First produced at the Olympic Theatre (under the Management of Mr. Horace Wigan) on Thursday, September 27, 1866.
Mrs. Mowbray's Villa, near Reading.
Modern Costumes.
Time in Performance, 50 minutes.
I didn't ask you the time.
Indeed, I was—
In the clouds, my dear sir, in the clouds; and I have observed you in the same nebulous condition for some time past. You call upon me, and then leave me to do all the talking—I must say that you are an excellent listener, but your replies are a little beside the mark; when I congratulate you on your professional advancement you tell me it is twelve o'clock; when I speak to you of the theatres, you answer yes, he was hung at eight o'clock at the Old Bailey, and when I speak of the last new fashions, your reply is, the ministers must go out there you stand staring into the garden; I really can't understand what attraction there can be for you in that direction.
Nothing, madam, but the flowers—I'm exceedingly
Deceive you, madam!
Of course, do you think I'm so blind as not to perceive your absence of mind when in my society. Ah! your constraint is quite natural—the same thing happened to my poor dear mother when I was a girl myself—the young men who visited our house, were all smiles amiability and conversation when I was present; but if they called on mamma when I was out, it's astonishing how unentertaining they became it appears to be always the case, and as I have a pretty daughter of sixteen, I must find philosophy enough to put up with my fate.
My dear mada—
Nay, my dear sir, why dissemble? The illusion of self-love is over—you, like others, visit me for the sake of my daughter—my presence embarrasses you—my conversation is insipid. Ah! Mr. Tonic, it's a terrible position, when all that a poor mother can hope for is not to appear too much in the way.
That's very true, madam. No, no, I beg your pardon, I meant to say the very reverse.
No, no, your candour is involuntary, and I resign myself; and when a gentleman says "How do you do?" I can only reply "my daughter is pretty well, thank you."
Your self-sacrifice, madam, is too sudden—why so anxious, when you have so many claims to the first, to assume a secondary position?
I'm afraid it is the only one all my visitors will accord me.
No, no, not all—there is one exception.
And who, pray, may that be?
My friend, Erskine Speed—the opening flower, I may say the nascent glory of the western circuit.
Oh, ridiculous!
Permit me, madam, but with us medical men trifles are symptomatic—not a sigh—not a glance—not a wink escapes us; joy at coming—grief at leaving—all, all help to tell the tale—nothing can elude our observation—we tear away the veil of mystery which shrouds the secrets of the heart. It's terrible, madam—'tis terrible—'tis
I daresay all that is very true, but this time your diagnosis is delusive.
Forgive me, madam, but all the appearances are in my favour.
Appearances? what, because he offers me his arm in the garden, gathers me a bouquet—cuts the leaves of the new novels—hands me from my carriage, runs to pick up my fan or my handkerchief, and bewilders himself, poor man, in a confused small talk about the newest fashions—why, what does all that prove?
Prove, madam? the depth of his attachment in the most incontrovertible manner. We medical men, you know, can't be deceived in matters of this kind.
Indeed! well, I won't dispute your infallibility, provided you promise not to mention to any one the result of your wonderful insight.
Enough, madam; Esculapius and Hippocrates are sworn brothers—we medical men are discretion itself—but I hope you are not angry with me for discovering the secret.
Oh! not the least in the world, and to prove my sincerity, I will reward your candour at once
Impatience, madam—
I know what you are about to say, Doctor, that your constraint in my presence, and impatience at Alice's absence is a diagnosis of the pleasure you feel in my society—ha! ha!—au revoir—ha! ha!
What a delightful woman she is how perfectly she understands my case—detects the symptoms with a practised eye, and instantly prescribes the remedy; wonderful tact! her first husband must have been a medical man; except her daughter, she is the most charming woman I ever knew in my life—in fact, if Alice were a little younger, I don't think I should wait, but marry her mother at once.
How happy could I be with either Were t'other dear charmer away, But whilst they both tease me together, Why (pause) I'd better go over the way.(going
Ah! Tonic, where away so fast?
Nowhere in particular—I'm in a hurry.
