Page:The London Magazine, volume 8 (July–December 1823).djvu/537

 Mr. Goodchild, I am bound at all times to bow to as far superior to my own.”

During this compliment to the merchant’s penetration, Mr. Tempest gently touched the hand of Ida with his pencil note: the hand opened, and like an oyster closed upon it in an instant. “In which scene, Mr. Tempest,” said the merchant, “is it your opinion that the manager acquitted himself best?”

“In which scene!” Here was a delightful question! The advocate had attended so exclusively to Ida, that whether there were any scenes at all in the whole performance was more than he could pretend to say: and now he was to endure a critical examination on the merits of each scene in particular. He was in direful perplexity. Considering however that in most plays there is some love, and therefore some love-scenes, he dashed at it and boldly said—“In that scene, I think, where he makes the declaration of love.”

“Declaration of love! why, God bless my soul! in the whole part from the beginning to end there is nothing like a declaration of love.”

“Oh confound your accuracy, you old fiend!” thought Mr. Tempest to himself: but aloud he said—“No declaration of love, do you say?—Is it possible? Why, then, I suppose I must have mistaken for the manager that man who played the lover: surely he played divinely.”

“Divinely! divine stick! what that wretched, stammering, wooden booby? Why he would have been hissed off the stage, if it hadn’t been well known that he was a stranger hired to walk through the part for that night.”

Mr. Tempest, seeing that the more he said the deeper he plunged into the mud, held it advisable to be silent. On the other hand, Mr. Goodchild began to be ashamed of his triumph over what he had supposed the lawyer’s prejudices. He took his leave therefore in these words: “Good night, Mr. Tempest; and, for the future, my good Sir, do not judge so precipitately as you did on that occasion when you complimented a black fellow with the title of king, and called St. Domingo by the absurd name of Hayti. Some little consideration and discretion go to every sound opinion.”

So saying, the old dragon walked off with his treasure—and left the advocate with his ears still tingling from his mortifications.

“Just to see the young people of this day!” said Mr. Goodchild, “what presumption and what ignorance!” The whole evening through he continued to return to this theme; and during supper nearly choaked himself in an ebullition of fiery zeal upon this favourite topic.

To her father’s everlasting question—“Am not I in the right, then?” Ida replied in a sort of pantomime which was intended to represent “Yes.” This was her outward yes: but in her heart she was thinking of no other yes than that which she might one day be called on to pronounce at the altar by the side of Mr. Tempest. And therefore at length, when the eternal question came round again, she nodded in a way which rather seemed to say—“Oh! dear Sir, you are in the right for any thing I have to say against it”—than any thing like a downright yes. On which Mr. Goodchild quitted one favourite theme for another more immediately necessary: viz. the lukewarmness of young people towards good counsel and sound doctrine.

Meantime Ida’s looks were unceasingly directed to her neck handkerchief: the reason of which was this. In order on the one hand to have the love-letter as near as possible to her heart, and on the other to be assured that it was in safe custody, she had converted the beautiful white drapery of her bosom into a letter case; and she felt continually urged to see whether the systole and diastole which went on in other important contents of this letter-case, might not by chance expose it to view. The letter asked for an answer; and late as it was, when all the house were in bed, Ida set about one. On the following morning this answer was conveyed to its destination by the man who delivered the newspapers to her father and Mr. Tempest.