to be done; deuced
pleasant. He was just going to let the cat out of the bag about himself and my wife. That
girl is right; there must be something very queer; I must have it out. I’ll teach my wife a
lesson; I’ll show her I’m not to be made a fool of. This is a little too strong; I must be
cool and cautious. I’ll wash my hands, and drop in next door.
I can’t be bear to be alone with her, to think that I should be deceiving her. Her anxious looks when she thinks me ill, go to my heart. I must see Mrs. Tiverton at once; should she confirm Wylding’s intelligence, I must leave the place, and for ever.
Mrs. Tiverton, one word, if you please.
What is the matter? I trust, Mr. Egerton, that you do not doubt my honour. I have given you my word to keep your secret, that is enough.
I was not about to refer to the conversation we have just had. I feel the justice of your remarks, and that I deserve your censure, but I must implore you to be prudent.
When I begged you not to breathe a word about it to Mr. Wylding, I did not—
Pray, compose yourself, Mr. Egerton. Mr. Wylding, indeed, do you think I’m mad? I’d as soon print it on a thousand handbills, and distribute them through the county.
You know him then?
Indeed I do!
He’s a kind-hearted fellow, but his discretion—
Mr. Egerton, you may spare yourself the trouble telling me anything about Mr. Wylding.
I was about to speak on a subject which interests me, I believe you have resided for some time in Switzerland?
Yes, I passed two summers there!
You were there last summer?
I was.
Did you happen to know a Mrs. Thornton?
Intimately; hers was a remarkable story, but perhaps you knew her, and have heard it?
Yes! I know her; that is to say, I’ve heard the story—you refer to the loss of the steamer and her escape?
Yes, it was most miraculous!
I never heard the particulars.
There I’m a little at fault, for to tell the truth, the nervous shock had upset her so very much she could not bear to refer to it; indeed, wished to keep the fact of her escape a secret.
What could have been her motive for that?
Why, she had a husband from whom she wished to escape, and availed herself of the report of her supposed death to do so, but—
Impossible! You must be mistaken; tell me, is she in England?
I’m sure she’s not. When last I heard from her she was at Vevey; she has no ties in England, and does not care about it.
You seem very much interested about Mrs. Thornton. I owe her a letter; when I write, I shall inform her of your enquiries.
Not for the world. Pray, Mrs. Tiverton, I implore you, do not in any way refer to me. I shall shortly communi- cate with her.
My dear sir, you are very tragical over it; if I were not aware that such a thing is impossible, I should say you were a discarded lover, or something of that sort; the very idea makes me laugh!
Mrs. Tiverton, pray do not laugh; you little know the agony of my soul, the utter wretchedness of my feelings; a few hours ago I was the happiest of men; but now am the most miserable.
Indeed! I trust that there is nothing unpleasant between you and your wife!
May I confide to you—
Alice! you here.
Yes, Alice is here, to receive this secret from you, which she could have learned had she been willing to have stooped to the baseness of listening. As you were about to confide to this lady, you can have no objection to my sharing your confidence, and I’m sure she would prefer my doing so.
My dear Mrs. Egerton, I assure you that the confidence was quite volunteered by your husband; I was merely speaking of a lady—
Mrs. Tiverton let us return at once to the lodge. Come, Alice.
I’m quite ready.
I say, good people, this is all very fine, but we ought to have been at the lodge an hour
ago; Mrs. Oldfield will think we’ve eloped, or something ; why, what’s the matter?
Nothing particular! I’ve only interrupted a very interesting, if not agreeable,
téte-a-téte between Mrs. Tiverton and my husband.
My dear Mrs. Egerton, how very absurd, we were only talking about a friend whom——
Mrs. Tiverton––
My dear sir, pray allow the lady to finish her defence.
Defence of what, pray? Don’t carry this folly too far! As a young, inexperienced married woman, your silly fit of jealousy is excusable, but I must beg you will accept my utter disclaimer as to there being any sort of foundation for it, as far as I am concerned. I hope to meet you at tea, when you’ve arranged your little matrimonial difference. I must trouble you, Mr. Wylding, to shew me the way out.
