Modern: but as six years is supposed to pass between the acts, a total change in dress and appearance is important.
Yes, a capital carte. Lord Potterboy looks positively handsome.
What a good humour the sun must have been in to have made his lordship look beautiful.
Mr. Sampson.
Well ?
I have an advertisement to read you. Will you please attend to me.
By all means; excuse my going on.
"In the press, and will be ready shortly, Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, an illustrated compendium––"
Ah! yes, by Beagle, a conceited old ass.
"Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, an illustrated compendium of Natural History; written by Mr. Samuel Beagle."
Thank you
Have you quite done with that outside, my dear ?
Oh! quite.
Forty-four inches from his nose to the tip of his tail.
One of the best I have seen of you, Mr. Wynne.
You flatter me.
Not at all, if the likeness does not.
"Hair long and silky–brain small."
A photographer once told me that his greatest difficulty was to catch an expression.
Of course. If an artist could only make stupid people look like men of sense, what a business he might have.
Yes, yes. I met an old lady at Bath last season who had a most remarkable ––
"Tail, tail, long and supple."
A most remarkable set of features, as hard as a jailer's, and they brought her out as chubby as a doll.
Dear me, what a marvellous change! Oh! papa, what have you done with Miss Gimp?
Really, Edith, what should I do with Miss Gimp?
Oh! nonsense, papa; you know what I mean. What have you done with her carte?
Not so loud, my dear Edith, if you please. You seem to have no pride whatever. Miss Gimp is an old maid with only her piety to recommend her. You will be asking for the likeness of your papa's greengrocer next.
I am sure she is very lady-like and sweet tempered. Is she not, Mr. Sampson ?
"She will defend her offspring to the last extremity, and when enraged"
Poor! But you have not told me what you have done with her likeness.
I have thrown it behind the fire, my dear, in company with Mr. Ainslie's.
With Mr. Ainslie's! Surely, mamma, you have not done that. I shall never be able to look—Miss Gimp in the face again.
Enough, Edith; Lady Starling was quite right.
And a depraved scapegrace.
Eh? Ainslie? Nonsense, the boy's a little wild, that's all. An untamed buffalo.
Buffalo, indeed!
Ainslie's bad, radically bad, brother. If I can make nothing of him he
must be wrong. He has been in the house six years, and has'nt breakfasted with the
family twenty times.
What shameful depravity!
He has'nt a particle of pride.
But plenty of pluck.
A bear, altogether a bear. Look at his companions.
He's confoundedly clumsy. He once trod on my left foot–right in the middle of the season–and I could'nt waltz for a week.
Shocking! You'll be well rid of him, brother.
I hope so.
Eh! why he's twenty-one to-day: when does he go?
I shall pay him his father's legacy to-night, and he shall leave Starling House to-morrow.
What will he do, I wonder. Spend his money, and then take to writing for the papers, or some other such vulgar occupation.
Heaven forbid, my dear. Think of the disgrace.
Or purchase the goodwill of a cheesmonger's, and turn tradesman.
To think of a ward of the Starling's weighing out a pound of mild cheshire. Why it would
compromise the family for a century.
Or become one of those strolling vagabonds they call actors. What a capital clown Mr. Ainslie would make.
Capital, my dear sir. It costs a clever man very little trouble to play the fool; the difficulty is for a fool to act like a man of sense.
Yes, of course.
Mr. Sampson.
Don't speak to me. These monkeys bother me more than enough.
May I tempt you to a stroll in the shrubbery, Miss Starling?
The air's chilly I am afraid, or else–
Edith! my dear.
Oh! certainly. The air has become extremely balmy, Mr. Wynne, and I shall be happy to accompany you.
There's Ainslie! Now for a scene.
And yet I don't know that I ought to risk your delicate health. On second thoughts, I will finish my chapter.
And I say, Johnson, make Rocket jolly; no half measures mind; the largest bottle in the cellar with a belly like Bacchus's.
Can I persuade you?
Not now, thank you.
Pray get rid of him, my dear, as soon as possible.
Good morning everybody. How d'ye do Mr. Sampson ?
You forget, sir, to whom you are speaking.
No, I don't my worthy guardian. A few more hours and I can snap my fingers at you.
If you have no respect for me, Mr. Ainslie, have some for the family. There are ladies present.
Of course. But they're behind the "Times." For once in my life, I feel exceedingly business-like, so we'll take the matter up at once.
I have told you I am occupied. You must wait upon me by and bye.
I'll wait upon you now. We'll have a settlement here. But I'm in no hurry.
What is it you want, sir?
Ha! Ha! I thought so. Want? Money, Sir William, money. My father's legacy, to the uttermost farthing.
You're a graceless young rascal, sir.
Like the hungry monk with his dinner before him.
And have been so from the first.
From the very day I set foot in this house.
Enough, sir; words are wasted on you.
And jokes on you.
"These brutes have savage natures, but gentle usage seldom fails to tame them."
