CHAPTER X.

"Mr. Goodchild," began the breathless barrister, “I am very much indebted to you."

"Hem!" said the other in a way which seemed to express, "What now, my good sir?"

"You have this evening directed my attention to the eminent qualifications of our manager. Most assuredly you were in the right; he played the part divinely."

Here Mr. Tempest stopped to congratulate himself upon the triumphant expression which the moonlight revealed upon the face of his antagonist. On this triumph, if his plans succeeded, he meant to build a triumph of his own. "Ay, ay: what, then, you've come to reason at last, my good sir?"

"Your judgment and penetration, 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."

"O, 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 had n'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 choked himself in an ebullition of fiery zeal upon this favorite topic.

CHAPTER XI.

The Letter-Box.

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, "O, dear sir, you are in the right for anything I have to say against it,” than anything like a downright yes. On which Mr. Goodchild quitted one favorite 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 lettercase, might not by chanee 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.

From this day forward there came so many letters to Miss Goodchild by the new-established post, that the beautiful letter-case was no longer able to contain them.

She was now obliged to resort to the help of her writingdesk, which, so long as her father had no suspicions, was fully sufficient.

CHAPTER XII.

The paper intercourse now began to appear too little to Mr. Tempest. For what can be despatched in a moment by word of mouth, would often linger unaccomplished for a thousand years when conducted in writing. True it was that a great deal of important business had already been despatched by the letters. For instance, Mr. Tempest had through this channel assured himself that Ida was willing to be his forever. Yet even this was not enough. The contract had been made, but not sealed upon the rosy lips

of Ida.

This seemed monstrous to Mr. Tempest. "Grant me patience," said he to himself; "grant me patience; when I think of the many disgusting old relations, great rawboned, absurd fellows, with dusty, snuff-powdered beards, that have revelled in that lip-paradise, hardly knowingold withered wretches! - what they were about, or what a blessing was conferred upon them; whilst I—yes, I, that am destined to call her my bride one of these days — am obliged to content myself with payments of mere papermoney."

This seemed shocking; and, indeed, considering the terms on which he now stood with Ida, Mr. Tempest could scarcely believe it himself. He paced up and down his study in anger, flinging glances at every turn upon the opposite house, which contained his treasure. All at once he stopped: "What's all this?" said he, on observing Mr. Goodchild's servants lighting up the chandeliers in the great saloon. "What's in the wind now?" And imme

diately he went to his writing-table for Ida's last letter; for Ida sometimes communicated any little events in the family that could anyways affect their correspondence; on this occasion, however, she had given no hint of anything extraordinary approaching. Yet the preparations and the bustle indicated something very extraordinary. Mr. Tempest's heart began to beat violently. What was he to think? Great fêtes, in a house where there is an only daughter, usually have some reference to her. "Go, Tyrrel," said he to his clerk, "go and make inquiries (but cautiously, you understand, and in a lawyer-like manner) as to the nature and tendency of these arrangements." Tyrrel came back with the following report: Mr. Goodchild had issued cards for a very great party on that evening; all the seniors were invited to tea, and almost all the young people of condition throughout the town to a masqued ball at night. The suddenness of the invitations, and the consequent hurry of the arrangements, arose in this way: a rich relative who lived in the country had formed a plan for coming by surprise, with his whole family, upon Mr. Goodchild. But Mr. Goodchild had accidentally received a hint of his intention by some side-wind, and had determined to turn the tables on his rich relation by surprising him with a masquerade.

"O heavens! what barbarity!" said Mr. Tempest, as towards evening he saw from his windows young and old trooping to the fête. "What barbarity! There's hardly a scoundrel in the place but is asked; and II, John Tempest, that am to marry the jewel of the house, must be content to witness the preparations and to hear the sound of their festivities from the solitude of my den."