Stay a minute, and let me pay you your last night's winning at ecarté.
One minute—is there anybody at home?
No, nobody—only Mrs. Mowbray.
Nobody! only Mrs. Mowbray—that's civil.
Well, of course, when Alice's out of the way, she is nobody—that is nothing to me—you know what I mean.
Then Alice—
Is over at Mrs. Limbird's, and I'm going to fetch her; so stand out of the way, there's a good fellow.
So then, the murder's out—nothing to him when Alice is out of the way—he loves her, too—I've suspected as much for some time past. Can Alice love him? No, no, the thought is distraction. Tonic can't have had time to declare his intentions, and I've made up my mind to ask her mother's consent. Mrs. Mowbray cannot but think well of me; and must appreciate the attentions I've always lavished on her. I've always maintained that the shortest road to a daughter's heart was through the mother's bosom; my assiduity has been most marked, indeed, I've carried it so far, that sometimes I almost fancied I was in love with her instead of Alice, and if she has no objection, and the mother has one spark of gratitude in her composition, she must give the casting vote in my favour. It's an extraordinary thing, but I, who can address a court of justice by the hour together, find myself dumbfounded by Mrs. Mowbray, and when I'm about to tell her of my passion for her daughter my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. My uncle Frankland promised to join me here to-day, and if he keeps his word, then I'll get him to ask her consent in due form, for I shall never find courage to do it myself.
Ah! my dear Mr. Speed, you here and alone, I assure you these stupid servants never told me you were come.
No, madam, no; I would not allow them to disturb you. I walked in without ceremony, and made myself quietly at home like an old friend. Moreover, I was not alone.
No, madam,
Ah, my dear Mr. Speed, that's a very gallant speech, but I'm afraid a little studied.
Indeed, so much the better—you'll be the more able to support the interval of dear Alice's absence, though I don't think it will be very long, for Mr. Tonic has gone to find her.
Yes, I sent him out of charity.
Charity?
Yes, he seemed so thoroughly miserable in my society, that I felt bound to put an end to his martyrdom.
Miserable in your society!
Oh! he did'nt say so in so many words—but his meaning was unmistakeable.
Yes, I think it is pretty.
Pretty! to me its perfectly lovely—I don't, as I said before, profess to know much of these matters, but certainly your eye for colour is extraordinary.
The merit of the choice is not mine, its Alice's taste—the dear child made me a present of it.
Ah! very possibly, madam, the dress itself might be given you by another, but the mise, the elegance of the preparation—
Preparation?
When I say preparation, I should say construction; fashion, the indescribable je ne scais quoi which enhances the value of things in themselves insignificant, these, madam, none could give you but yourself.
What enthusiasm about a morning dress!
The language of passion, madam—
Passion?
I should say, admiration is ever enthusiastic, and the love—
Love!
I should say, the respect felt for the wearer, is sometimes transferred even to her garments.
Oh! dear mamma, Mr. Tonic said you sent him to escort me, and I declare I've had to escort him all the way. He told me and Julia Limbird that he was going to join the volunteers, so we thought we'd try what sort of a skirmisher he'd make—and he can't run a bit.
Don't believe it, Mrs. Mowbray. I assure you I did run, and remarkably well; but the more I exerted myself the more pitiless the young ladies became—they actually wanted to transform a medical man into an express locomotive engine.
No, no, mamma, you might give him a long start and beat him yourself. Oh, I wish you had been there to join us it was such fun.
I'm afraid, Alice, such fun is a little too boisterous at my age.
Your age, madam.
You are right, madam, quite right—had you witnessed our race you would have seen the futility of competition. The young ladies bounded along like gazelles, whilst I halted for breath like a worn out cab-horse—ah! madam, their's is the age, the golden age of woman's existence. Reason has come, but not yet chilled the promptings of the heart, and young illusion with its magic charm averts the sad realities of life—the past has no regret, and Hope and Joy veil with a roseate mist the inevitable future. Happy, happy age, a woman only exists from fifteen to five-and-twenty.
certain age, madam, when noble sentiments and actions no longer spring from unreflecting spontaneity, but are the deliberate choice of a good heart, enlightened by experience, when the intellect is cultivated and matured. There is a certain age when beauty of person has developed
Bravo, bravo, Mr. Speed—in the name of all women of a certain age, allow me to thank you for their defence; how generous of you to espouse the cause of the unfortunate.