With the greatest possible pleasure—I’m sure that is—I mean—
My dear Alice, you really are unreasonable? I assure you it is unjust, both to Mrs. Tiverton and myself.
Pray don’t tax your powers of invention any further. Can you deny that you were going to make her a confidante, and tell her something you have been carefully concealing from me? But, come, Harry, why should you keep any secret from me? Pray tell me what is vexing and annoying you so? I will do all I can to soothe and comfort you.
Alice—Alice—impossible! I am a wretched, lost man, and when I look on you—
I am petrified! You still say you know nothing,
I said nothing of the sort. I said I could tell you nothing.
You admit, then, that there is something terrible which is being kept secret from me. What can I do? I cannot, will not bear this suspense! I have lost all confidence in my husband; rely on it, Mr. Wylding, that Mrs. Tiverton is at the bottom of it all.
No, no, really you are wrong there; I am sure there can be no secret between them.
Of my husband’s former feeling towards her there can be no doubt at any rate, for he has her miniature in his possession.
The deuce he has! how do you know that?
Because I’ve seen it, at least I’m nearly certain of it. Imagine any one with a spark of feeling for her late husband behaving as she does. How long has he been dead?
I’m not aware that he is dead.
Not dead! what do you mean?
Mrs. Egerton, Mrs. Egerton, you are carried away by your feelings. I assure you Mrs.
Tiverton is a lady of good connections and irreproachable conduct.
Not dead! what do you mean? That she is only passing herself off as a widow? Mamma must
know this—I’ll go to her at once. She’s some adventuress—no one is safe! She’s been flirting
with every one since she’s been here, from Freddy to papa.
Mrs. Egerton—Alice—stop! What am I to do— what can I say? I can’t say she’s my wife without
her consent —I can’t get hold of her to see her alone. I never did in all my life know such a
complication! How will they get out of it?
Well, Mr. Wylding, how did Freddy take your intelligence?
Very well—said he was quite ready to fall into my views.
You didn’t let him know that I had any hand in the matter?
No further than by saying I was in possession of your sentiments on the subject, and that seemed quite to satisfy him.
Dear boy! always docile and obedient to me. How did you get on with Jessy?
First rate; she seemed a little taken aback at first, but I soon brought her to reason.
I really think you must be a wizard; the manner in which you can get one out of every difficulty is marvellous.
You can do anything in this world if you’re only prompt, and strike while the iron’s hot; that’s the way to rule the world.
That’s check-mate for me. Come Percy, you must try to vindicate the honour of our village: Mrs. Tiverton is carrying off everything, including our hearts.
Major Oldfield!
I’m dumb.
I’m far too much a novice to break a lance with Mrs. Tiverton — I should soon get the worst
of it.
A year or two ago I should have jumped at such a proposal, but my day of romance is passed.
Don’t say so.
I wish you’d come out, Mrs. Tiverton.
Why not; I can take care of myself.
Yes; but consider others.
You’re right. Here Freddy, why don’t you take Jessy out for a moonlight stroll.
I shall be delighted—will you come, Jessy?
With pleasure.
Freddy, don’t stay out too long—think of your cold.
All right, mother.
Part of my plan.
I meant you to take her.
Mrs. Tiverton and I are going directly.
By all means. I don’t at all approve tete-á-tete wanderings by moonlight.
I should say they were dangerous; at least, I should be afraid of them.
Major Oldfield!
I mean for people like Freddy, with bad colds.
I don’t know that: I dare say the cool night air will be tempered in his case. Come, Mrs.
Tiverton: now, my dear Major, you really ought not to come, ought he, Mrs. Oldfield? Why your
last attack of gout was brought on by moonlight
Major Oldfield is always so imprudent, I never attempt to guide him.
Imprudent, nonsense—I’m no such thing—I’m as hearty as a buck.
I shall not wait while you settle the point as to the prudence of accompanying me: you can
follow when you’ve made up your minds.
I’m coming directly.
My dear Major, you’re quite mistaken; let me go, I want to say a few words in private to Mrs. Tiverton.
The deuce you do; well, I do call that imprudent, I do indeed. Well, at any rate I’ll come into the garden with you.
I’ve my smoking cap in my pocket.
Alice, won’t you come out?
