First performed at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, London, (under the management of Miss Marie Wilton) on Saturday, June 10, 1865.
Time.—THE PRESENT DAY
Time in performance, 1 Hour and three Quarters.
That'll do, Penson. If you go on altering and arranging for ever, you will never make the rooms larger.
Well, ma'am, as a villa is but a villa, howsomever you arrange it—
Just so; then don't attempt impossibilities.
No, ma'am. Master's rather late: he's coming home in time for the party, I suppose, ma'am.?
What an absurd question, Penson! Why shouldn't your master come home?
Beg pardon, ma'am; didn't mean any offence, I'm sure. Only master's been out so much lately that—
Penson, you forget yourself. Pray hold your tongue about matters that don't concern you: you should keep your place.
Yes, I mean to do that, spite of everything.
Because I am more familiar with you than most mistresses, you should not presume. I
certainly
So much
Certainly not; I was not going to say that.
I thought you were going to say that master being out so much, you naturally—
Once for all, Penson, do
Seeing it's a sore point, ma'am, I'll be careful. What's that? I'm sure I hear the sound of a silk dress—an expensive silk, too. There's ten and sixpence a yard in every rustle.
Oh! it's Mrs. Delacour; she said she'd come early.
Well, my dear, here I am you see, punctual as ever.
And radiant as ever, dear Mrs. Delacour.
Mrs. Delacour! Now, I declare if you call me by that odious name, I'll go away home this minute; you are perfectly well aware I was christened Emily, and why you should be continually reminding me of the great misfortune of my life, I can't divine.
Well, Emily, then.
Oh! every bit ten and sixpence a yard.
How is it I find you all alone in your glory?
Oh! Mr. Harcourt is out,—on business no doubt.
Oh! of course; they're always on business. Poor dear Delacour was
He died a year after your marriage, did he not?
Yes, dear; leaving me a widow,—nothing more. Luckily, my property being settled on myself, he couldn't touch it. Ah! my dear, Time having softened the resentment I once bore him, I can now content myself by saying he was a sad brute!
Oh, Mrs. Delacour!
I can't play the hypocrite, dear. I was forced, a mere child, to marry him, and he tried his best to break my heart; but he didn't do it, dear—ha, ha, ha! Oh, dear no! It's wonderful what a deal hearts will endure—after marriage. It's rather odd your husband hasn't come in, isn't it?
Oh, no! he was engaged to dine out at a club to-day, I know.
Begun that already, eh?
Charley's been always accustomed to live well, and our cook's not accomplished, and so he—
Prefers splendid misery in Pall Mall to domestic bliss at Bayswater, eh? Oh, these husbands!
Yes, and he's “put up,” as they call it, for one, and is sure to be elected.
Ha! which club is that?
I think they call it the “Clifford.”
Oh, my dear, you don't say so! whose doing's that?
A gentleman with whom he has become acquainted lately—Captain Thistleton.
What, Dick Thistleton!
(R.)
You know him then?
Well, yes, I do—I've met him.
Come, now, I can see you know him very well.
Go along, my dear! But don't
No, I've never seen him.
I met him at Harrogate last year—met him a great deal. You know what watering places are. Society seems to fling aside its conventional reserve, and people revel for a short season in being natural. Folks get quite friendly and familiar until they come back to town with its gloom and its dismal propriety.
What's he like? handsome, Charley says.
Oh! he's well enough as men go.
Come, now, Madam Quibble, from your manner I suspect—
My dear, never suspect; always be certain, you'll find it'll save a world of trouble.
Then I'm certain you take an interest in Captain Thisleton. He's coming to-night.
Oh, with Charley, no doubt.
How very inconsiderate it is of your husband being so late. All alike!
Are they? was Mr. Delacour at all like—
Dick Thistleton? not a bit! Delacour wasn't handsome, nor young, nor agreeable, not a good dancer, nor—
Nor everything delightful, which it is evident Captain Thistleton
Who said so, pray?
Nobody; only I don't suspect, you see, I make certain.
Upon my word, an apt pupil.
After all you've said I'm quite anxious to see this Admirable Crichton.
Indeed, my dear! pray remember you are a married wife.
Now you're jealous! I'm sure you're jealous.
Am I?
Them two are always kissing. How they will quarrel one of these days. Hem!—Please, ma'am, here's Mr. Nubbly; may he come in?
Oh, yes, Penson.
Yes, but wait till we've gone; we're just a little flurried—ain't we, dear?