I shall be delighted, madam?
Dear me, what's the matter?
Nothing of any consequence, but when running with the young ladies, I struck my foot against a root of the Portugal laurel; I did'nt feel it at the time, but now it's so painful, that if you'll excuse me, I'll sit down.
Dear me, Mr. Tonic, you seem to have forgotten the root of the Portugal laurel—but I suppose the pain is gone.
The pain! oh! yes, quite gone—I think it's what we medical men term aponeurosis—it comes, and it goes.
Yes, at pleasure seemingly—how very odd.
Yes, it is a strange complaint.
However it's fortunate for you, Alice dear, for now you'll not only have two strings to your bow, but two beaux to your string.
Moreover, madam, I have news for you concerning the matter in chancery, Mowbray v. Greenway.
That's right, my dear Speed, you take care of Mrs. Mowbray, and I'll go with Alice, and look after the peaches; every man according to his desert. Come along, Alice.
Confound Tonic, he's getting on a great deal too fast—'twill never do to wait for my uncle—I'll sound her mother at once.
The best possible, madam, a very short time will place you in uninterrupted possession of your late husband's property. The decision of the court will be given in a few days, and the opinion of the bar is that it will be in our favour.
Favourable or otherwise, I shall never forget my obligations to you throughout this tiresome affair, you could not have displayed more zeal in the cause had it been your own.
My senior counsel did me the honour to make the same observation yesterday. I don't tell you so to make a merit of it in your eyes, but merely to prove that I have served you to the best of my ability. Really, my dear Speed, said he, I never knew an advocate so thoroughly identify himself with the interests of his client as you have done in this case. Are you related to the family? No, said I, merely a friend—but perhaps said he, you seek a nearer and dearer connexion. I assure you, madam, my confusion was so great that he must have seen he was right.
I beg your pardon, madam, but it was quite impossible to conceal my embarrassment.
I trust to your indulgence, madam, and still rely on your good opinion.
My good opinion—you have done nothing to forfeit it, on the contrary.
Your social position, your talents, and the respectability of your name and family, all warrant you in aspiring—
Ah! madam, you overwhelm me with joy. My uncle will be here to-day, and will fully detail the nature of my prospects and expectations.
Ah! mamma dear, I was looking for you. I am so dreadfully out of breath, and feel so very odd, just as if I was going to cry.
Why, what has happened?
Mr. Theodore Tonic, if you knew—
What of him? Speak.
Why just now in the willow-walk, he suddenly let go my arm, and walked away with great strides—then strode up to me again, muttering something I couldn't understand then walked away again, stopped suddenly—buttoned his coat up to the top—struck his hat over his brows and threw himself on his knees at my feet.
And what then, my love?
Why, then he said in a low voice, Miss Alice, I'm six-and-twenty, I am an M.R.C.S. and M.D.—my love is great, my practise small—no disease will decrease the former, and every disease will increase the latter, and for these reasons, I hope you will accept the offer of my heart and hand.
And what did you say?
Oh! I couldn't say anything—first I laughed, and then I got frightened and cried, and then—
Yes, then?
Then I ran away.
Why, my love, there was nothing to be afraid of in an offer of marriage from an honourable man, though perhaps it was a little brusque—do you love him?
Love Mr. Theodore? La, mamma!
Do you dislike him?
Oh! no, mamma.
Do you delight in his conversation?
Oh! dear no, though sometimes he makes me laugh.
And when he leaves us, no sentiment of regret or disappointment at his departure?
Oh! no, when he has to catch the train, it seems to me quite natural, that he should go as fast as he can.
Ha, ha! then my dear, you are not very much in love.