No, thank you, I’m rather tired; but, pray, don’t let that keep you in.
Here, Egerton, you’re wanted to settle a dispute between the Major and Mrs. Tiverton, about Venus or Saturn, or some heavenly body. I know nothing about them; so I can’t decide,
I’ll come directly.
Come along.
Mr. Wylding, will you oblige me by remaining here a few moments.
Oh, certainly.
I am going to repeat the question I have already put to you, and prefer doing so in my mother’s presence.
Alice, what can you have to ask? What does all this mean?
My dear mother, I regret to say that I have reason to distrust my husband’s truth and honour.
Oh, Mrs. Egerton!
Good gracious, how very shocking; but I’ve always told you my opinion of a love match.
Love match, indeed! he never really loved me— for, long before, he had fallen into the snares of a practised coquette.
Whom do you mean?
Mrs. Tiverton.
No, no; really, you are mistaken.
Can you deny that she is my rival?
Most decidedly I can.
How, then, do you account for their conduct?
What conduct?
My dear mamma, I surprised my husband and Mrs. Tiverton, yesterday, at Mr. Wylding’s, and unwillingly overheard enough of their conversation to convince me that she, not I, has his confidence, and the mastery of his heart.
My love, how monstrous. Why, they only met yesterday.
There you are mistaken, mamma; they are old friends, as Mr. Wylding knows and can testify.
Well now, really, they are only travelling acquaintances.
How very extraordinary that Mrs. Tiverton should not have stated that she knew him.
Oh, one can’t state everything at once.
Wherever there’s concealment, Mr. Wylding, depend on it, there’s something wrong; and ’tis so easy to explain—
I beg your pardon. Never explain anything, unless you want to get deeper into the mess. You may do wrong, and get off very well; but if you’re such a fool as to explain, even when you’ve done right, you’re sure to be put in the wrong. Never explain.
That may be a very good maxim, but I do not agree to it. I insist on an explanation as regards this Mrs. Tiverton; you know all about her—I’m sure you do. Now prove yourself our friend and hers, by stating all you can in her defence; or, if she be, as I suspect, an adventuress, pray tell us.
How, can you ask me to do such a thing? Now be reasonable.
I am perfectly reasonable; you see how calm I am. I have resolved to keep so, in order to be fit for the trial that awaits me.
Whatever your trial may be, Mrs. Tiverton is not the cause of it, I’m sure.
Then, why does my husband make her his confidante?
His confidante! Really, Mr. Wylding, this does require clearing up. Mrs. Tiverton leaves us to-morrow, but I must demand an explanation before she goes.
No, dear mamma, don’t you speak to her; leave me to do so, first, at any rate. She is coming; leave us alone.
My dear, would it not be better for your mother to speak?
No, mamma, I should prefer doing so myself.
Well, my love, as you please.
Now, Mrs. Egerton, let me say a few words to Mrs. Tiverton.
No, sir; certainly not. If you would have me believe in your sincerity, allow me to settle this affair in my own way. Since you will not explain it, Mrs. Tiverton must; so, leave us alone.
Very well; what’s to be done?
Star-gazing is all very well, but it is slightly chilly, so I’ve come for my shawl. I wonder you don’t join the astronomers, Mrs. Egerton, it’s very interesting.
So I should think; but I have more interesting matter on hand. I wish to speak to you, Mrs. Tiverton, if you will spare me a few moments.
By all means; but I trust you are not going to carry on that absurd scene commenced at Mr. Wylding’s.
It may strike you as absurd; but I’m not a case-hardened woman of the world. I cannot have iny feelings outraged, and bear it with stoical indifference. If I didn’t love my husband, I could bear his neglect.
I’m sorry to hear that he neglects you; I thought him the most devoted; I really think you fancy it.
Mrs. Tiverton, you cannot think so –it is impossible. You are in possesson of some secret that he is withholding from me. Give me a full explanation, and I shall be satisfied.
A full explanation of what?
The subject of your conversation, this evening, at Mr. Wylding’s.
Mrs. Egerton, you have made a mistake in demanding an explanation of me; if you require one, ask it of your husband.
This is trifling; you know that I have a right to ask you.
