DOI issue:
September 11, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0119
September 11, 1880.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
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111
Saxon Sportsman. “ What are those Constables doing there, Tim ? ”
Irish Gamekeeper. “ Shttre they’re a watchin’ Pat Norton, Sorr!”
Saxon Sportsman. “ What for ? What’s he been doing ? ”
Tim. “ Och ! Begorr’ he’s paid his Pint, Sorr!!”
la cour. At last lie stopped in front of her, and unable to bear the
silence any longer, he asked,
“ Where are yon going on Sunday F ”
“ To church,” she answered, simply.
“ Will your mother know you are out ?” he continued, in an agi-
tated tone.
“I have no mother, Mr. Arable,” she said, turning her head
away as another and a bigger tear trickled slowly into her mouth.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Arable; ‘‘but if you go to
church, with whom will you go ? ”
Morleena looked up. She felt that things were looking up
just now, and she sympathised with them and looked up too, meeting
his calm, eager, melancholy gaze.
Wouldn’t he speak plainer? Would he not make some sign?
And if he did, was she a Freemason to understand him and return
it ?
“ I go with my father—when he accompanies me.”
“ Accompanies you! Is he the Organist ? ”
“ Sometimes. But he is still the Beadle.”
“ Ah ! But if he is not with you——
“I shall be alone—alone—in the wide world!” And again
another and a far bigger than any of the others trickled down her
cheek.
“ That’s a whopper ! ” exclaimed Mr. Arable.
“Mr. Arable!” she cried, and rose from her seat; you dare
accuse me of an untruth P ”
“No, no,” he hastened to explain. “When I said ‘whopper, I
alluded to the tear, not to any statement of yours. It is like the
best place at the Opera—it is a Grand tier ! ”
“ Oh, Mr. Arable, how can you joke ? ” she murmured softly.
“ I don’t know how I can,” he replied in the same tone, “ but I
do. Perhaps I was wrong. I own I was unwarranted in asking you
the questions I did. I would not have hurt your feelings for the
world; but I am glad now that, besides the inquiry as to your
mother’s knowledge of your being in or out, I did not inquire whether
she had ever taken in washing, and had parted with her mangle.”
“ Oh, Mr. Arable ! ”—It was all she could say, she was so com-
pletely taken by surprise.
He went on :—
“Yes, such a question would have been indelicate—very unmanly.
I ask your pardon.”
“ I grant your grace,” she answered softly, withdrawing from him
to some distance.
“You do!” he cried, deeply agitated, and taking several steps
backward. “You grant my grace! I, a middle-aged bachelor,
who really never learnt dancing, and only know a few steps of the
hornpipe and minuet! You grant my grace! Ah! Morleena-”
And there he stopped.
“ Go on!” she murmured, looking piteously up in his face from
the other end of the room.
“Morleena! ‘Goon!’ I am going on! I feel I am going on
—anyhow! ” And in another moment, regardless of his white tie,
he had clasped her closely to his clerical waistcoat. How it was
done, whether he had drawn her to him, or whether they had
bounded up against one another from each end of the room, they
could not tell. Nor can I declare. Such things are; nay, such
things are of daily occurrence. There was a sympathy between
them which thrilled through them like an electric shock; for the
moment they had lost their heads and their hearts ; she had his, he
had hers; he was she, and she was he; she was the Prebendary and
Precentor, and he was Morleena : each was either, t’other was
both; neither knew who was who ! _ And she was the witch that had
charmed his life and drawn from his lips the first kiss be had ever
given to woman, and that made him feel that now for the first time
in his bachelor life he began to realise above all relatives and beyond
all antecedents the simple theory of what was what.
“ Oh, let me go! ” said she—“ let me go now! ” And she bounded
like a soft roe to her own room, as the Archbeacon and Mrs. Over-
wayte appeared on the threshold of the boudoir.