No,
Well, he
How missus can keep such a light heart with the messages we get every day from the tradespeople, is a mystery to me. One would think the butcher's bill alone would cut her up. Well, it can't last long, but I'll stick to 'em till the smash comes. It's convenient, and it looks faithful. Walk in, Mr. Nubbly.
I'm not a proud man, Mrs. Penson, but I do
You could have waited a moment in the hall.
Pre-aps so, but I 'ate 'alls: why should I be kept standing in the 'all? I ain't a humbyreller. No, nor yet a golosh—no, nor yet a brommyter!
Well, it was only a moment.
Oh, I'm aweer of that. But when parties has a manservant leave 'em sudden, and parties has to fall back as a body may say on other parties which goes out to oblige, the coal and greengrocery line being such parties' reg'ler business, such parties objects to being stood in 'alls;—or passages.
Well, never mind this time.
I go upon a reg'ler cistern of my own. When I comes out for too sooperintend on occasions like this, I make it a rule to be like the gentleman as was left on a deserted island, Mr. Alexander Simcox, “Monarch of all I surveys, from Chaney to Peru,” that's my cistern.
And quite right too.
Everybody knows me—I don't go a hiding of my beak in the sand like the wild Pelliking of
the woods—catch me at it: my name's painted over my shop; Nubbly is Nil Desprandrum, my politics is liberal, and my terms is cash.
Hen B.; hevennin parties hattended.
Ah, Mr. Nubbly, you must have put by a snug little fortune by this time—you see you're always in request, let alone the shop which does a good stroke of business, I'll be bound.
Well, I don't complain, Mrs. P.—mine's a nervous business, though, what with the
fluctuwations in coals, now hup and now down, and the “rumoured reappearance of disease in the
tatur,” as they says in the noospapers, and the hinauspicious weather, hoperating
hunbeneficial on the light spring wan, which is always at the service of the public for
'Ampton Races,
Hah, Mr. Nubbly, I dare say you have your trials!
Right you are, Mrs. P.; bad debts, now. Now, Mrs. P.—
There's a suspicious look in his eye. I've suspected it before; he admires me.
Look here.
He do admire me!
This is reyther what I call a flighty neighbourhood.
He's going to account for his abruptness.
Well, parties come and go rather sudden. Here to-day and gone to-morrow. Can't trust 'em long.
He's afraid of my being off, and him not able to come to the point.
Glad to hear it. Now, haunter noo, Mrs. P., haunter noo, as our lively
neighbours say.
Lively neighbours! he means those noisy city people at Camellia Lodge.
I want you to answer me a partickler question.
It's coming.
I don't want to press you, you know.
Oh! don't be so over diffident.
Do you think your master means to pay his greengrocer's bill?
Is that all you wanted to say?
She ain't a bit offended!
I don't understand you, Mr. Nubbly.
Ain't we innocent! Your master owes me a good deal. Hitems mounts hup, you know. Grass in
the hearly spring is
Well, and what then?
Well, you don't pay for them!
But you put 'em down, don't you?
Rather! But it strikes me that to pass one's existence in one hendless hoccupation of putting things down, and never taking nothing hup, is hanything but a paying purshoot.
Well! master's a gentleman.
Every hinch of him—from the sole of his boots to the crown of his 'ead!
And if he contracts a bill—
Don't call it contracting; mine's gone on a spreadin out! Honly see it!
Oh! don't take a party up, Mr. Nubbly.
No, I don't want to take him hup—I only want to jog his memory.
What! when you've come to attend at a party?
Certingly! on the quiet, of course; not afore his friends. I'm not going to introduce the greengrocery at a hinopportune moment. But I may manage it; for hinstance, when I'm 'anding him a hice, I can whisper in his hear, “Money's very scarce; don't you find it so?” As a City gent, he'll take the yint.
City gent! Master's not in the City indeed.
Ain't he? Then what is he?
What is he? Why, look at him.
So I have. I see a smart-looking party with noo coat and waistcoat, different trousers every other day, noo gloves, noo 'at, noo everythink; so I says “City.”
Then you're wrong.
How does he get his living?
He don't get it; it comes natural. Nature's stamped him gentleman, as anybody might see.
Ah, Natur's in the yabit of stamping about a good deal more than she's any right to; now for instance, you're only a servant, but, lor' bless your 'art, you might be—
Hem!
Lawks! who's he I wonder.
Evidently the new footman as was expected.
Queer looking chap—one of those gentlefolks that like to come early shouldn't wonder. Perhaps he can tell me where cousin Clarry is?
I'll impress this fellow; he's evidently from the country.