Well, really! as I said before, I must refer you to Mr. Egerton: I cannot betray confidence reposed in me.
You are young and inexperienced. Come, come; let me advise you, as a friend, to calm yourself: ask your husband, for I assure you I cannot think of doing so.
Her coolness will drive me mad. I must say, Mrs. Tiverton, your conduct in this matter places you in a very suspicious light.
I have been too long, my dear, the victim of misrepresentation, to mind being once more a subject of it. Be advised by me; your husband loves you. Do not let foolish jealousy mar your happiness—confide in him.
You only exasperate me– I will know the truth. If you will not tell me, I will expose the whole affair—I’ll denounce you both.
Denounce us both! What do you mean?
Mean! That you have stolen him from me; that he loved you before he ever saw me.
Friend, indeed! Is it the part of a friend to act as you have done? No! you are my foe, and
soon shall the mask be torn off; I’ll go and find my husband, and bring him face to face with
you.
Give him back to her indeed! This comes from having a secret. I told him that he should have let her know everything.
I declare I’ve got quite chilled. You were wise to come in, Mrs. Tiverton.
I’m always prudent; but in this present instance was actuated by the necessity of preparing for my departure in the morning.
I’m sorry you’re obliged to go. This has been
Mrs. Tiverton is in possession of my sentiments respecting her.
I shall say good-night and good-bye.
I shall be down before you leave.
I must be off by the first train; my maid will secure me a cup of coffee, so pray don’t
disturb yourself; once more good-bye.
Well, good-bye, and remember, if you are ever within one hundred and fifty miles of us, and don’t favour us with your presence, we shall consider you are acting shabbily.
Major Oldfield !
I shall be sure to come.
Charming creature! Delightful woman! Heigho!
Major Oldfield, you really are getting sentimentally imbecile.
That’s civil, upon my word—I’m off to bed.
I just wish to make one remark, Major Oldfield: I hope you are at any rate pleased with the turn affairs have taken with respect to Jessy.
I am certainly pleased; I can’t quite make him out—but to tell you the truth, I always thought you had an eye on Jessy for Freddy.
Freddy, indeed, dear boy! I believe he was a little sweet on her once; but as soon as he knew that I was opposed to the match, he gave it up immediately.
What are you knocking your head against now? Freddy has gone to bed with a bad cold.
Gone to bed, indeed! Here, Freddy—Hallo! your mother wants you.
Really, one would think you’d been been drinking. Freddy is not there, I’m sure?
Here I am.
Freddy, how imprudent to be out so late with your cold.
And with your cousin?
Major Oldfield, don’t be absurd. Freddy, what can you possibly have to say to Jessy?
Mother, how can you ask such a question?
My dear Jessy, you must be more circumspect even with regard to Freddy; Mr. Wylding will not like it; and people will think you a coquette under your circumstances.
What circumstances, dear aunt?
Why, being engaged to Mr. Wylding, you must not act quite so freely as heretofore.
Engaged to Wylding! Ha, ha! that’s capital—the idea of my Jessy being engaged to Wylding.
What do you mean, sir?
Oh, I know all about it; Wylding has told me your wishes, and I comply willingly; and so does Jessy in all respects but one.
What are you talking about?
I know you both wish me to marry Jessy.
Marry Jessy?
Who told you so?
Wylding, of course; he said that both you and my mother wished it.
I never did—what effrontery—it’s false, sir.
He said that, as you did not wish to appear to have any hand in it, I’d better run away with her; and I’d have done it like a bird, only Jessy wouldn’t hear of such a thing.
Dear girl!
You don’t think, my dear uncle, I would requite your kindness by such an act of disrespect?
I’m sure you wouldn’t; do you think she would, my dear?
Certainly not; but really, this Mr. Wylding, what a viper he is.
No, no; I’m sure he misunderstood you; he’s a noble fellow.
I’ll noble fellow him; I’ll go and find him this instant; I never was in such a rage. Come
with me, Freddy; have this explained before I sleep.
Dear uncle, you are not displeased with me?
No, love, very much the reverse go to your room now, all will be well: we shall hear what
Mr. Wylding has to say; you shall soon know.
Why, Ally, my love, what is the matter?
Papa, dear! dear papa!