Prince’s.—Motto for Lawn Tennis Players—“IcA Dien.”
i._. .—. ■ - .... - - -■ - ■ --
111
Saxon Sportsman. “ What are those Constables doing there, Tim ? ”
Irish Gamekeeper. “ Shttre they’re a watchin’ Pat Norton, Sorr!”
Saxon Sportsman. “ What for ? What’s he been doing ? ”
Tim. “ Och ! Begorr’ he’s paid his Pint, Sorr!!”
la cour. At last lie stopped in front of her, and unable to bear the
silence any longer, he asked,
“ Where are yon going on Sunday F ”
“ To church,” she answered, simply.
“ Will your mother know you are out ?” he continued, in an agi-
tated tone.
“I have no mother, Mr. Arable,” she said, turning her head
away as another and a bigger tear trickled slowly into her mouth.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Arable; ‘‘but if you go to
church, with whom will you go ? ”
Morleena looked up. She felt that things were looking up
just now, and she sympathised with them and looked up too, meeting
his calm, eager, melancholy gaze.
Wouldn’t he speak plainer? Would he not make some sign?
And if he did, was she a Freemason to understand him and return
it ?
“ I go with my father—when he accompanies me.”
“ Accompanies you! Is he the Organist ? ”
“ Sometimes. But he is still the Beadle.”
“ Ah ! But if he is not with you——
“I shall be alone—alone—in the wide world!” And again
another and a far bigger than any of the others trickled down her
cheek.
“ That’s a whopper ! ” exclaimed Mr. Arable.
“Mr. Arable!” she cried, and rose from her seat; you dare
accuse me of an untruth P ”
“No, no,” he hastened to explain. “When I said ‘whopper, I
alluded to the tear, not to any statement of yours. It is like the
best place at the Opera—it is a Grand tier ! ”
“ Oh, Mr. Arable, how can you joke ? ” she murmured softly.
“ I don’t know how I can,” he replied in the same tone, “ but I
do. Perhaps I was wrong. I own I was unwarranted in asking you
the questions I did. I would not have hurt your feelings for the
world; but I am glad now that, besides the inquiry as to your
mother’s knowledge of your being in or out, I did not inquire whether
she had ever taken in washing, and had parted with her mangle.”
“ Oh, Mr. Arable ! ”—It was all she could say, she was so com-
pletely taken by surprise.
He went on :—
“Yes, such a question would have been indelicate—very unmanly.
I ask your pardon.”
“ I grant your grace,” she answered softly, withdrawing from him
to some distance.
“You do!” he cried, deeply agitated, and taking several steps
backward. “You grant my grace! I, a middle-aged bachelor,
who really never learnt dancing, and only know a few steps of the
hornpipe and minuet! You grant my grace! Ah! Morleena-”
And there he stopped.
“ Go on!” she murmured, looking piteously up in his face from
the other end of the room.
“Morleena! ‘Goon!’ I am going on! I feel I am going on
—anyhow! ” And in another moment, regardless of his white tie,
he had clasped her closely to his clerical waistcoat. How it was
done, whether he had drawn her to him, or whether they had
bounded up against one another from each end of the room, they
could not tell. Nor can I declare. Such things are; nay, such
things are of daily occurrence. There was a sympathy between
them which thrilled through them like an electric shock; for the
moment they had lost their heads and their hearts ; she had his, he
had hers; he was she, and she was he; she was the Prebendary and
Precentor, and he was Morleena : each was either, t’other was
both; neither knew who was who ! _ And she was the witch that had
charmed his life and drawn from his lips the first kiss be had ever
given to woman, and that made him feel that now for the first time
in his bachelor life he began to realise above all relatives and beyond
all antecedents the simple theory of what was what.
“ Oh, let me go! ” said she—“ let me go now! ” And she bounded
like a soft roe to her own room, as the Archbeacon and Mrs. Over-
wayte appeared on the threshold of the boudoir.
Prince’s.—Motto for Lawn Tennis Players—“IcA Dien.”