GEORGE.—He's NOT your grandpapa.
ARABELLA.—He IS my grandpapa.
GEORGE.—Oh, you great story! Look! look! there's a cab. [Runs out. The head of a Hansom cab is seen over the garden-gate. Bell rings. Page comes. Altercation between Cabman and Captain TOUCHIT appears to go on, during which]
MILLIKEN.—Come and kiss your old father, Arabella. He's hungry for kisses.
ARABELLA.—Don't. I want to go and look at the cab; and to tell Captain Touchit that he mustn't use naughty words. [Runs towards garden. Page is seen carrying a carpet-bag.]
Enter TOUCHIT through the open window smoking a cigar.
TOUCHIT.—How d'ye do, Milliken? How are tallows, hey, my noble merchant? I have brought my bag, and intend to sleep—
GEORGE.—I say, godpapa—
TOUCHIT.—Well, godson!
GEORGE.—Give us a cigar!
TOUCHIT.—Oh, you enfant terrible!
MILLIKEN [wheezily].—Ah—ahem—George Touchit! you wouldn't mind—a—smoking that cigar in the garden, would you? Ah—ah!
TOUCHIT.—Hullo! What's in the wind now? You used to be a most inveterate smoker, Horace.
MILLIKEN.—The fact is—my mother-in-law—Lady Kicklebury—doesn't like it, and while she's with us, you know—
TOUCHIT.—Of course, of course [throws away cigar]. I beg her ladyship's pardon. I remember when you were courting her daughter she used not to mind it.
MILLIKEN.—Don't—don't allude to those times. [He looks up at his wife's picture.]
GEORGE.—My mamma was a Kicklebury. The Kickleburys are the oldest family in all the world. My name is George Kicklebury Milliken, of Pigeoncot, Hants; the Grove, Richmond, Surrey; and Portland Place, London, Esquire—my name is.
TOUCHIT.—You have forgotten Billiter Street, hemp and tallow merchant.
GEORGE.—Oh, bother! I don't care about that. I shall leave that when I'm a man: when I'm a man and come into my property.
MILLIKEN.—You come into your property?
GEORGE.—I shall, you know, when you're dead, Papa. I shall have this house, and Pigeoncot; and the house in town—no, I don't mind about the house in town—and I shan't let Bella live with me—no, I won't.
BELLA.—No; I won't live with YOU. And I'LL have Pigeoncot.
GEORGE.—You shan't have Pigeoncot. I'll have it: and the ponies: and I won't let you ride them—and the dogs, and you shan't have even a puppy to play with and the dairy and won't I have as much cream as I like—that's all!
TOUCHIT.—What a darling boy! Your children are brought up beautifully, Milliken. It's quite delightful to see them together.
GEORGE.—And I shall sink the name of Milliken, I shall.
MILLIKEN.—Sink the name? why, George?
GEORGE.—Because the Millikens are nobodies—grandmamma says they are nobodies. The Kickleburys are gentlemen, and came over with William the Conqueror.
BELLA.—I know when that was. One thousand one hundred and one thousand one hundred and onety-one!
GEORGE.—Bother when they came over! But I know this, when I come into the property I shall sink the name of Milliken.
MILLIKEN.—So you are ashamed of your father's name, are you, George, my boy?
GEORGE.—Ashamed! No, I ain't ashamed. Only Kicklebury is sweller. I know it is. Grandmamma says so.
BELLA.—MY grandmamma does not say so. MY dear grandmamma says that family pride is sinful, and all belongs to this wicked world; and that in a very few years what our names are will not matter.
GEORGE.—Yes, she says so because her father kept a shop; and so did Pa's father keep a sort of shop—only Pa's a gentleman now.
TOUCHIT.—Darling child! How I wish I were married! If I had such a dear boy as you, George, do you know what I would give him?
GEORGE [quite pleased].—What would you give him, god-papa?
TOUCHIT.—I would give him as sound a flogging as ever boy had, my darling. I would whip this nonsense out of him. I would send him to school, where I would pray that he might be well thrashed: and if when he came home he was still ashamed of his father, I would put him apprentice to a chimney-sweep—that's what I would do.
GEORGE.—I'm glad you're not my father, that's all.
BELLA.—And I'M glad you're not my father, because you are a wicked man!
MILLIKEN.—Arabella!
BELLA.—Grandmamma says so. He is a worldly man, and the world is wicked. And he goes to the play: and he smokes, and he says—
TOUCHIT.—Bella, what do I say?
BELLA.—Oh, something dreadful! You know you do! I heard you say it to the cabman.
TOUCHIT.—So I did, so I did! He asked me fifteen shillings from Piccadilly, and I told him to go to—to somebody whose name begins with a D.