How's this–where's Johnson ?
I'd rather not say, sir.
How! When I put a question to my servants, I expect a reply.
Well, sir, I think he's in the wine cellar, with Mr. Rocket.
What's he doing there!
I don't know, sir. As they went down I heard Mr. Rocket say, that he'd toss Johnson for the first kiss off Mary.
What, the new maid? Bravo! Rocket. A man of taste, Sir William. Mary's pretty for a sovereign.
I must discharge that man.
I wish you would, sir.
Kissing our servants under our very noses.
Under our very noses!
Tell him to turn that fellow, Rocket, out; and wait upon me. But stay. You'll find a black
desk on my study table, Snudge, bring it me.
Edith, my dear, your papa is about to conduct some business with this person. Take Mr. Wynne's arm if you please.
Oh! delighted, I am sure.
Certainly, mamma.
Pray don't go, ladies, on my account. Wynne, don't take those whiskers away, they're an ornament to the room.
Worse and worse.
An amusing dog. Sir William, au revoir. Miss Starling, may I ––
And when you have rid the room, Sir William, of its present odour of the cigar divan and
the music hall, I will rejoin you.
Pah! what an overpowering smell of patchouli.
Now understand me, Mr. Ainslie, I make this settlement on the distinct understanding that you never darken my doors again.
Now understand me, Sir William, you make this settlement because you are compelled, as one of my father's executors, to do so. It's as well to be correct.
Sign these papers, if you please. Stay, I must have a witness.
Twenty, if you like. Harry Rocket's the boy –he'll sign anything.
I'll have none of your drunken revellers in this room, sir. I think I told you never to bring that man within my doors again.
Rocket drunk! impossible. He has just joined the Band of Hope, set up a pump in his own
garden, and signed a three years' contract with the milkman–Rocket drunk–never!
What are you pulling that bell for, sir?
To make it ring, of course.
Snudge, remain where you are!
Oh! I see, he's your witness. Very well, but mine must be a gentleman, Sir William,
A what, sir?
Mary, shut the door and remain where you are.
Brother, just a word. Mr. Ainslie has a right to select his own witness; you to control your own servants. You know I never interfere, but perhaps I can assist you both. You want a signature, Mr. Ainslie, will mine do?
You are very good. Now, Snudge, offer Mary your arm; and Mary, have nothing more to do with rockets, they're dangerous fireworks.
Snudge, Mary, leave the room.
Quite. And now, failing a friend, I congratulate myself. Philip Ainslie! you're your own master at last.
Everywhere but in this house, sir. The sooner you leave it for ever, the better I shall be pleased. Brother, I want to speak to you.
Mr. Ainslie, good bye! I wish you success. You are young, and, for a little while, rich. While your money lasts you will despise advice, when it is gone, you may welcome it. If you should come to learn that good counsel is better than cash, and a fair name of more value than the wealth of a world, come to me, I shall be glad to see you.
That's a prime old fellow, although his name is Starling. It's long since I heard anything like civility in this house, excepting from Snudge. A great fool, that boy–he likes and serves me as though I were the most sober and worthy fellow in the world.
Oh! I beg your pardon. Mr. Sampson ?
He has just left the room to have a chat with his amiable brother.
Thank you. These are some books I promised
Yes, I'm glad– that is—I am sorry to say I do.
Your first thought was the truer one.
Honestly, Miss Starling, it was. From the baronet down to the buttons, leaving out Snudge, there's no one I care a rush for.
Your candour is quite charming.
Quite.
Not one! what a benighted household we are.
No, for the feeling's mutual. If I were to die to-morrow, there's not a soul in the house that would spend a shilling on a hat-band for me.
Mr. Ainslie, you are too bitter.
Miss Starling, I have been made so. I have been taught to hate kindness, to resent a loving word as I would a blow. I have learnt to return scorn for scorn.
People would not dare to scorn you, Mr. Ainslie, if your conduct commanded their respect.
Just so. Everybody else is an angel, and I am –at the other extreme.
Mr. Ainslie!
For the six years, Miss Starling, that I have lived in this house, what has been my experience? Nothing but contempt and neglect. My nature was rugged, granted–the greater the need for wise, and loving culture. You foster the rank, unwholesome weed amongst your flowers, and then cry out that the sight of it offends you. No, I have sought my happiness elsewhere, and have found it. Out of doors I have been hailed with shouts of welcome, praised, flattered, respected even. Neglected at home, courted abroad; before me the alternative of two things, a shameful endurance of contempt, or a reckless dissipation; a schoolboy's restraint, or a free man's revelry, and you wonder at my choice.
No, Mr. Ainslie, you excuse, but do not justify yourself. But I have no right to speak to you thus, you have chosen your way, and no words of mine will turn you from it.
You speak truly, it is too late.
And I only spoke to you that you might not leave us with too much bitterness in your heart. I have failed, and am sorry–good bye!
Quite a little Maria Edgworth. She dislikes
What, Rocket!
