Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/350

 . 21, 1861.] the cornet, has got back from his Richmond dinner?—mind, we won’t wait for him.”

And Vernon, released at last, flew with ardour to his boots.

“Now for it, Lilian! The bookcase will do for the window. Here, Williams, take the book and prompt!”

‘Saved, saved! but, alas, how saved? ”

“Clasp your hands over your face, Lilian. ‘Madam, I have the honour to place this document in your hands. ”

In default of a “property” letter, Scott caught up the envelope of Westby’s note.

“You must almost snatch it from me—that’s right! Now tear it up passionately.”

But Lilian thrust the envelope into her bosom.

‘Behold my generosity! ” said Scott, continuing the dialogue. ‛Monsieur De Launay was a rival, but I forgive him. He was a rival, but you, Marie,—you have cured him of his love, ha! ha! The noble-minded De Launay, that mirror of chivalry! think you he will care for the woman who has been false to her word?’ By Jove, Lilian, you never did the bye-play as well as this!”

“Fust-rate,” said Mr. Williams, critically, but inwardly he awarded half the praise to himself and the paint.

“Edge up closer to the chair and table, Lilian,—that’s it! ‘Ha! ha! beauty to win De Launay back! and he only cares for honour and truth. You will live in his mind, Marie, as the vain coquette—the false one that trifles with the heart. And think of it, Marie, he will turn from you thus, when you cross his path. ”

“Where’s Scott?—they want him!” cried an excited “super” rushing into the room.

“Here am I, Fred,—coming directly. It could not be better, Lilian; that cry when you fell into the chair. It will bring down the curtain splendidly!” And Scott hurried from the room.

There was a voice of lamentation in the passage—the voice of Vernon—a voice of sympathy also,—the voice of the Mosaic person.

“They’re a size too small!”

’Pon my vord, dey sall stretch.”

“I’m like a cat in walnuts. Oh! and that cursed corn.”

“Never mind, Vernon, use is second nature,” cried Scott. “You won’t feel it when the curtain’s up.”

Mr. Williams was left in the room with Lilian and her maid. Lilian’s head still rested on the table, clasped in her hands.

“Fust-rate!” again exclaimed Mr. Williams, lost in admiration at the effect his handiwork had produced.

“Frank,” murmured Lilian, “I can’t go through with it—it will kill me.” There were tears in her eyes.

“Bless me, Miss,” said Mr. Williams, “you needn’t feel the part like that: it’s all on the outside, like my paint.”

“No, no, pray tell them I can’t do it,” sobbed Lilian.

“But the curtain’s risen,” expostulated Mr. Williams, “you will be on in a few minutes, you are only a little nervous,” and he addressed some confidential words to the lady’s-maid, who left the room.

“Why, Miss, I’ve seen many a great actor,” continued Mr. Williams in a consolatory tone, “times upon times, shake like an aspen, and then go on and carry the house by storm.”

“Miss Temple! Wanted directly,” cried a voice in the passage.

“Just drink that, Miss,” said Mr. Williams, evincing quite a paternal feeling after the manner of the stage.

“It’s salvolatile,” said the maid. “I’m sure it will do you good.”

“Miss Temple!” shouted the voice.

“I’m coming!” cried Lilian, rising with effort from the chair, “where’s my handkerchief, Jane? Do I look as if I’d been crying?”

“One moment, and I’ll touch off the tears,” said Mr. Williams. “So, so, your face is perfect!”

“The stage is waiting for Miss Temple!” and a frantic “super” dashed into the room.

“” has seldom given us a prettier picture of the times than when he showed us the greeting of the Queen to Ireland,—that engaging damsel, comely and neat, and possessed of a noble pig. While everybody liked that sketch, it went right to the heart of old people who could not forget, if they were to live to the age of Methusaleh, the wringing pain caused by the idea of Ireland at the beginning of the century. I am not going over the story from that time to this. Its leading events are not likely to be forgotten by any who have ever cared about the subject at all. All that I desire is that we should just catch a glimpse of the aspect of that strange country at three or four periods since the Union, in order to see the course of the transformation, and learn the natural lesson from it.

In deriving lessons from events, people, it is true, commonly learn, or fancy they learn, just what they knew before; in the same way that people usually see what they are looking for, and always fail to perceive what they had no conception of: but there is one hint so very broadly conveyed in the recent history of Ireland that it must stand second in everybody’s view, whatever favourite notion may come first. When, in an election among a crowd of candidates, one candidate has everybody’s second vote, while the first votes are scattered, that candidate heads the poll; and in the same way, the second lesson that we all learn from Ireland being the same, however we may differ about the first,—that is the lesson. It is noble enough to hold the very highest place in any scheme of political study. It is—a warning against political despair.

There has never been a time since any organised polity existed when such a lesson was not needed. There is always some country or other where matters are in such a bad state that it is difficult to see how they can ever be set right; and at present it is difficult for political students who have any benevolence in them to keep up their spirits about half-a-dozen countries