Lord, how these cockneys do knock the language about.
Familler—too familler.
Well, I believe there can be very little doubt as to that, ha, ha, ha!
Ha, ha!
Got my name pat, anyhow. Yes, I'm from Bristol.
Ha, you'll feel strange at first I dare say.
Yes, I always do in London. And I'm not expected either to-day.
Oh, yes you har. Mrs. Harcourt 'll be here soon.
Bless her dear heart, how is she?
I tell you what it is, my friend; if you talk of Mrs. H. in that free and easy way you'll get into trouble.
What is Harcourt so uncommonly jealous, eh?
Well, of all the himprance I ever—calls Mr. H. 'Arcourt!
But I didn't know I should come down upon 'em on a party night. I shall have to change my clothes of course.
Yes, I should say you would. I'm afraid they won't fit you.
Oh, they fit me well enough.
Then you've seen 'em?
Seen 'em? Yes.
He hasn't lost much time in trying his livery on. Well you'd better go and put 'em on, as I shall want you to assist me. And look here, keep pretty quiet, hold your tongue, and you'll do.
I can't hold my tongue. If I'm dancing with a lass I must talk to her.
Thinks he's in the servant's 'all. He's the free and easiest—
Ha, there she is, bless her! Get out of the way, man.
What! my little Clarry: younger, brighter, prettier than ever!
(R.)
And you, dear John, the same hearty, honest, kind fellow as of old!
(L.)
My back's a hopening and a shutting simultanous. What did he go to say he was a footman for—he's a nippocrit!
But introduce me to this gentleman, Clarry. I'd like to know his name: we've already had a chat.
Why, bless your innocent heart, John, that's Mr. Nubbly, who comes to wait.
What? ah! ha! ha!
If I don't send my bill in to-morrow morning, first thing, and give my boy horders not to move hoff the mat till it's liquiddiated, my name is not Nubbly!
Dear John, it's like a touch of old times seeing you.
Ah, lass! don't talk of old times—well you were right to follow your own bent, my child, and Harcourt's a good fellow, a thorough good fellow—by the way, is he doing anything yet?
No, poor Charley; it's very sad, people are always saying they'll remember him, and—
And always forgetting him—ah, well, you've got a pretty place here!
Yes; cheap at a hundred and thirty pounds a year, isn't it?
Phew! a hundred and thirty pounds, why, Clarry girl, that's a long rent.
Well, we might have a cheaper house if we lived in some parts; but Charley can't live in a vulgar neighbourhood. He says it wouldn't be living it would be only existing!
Ah, well, it's something to
But you must be dying of hunger; let me order you something—there's a paté, and some—
Nay, lass, I'd half a fowl and a dozen sandwiches at Swindon, and I can hold on till supper. You've got a party?
Oh yes, and a charming supper; Charley ordered it from Gunter's. We're obliged to give a party now and then, in order to keep Charley's friends in a good temper, otherwise they wouldn't remember him.
Oh, nobody'll forget him, so long as he gives 'em suppers from Gunter's. Isn't he at home?
No, he's obliged to dine out a good deal just now. He's with Captain Thistleton, a gentleman who's been very kind to him—he's going to bring him here to-night, and do you
know, John, I'm quite dying to see him, for he's been so kind to Charley; lent him ever so—
Lent him money, lass; does your husband accept alms of strangers?
Alms, cousin John!
Ay, Clarry, call it what you like, it comes to that. When a man has no income and no prospects, and yet gives parties and borrows money, he's doing what I call in my rough country way, next door to what's dishonest. If I snatch a penny bun from a cake shop counter, I'm a thief; if I order a grand supper from a confectioner's, and can't pay for it when the bill comes in, I'm a victim to pecuniary pressure. It's a longer phrase; but it don't express much more.
Oh, don't speak like that, John—I know Charley has expensive tastes; but—
Yes, yes, what am I preaching away to a bit of a girl for? I'll have a chat with Charles, and talk to his new friend, Captain Thistledon or Thistlewood, or whatever his name is.
Thistleton, John.
No scandal against Captain Thistleton I hope?
Oh no! This is my cousin John. Mrs. Delacour, John, a dear friend of mine.
Delighted!
Take them upstairs, will you?
Ha! there's Charley. Come along, John, and I'll shew you to your room. We've kept a room for you, as you promised long ago to come and take us by surprise.
Thankee, lass. You'll excuse me, ma'am, but I must go and clean myself—couldn't appear at a party in this trim.
Back again directly, dear!
Nice little woman that. Married?
Widow.
O-oh!