Oh! so it seems then, mamma, dear, that if my heart beat at his approach, and if his conversation pleased me, and I sighed at his departure, that I should be in love.
I am afraid, my dear child, these are very strong symptoms.
Are you quite sure, dear mamma.
However, my love, as matters are as you tell me, leave it to me, and I will explain to Mr. Tonic as kindly as I can, that he must expect to be received here only in the light of a friend, and that I have always wished you to consult your own feelings in the choice of a husband.
And may I do so, indeed, mamma?
Certainly, my dear, it's my most earnest wish.
Then do you know, my dear kind mamma, that I think I think I've a secret for you.
Indeed, Alice; and do you know that I'm sure I have one for you.
Then pray tell yours first, and perhaps I shall have courage to tell mine.
Yes, my love, I've no secrets from you, and you must have none from me—know then, that while Mr. Theodore was asking your hand in the garden, there was another person here, who hinted how happy he should be to obtain mine.
Indeed! why who could it be?
Mr. Speed.
Erskine! marry you?
I know he's no favourite of yours, for he never showed you much attention, but depend upon it, my dear, for all that, you'll find him a good and true friend.
And did you—?
Run away? No, my love, I encountered the enemy boldly, but not so much so, as to leave him without hopes of ultimate victory.
And now Alice, it's your turn to speak—silent—why, what's this? tears!
Why, Alice! my own dear one, you alarm me—why, what has happened?
Speak, dear child; speak.
Oh, mamma, I have deceived you, I have concealed the truth from you, I don't know why—don't ask me, pray don't ask me—but Theodore—
Yes, well?
And is that all? Oh! you silly girl, dry your eyes; this bashfulness is quite natural at your age; you know I only wish for your happiness; there, dry your eyes, and be more candid for the future. Mr. Speed is Mr. Tonic's oldest friend, and situated as I am, it is almost a duty to consult him as to the propriety of the match, and if he approves, as I've no doubt he will, I will acquaint Theodore with his happiness. There now, it's all over, cheer up and look happy, and let this be a lesson to you, never keep a secret from your mother; good bye, my love.
It is indeed a lesson, a cruel lesson, but it comes too late, dear, dear mother, she loves him, and he—Oh! my heart will break.
There she is, absorbed in reflection, no doubt the effect of my ardent appeal, I'm glad I followed her, for to judge by appearances I might have waited there on my knees all day.
Answer?
Yes, you know, just now in the willow walk.
Yes, I've spoken to mamma.
And she disapproves?
No, she didn't say that.
No, she didn't say that neither.
Didn't say yes, and didn't say no, then what could she say?
She is gone to consult Mr. Speed.
Consult Speed? why what business is it of his?
I don't know, but it seems—
No, not for mine.
Ah! I understand, I suspected as much a long time ago, my friend is to be my father-in-law. Delightful prospect! Love on one side, friendship on the other. Oh! shan't we be a happy couple?
Yes, I hope we shall, but I can't help crying.
Offended, on the contrary, I'm delighted, it's a happy augury for the future; why, do you know, Alice, three cousins of mine were married on the same day, there were three separate wedding parties at the same church, they were all love matches, and everybody cried, the six fathers cried, the six mothers cried, the three brides cried, and the three bridegrooms cried, the sixteen bridesmaids cried, I cried myself, the parson cried, and the clerk cried, and a host of acquaintances and friends—in short they made the place so damp that the pew opener was afraid it would give cold to the afternoon congregation—it's a fact, I assure you, and yet they are three of the happiest couples now living.
Pray excuse me, Mr. Tonic, but I am not very well.
Bravo! I've only now to fix the day; the mother likes me, the daughter adores me, and it's all settled. As for Speed's consent of course that's a mere form, he'll be only too glad.
Yes, old fellow, here I—
or, rather I should say, yes, Mr. Speed I have the honour to stand before you.
Mr. Tonic—honour—why what's the meaning of this solemnity?
I assure you, Mr. Speed, it befits the solemnity of the occasion.
Does it indeed, Mr. Tonic?