CHILDREN.—Here's another carriage passing.
BELLA.—The Lady Rumble's carriage.
GEORGE.—No, it ain't: it's Captain Boxer's carriage [they run into the garden].
TOUCHIT.—And this is the pass to which you have brought yourself, Horace Milliken! Why, in your wife's time, it was better than this, my poor fellow!
MILLIKEN.—Don't speak of her in THAT way, George Touchit!
TOUCHIT.—What have I said? I am only regretting her loss for our sake. She tyrannized over you; turned your friends out of doors; took your name out of your clubs; dragged you about from party to party, though you can no more dance than a bear, and from opera to opera, though you don't know "God Save the Queen" from "Rule Britannia." You don't, sir; you know you don't. But Arabella was better than her mother, who has taken possession of you since your widowhood.
MILLIKEN.—My dear fellow! no, she hasn't. There's MY mother.
TOUCHIT.—Yes, to be sure, there's Mrs. Bonnington, and they quarrel over you like the two ladies over the baby before King Solomon.
MILLIKEN.—Play the satirist, my good friend! laugh at my weakness!
TOUCHIT.—I know you to be as plucky a fellow as ever stepped, Milliken, when a man's in the case. I know you and I stood up to each other for an hour and a half at Westminster.
MILLIKEN.—Thank you! We were both dragons of war! tremendous champions! Perhaps I am a little soft as regards women. I know my weakness well enough; but in my case what is my remedy? Put yourself in my position. Be a widower with two young children. What is more natural than that the mother of my poor wife should come and superintend my family? My own mother can't. She has a half-dozen of little half brothers and sisters, and a husband of her own to attend to. I dare say Mr. Bonnington and my mother will come to dinner to-day.
TOUCHIT.—Of course they will, my poor old Milliken, you don't dare to dine without them.
MILLIKEN.—Don't go on in that manner, George Touchit! Why should not my step-father and my mother dine with me? I can afford it. I am a domestic man and like to see my relations about me. I am in the city all day.
TOUCHIT.—Luckily for you.
MILLIKEN.—And my pleasure of an evening is to sit under my own vine and under my own fig-tree with my own olive-branches round about me; to sit by my fire with my children at my knees: to coze over a snug bottle of claret after dinner with a friend like you to share it; to see the young folks at the breakfast-table of a morning, and to kiss them and so off to business with a cheerful heart. This was my scheme in marrying, had it pleased heaven to prosper my plan. When I was a boy and came from school and college, I used to see Mr. Bonnington, my father-in-law, with HIS young ones clustering round about him, so happy to be with him! so eager to wait on him! all down on their little knees round my mother before breakfast or jumping up on his after dinner. It was who should reach his hat, and who should bring his coat, and who should fetch his umbrella, and who should get the last kiss.
TOUCHIT.—What? didn't he kiss YOU? Oh, the hard-hearted old ogre!
MILLIKEN.—DON'T, Touchit! Don't laugh at Mr. Bonnington! he is as good a fellow as ever breathed. Between you and me, as my half brothers and sisters increased and multiplied year after year, I used
to feel rather lonely, rather bowled out, you understand. But I saw them so happy that I longed to have a home of my own. When my mother proposed Arabella for me (for she and Lady Kicklebury were immense friends at one time), I was glad enough to give up clubs and bachelorhood, and to settle down as a married man. My mother acted for the best. My poor wife's character, my mother used to say, changed after marriage. I was not as happy as I hoped to be; but I tried for it. George, I am not so comfortable now as I might be. A house without a mistress, with two mothers-in-law reigning over it—one worldly and aristocratic, another what you call serious, though she don't mind a rubber of whist: I give you my honor my mother plays a game at whist, and an uncommonly good game too—each woman dragging over a child to her side: of course such a family cannot be comfortable. [Bell rings.] There's the first dinner-bell. Go and dress, for heaven's sake.
TOUCHIT.—Why dress? There is no company!
MILLIKEN.—Why? ah! her ladyship likes it, you see. And it costs nothing to humor her. Quick, for she don't like to be kept waiting.
TOUCHIT.—Horace Milliken! what a pity it is the law declares a widower shall not marry his wife's mother! She would marry you else,—she would, on my word.
Enter JOHN.
JOHN.—I have took the Captain's things in the blue room, sir. [Exeunt gentlemen, JOHN arranges tables, &c.]
Ha! Mrs. Prior! I ain't partial to Mrs. Prior. I think she's an artful old dodger, Mrs. Prior. I think there's mystery in her unfathomable pockets, and schemes in the folds of her umbrella. But—but she's Julia's mother, and for the beloved one's sake I am civil to her.