Yes, Rocket. What on earth have you been doing for the last half hour? Why, I'd guarantee to clear out the Bank of England in five minutes, if they'd give me the chance.
Never mind, my boy; you could afford to listen to a dozen lectures for a couple of thousand. I've taken diluted "Watts on the Mind" six times a day for a fiver. She was a good creature, that old aunt of mine, but frightfully prosy. What's the programme ?
Programme! perish the word! What has a man with two thousand pounds in his pocket to do with a programme? We'll be confoundedly irregular, sir.
Right; a man with money can mix his champagne with ginger beer, and get praised for his taste.
Ha! ha! it must be something quite new. What say you to bonneting a bishop?
No. We'll knock over a brewer's drayman, and make the crowd drunk.
And preach temperance after, from the empty cart.
We'll preach first, and make them drunk afterwards. Precept adorned by practice.
A pint of beer, and a moral maxim gratis!
Interspersed with edifying songs, "How doth the little busy bee" with a humming chorus would go like wildfire–eh ?
We'll do just as we please. The world's before us, let's enjoy it while we can. We'll dance to its maddest music, join in its loudest songs, drain Pleasure's lips of her kisses, wear all women's colours, and fight for none. Come along, Rocket! to-day's our own, to-morrow never comes.
But Mr. Wynne has money, my dear.
And no brains, mamma.
Position now, and a title in the future.
Very likely, but I prefer sense to either.
What do I hear? A daughter of mine preferring sense to a title! Why, child, you are getting quite vulgar.
I can be no match for a future lord, then.
Mr. Wynne, you say, offered you his hand yesterday for the second time. Take care, he may not give you a third chance. He is rich, well bred, good looking——
Mamma, I will hear no more! there must be some limit to this. As I must endure the future,
so I claim to choose the present, I am no child, and once for all, I will not marry this
fool!
Mercy on us, a fool! The Honourable Mr. Wynne a fool!
Most accurate description, go on, my lady, go on, let's have his points.
Brother, you are a brute!"
Am I? You couldn't have paid me a higher compliment. I'm fond of brutes.
Stuff! Edith, you shall hear of this. The Honourable Mr. Wynne a fool! A future lord a
fool! Was there ever such impiety.
What has been the matter, Edith ?
Only this; mamma wants me to marry a donkey, and I won't.
Mamma is very cruel. Do you object to donkeys generally, or to this donkey in particular?
I hate you all, there!
A very catholic sentiment. But I don't think you do. Like the rest of the girls, you've a four-footed favourite somewhere, only he's a bit more presentable, and wears his ears a trifle shorter than the rest of us.
You, at least, can bear with me. From morning till night I must listen to his praises. He is handsome, rich, well-bred, clever–the Fates help me!–I have refused him once, but settlements, pin money, jewellery are dinned into my ears, till I begin to believe after all that love's a something that can be bought and paid for like a yard of ribbon.
The poets say no, Edith; but the world says yes; and the world's oftener right. So you've banished all the donkeys. Isn't there a corner in that little heart of yours where a thistle could be munched?
Not one. What nonsense, uncle!
Not one!
What news?
Ainslie.
What, uncle!
Ha, ha! trapped.
Oh !
Oh!
Poor fellow !
Poor fellow! Edith, I'm a bit of an antediluvian, I know; but there isn't a particle of idle curiosity about me. I want you to be very serious for a moment, while I ask you a question.
As serious as a woman can be.
Will you promise to answer me?
I'll try.
You don't like the name of Wynne. It doesn't read well, eh? Suppose we turn to the errata and for Wynne read Ainslie, eh?
Uncle !
What would your answer be then?
Oh! uncle.
That's no reply.
And you expect me to answer you.
I do, most certainly.
It was cruel to make me promise.
Cruel stuff! Now don't let your cheeks tell tales if your lips can contradict them. Do you like this Mr. Ainslie ?
You must keep my secret if I tell you that I do.
That is, you think you love him?
Yes.
I was right. I guessed it–I guessed it. Bless the girl; and how long's this mischief been going on?
Forgive me, uncle. Till to-day, I scarcely dared to own it even to myself. But now that Mr.
Ainslie has gone.
Poor Edith. If ever a man deserved a kicking––
Philip Ainslie does.
What, Ainslie! You here in this room!
Even so.
You have heard all?
I have.
You are a mean, pitiful fox sir! Out of my sight!
You see I do not stir.
What right had you here?
The best of rights.
You listened designedly.
No. On my soul, no!
But you did listen.
I admit it. That money
Prompted by a most contemptible vanity! Sir, I was hasty just now, but I'm not unjust. Your own conscience must judge you in this thing. But your duty now is as clear as noon-day. You must quit this place at once.
I know it.
If you take any mean advantage by look, sound, or gesture of a secret so learnt, you are no honest man, sir.
Heaven help me! I fear I am none as it is.
She is a mere child. In a month she will forget you altogether.