You know my family, you have the further happiness to know me, and you also know the purity of my moral character, and I may—
Eh! stop a bit.
Excuse me, I have not finished; I may add that you know me to be studious, laborious, and methodical, and that I never had a latch key in the whole course of our acquaintance.
And what is the meaning of all this charming self-portraiture?
The meaning is, Mr. Speed, I have the honour to ask of you in marriage, the hand of Miss Alice Mowbray.
Of me?
Yes, of course, merely out of form.
Why what on earth have I—?
Oh! come, come, my dear father-in-law.
Father-in-law!
Yes, yes, of course, I've heard all about it. you proposed to Mrs. Mowbray, and of course when Alice told her mother I had proposed to her, she naturally said she must ask your consent, and consult with you as the future head of the family.
Of course I felt sure of your consent at once, knowing me; and that you would only be too glad to confirm the happiness of one who has done so much to ensure your own.
You ensure my happiness.
Certainly, this morning before you arrived I was talking about you to Mrs. Mowbray, she wouldn't believe you were in love with her, positively wouldn't believe it, till I swore you adored her—law! bless you it's entirely owing to my eloquence that you've gained the day.
he then is the cause of this unlucky error.
So now then, my dear father-in-law, hesitate no longer, but say when we shall name the day?
Never, sir, if it depends on me.
Never! good gracious! for what reason?
Reasons innumerable! what confide Alice's happiness to you? to you, a cold hearted, careless egotist—no, no, a man who neglects, I may say ignores all family ties? Have you not received letter after letter from your paternal home imploring you to visit it, and yet here you remain deaf to the cries of duty and affection?
Why did'nt you beg me to wait 'till you could go down with me? Come that's too bad.
You, a man wanting in the common feeling of patriotism, deficient in his duties as a citizen, that would defraud the Government of his country.
Me?
Yes, sir, you—did you not make a more than doubtful return to the commissioners of the income tax—and have you not had the meanness to appeal against the assessment.
Why, you yourself advised me to do so.
And then, sir, your vices—
Vices?
Yes, gaming—the hideous passion for play—the passion the most ruinous, the most destructive of all—last night at ecarté, I watched the dreadful avidity of your countenance—the reckless eagerness of the confirmed gambler.
Come, come, Speed if you recollect rightly, I only wanted to play for sixpence a game, and you would make it half a sovereign.
True, sir, to try you—to see how far you would go
Hang it, Speed, you can't be serious.
Never was more serious in my life—I shall see Mrs. Mowbray, and if she does me the honour to consult me, I shall certainly not abuse her confidence.
Oh! this is monstrous—perfectly monstrous.
Stay, now, my dear Speed, for the last time, are you really serious?
Serious—certainly. Give my consent to a gambler, to a man that does'nt pay his income tax, never, sir, never.
Why, dear me, Mr. Tonic, what are you talking about?
Madam, you behold in me a man devoured by rage, and driven to despair.
What for?
Madam, something has occurred before my very eyes, and yet I can't believe it.
What do you mean?
I mean, madam, that Mr. Erskine Speed, whom I have ever regarded in the light of a friend, when I told him of my approaching connexion with your family, reproached me in the most intemperate manner, said he would see you, and throw every obstacle in the way of my happiness.
And what reason did he assign?
None, madam, but the most unheard of calumnies.
There must be some strange misunderstanding—if you will go with me to Mr. Speed, we can explain.
I desire nothing better, madam, let us go at once.
Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Tonic, I have something particular to say to Alice—I'll join you in the garden.
Certainly, madam, I wait your time.
Now, Alice dear, we are alone—why did you detain me?
Because—because—I'm so unhappy.
Unhappy! you my love.
Oh! mother, mother, forgive me—help me—or I shall go mad.
Dear child you frighten me—what have I to forgive?
I dare not, dare not tell you.
Alice child, why what is all this? Confide in me, you know your happiness is my only thought.
Then break off this marriage—do not ask me why—but I cannot love this man.
Alice, you are wrong, to trifle with the affections of an honest heart, to encourage the declaration of a true passion, and then for the sake of a childish caprice break a solemn engagement.