I wonder if Captain Thistleton's come with Mr. Harcourt? Hah!
Come along.
He's come sure enough.
(R.)
This is my den, Thistleton, a mere box as you see.
(L.)
Charming!
Oh dear no, Captain Thistleton!
Gracious powers! Mrs. Delacour!
Ha! you know each other? Capital! Then you can amuse yourselves whilst I go and find my wife.
This is a surprise.
Not an unpleasant one is it, most polite and constant of watering-place acquaintances?
Constant? come, I never knew where you lived!
And never cared to inquire—after all your fine speeches and promises.
Nay, believe me, my dear Mrs. Delacour—
Believe you? Yes, that's what I did, and you've shewn yourself worthy of belief, haven't
you.
If I'd imagined you cared to see me I'd have come long since.
Now you want me to say all sorts of nonsensical flattering things, but I won't. You've seen enough of your intimate friend Mr. Thorogood, I'll warrant. After he came to Harrogate with his horses and display, nobody saw much of you. I think it would have been much better for him to have been managing his bank in Somersetshire or wherever it was.
Yes, so will the depositors some day, I fancy.
No, you like new faces, don't you?
Well, I can't say I'm particularly partial to old ones.
Wasn't aware you knew the Harcourts!
I've only known Harcourt a month or so. This is my first visit here.
You've never seen his wife, then?
Never.
Of course not! She told me just now, she had never seen you.
I was actually the subject of your conversation then, was I?
Yes! When women are together they talk about such
Ha! ha! ha! Severe as ever, eh?
Come; I don't think you ever found me so very severe.
'Pon my life, she's an attractive little creature!
Oh, I don't know.
Lilliputian to the last degree!
He's awkward about it—but he means admiration. If you've quite done with my hand—
Happy would be the man who could—happy would be the man who could—
It's all right; they know each other.
Bother these married people— they always pop upon one at the wrong time.
Lucky interruption, for I didn't know how to finish the sentence.
Allow me to introduce my wife, Thistleton. This is Captain Thistleton, my dear.
This is a strange meeting. I thought you were abroad.
I hoped— I thought—never to meet you again.
Quite a pleasant little partie carré. I'm glad I've got you here at last,
Thistleton. It's strange that we should have been fast friends for some months now, and that
you and my wife should have never met before this.
Certainly—we never have.
No—never.
(L.)
Why, here comes Mr. Blunt, a perfect Adonis!
Yes, I'm ready for any amount of dancing now, and—What,
What's this? and they appeared strangers! Clarry, Clarry!
And he has deceived me, too. No, I have deceived myself!
Why, what—how—wh —what on earth have I gone and done now?
Mr. Nubbly, it's venturesome; that's all I can say about it—it's venturesome.
Nothink ventur' nothin' win was always a motter of mine, Jane. You say yourself that the old woman's out, and Mrs. Delacour too, an' I've got a heap of things to tell you.
There's a time for all things, Mr. Nubbly. Ever since you drove me and Mrs. Penson, Mrs. Harcourt's maid, to Hepping Forest last Easter in your spring van—
I haven't been able to get your himage out of my 'art.
No, nor Mrs. Penson's neither.
Oh, that's where the shoe pinches;
Oh, you was a waiting there last night, and had many an opportunity of saying agreeable things, I've no doubt.
I beg your pardon—Mrs. Penson was with her missus, who kept her room all the hevenink.
Law!
Yes, and Mr. 'Arcourt, he wasn't hisself, and in fact heverythink was all nohow. There was periods during the hevenink, Jane, when I felt my account against the 'Arcourts, a hempty nothink. If it hadn't have bin' for a couple of bottles of sherry as I secured hearly quite providential, I could never have brought the affair to a successful hissue; has it was though the pianister was weakish, the party on the cornick was lovely, and has for the supper, well, I haven't been able to heat so much without feeling hill in the morning for a hage.
Oh, well, come, it wasn't so bad after all.
But it was quite 'orrid to see Mr. 'Arcourt—you've seen the Poliar Bear at the Regency Park, Jane.
Often.
He's tremenjous white, and tremenjous restless—so was 'Arcourt. It's a old belief of mine as there's a skillyton in hevery 'ouse.
Don't say that, Mr. Nubbly.
I sees a good deal of serciety, Jane—and I've come to the conclusion that serciety's a
smilin' 'umbug; it laughs 'oller when the canker's a gnawring at its 'art.
Quite correckt is the words, as Bob Smith says at 'ur club.
Do you belong to a club, Mr. Nubbly.