My own darling, what ails you?
My dearest father, pity your poor girl; I have been deceived, my husband loves another.
Impossible, my child, you are the victim of a delusion.
No, no, papa; it is too true; I have proof.
Then I’ll find the rascal, and demand an explanation.
Not yet, dear papa, let us wait till we can bring his falsehoods home to him.
How do you propose doing so, my love?
To-night it is his intention to leave the house, but I’ll prevent him.
Can it be?
Yes; and I’ve reason to believe that Mrs. Tiverton will be the partner of his flight.
Mrs. Tiverton! My dear girl, you must be dreaming.
Father, I am not; I have been almost heart-broken at the discovery, but now I only wish to be convinced of my husband’s falsehood and my own desolation; then I shall feel I have been properly punished for my wilfulness, and I know that you, dear papa, will pity me as you have forgiven me. Happy in your love I will endeavour to forget him, and devote myself to you and dear mamma.
My darling, come to your father’s arms.
I hear my husband coming; don’t see him now, come with me. I will tell you my scheme for
exposing this treachery and deceit.
Well, don’t bother me about it; I can’t help it, if your mother don’t know her own mind. I repeat, she told me she wished you to marry Jessy.
She declares she never said a word to you about it.
I shouldn’t like to tell you what I think she is.
She says you professed yourself a great admirer of Jessy.
So I am –so is everybody; but we can’t all marry Jessy.
My mother says I shan’t –she has been talking to me. I can tell you—
Where is your mother ?
When we didn’t find you at home, she went off in a huff to bed, I suppose.
I was only in the stables; but come, you go to bed, too, and sleep on it. You’ll find all will be right; your mother is not likely to oppose you very long, you know. Now be off, there’s a good boy.
By-bye, then. I’m sent to bed, am I? I shan’t go—I’ll go and talk to my mother. Well, if
you don’t
Good night. Who would have the guiding of such a family? It’s lucky I’m pretty cool, or
they’d get themselves into no end of scrapes. I’ve agreed to help poor Egerton out of this
difficulty by driving him over to the Junction to meet the mail train. What a blow-up there
will be in the morning.
My kind friend, I am, though it breaks my heart to think of my poor Alice’s desolation; be kind to her. Write at once and let me know how she bears the shock. I have written her a letter that will explain all.
Then give it me I’ll deliver it when you’re clear off. I’ll drive the trap to the end of the lane, and wait there; now don’t you linger here. Give me the letter.
I had it here—no—I must have left in my dressing room. I’ll get it at once.
Yes, look sharp.
Mr. Wylding, you still here?
Yes. I’m just going.
Going?
Yes, I’m going for a drive.
At this time of night?
Yes, I often do it I like it—it’s so quiet!
Very quiet, indeed, but rather too much so not to excite suspicion. Mr. Wylding, I have discovered your plot, in spite of your admirable powers of deception.
My plot?
Yes! Can you deny that you are a party to the elopement of my husband and Mrs. Tiverton?
I’ll be hanged if I am!
Can it be possible that you are the dupe of both ? yes, it must be so; you cannot be so base as to betray the confidence of those who love you so dearly, as we all do. But be no longer the victim of their arts, you are deceived by both—they quit this house by different routes and at different times; but it is nothing more than a ruse, they have no doubt settled the place of meeting.
Can it be—no—yes of course I see it all! I’ve been made a fool of? You’re right—I’ll see him further before I drive him to the train.
Then you were about to assist him in his flight?
Yes, he’s a bad man; you and I are two victims; he’ll be here directly.
Let me speak to him alone.
It is hard to leave her thus! but it must be done.
If I ever loved you? Can you doubt my love? Cold, wicked, perfidious though you be, you must have discovered that I loved with all the truth and ardour that a woman can love!
Alice, you torture me and drive me mad! Did you ever have cause till now to doubt my love?
’Till now? What a question for the wife of little more than a month, to be asked. I never could have believed you false till I saw your conduct with that woman.
What woman?
Mrs. Tiverton!
No, Alice—no, by heaven you are wrong! you are doing a great injustice in suspecting her, she is entirely blameless.
Of course, you defend her with an ardour worthy of a better cause. Mr. Egerton, I know all.