Reproach me if you will, but for pity's sake break off this marriage. I have been wrong—selfish—I thought not of others', but my own feelings—I gave my consent to hide my disappointment, my despair—I have struggled hard, dear mother, but I have not strength to complete the sacrifice.
Sacrifice! Alice you love another—you are silent—I see it is so—oh! why this concealment, my child? you see what misery it has caused—come tell me I feel sure you cannot have made an unworthy choice—quite sure—why how you tremble—come—his name.
I cannot, must not tell you.
What, Alice, refuse to obey me.
No, no, but do not ask me, why should you be as wretched as I am myself?
Then it has come to this: my child refuses to confide in her mother, her own fond mother.
No, no, I do confide in you, but this name—
You will not reveal—because—
Because it will make you unhappy, because
You love Erskine Speed—and your passion is returned?
Oh! send me away, let me not be a hindrance to your happiness, but say, say you forgive me.
Forgive you? when for my comfort you would have sacrificed your own? Nay, nay, look up my own dearest; a mother's love outlives every other. Come, listen to me calmly—my wedding is now impossible; yours, I fear, equally so—it shall be my task to break off these marriages, and then all will be well—we shall still be together, and we will forget the past and live solely for each other.
But Erskine?
You must not think of him, my child, for your own sake, for mine; for your peace of mind—we will leave this place—try change of scene, and I will teach you to forget.
Forget? oh! never—never.
Nay, nay, be comforted 'twill be so, indeed—the wounded spirit thinks its grief eternal, but Nature, love, is kinder than we think, and sends us those sweet Lethe's of the heart, time, change and patience.
My own dear mother.
Sir!
I understand you wish to speak to me respecting Mr. Tonic—he has just left me, and terribly angry he is.
Ah! you have seen him, then?
Oh! yes—he appears dreadfully hurt at the opinion you have formed of his character.
I am sorry, madam, very sorry, but still I cannot disguise from you the fact, that although Theodore is a respectable, I may say clever young man, still madam, he is frivolous—very frivolous; besides he has no social position—no, what we term, status, in society; then again, I know his disposition, volatile and giddy in the extreme, no possible sympathy could possibly exist between him and
You are right, sir, it is a very serious affair.
And how necessary it is, before entering into such a momentous engagement, to well understand each other's tastes and dispositions.
Without that, what future misery is in store.
Ah! madam!
Ah! sir!
You are right, madam, without mutual knowledge, and mutual forbearance, life is a slow torture.
Yes, a prolonged torment, and yet how frequently are young girls thus sacrificed; indeed I am an example myself, my consent was scarcely thought of, no time was allowed me to study the character of my future husband. Ah! sir, my wedded life was far from being happy, and I secretly determined that if I should ever marry again, I would not act with too much precipitation.
A most judicious decision, madam; how many miseries would be avoided, if everyone acted in a similar way.
Besides I think it only right and just to speak out frankly. Sir, I would say, I have arrived at that time of life, when old habits are not easily abandoned, and new ones are difficult to be acquired. Youth is self-reliant, and confides boldly in the future; it grows giddy with the intoxication of pleasure, listens eagerly to the voice of flattery, and neither apprehends nor reflects; but at thirty-five
That, madam, he could scarcely think a hardship.
What a delightful picture have you drawn, madam, quite the golden age of matrimony.
Yes, yours is indeed a picture of felicity. Ah! pure and simple pleasures, domestic bliss,
Sir!
Yes, madam, in spite of my better reason, my happiness is centred in the noise and bustle of the world. It is unfortunate, madam, it is distressing, but at my time of life, old habits are not easily abandoned, and new ones are difficult to be acquired. I too experience isolation, and rush from it to plunge into excitement, dining and dancing, whitebait at Blackwall, and waltzing at Cremorne, and then the charms of the board of green cloth, the musical rattle of the dice, the depression of losing, the intoxication of gain, delightful contrast. I too love the country, but not its isolation; give me the open heath, the breezy downs, the crack of the fowling-piece, the cry of the pack, the sound of the horn and the view halloo, and then in the evening at the joyous banquet, with laughter ringing and claret flowing; drink toast after toast to the victor of the day, till the brain reels, and spurning time 'midst jests and jocund songs salute the young Aurora glass in hand.