Heavens! how I am altered. She loves me. Can it be possible? What a blind fool I must have
been. Loves me! My cheeks should flame with crimson as I speak. A reveller–a gambler–an idle,
aimless straw upon the stream of life, and yet she loves me! Is there no chance–no hope?
Shall I hear this and fold my hands
I am so glad you are not gone, Mr. Ainslie. Did you think I was offended this morning?
Not a word—not a breath!
You were mistaken if you thought so, and to prove it, I am here to shake hands with you before you go.
Heaven, help me! Good bye, Miss Starling.
Why do you turn your head away? Haven't you forgiven me?
Forgiven her!
I see I am annoying you. Had I known
Do not go, Miss Starling, I am absent, confused. I told you an hour ago, that I would resent a word of love as I would a blow. In my boastfulness, I lied. It has been spoken, and has conquered me.
What do you mean?
Miss Starling, I know all.
Sir!
All! I was here–in this room–and heard you say––
Stop, Mr. Ainslie! Give your meanness its proper name. You played the spy. Leave me, sir.
I do not heed your reproach. I was here by chance. I could not stir to save my life—another moment and I learnt all.
I will hear no more, sir.
You must listen. I cannot leave you thus without a word. Your secret is now mine.
You cannot recall it if you would.
You cannot think so, or you would never proclaim it so rudely to my face. The man who had heard such a confession would have imposed eternal silence on his lips; would have gone out into the world with its echoes lingering in his ears, and have worked until he became worthy of the sweet message love had brought him. Treading no path that duty did not mark, holding no aims that honour did not sanction, exulting in the new purpose given to his existence, he would have striven until the secret he had learnt should have ceased to reproach him, until he had retrieved the honour he had lost. Your ears have played you false, sir.
Tell me you repent your words–that they were idle, false; but do not seek to deceive me thus. Duty! what is it to me in presence of such joy? Miss Starling –Edith!
Silence, sir.
Nay, let me speak. Like dawn to the sick man, your confession––
You will compel me to teach you a lesson that I may regret.
I am mad, drunk with a sudden sense of a bliss that has overwhelmed me. Tell me at least that your regard for me.
Leave me, sir, I command you.
I cannot–will not; the world shall share my joy, shall hear––
Not a single word more, sir. You have offended me beyond recall.
Edith! Ainslie! What does this mean?
Do not speak to me, uncle. My pride has suffered a wound that must be healed at once, or my self-respect will die. Mr. Wynne! yesterday, for the second time you offered me your hand.
Can you mean –?
In your presence, Mr. Sampson, and
Edith, a thousand thanks.
God help me! What have I done!
Leave it on the landing. That woman has no respect for me. I've been all the way to Africa
and back; lived for six years amongst a lot of wild beasts, and dirty blacks, and she treats
me as though I'd only taken a two-penny steamer to Pimlico and back. I must read her this
paragraph, on a bolster, instead of under one.
Is there a gentleman here–
I can't see one, sir.
Don't be impertinent you young dog–of the name of Ainslie.
Why it's Rocket for a shilling. Ah! when a man's up in the world his friends soon find him
out! he looks as though he'd dropped in on that old friend of his–Bacchus–last night.
Of course he is, I know all about that. But he'll see me. Tell him a very old friend of his is here.
He'd rush out and embrace you, I daresay, but it can't be done. You can leave your name.
No, I'll wait. I want to kill an hour or two.
Oh! you'll wait, will you? then I won't.
I'm used to it. Been waiting since I was sixteen for an heiress who has'nt turned up yet. You're not going?
Yes. You won't be lonely, will you?
Lonely! That's rather good. Never lonely but once in my life: had to wait at a railway station for two hours, and got shut up with two wits, and a low comedian. Frightfully dull! Off?
Yes.
Don't go.
What do you mean?
Those two hours taught me a lesson. Look here!
Never.
Drink?
Nothing but toast and water.
Good tipple, but heady. Try this.
Thank you. Your health.
Thank you. Yours. What do you think of it?
I'll tell you when I've had a second pull.
Ha! ha! I thought so. Nothing like old brandy to make a fellow social. Now, where's the Commissioner?
Out.
No. I say now–
Fact.
Is it? Then we'll get drunk so as to be in a proper condition to receive him when he comes
back.
Think I was, indeed. Play the Jew's-harp like an Italian.
Ha! ha. As cool as ever. It's no use keeping
And I you.
Snudge!
Rocket!
They said you'd gone to the lions long ago.
And they sent you to the dogs years back.
Ha ha! Ainslie's grown rich, has'nt he?
Enormous. How's Mary?
Married Binks the butcher. How did he get the tin ?
Farming. Anything happened to the Baronet ?
Nothing but the gout. Where's his land?
In Corado. How's old Sampson?
Half blind. His Natural History's gone through seven editions, and now he can't tell a cat from a dog.
And so she's married. Poor Mary!