MRS. PRIOR.—Thank you Charles [to the Page, who has been seen to let her in at the garden-gate], I am so much obliged to you! Good afternoon, Mr. Howell. Is my daughter—are the darling children well? Oh, I am quite tired and weary! Three horrid omnibuses were full, and I have had to walk the whole weary long way. Ah, times are changed with me, Mr. Howell. Once when I was young and strong, I had my husband's carriage to ride in.
JOHN [aside].—His carriage! his coal-wagon! I know well enough who old Prior was. A merchant? yes, a pretty merchant! kep' a lodging-house, share in a barge, touting for orders, and at last a snug little place in the Gazette.
MRS. PRIOR.—How is your cough, Mr. Howell? I have brought you some lozenges for it [takes numberless articles from her pocket], and if you would take them of a night and morning—oh, indeed, you would get better! The late Sir Henry Halford recommended them to Mr. Prior. He was his late Majesty's physician and ours. You know we have seen happier times, Mr. Howell. Oh, I am quite tired and faint.
JOHN.—Will you take anything before the school-room tea, ma'am? You will stop to tea, I hope, with Miss Prior, and our young folks?
MRS. PRIOR.—Thank you: a little glass of wine when one is so faint—a little crumb of biscuit when one is so old and tired! I have not been accustomed to want, you know; and in my poor dear Mr. Prior's time—
JOHN.—I'll fetch some wine, ma'am. [Exit to the dining-room.]
MRS. PRIOR.—Bless the man, how abrupt he is in his manner! He quite shocks a poor lady who has been used to better days. What's here? Invitations—ho! Bills for Lady Kicklebury! THEY are not paid. Where is Mr. M. going to dine, I wonder? Captain and Mrs. Hopkinson, Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, request the pleasure. Request the pleasure! Of course they do. They are always asking Mr. M. to dinner. They have daughters to marry, and Mr. M. is a widower with three thousand a year, every shilling of it. I must tell Lady Kicklebury. He must never go to these places—never, never—mustn't be allowed. [While talking, she opens all the letters on the table, rummages the portfolio and writing-box, looks at cards on mantelpiece, work in work-basket, tries tea-box, and shows the greatest activity and curiosity.]
Re-enter John, bearing a tray with cakes, a decanter, &c.
Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howell! Oh, oh, dear me, not so much as that! Half a glass, and ONE biscuit, please. What elegant sherry! [sips a little, and puts down glass on tray]. Do you know, I remember in better days, Mr. Howell, when my poor dear husband—
JOHN.—Beg your pardon. There's Milliken's bell, going like mad. [Exit John.]
MRS. PRIOR.—What an abrupt person! Oh, but it's comfortable, this wine is! And—and I think how my poor Charlotte would like a little—she so weak, and ordered wine by the medical man! And when dear Adolphus comes home from Christ's Hospital, quite tired, poor boy, and hungry, wouldn't a bit of nice cake do him good! Adolphus is so fond of plum-cake, the darling child! And so is Frederick, little saucy rogue; and I'll give them MY piece, and keep my glass of wine for my dear delicate angel Shatty! [Takes bottle and paper out of her pocket, cuts off a great slice of cake, and pours wine from wine-glass and decanter into bottle.]
Enter PAGE.
PAGE.—Master George and Miss Bella is going to have their teas down here with Miss Prior, Mrs. Prior, and she's up in the school-room, and my lady says you may stay to tea.
MRS. PRIOR.—Thank you, Charles! How tall you grow! Those trousers would fit my darling Frederick to a nicety. Thank you, Charles. I know the way to the nursery. [Exit Mrs. P.]
PAGE.—Know the way! I believe she DO know the way. Been a having cake and wine. Howell always gives her cake and wine—jolly cake, ain't it! and wine, oh, my!
Re-enter John.
JOHN.—You young gormandizing cormorant! What! five meals a day ain't enough for you! What? beer ain't good enough for you, hey? [Pulls boy's ears.]
PAGE [crying].—Oh, oh, do-o-n't, Mr. Howell. I only took half a glass, upon my honor.
JOHN.—Your a-honor, you lying young vagabond! I wonder the ground don't open and swallow you. Half a glass! [holds up decanter.] You've took half a bottle, you young Ananias! Mark this, sir! When I was a boy, a boy on my promotion, a child kindly took in from charity-school, a horphan in buttons like you, I never lied; no, nor never stole, and you've done both, you little scoundrel. Don't tell ME, sir! there's plums on your coat, crumbs on your cheek, and you smell sherry, sir! I ain't time to whop you now, but come to my pantry to-night after you've took the tray down. Come without your jacket on, sir, and then I'll teach you what it is to lie and steal. There's the outer bell. Scud, you vagabond!