Yes, Jane, the Hantediluvian Hantelopes; it's 'eld at the Naggs 'ead. Bob Smith's chairman, and I'm the vice.
So I should say.
You should hear Bob talk; when he's had his third glass, Jane, his sentiments is lovely. It
was only last Toosday, a party as shall be nameless, come in with velvet hedging to his coat
sleeves, and made hisself rayther prominent. Bob made a speech as a body may say hat 'im, and
the hend of his speech, what they calls the preparation was most himpressive —“Appier far,”
says he, “is the yumble wayfarer a munchin' of his crust hunder a nedge, than the lordly
indiwiddle as pitches into Patty de Foregrass in the Gilded Saloon.” Mr. and Mrs. Arcourt's
got a skillyton—what's more, your missus has one too!
Oh, don't!
I watched 'em all. Mrs. Delacour ain't 'appy.
Then she ought to be. She's got a snug little income, passes most of her time at friend's houses, except in the season, when she always comes here to Mrs. Medlicott's. Though I do believe she's a little cut up at not seeing Captain Thistleton, who—
Ha! ha!
Law, Mr. Nubbly; he's generally considered very imposing, and makes an impression on nearly everybody.
He made an impression on me. I was handing him his coat—for he left almost directly he come, and he gave me a—I can't enter into particulars, but it 'urt.
Gracious! Mr. Nubbly!
Then parties wondered I wasn't myself, attributing it to sherry negus, when it was hindignation, boiling hindignation, Jane!
This way, dear. There, you'll be better directly.
Missus! And she said she'd be out till late. Oh, Nubbly dear, you'll meet her on the stairs.
Say, say I'm somebody else. No, but she knows me.
There, go in there for a minute. Then when she goes into her room, rush off like a comet.
Well, but look 'ere, Jane. I don't like a hiding—
Like a hiding; no, who
There's that boy, 'Gustus, left all alone to mind the shop, he'll go pitching into the
coals; I know he will.
How lucky that I drove up to the door, just as you were coming. There, dear, sit down.
Yes, ma'am. But—but—
Don't stand there “butting”; do as I tell you—go.
Nubbly was right—there
It was rather awkward last night,—but, surely you have explained.
Yes; but my husband is so terribly jealous—he
Oh, these husbands! how unfair they are. The jealousy's to be all on one side; we're to be
perfectly unmoved when we come across their old flames, but if they meet one of our little
sparks—fizz! flash! there's a blow up in a moment! Still, we're the weaker sex, and should
give in; it's always proper, and generally politic. Now, what is it, dear?
Last night, after all had left, my husband spoke such bitter—bitter words to me; and this morning—I cannot repeat what he said.
You can't expect unalloyed happiness, dear! Married life's like a grand dinner, which
requires an occasional olive, in the course of the matrimonial menu.
I beg your pardon; he insulted me cruelly! and—and we have parted.
My dear! you don't mean to say you have left him?
How could I stay beneath a roof where I was no longer welcome; would you have me sue for pity to the man who spurned me from him in anger and contempt.
Well, my dear—it's a—it's according to—hem! what
I met this man some years ago, at Fernleigh—my uncle's house near Bristol—where Mr. Blunt too was a constant guest—I was a mere child, scarcely knew my own mind, and was foolish enough to enter into a correspondence with him, eventually I learnt his meanness—his utter worthlessness, and I demanded the return of my letters. He sent them all.
Yes.
Except one.
Oh.
I expostulated—threatened—implored, but to no purpose; he still retains that silly letter, full I am ashamed to say of girlish, romantic nonsense—full of—
Yes, my dear, I know what they are; we see them quoted in the breach of promise cases, and marvellous comic capital the barristers make out of them.
He declared he would never part with it until I married, and then that in revenge he would—
I see; the coward!
He said that I had used him cruelly, and that it
Well, my dear, there's one thing quite certain— you must go back to your husband.
No, Mrs. Delacour, I cannot—I cannot.
Well, come in here and take your things off, and when you're a little calmer we'll see
what's to be done.
If I wasn't naturally 'ard of 'earing and the wind hadn't whistled through that keyhole like a railway hengine, I might have caught something besides a cold in my yed. Howsomever, I did pick up a word 'ere and there: I heard Captain Thistledown's name, and it's very hevident to me, as Mrs. Arcourt and him—
Yes, she's in here, sir.
Oh, law!
Poor Nubbly, he'll be on tender hooks.
Ha, in her room, I suppose. Well, I'm in no hurry
I'll just tell her you're—
No, never mind, I like taking people by surprise. I say, I like taking people by surprise—
Upon my word, what insolence.