Poor butcher you mean. She's turned out a vixen. Here's to woman, as truthful as her
charms, as constant as her temper!
Here's to Mary's memory!
Don't kill her yet: you used to hate that butcher.
You are right, revenge is sweet. She shall live!
Long life to Mary!
You haven't seen the Bacchanalian Polka? My own invention; look here
Bless my soul! What's this?
Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, by all that's fatal. If he sees me now, our dignity's gone for
ever.
Is it possible! Bless us, how he's changed; or rather, I should say, how little he has
changed.
He takes me for Philip.
And this is the Special Commissioner! If this man represents Natal, they must be the most drunken herd of vagabonds on the face of the earth.
Don't be bashful, my dear sir. Come inside, and I'll give you a song. What shall it be?
I'll tell you what, I'm hard up. I'll teach you my "Glass-Aqueous
Terpsichorean-Sensation-Feat" for a "fiver". With those spectacles on, it would be an immense
hit.
Now, dear me; I came here to get some information about beasts in their wild state, and, upon my life, I find a civilized beast whose brutishness all the jungles in the world could'nt match.
Mr. Sampson Starling, you're a very proper and well-behaved old boy!
Sir, you have grown rich it seems, only to become more debased than you were before. There,
sir;
No; I couldn't do that. I'll go, upon my honour. Excuse me now, late this morning. Fresh as paint in an hour.
Yes, and smell as loudly. Good morning.
Good morning, sir.
Yes, yes, you've done quite right. Thank you, thank you. Their necks couldn't be more
elastic if I owned the whole continent. No power so great
me. At last! Would they have known me, had I surprised them? Not they–love or hate
have sharp eyes enough, but contempt is as blind as a bat. Well, it matters little. My day of
victory has dawned at last. I shall be recompensed for my exile, for I have redeemed my
father's name: I can look Sir William in the face!
I knew how it would be. That confounded paragraph will upset everything. They must needs
invite him here, as if a card wouldn't have done as well. It is all very well to talk about
the freedom of the press, but I –I begin to think a newspaper's a nuisance. These literary
fellows are frightfully low. What's the use of brains if a man hasn't got manners.
is an idea–it's very odd, but I must get
rid of it somehow. One can't be bothered with things of that sort. Let me see; she's noble
and disinterested–I am rich–if I tell her I am ruined and want to break the engagement for
her sake, she won't hear of it. She's so confoundedly good, that to escape the mere thought
of being selfish, she'd marry me at once. It's a glorious notion! Here she comes; I'll do it
at once. I ought to look confoundedly miserable.
Good afternoon. Allow me.
Thank you.
Book, I think?
Your penetration's most marvellous, sir. It is a book.
It is not a–not a–dictionary ?
You talk very oddly, Mr. Wynne.
I feel odd, Miss Starling. I've had an idea–no, hang it a head-ache. I was reading yesterday myself: I got hold of a Bradshaw.
Dear me. Your notion of light literature is a very strange one. This is a volume of poems.
Poems! Oh, yes. Of course, you read poetry?
Sometimes. When it's either very good or very bad, exceedingly clever, or abominably stupid.
And this is?
Very stupid. I'll tell you what I have been reading. A sentimental scribbler imagines
himself eaten up with a hidden love, and pours out his woes. Sit down, Mr. Wynne, you shall
hear it. It's capital fun, and you must promise me to laugh heartily.
There, sir! you don't laugh.
Miss Starling, I too have a secret.
A secret!
Which I can keep no longer. You are gazing upon a ruined man.
What, sir?
That is–comparatively ruined. A week ago, I was worth thousands, now you may put me down in hundreds. Painful as it is to have to say so, the–the–hang it–what's the Bank ? the Abingdon Bank has failed, and nearly everything has gone.
Is this true, Mr. Wynne ?
I wish it were not. A thousand times I have tried to tell you, but have wanted courage. I love you as much as ever, but as I am poor, I must ask you to release me from our engagement.
Are you in earnest?
It shall never be said that I took advantage of a promise to entangle a woman in an unequal match.
You wrong me greatly, Mr. Wynne; I am not so mercenary as you seem to think me. I am truly sorry for your loss, and you must understand that you will have no release from me.
Miss Starling, I know your noble disposition, but I am determined not to profit by it. I cannot make you miserable for life. We must break off this engagement. As for me, I cannot well be more wretched than I am.
There's something honourable in that man, after all. How I have mistaken him. I should
despise myself indeed, if, accepting him when rich, I dismissed him directly he became poor.
Ah! me, this love! Even this butterfly, this dainty, delicate gentleman is moved by it to
some nobility. Yes, I must be firm; my dreams must end
Most amusing–dancing with his servant!
With a glass of brandy and water in his hand.
How clever, my dear?
Marvellous. The whimsicality of genius.
Not quite tipsy, you know.
Oh, dear no!
Just enough to be good company.
The very best. A polka with his servant.