Enter LADY K.
LADY K.—What was that noise, pray?
JOHN.—A difference between me and young Page, my lady. I was instructing him to keep his hands from picking and stealing. I was learning him his lesson, my lady, and he was a-crying it out.
LADY K.—It seems to me you are most unkind to that boy, Howell. He is my boy, sir. He comes from my estate. I will not have him ill-used. I think you presume on your long services. I shall speak to my son-in-law about you. ["Yes, my lady; no, my lady; very good, my lady." John has answered each sentence as she is speaking, and exit gravely bowing.] That man must quit the house. Horace says he can't do without him, but he must do without him. My poor dear Arabella was fond of him, but he presumes on that defunct angel's partiality. Horace says this person keeps all his accounts, sorts all his letters, manages all his affairs, may be trusted with untold gold, and rescued little George out of the fire. Now I have come to live with my son-in-law, I will keep his accounts, sort his letters, and take charge of his money: and if little Georgy gets into the grate, I will take him out of the fire. What is here? Invitation from Captain and Mrs. Hopkinson. Invitation from Sir John and Lady Tomkinson, who don't even ask me! Monstrous! he never shall go—he shall not go! [MRS. PRIOR has re-entered, she drops a very low curtsy to Lady K., as the latter, perceiving her, lays the cards down.]
MRS. PRIOR.—Ah, dear madam! how kind your ladyship's message was to the poor lonely widow woman! Oh, how thoughtful it was of your ladyship to ask me to stay to tea!
LADY K.—With your daughter and the children? Indeed, my good Mrs. Prior, you are very welcome!
MRS. PRIOR.—Ah! but isn't it a cause of thankfulness to be MADE welcome? Oughtn't I to be grateful for these blessings?—yes, I say BLESSINGS. And I am—I am, Lady Kicklebury�
��to the mother—of—that angel who is gone [points to the picture]. It was your sainted daughter left us—left my child to the care of Mr. Milliken, and—and you, who are now his guardian angel I may say. You ARE, Lady Kicklebury—you are. I say to my girl, Julia, Lady Kicklebury is Mr. Milliken's guardian angel, is YOUR guardian angel—for without you could she keep her place as governess to these darling children? It would tear her heart in two to leave them, and yet she would be forced to do so. You know that some one—shall I hesitate to say whom I MEAN—that Mr. Milliken's mother, excellent lady though she is, does not love my child because YOU love her. You DO love her, Lady Kicklebury, and oh! a mother's fond heart pays you back! But for you, my poor Julia must go—go, and leave the children whom a dying angel confided to her!
LADY K.—Go! no, never! not whilst I am in this house, Mrs. Prior. Your daughter is a well-behaved young woman: you have confided to me her long engagement to Lieutenant—Lieutenant What-d'you-call'im, in the Indian service. She has been very, very good to my grandchildren—she brought them over from Naples when my—my angel of an Arabella died there, and I will protect Miss Prior.
MRS. PRIOR.—Bless you, bless you, noble, admirable woman! Don't take it away! I must, I WILL kiss your dear, generous hand! Take a mother's, a widow's blessings, Lady Kicklebury—the blessings of one who has known misfortune and seen better days, and thanks heaven—yes, heaven!—for the protectors she has found!
LADY K.—You said—you had—several children, I think, my good Mrs. Prior?
MRS. PRIOR.—Three boys—one, my eldest blessing, is in a wine-merchant's office—ah, if Mr. Milliken WOULD but give him an order! an order from THIS house! an order from Lady Kicklebury's son-in-law!—
LADY K.—It shall be done, my good Prior—we will see.
MRS. PRIOR.—Another, Adolphus, dear fellow! is in Christ's Hospital. It was dear, good Mr. Milliken's nomination. Frederick is at Merchant Taylor's: my darling Julia pays his schooling. Besides, I have two girls—Amelia, quite a little toddles, just the size, though not so beautiful—but in a mother's eyes all children are lovely, dear Lady Kicklebury—just the size of your dear granddaughter, whose clothes would fit her, I am sure. And my second, Charlotte, a girl as tall as your ladyship, though not with so fine a figure. "Ah, no, Shatty!" I say to her, "you are as tall as our dear patroness, Lady Kicklebury, whom you long so to see; but you have not got her ladyship's carriage and figure, child." Five children have I, left fatherless and penniless by my poor dear husband—but heaven takes care of the widow and orphan, madam—and heaven's BEST CREATURES feed them!—YOU know whom I mean.
The Wolves and the Lamb Page 2