These late hours are killing me.
With what I sees, and what I've 'eard, a putting this and that together, and a droring my own conclusions, I've no 'esitation in settling in my hown mind, as there's something a going hon!—but I'll spoil your fine games, my friend—you'll rue the day you kicked me, Mr. Thistlegrove. “The man who raises his foot against a trembling greengrocer's unworthy the name of a British—”
Well, I wish the little widow would appear, for I'm confoundedly low-spirited and dull this morning.
You'll be better soon, and—ah!—
You are not in one of your cordial moods this morning.
I beg your pardon, Captain Thistleton; I am cordiality itself.
Ha! you disguise it capitally.
Women are allowed a little deception—it is one of the few unpleasant attributes permitted the weaker sex; with us it is simply a pardonable weakness—it is only in man that it appears mean, contemptible, and base!
I knew the scene last night would annoy her.
He mustn't go yet; and I don't see my way a bit.
That's all right! I can't wake up and explain matters. I know you're dying to hear all about
my old flirtation with Clarry Greville—I beg her pardon—Harcourt; but I've been turning night
into day so much, lately, that I feel in a chronic state of knock up.
Oh, I like to see you
You and Clarry seem fast friends; I suppose she has painted me in fine Rembrandtish colours, eh? I'm a remorseless wretch, and all that sort of thing.
Well, it's a pity you should harbour vengeance.
Ah, that's the letter—oh, all's fair in love and war, and this is
It's in that pocket.
How fond she is of me.
I wonder if Dr. Lennox has made this draught stronger, the last one didn't make me close my eyes.
What are you doing? medicine! ah, Neuralgia, I suppose, late hours and nerves. Used to call it face-ache when I was a boy—I've taken a perfect forest of quinine in my day.
But you never liked it—you always shrunk at the uninviting potion—warrior that you were.
Not a bit of it—I'd swallow the whole Pharmacopœia.
Indeed, would you? You soldiers are wonderfully brave in battle, of course. Do you know I've a theory about fighting; I don't think there is such a thing as cowardice.
I beg your pardon, there is.
Ah! you speak from experience.
Ah! smartness comes natural with you. Now, nothing in the world would make me smart.
We'll try the truth of that some day.
All I can say is put me to the test.
Then as the Pet Lamb says, “Drink, pretty creature, drink.”
Here's to the health of the entire college of physicians, coupling with the toast the name
of that distinguished practitioner, Doctor Emily Delacour.
Mr. Chairman, my lords, and a—gentlemen—for the distinguished honor you have paid me, I a—
How I hate reading—wish I'd never been taught. What uninteresting stuff—“Mule twist is
active”—is it. It's the first mule that ever
I wish he'd try the debates.
What a good creature you are not to be offended with me. I'm horribly rude.
And he's going. How still all is in this quiet old-fashioned square. Oh, it's at such
moments as these, that one classes Babbage amongst the benefactors of mankind.
You've a visitor; I'd better—
It's Thistleton; he's fast asleep, there—
What would you do?
Don't be alarmed; t's only theft!
Oh!
He said himself that all was fair in love and in war—and this is war; so I shall take a leaf out of his book, and a letter at the same time.
I hardly know what to say—I—
Then say
I scarcely know what to think of this, Emily! I—
There's gratitude! That letter once seen by your husband's eyes, would be a perpetual blister to him. Fond, and faithful as you are—loving him with your whole heart— the recollection of those foolish lines, which he might read, would often cause him a bitter pang of wounded pride, when he remembered that you had once wasted words of love upon another.
Yes! yes! Emily; but—
Little as I cared for Delacour, when I one day found a mysterious letter in his dress-coat
pocket, I went on as ferociously as if I had adored him. Take it, and leave me to bear all
blame! And now go—go back to the husband you should never have dreamt of leaving. Tell him
I will go, dear Emily—I see my own blind folly now. It is not too late to repair the error—I
will go and ask his pardon for my wicked display of temper, and
The fellow was right—she is here.
And with that man.
Hah!
Stay, Charley—you mistake.
Mistake, madam! I can believe my eyes—you have come here to meet him.
And at
Mr. Blunt!
Away—don't attempt any excuses—I have been deceived—Charley has been deceived—we've all been
deceived >
Ninety-two, three, and eight's a hundred and one—a hundred and one—our friend has it a hundred and seven. Mr. Snape the butcher makes his bill come to six pounds more than I do, Mrs. D.
A butcher is but mortal, and may make mistakes.