A caprice of his, I declare. Edith, my dear, your uncle has seen Mr. Ainslie.
And found him in the most glorious spirits.
Infecting the very air. I smelt brandy on the first landing.
Overflowing with wit, my dear.
Of course, papa.
And with all his old humour.
As diverting as an actor, eh, Sampson ?
Yes.
And he has promised to call. Why, my dear, you show no interest.
Probably because I feel none, mamma.
He was a brave boy, I knew he would be heard of.
I was sure there was something in him.
So was I
My dear, did I not always say he was clever ?
They'll swear he was pious, soon.
How's he looking, brother ?
Well, he looked green through these confounded spectacles, but to your eyes he'll appear a
trifle yellow, I daresay.
Mr. Philip Ainslie
Show him up at once.
On the instant. I will receive him.
No, excuse me––
They're as eager to show him in, as they were once to kick him out.
Ah! Mr. Ainslie, time changes men and manners. The fortunate can afford to be generous. Welcome back to England.
And to Starling House. Edith, my dear, this is Mr. Ainslie.
No, this gentleman happened to follow me up-stairs. Mr. Sampson is well, I hope ?
Good afternoon, sir; you did me the honour––
Of course. I hope you are quite recovered, Mr. Ainslie ?
Quite. Two bottles of soda, and a red-herring. Finest thing in the world.
Greatly changed, I am afraid, for Mr. Sampson doesn't seem to remember me.
A friend I presume–introduce him.
With all the pleasure in the world.
You are very good, sir, but
Of course.
There's really a trifling mistake somewhere. I thought my name was– What! Rocket!
Is it possible? Ainslie !
And as incorrigibly cool as ever. I must shake hands with you.
Of course I did.
And Mr. Sampson mistook–pardon me, Sir William–an old friend of mine, you may remember him,
Oh! any friend of Mr. Ainslie's?
Any friend of Mr. Ainslie's? Mr. Sampson, what a blunder you made.
Not quite tipsy, you know, uncle!
Dear, dear, not to remember Mr. Ainslie's features.
Your eyes wrong you, my dear sir, for you are looking exceedingly well.
Ha! ha! the beasts have knocked me about a bit–seven editions, you know. Dear me, how I have been slandering you. I said you were drunk, this morning.
A good joke. It does'nt seem to have injured me much in the eyes of your friends.
We didn't credit it, Mr. Ainslie
Not for one moment. We knew you better–things have changed.
What frightful hypocrisy !
It is a little too bad that Mr. Ainslie should be made answerable for other
people's follies.
I could meet them though, Miss Starling, by a draft on the past, drawn by memory–eh, Sir William?
Absurd. But it was odd that Sampson should take it into his head that the first tipsy man he met must be you. That is––
Most odd. He can have no memory.
None at all.
This is very slow. Almost as bad as the two wits and the low comedian. I'd give a sovereign
for a weed.
I use a pencil now and then, Mr. Rocket. Our sex must paint a little, you
know.
Their only fault, madam, is that they affect one tint too much. They would be better artists if they changed their colours oftener.
Nay, there would be no art in it at all, if we changed our colours, Mr. Rocket.
The rouge pot, madam, is a great moral preservative.
Capital.
Excellent.
Then they're of no use to the men?
None at all, we sin too openly. Our hearts are so black that there's no fear of our red cheeks betraying us.
Excellent.
So exceedingly polished! We were proposing my dear Mr. Ainslie, to adjourn to the conservatory–the air is cooler there –will you join us?
I am at your service, my lady.
Brother, in Mr. Wynne's absence, you must take Edith. Sir William, your arm.
Never. I can scarcely believe my eyes.
I'm sure I can't trust mine. Mr. Rocket, I was rude to you this morning.
Not at all. You were as civil, sir, as I was sober. You are an exceedingly pleasant old
boy, sir, take my arm.
I'll read you my "Treatise on Vultures," sir; that shall be my apology, come along.
Mr. Sampson!
Thank you, Mr. Ainslie, I remain here.
This is unfortunate.
He is as proud as ever.
If I were honest now, I should fly like a thief. She has grown very beautiful.
You have been successful in Natal, Mr. Ainslie ?
In some things, Miss Starling; I have gained a little money and a deal of experience.
The latter of which few people care to use, till they have spent the former.
Perhaps. But mine is not so much experience of other people, as of myself. For the last six years I have been measuring my strength against the world.
And have come out nobly. Forgive me for not congratulating you before. Your triumph has been a great one.
I am pleased to hear you say so. But you do not know the incentive under which it has been won ?
No, how should I?
May I tell it you?
If you will.
Yourself, Miss Starling.
Mr. Ainslie !
Even so. The past was a perpetual reproach to me. I have struggled to become what I am, that I might redeem the name I had disgraced–that I might vindicate myself in your eyes.
You know I should not listen to this.