What a frightful picture of dissipation.
Oh! abominable, madam; but such are my tastes, and I fear they are engrained; yes, madam, as Horace has it "carpe diem," enjoy the present hour, give me a noisy, rattling town life; care killed a cat, say I, so vogue la galère.
Then I am afraid, sir, with my liking for retirement, there is small sympathy between our tastes.
Alas! madam, I fear not.
I have heard, sir, that it is a bold thing to give a true picture of oneself, and you have displayed more than ordinary courage; nevertheless, I thank you for your candour.
And I, madam, am obliged by yours.
Disguise in our case would indeed have been dreadful.
Exactly, madam, if we hadn't explained—
What misery we should have caused each other.
Exactly, what disappointments—
What tears.
What reproaches.
Ah! sir, I shudder at the thought.
Ah! madam, so do I.
I beg your pardon, mamma, but the bearer of this letter said you must have it directly, for it was of the greatest importance.
A letter for me.
Mr. Speed, the servant gave me this paper for you.
Thank you, I am extremely obliged.
Well, this is the most extraordinary letter I ever received, it is incomprehensible, after what has occurred to-day.
Can I be of any assistance?
Perhaps you can, sir, for it is from your uncle.
My uncle!
Perhaps you can interpret it; read it, sir.
Aloud, sir, if you please.
Continue, sir, perhaps it grows plainer towards the end.
Oh! it grows plainer towards the end.
Well, sir, since you have urged your uncle to this step, I presume you can explain.
Oh! madam, I am fully sensible of my pitiable position. Have compassion on a wretched fellow, who on leaving you must for ever deplore his miserable blunder.
Stay, sir, I insist on an explanation.
You are right, madam, my shame is a just punishment. To supersede Theodore in the affections of your daughter, I paid assiduous court to you, to you who alone could dispose of her hand—I thought it The Best Way, and it has proved an insuperable bar to my happiness—this, madam, is the explanation of my conduct, and with it, I take my leave.
But, mamma, I—
But, mamma dear, it seems—
No, Alice, no! I can never trust your fate to a man who loves whitebait and waltzing, Blackwall and Cremorne—
Madam!
Who revels in the intoxication of gambling, who talks of the board of greencloth, and the musical rattle of the dice box.
Madam!
Who passes his days in riot and dissipation, his nights in drinking 'till the brain reels, and salutes the young Aurora glass in hand.
Madam, I implore?
Who says, with Horace, carpe diem care killed a cat, vogue la galère.
Madam, I entreat.
Ah! sir, you confessed at a moment when your sincerity could not be doubted.
Alas! madam, I dissembled, to match the candour of your avowal.
Impossible, sir impossible! I cannot believe it.
You, why you're a positive muff at cards—you certainly play now and then when you're out, to escape from the dancing.
Do I pass my days in riot and my nights in drunkenness and dissipation?
You! why you're a positive hermit—oh! madam, this must be an infamous calumny—I protest that my friend was cut out to make any woman happy.
You hear, madam.
Really—I—I can't tell..
Really I—
Will it explain?
Yes, everything.
I see it all—delightful modesty—she shrinks from an open avowal of her love, and confides it to the secrecy of a letter.
Yes, I thought you would'nt like to stay for my wedding.
Your wedding with Mrs. Mowbray; why not?
With Miss Mowbray.
Why, what does it all mean?
That Mr. Speed is to be my son-in-law.
He! why I thought all along, he was courting you.
He certainly showed me much attention for Alice's sake, took a bye-road and gained the outworks to master the citadel—the strategy of love.
Gained, yes and all through the good character I gave him.
Nay, Mr. Tonic that would be going too far but at all events, bear in mind the old saying,
He that would the daughter win, Must with the mother first begin,
and depend upon it, its The Best Way.