Yes; takes care to make it in his own favour though.
You've undertaken an Herculean task, Mr. Blunt.
Well, it is better that I should look through Harcourt's affairs than the obliging
gentlefolks in Basinghall-street. Having set his domestic matters square, we've only got to
settle his pecuniary difficulties, and then he can start afresh. It was very sensible of you
disclosing everything as you did. How much better it would be if people would always speak out
at once. Now the whole business is explained, there's little enough in it. The fellow's a
scoundrel, and I've always noticed that scoundrels—a—have a knack of—a—being scoundrelly.
Oh, indeed! praise from Sir Hubert Stanley!
Don't know the gentleman; one of your grand friends, I suppose. Now do you know before I saw you, I was always afraid of widows.
Indeed! why so?
Well, you know, they always seem to me to walk about with a pedestal, and whenever they're about to speak to a man they put it down and stand upon it.
Preparatory to putting
No, that's what I say; you're different from the others; in fact, you're different from any
woman I—
I don't think you're altogether fair to us, Mr. Blunt.
I hope she's going to argue with me—shuts me up in a couple of seconds, and somehow it's
quite pleasant
Oh, come! you're a regular confirmed old bachelor, with all a bachelor's prejudices; you ought to have been married years ago.
A man can never be fond of more than one woman.
One at a time, of course.
Eh!
But when that one woman prefers some one else, the rejected one should accept his destiny—and a—turn his eyes in another direction.
She talks like a book.
My dear Mr. Blunt! don't for goodness' sake attempt to mix up prudence with any matters of the heart— they're like green and yellow in a coloured dress; they don't harmonise. No! fall in love first, and try your best to be prudent afterwards!
Now, from experience, do you think that a second love can be a success?
And pray who told you that I'd ever had a first?
Oh, come now!
The man
Hah! we know what “women's model men” are,— long whiskers, a drawl, small talk to any amount, a sneer for everything hearty, and contempt for everything and everybody but themselves; a fine tailor's figure, nd unlimited credit at the bank.
Not so; I would have him manly, honest, and true, with an open hand to help his friend; with a generous honest voice, that told of a warm and kindly heart within. I wouldn't have him too young or too old, but at that ripe age when a man has learnt to know the world, and yet has not been soured by what he's seen; a man to whose guidance I could trust myself, well knowing that the path of life through which he'd lead me would be a safe and happy one.
(R.)
Yes; and you have only just said that love and prudence don't assimilate, and here you are
settling the exact sort of person you intend to fix your affections on in the most methodical
fashion.
Permit me to say, that I think he
And if I had
Ha! ha! Permit
Please Sir, here's Mrs. Nubbly a going on anyhow—says he
Them's his words which he abides by.
My dear Mrs. D., hadn't you better—
Oh, don't mind me. Delacour was generally
I am not aweer as to whom you're 'luding to, by the name of Delgore; I haven't the honor of his acquaintance, and I don't want to.
What's your business?
The greengrocery; and hevenink parties hattended.
Well, this isn't an evening party.
Ha! ha! Come, that ain't so bad. Wegetables is dull just now, and coals with me is slack; added to which, I'm remarkable short myself. My big brother William's a coming up to town to-morrow, and I've got to meet a heavy bill.
Nubbly's a character.
Yes, he has. Have you got anything to say agin' it?
I have, Mr. Nubbly. Considered in connection with figures it's defective.
What is there agin' my figure? I ain't 'ulking, but I'm compac'.
You don't add up well.
Indeed!
Hundreds of coals.
Can't help it, when you flings the coals in my face.
According to your account here, one week when Mr. Harcourt dined out every day, Mrs. Harcourt had twenty-seven bundles of asparagus. That's not correct.
Anything but; she ought to be spoke to.
You mistake; the error lies with you.
Nor any one else; and I've made a calculation that if the entire household had eaten new potatoes at every meal they never could have devoured half the quantity you have in your bill. Penson says they never came at all.
Penson! a woman as I took to Hepping in a hopen van, and treated with sherry wine and pork pie, like a reg'lar lady! To see her over the creeses at tea, and a hordering of srimps quite reckless, she might have been born a Duchess. Oh, Frailty, thy name is Mrs. Penson!
In fact, as the bill's all wrong, and we don't intend to pay what you've put down, why the
question is,
Since you are suppressing, I prefers bitters.
Fellow, be off! Here, here's what I consider far more than you deserve. There's a stamp—receipt it, or go without your bill altogether. Here's the money—some of them country notes, but the Somersetshire Royal Bank's safe enough.