Let me speak now, and I will be silent for ever. Out of this conflict I have emerged an altered man, with increased self-reliance, stronger purpose, heightened powers. But for you I should never have entered upon it. My life would have been an idle, aimless holiday, my death a lonely disgrace. You have long since learnt to laugh at the girlish folly––
Heaven help me!
Which once moved you. But its influence over my life has been none the less real, that your love–forgive me was only a pleasant self-deceit. For six years your name has been my watchword. The toil which has won me wealth, has been endured as in your sight. Under delay, defeat, mistrust, in the labour of the long day, in the watch of the weary night, with nothing behind me but the memory of a mis-spent life, nothing before me but a distant hope. I have looked forward to this hour, this moment, when I could stand before you an honest, if not a great man, and with no blush on my face, say to you, this is your work!
You are mistaken, Mr. Ainslie; no man could so change his nature, not for the applause of a
world. Your energies were stirred within you under a certain influence, that is all. You
worked that you might vindicate yourself, you succeeded because of the
powers you always possessed.
No! I should be false to myself if I shrunk from telling you how much I owe you–how the courage, the patience, the endurance, the weapons with which I have fought, were your gifts.
Nay, not so. You give too much credit to an idle sentence––
I was right, then.
I was pleased–nay, proud–when I heard of your success, but none of it is due to me. The powers which you have exerted so nobly, were always yours; they were only rusting in your soul for lack of use.
And would have rusted there for ever but for you. May I speak to you as to a sister ?
Can you doubt it?
I am told you are going to marry Mr. Wynne.
My heart will break.
You accepted him, forgive me for reminding you again of that day six years ago. I must ask you one question, does he still love you?
Mr. Ainslie!
Rebuke me by your silence if I have offended you.
Nay, I have nothing to rebuke. He does love me– –at least he tells me so.
I am satisfied. I was only fearful lest this delay might indicate his indifference to your love.
My love!
She is silent. She does love him.
His heart must be stone.
You did not?
Could you suppose me guilty of such baseness?
Forgive me, I was surprised. He has lost you say––
Nearly everything.
Thank heaven!
What do you say?
For the opportunity it has given him to show the depth of his regard for you,
And begin by making me supremely miserable.
By all means.
Edith! Edith! Where are you?
Here, mamma.
Sir!
Sir!
Your name's Ainslie, sir, I think.
At your service.
Then, sir, you will be pleased to consider yourself struck.
So I am—with your appearance, but the blow's a light one.
Well, sir, and do you not resent it?
If you wish it. You will be pleased to consider yourself struck.
This is folly. I am not to be so gulled. I demand an explanation of your presence here with Miss Starling, and–and–satisfaction, sir.
By all means. Anything for peace–swords or pistols, sir? I'll run you through, or shoot you with the greatest pleasure in the world; only if you have a choice, say so.
Pooh! pooh! sir, pistols!
Then I'll shoot you. You shall hear from me.
Those confounded newspapers have ruined my peace of mind for ever. A fellow had no business to turn up like this, after everybody had forgotten him. At all events I struck him. Here's Edith, I'll–I'll be stern.
Mamma has sent me to look for you, Mr. Wynne. Mercy on me, what ails you?
Hence, madam! What has happened, sir?
Why, what do you mean, sir? Is that the way to address your betrothed?
You have deceived me; guilt is written on your brow.
Mercy! What folly's this?
Folly, madam, folly! With whom did I see you not five minutes since? Folly,
Jealous! Oh! dear, save these lovers. You saw me speaking to Mr. Ainslie.
Had you stayed five minutes longer, madam, you might have seen me speaking to him;
me.
So, you're going to quarrel. How very pretty, how flattering to be fought for by two such gallant knights. But there, enough of this, I have a word to whisper to you that will make you forget a thousand jealousies. You say you love me ?
You know I adore you.
Marry me, then, at once?
What! In spite of my poverty?
Because of your poverty; nothing need be known of it, and my portion will be enough for both.
Enough for both! I must be dreaming.
I accept you freely, willingly, but with one condition.
Oh! and that is–
That you must not look for love from me.
That's of no consequence.
Sir!
That is, you'll like me when you–you get used to me.
If, knowing this, you will still marry me, I am yours.
Ah! a letter. Yes, Ainslie's message of course.
You seem agitated.
No, not at all.
You want to open it, I see. You may do so.
What–what did he say? "Then I'll shoot you, you shall hear from me." He couldn't be so
cold-blooded as to send me–a–a grenade in—a cream laid envelope.
Why, Mr. Wynne, anybody would think from your fierceness that it was a challenge.
A good joke.
What is the matter?
Ainslie gone!
Gone! Thank Heaven.
There! I'll swear she loves him after all. Let's see.
It must be something very serious. He seems positively concerned.
Now, I don't like this–I'm hanged if it doesn't make a fellow feel like a selfish snob.
Mr. Wynne! Why what has happened to him. He was never so aroused before. So he has gone. 'Tis better so. Heaven knows I have repented bitterly enough of my one folly, and here my penance ends. I have been a spur to him in his career–no more. Fool that I was to think he could love me–to gauge his heart by mine.