Alice, you are mad !
You will make me so! Can you disguise your passion for her? You have known her before; if all were as it ought to be, why did you keep the fact of your being acquainted a secret? Why did you have a clandestine interview with her? above all, why are you about to leave this house surreptitiously at this hour?
I have been wrong, but not guilty; I have deceived you.
Oh! you admit it?
Yes—but only in a trifling matter; when I wooed and won you, I was guilty of one piece of deceit. I concealed from you the fact of my being a widower.
What could have been your motive for such concealment, but a bad one?
No, not a bad but a weak one. I had heard you express a girlish dislike to second marriages. I feared to lose you, or even have the agony of suspense, as to your accepting me; it was love that blinded me, and it was because Mrs. Tiverton knew of my being a widower, that I ignored her as a former acquaintance, and asked her to do me the favour of keeping the fact from you.
Henry Egerton, will you swear to me that this is the whole truth?
No, I will not.
Ah!
It was the whole truth, but now, alas! there is a terrible revelation to be made. I lost my first wife in an awful manner. We were on our wedding trip, and on coming up from Naples, the steamer which conveyed us was run down. In vain I struggled to save my wife; a fellow-passenger assisted me, but to no purpose; overcome by the waves, I saw my loved wife sink into death, and then lost all consciousness; recovering my senses, I found myself on board a vessel bound for the Levant, by the crew of which I had been saved; on my arrival in Smyrna, I was thrown on a sick bed, and remained an invalid all the winter. After that I returned to Naples, to have my worst fears confirmed, and to learn the details of the calamity that had made me a widower; two or three men alone had escaped. I could not bear any reference to the subject, and I travelled in the East for the recovery of my health, and to try and divert my thoughts from my great affliction. On my return to Europe, I encountered Mrs. Tiverton at Vienna; we were. I assure you, but slightly acquainted, for I was then a prey to the deepest melancholy. I subsequently met you, and sunshine again broke upon my path.
That miniature, is it not of Mrs. Tiverton?
Mrs. Tiverton—no. Of my loved lost one; but I must tell you all the truth. Since I have been here, I’ve recognized in Mr. Percy Wylding, my fellow-passenger on board the ill-fated steamer, who had tried to help me, and have learnt from him that my wife was saved.
Was saved, and is still alive, merciful heavens! Do you mean to tell me that you have contracted marriage with me without being assured of her death? This is too much; you have disgraced not only me, but my family; brought ruin and infamy upon us all. Oh! ’tis a hideous dream. Harry, ’tis not true; say that it is not true, that this is but a flimsy artifice to conceal the truth. You wish to fly from me with the woman of your heart, and have invented this subterfuge to deceive me. It is so, Harry, say that it is so!
Alice, Alice; believe me—
Ahl no longer call me by that name. I am, you say, nothing to you but your cast-off victim. Oh! Harry, how could you requite my love my devotion?
Alice, I implore your pardon. I solemnly swear that you are wrong in your suspicion.
I will know the truth. I will call my father. Ah! you shrink from meeting him.
I would spare him the misery of this exposure. I would try to shield you from all the
consequences of this wretched affair.
No, Harry, before my parent you shall proclaim the truth. I desire that you remain here
till I call him. O Harry!
Was ever man in so miserable a plight. I cannot bear that her father should hear the tale
of misery from my lips; I cannot, will not, face him. I’ll go to Wylding.
Yes, you may go to him, but you’ll not find him. A nice fellow, that, to try and take me
in; it’s fortunate I did not let my feelings run away with me, or I might have believed him,
and helped him at once—ah, there’s nothing like being cool and cautious. Who’s here? My
precious partner—no doubt, on the watch to see him off. I’ve caught her alone, at last.
And who wishes to bamboozle, as you so elegantly express it ?
I’ve no time for being elegant; I must be plain and straightforward with you.
What do you mean?
Mean! That your conduct is disgraceful that you not only are ruining your fair fame, but compromising me.
I must say, this comes well from you, who have abandoned me in the most heartless way.
I deny it—you forsook me. No, no; you’ll not get your divorce, on the grounds of desertion. Perhaps, you think to irritate me into giving you a pinch, and then you’ll plead cruelty as well.