No mistake about this—a stumping up honourable after all. There must be a mistake; it's the
fault of my boy 'Gustus. Most proud and 'appy to continue serving of Mr. 'Arcourt, which he's
a gent, as I always sed he were.
There, march—march!
March! which I resembles that particler month, for I came hin like a lion, and I goes hout
like a lamb.
We're getting on, my dear Mrs. D., getting on. Harcourt's seen the errors of his ways by this time, and his poor little wife too—a couple of thoughtless noodles!
Mrs. Delacour, will you kindly go to my wife? she wants your advice, she says, on something important.
I'll go to her at once.
I've paid them, John—paid them all.
Ah! now you breathe more freely.
But how can I ever repay you?
Well, I don't know. I'll give you your own time and remember, lad, that time's money, and you can coin the golden hours into goodly sovereigns if you stick to business like an honest man. When you earn your daily bread by sheer hard work, bless your heart, it'll taste sweeter and better than any plum cake that was ever manufactured.
I'll waste no words in idle promises. Try me.
I will, Charley!
Captain Thistleton, sir, wishes to see you.
Good morning, Harcourt. You'll excuse my unwelcome call, but I am about to go abroad somewhat suddenly, and a—I'm in want of money, and you remember our little transactions at the Clifford.
Oh, shame! shame!
What—what's this?
Well, a—some I O U's—money lost at cards, you know.
A gambler! Oh, Charles!
I am penniless, as you know; I will pay every farthing, but at present—
Awkward that, for I leave England to-night.
Happy England!
It is impossible.
But I must have it, sir.
Pooh, sir! they're so much waste paper. Mr. Harcourt's a ruined man.
Ay, sir, ruined, helped in my downward course by you—the false friend who first lured me from my home to the wretched club of which you are so fitting a member. I can pay you nothing now.
Then you shall be posted as a swindler.
What is the amount of this most honourable debt?
Three hundred and twenty!
You shall have it.
I shall explode directly!
There, don't keep me in this position, all day.
The Somersetshire Royal Bank!
Come, you don't doubt the concern, do you? when your fast friend—your rather
Ha, ha! absurd.
Ah! and so that's an I. O. U.
Oh, ma'am!
Well!
Well, Penson.
More bills!
Oh, ma'am, there's Mr. Nubbly—
What is it woman?
Well, sir, if I
Now, man, what is it? Is the Thames a fire, or what?
Oh lor'! This is a pretty state of things, this is! After a lecturing me about a few hextry noo potaturs,
and a trumpery bundle or so of grass, this is very honest and straight forrard, this is. To go and pay a respectable tradesman, as lives upon coal, in bank notes as ain't worth a farden.
What do you mean, fellow?
Mean feller, indeed! I'm not the mean feller; I'm the hingured hinnocent, that's what I am?
Explain, Mr. Nubbly, explain!
Well, the bank's bust!
What?
Your precious Somersetshire Royal Bank. The manager's upset everything—collared all, and hewaporated. It's all over London.
It's impossible! and yet—
There's no time to be lost.
Stay! thus do I treat—
Oh, don't destroy it. I should so like to see it.
Madam!
Just one little peep.
Dear John, this is sad news indeed.
There, dear, never mind, the money's gone—more too than I care to mention; but it won't ruin us. I'm thinking of the poor things who've lost their all —the hardly-earned savings of their toiling lives—this villainous dark deed will cast a sorrowful shadow upon many a poor man's hearth.
I'd better be off.
Stop, sir!
By Jove! considering how unwelcome my presence is, it's remarkable how frequently I'm asked to remain.
Captain Thistleton,
What!
The woman's out of her senses.
My good creature!
What authority have you for this mad statement?
The best in the world. The authority of this letter, written by accident has found its way into the wrong
envelope.
Destruction! It can't be—I—a—
Hold back, man! Dare to advance one step and I'll bring the colour back to your cowardly white face in a way you'll little fancy. Give me the letter.
A moment's delay might be fatal.
Mr. Thistleton, I'm a detective officer!
Fellow!
Don't resist, because I've assistance handy. Nabbs!
Has that villain—
Yes, yes. Thorogood's blown upon you, so be cool.
There was once a certain
Here, you—be off!
Get out.
Where are
As the gentleman observes in the Roman 'istry—“Et tu, Beauty! O—oh!
So the victory remains with us, dear, after all.
To-day all doubts and differences end.
Yes; thanks to you, and you, kind generous friend.
To business and your wife you'll now attend;
They'll both repay the trouble