I am disturbing you, Miss Starling.
Again! No, I was just recovering from the surprise of seeing Mr. Wynne in earnest about something.
He has received my letter, then. I have no time to lose. An hour ago, Miss Starling, I came here with one object, that of vindicating myself in the eyes of those who once despised me. That attained, I have no need to remain. I am here to wish you good bye.
So soon?
Something has happened which compels me to leave. I want to tell you how much and how often
I shall think of you, and to confess how poor were the words
Rather, how poor was the service you have so freely acknowledged.
There is but one thing more. On that day which I left Starling House, I was guilty of an unmanly insult. In my vile pride and vanity, I brought the blushes to your pure cheeks.
I pray you, Mr. Ainslie, do not speak of it.
The lesson you read me then was well deserved. I sinned, and have repented, but I want to hear from your own lips that you forgive me.
I have nothing to forgive. You were not yourself, you were carried away by the––
I do not ask for excuses, Miss Starling, but for forgiveness.
What can I say? That day has borne such good fruit that I cannot regret what happened.
Not regret that I overheard those words ?
Never. Oh! what have I said ?
Miss Starling, what can you mean? Are you in earnest ?
Oh! spare me–you have surprised me, I am confused.
Withdraw what you have said, and I am dumb for ever,
Not another word–not one more.
I return, and find you still bound to the man into whose arms I so madly forced you. You
would sacrifice yourself to that hasty promise. 'Twas born of
It is too late. I have no choice.
You must speak.
You do not know all. I am doubly pledged now.
Then, farewell!
Philip!
Speak, then!
No, sir, here in the presence of the girl you have so wronged,
And in mine, too.
Now, sir, your explanation.
Be calm, my dear Edith, be calm.
Now, don't put a fellow out. I've been more unsettled to-day than I've been for ten years.
You refuse to marry my daughter.
What!
Refuse to marry me!
Never mind, my darling. He may break your heart, but you'll get damages, my dear.
Your answer, sir.
I do, most assuredly.
He does.
Most assuredly!
What mystery is this?
I think I can explain all, papa, in one word. Mr. Wynne has become poor, and is too noble to insist on our engagement.
Hush! That is only his artifice, my darling; I know these men !
You are right, my lady. No, I have deceived you, Miss Starling.
Deceived me?
What did I say, my dear!
I pretended to be poor, only that I might by my seeming unselfishness, induce you to marry me at once.
Then you have lost no money, sir?
None at all. Allow me to return you yours. So much nobleness touched even my heart. Sir
William, if you could read this note, you would understand why I cannot marry your daughter.
There stands the man who has the better right to her.
Edith, Mr. Ainslie; what is the meaning of this ?
That Mr. Wynne is a noble fellow, Sir William. For a trifling service I proposed to render him, he has renounced his claim to your daughter's hand.
This is a more disgraceful than ever. Is a daughter of mine to be tossed about from one man to another like a bundle of firewood?
I must have this explained. A word with you, Mr. Ainslie.
Let me speak, mamma.
Not one word, my child: they'll use it in evidence against you.
Ainslie, your friend's a most accomplished and learned gentleman. He has listened to my treatise for the last twenty minutes without saying a word.
I know when a man of genius is speaking, your science was most profound, and your cigars excellent.
You enjoyed my Vulture?
Almost as much as your claret. What came out of your mouth was as delightful as that which
you put into mine.
You say she loves you?
Let her own lips answer you.
My dear, I am not quite clear as to the notice I shall be compelled to take of Mr. Wynne's conduct, but Mr. Ainslie has offered his hand to you. Between two such eligible gentlemen, I should not think of fettering you. My dear, it is for you to choose.
Papa!
How is Mr. Ainslie to interpret that?
I'll read my fate within her eyes– the dumb treasury of the sweetest language ever spoken.
Then take their message.
Good gracious, child!
Edith, I have laid bare my heart to you. Am I to have no return.
What need I say? I have never forgotten you–I have loved you from the first.
I tell you, my dear, it's a capital match.
Oh! of course. My own daughter's to be bargained away, in five minutes without a word to her mother.
The girl's quite right. The woman who can't change her mind's a disgrace to her sex. But let us hear all about it.
We'll have the whole story over another bottle of claret.
Your head's like a camel's stomach, sir, full of nothing but liquor.
You wrong me, my dear sir. There isn't a liquor in the world that could get into my head.
Ha! ha! Capital.
Brother, you're a chameleon.
Uncle's going to re-christen us–zoologically.
You're a magpie, miss, to begin with.
Oh! thank you! And what's mamma, and Mr. Wynne, and Mr. Ainslie pray?
Not so fast, chatterer. Mamma shall be a cooing Dove, Mr. Wynne a penitent Jackdaw, and Mr. Ainslie––
Well?
I know what he was–
Well ?
A Sleeping Hare.