Get my divorce, indeed. Your behaviour would puzzle me, if I didn’t know your plans. I had intended to have quitted this roof without deigning to notice your conduct, and meant to have denounced you by letter to Major Oldfield. I’ll thwart your designs.
What designs?
What designs! Before I answer that question, let me hear what there is in my way of proceeding that so highly incenses you.
You ask that, do you? Well, then, I’m disgusted at your behaviour with Egerton.
My behaviour with Mr. Egerton. You’re dreaming.
Oh, dear, no. I’ve watched you both—I overheard you speak of me disparagingly; others have remarked your conduct with him, likewise, and we all agree that it’s disgraceful.
Who dares insinuate anything against me?
Insinuate! I like that. I don’t insinuate; I bring a direct charge. You have known Egerton before, and you have induced him to forsake his young wife, and are prepared to elope with him this very night.
I must be in a dream, or you must be intoxicated. You said others were convinced of the impropriety of my conduct; name them, at once, I insist?
Well, Mrs. Egerton.
Mrs. Egerton? Poor thing! she is full of the jealousy natural to a young loving heart! I can forgive her; but as to you, I’ve no patience with your folly. This is but a miserable attempt to further your designs upon that poor young girl.
My designs on what young girl?
Jessy Ashton, whom you are about to marry, when you’ve got rid of me; this is base, indeed!
I marry Jessy Ashton? who told you I was going to marry her?
Major Oldfield!
Then he’s a—
Spare your invectives, sir; if there is nothing between you and Miss Ashton, pray, why were you talking to her so earnestly in the garden to-day? I saw you!
Saw me! of course you did. What a blundering old fool that Major is; well, then, I was—I don’t mind telling you, though it’s a secret—I was arranging her marriage with young Oldfield.
You were? Can I believe you?
Did you ever find me guilty of falsehood?
Never. But, why should I believe you, when you won’t take my word as to my conduct with Mr. Egerton? It is true, he has trusted a secret to me.
Ah! then there is a secret?
There is, but one which in no way involves my discredit. Will you trust me?
I will, so far—but how can you clear yourself with others? Your fair fame is compromised by your equivocal position.
Can you not clear it by stating truth respecting me? at least, when I’ve left the house—not before.
What! tell them you’re my wife, when they know you hate and despise me, and are going in for a divorce?
Going in for a divorce? who says so?
Why, Major Oldfield; and he said, moreover, that you had told him to tell me.
I believe there must be something in the air of this place that produces insanity! What could have induced the Major to fancy such a thing?
You told him you had business at Doctors’ Commons. What is it?
So I have to prove my Aunt Fussell’s will.
Is that all?
Well, yes, on the whole, I think it would be as well, I see no other way out of this difficulty; but wait till I’m gone.
Very well! but I must now see after that poor devil, Egerton. I must help him out of his scrape !
What scrape?
It’s a deuced awkward affair, and hang me if I know how he’s to get out of it!
Get out of what?
You know, about this marriage!
What marriage?
This marriage with Miss Oldfield! didn’t he ask you about a Mrs. Thornton whom you knew in Switzerland?
Yes, yes! well, what of her?
Why—don’t say a word yet but it must soon be known; Egerton’s name was Thornton—that Mrs. Thornton is his wife he thought her drowned, and married again in ignorance of her being saved.
My dear Percy—I mean, Mr. Wylding—you must be mad; who told him his wife was saved?
I did!
You did? It is true Mrs. Thornton was saved, but not the Mrs. Thornton you imagine her to be, but a poor creature who was so illtreated by her husband that she tried to keep her escape a secret, in order to prevent his finding her, but to no purpose.
My dear Harriet—I mean Mrs. Tiverton—I am so delighted; but are you sure?
Of course.
Then how could I make such a mistake?
Why, you always take things for granted, and jump at conclusions. I’ve heard Mrs. Thornton say there were two couples of the same name on board the steamer; one Mrs. Thornton was lost, the other escaped.
But, I say, here’s a dilemma—what’s to be done? I’ve upset the whole family, and have arranged to help Egerton to escape.
We can soon settle the question of the identity of the lady. I have her letters, and also her photograph; I’ll fetch them this instant.
