Page:The London Magazine, volume 8 (July–December 1823).djvu/544

 and went over without delay to the advocate’s rooms. Meantime, the longer he stayed and made it evident that the negociation had met with obstacles, so much the larger were the drops of perspiration which stood upon Mr. Goodchild’s forehead as he paced up and down his room in torment.

At last Mr. Whelp came over; but with bad news: Mr. Tempest was resolute to part with the bust at no price.

Mr. Goodchild, on hearing this intelligence, hastened to his daughter, who was still under close confinement; and, taking her hand, said—“Thoughtless girl, come and behold!” Then, conducting her to his own room and pointing with his finger to Mr. Tempest’s book-case, he said—“See there: behold my poor deceased brother the stamp-distributor, to what a situation is he reduced—that, after death, he must play the part of a black fellow styling himself king of Hayti. And is it with such a man, one who aims such deadly stabs at the honour and peace of our family, that you would form a clandestine connexion? I blush for you, inconsiderate child. However sit down to my writing-desk; and this moment write what I shall dictate—verbatim et literatim; and in that case I shall again consider and treat you as my obedient daughter. Ida seated herself: her father laid a sheet of paper before her, put a pen into her hand, and dictated the following epistle, in which he flattered himself that he had succeeded to a marvel in counterfeiting the natural style of a young lady of seventeen.

The two last words the poor child knew not how to write; and therefore her father wrote them for her, and said—the meaning of these words is, that the letter was written with your own hand; upon which in law a great deal depends. He then folded up the letter, sealed it, caused Ida to direct it, and rang for a servant to carry it over to Mr. Tempest. “But not from me, do you hear, William? Don’t say, it comes from me: and, if Mr. Tempest should cross-examine you, be sure you say that I know nothing of it.”

“For the rest,” said Mr. Goodchild, “never conceit that I shall lend any the more countenance, for all this, to your connexion with the young visionary. As soon as the bust is once in my hands, from that moment he and I are strangers and shall know each other no more.”

Mr. Goodchild had not for a long time been in such spirits as he was after this most refined tour d’addresse in diplomacy (as he justly conceived it). “The style,” said he, “cannot betray the secret: no, I flatter myself that I have hit that to a hair; I defy any critic the keenest to distinguish