Pray do; I’m all impatience to relieve poor Egerton.
I’ll not steal away; I’m not really guilty; I’ll face the Major, and he shall know the worst.
Come, dear papa, hear it from his own lips.
I have given all the explanation to you; I can say no more.
Now then, Egerton, old boy, such glorious— Halloa! what are you all doing here? thought you were in bed.
No doubt you did, or you’d not be here.
Be quiet, will you!
Don’t talk to me, sir. I’m sure Mr. Wylding wouldn’t say such a thing.
Well, there he is ask him.
I’ve a pretty crow to pluck with you.
Pluck away then.
I accuse you of deliberate falsehood.
No, my love, not falsehood—I’ll not believe that. Percy Wylding, did you really misunderstand Mrs. Oldfield in the matter of Freddy and Jessy.
Misunderstand her! certainly not! She asked me to arrange a match between them, and so did you.
I never said a word, I’ll never believe—
You must not impugn our friend’s veracity, my dear, besides, I’ve changed my mind on the matter, and am resolved to consent to the marriage. Freddy, my boy, go and fetch Jessy.
I’m off like a shot.
Now then, my dear Alice, let’s hear your husband explain this difficulty.
Allow me to say that such a course is quite unnecessary.
Here it is. Oh! I beg pardon for intruding on a family party. Am I de trop?
No, not at all. You’re the very person I want.
What are you going to do?
You’ll see. In the first place, to clear up any misunderstanding that may have arisen respecting Mrs. Tiverton, let me state, that she is not Mrs. Tiverton at all, but Mrs. Percy Wylding, my wife.
Oh! you rascal.
Good gracious, how incorrect!
Is it possible?
Quite true.
Yes, Mrs. Oldfield, I feel that I must explain—
My love, particulars reserved for future publication. Are you satisfied.
As far as Mrs. Tiverton is concerned, but are you aware of a statement Mr. Egerton has made to me about his—
All right, it’s a mistake of mine.
What can you mean?
Keep all you’ve heard to yourself; but you shall be satisfied at once. My dear—
Yes, my love.
That Mrs. Thornton whom you knew in Switzerland—
A very good-natured creature, and answering to the familiar description of fat, fair, and forty.
Tell me quickly.
Not a bit in the world, but we can soon settle that, here is her photograph; you can
compare and judge.
But, is this the lady who lost her husband on board the steamer?
She thought she had, it was a great shock to her when he turned up. They’re in Switzerland together now.
But what has Mrs. Thornton to do with this affair?
Nothing whatever, the little difference between the young couple has arisen through my being mistaken.
As you always are.
My dear, I may have been mistaken in times past, but am resolved to be always right for the future.
If ever you attempt to contradict me, I shall quote the dreadful mess you’ve made about Mrs. Thornton.
Well, then, Alice, love, our hour of misunderstanding has passed.
I fear that I have been over hasty; but, as the prudent world would say—I had been so on a former occasion to please you. I have less compunction about my late behaviour: you must admit appearances were against you.
Not a word—I have been alone to blame: had I told you the truth, there would have been no ground, at any rate, for your suspicion.
Well, since all seems so satisfactorily wound up, we may as well say good night. By-the-bye; Percy, my love, you must be off to town at once; you’d better take the mail train, as you’re ready, and save me the trouble of going.
My dear, I’m going fishing.
My love, the fish will excuse your neglect, I’m sure, for one day, and you’ll be so good as to oblige me.
By all means.
I always said he’d make a model husband.
I hope he won’t carry that too far.
Major Oldfield!
I’m dumb.
Come, I think I’ve cleared up everything in a most satisfactory manner, as indeed I always do. Oh! yes! people never need be long in any difficulty where I am, for if I do get my friends into a scrape occasionally, I’m sure to get them safely out of it. I’m always happy to give advice to my friends, I wont say gratis, but they know the usual hour and terms of consultation; and if any of them should find themselves in a difficulty as to where to spend the evening pleasantly, if they’ll only drop in here I shall be most happy to show them how to get out of it.
MAJOR. MRS. O. ALICE. EGERTON. MRS. T. PERCY. JESSY. FREDDY..
R. L.